Pretty in Ink by Lindsey Palmer

paralyzed from the neck down.”
    “Ah, I see what this is about,” says Mimi. “You’re upset about the memo.”
    “Damn right I am. How dare—” I stop myself. I consider what’s at stake: my gorgeous, spacious kitchen, my Eden.
    “Deborah, you’ve made your point loud and clear,” says Mimi. “How’s this? You may wear what you wish while cooking, but otherwise it’s time to step it up a bit from the white Reeboks. The rest of the staff needs some extra polish, too. I assume you know that Hers has become the frequent butt of jokes in the building. We’re known as the frumpy mom-types who haven’t updated our wardrobes since the Clinton administration.”
    “Who cares what we’re wearing as long as we’re putting out a quality publication?”
    Mimi smiles, and pauses before she speaks: “Would you say that’s what you’ve been doing, Deborah? Putting out a quality publication?” Crap, I walked right into that one.
    “Listen, Mimi, I have been working at Hers for longer than you’ve been in this industry. You know as well as I do that I am a grand bargain for you; you’d have to shell out double or more to get another recipe creator with my experience and expertise. And if you did let me go, my severance package would be—let’s see, four weeks for every year at the company—two full years of my salary.”
    “You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you?”
    “Just the facts, ma’am. And another thing: I’ve got a full workload already, so you’ll have to find someone else to assist this Ravenous Rhee character. How about your assistant, Laura, whose taste you revere so much?”
    “Deborah, I admire your willfulness.”
    “But?”
    “But, you will have to work with Rhee. Unless of course you want someone else using your kitchen to test out her recipes?”
    Ugh. My mind flashes on the Professional Chef profile of Eileen Houtt’s hip new restaurant, an article I never bothered to read. Eileen and I had lost touch for years, but shortly before that story was published, I ran into her at a conference. When I told Eileen I worked at Hers, she said she wasn’t familiar with it, but asked if I knew the editors at Gastrome, that snooty rag for rich foodies; apparently her sous-chef used to head up their kitchen. I shudder to imagine my old friend happening upon an issue of Hers and seeing so-called recipes created by Ravenous Rhee. “Fine, I will test out that phony’s recipes,” I say to Mimi now, “but if the result is inedible, I claim veto power.”
    “You may veto one out of every four recipes, and only if the Hers staff reaches a consensus on the decision.”
    “How about, I can nix one out of two recipes, and I only need staff majority?”
    “One out of three, and fine. Anything else?”
    “I’m not buying new shoes.”
    “Ha! I guess I know what I’m giving you for Christmas.”
    “Hanukkah, you mean. You should watch those kinds of assumptions. Religious intolerance is a serious offense at Schmidt & Delancey.”
    “Noted, Deborah.”
    “Please call me Debbie.”
    “OK, Debbie. Now, will you please remove these horrifying images from my desk?”
    “Gladly.” I snatch up my copy of Professional Chef and march out, feeling triumphant. I decide I’ll treat myself to truffle oil mac and cheese for dinner.
     
    The next morning I board the same up elevator as Mimi. She gives me the once-over, eyeing my usual sneakers, jeans, and T-shirt. I take out the tube of lipstick I nabbed from the beauty closet, the same crimson as Mimi’s editing pen. I apply the dark stain carefully to my lips, and then smile flirtatiously at my boss. I wink and bat my eyelashes. Mimi’s laugh is the hoarse hack of a smoker’s; it sounds terrible. I decide I’ll go up to the kitchen and brew her some herbal tea. Hibiscus flower with honey is very healing.

5
    Leah Brenner, Executive Editor
    I ’m distracted as I enter my office, so when I go to fling my bag onto my chair, I nearly knock