By Zoe Foster
If the satan wears Prada, then God wears los angeles Mer.
Hannah Atkins - the woman probably to be wearing unblended starting place, orange wrists or a wobbly path of liquid eyeliner - has bluffed her manner into the placement of good looks editor at Gloss journal. simply as she's carving a course into the glossy global of guerrilla air kisses, achingly hip PR campaigns and goodie-bag overload, she reads approximately her boyfriend and one other woman within the gossip pages of the neighborhood rag. Then she will get dumped. by means of text.
Vowing to claw again a few dignity and make her ex remorse what he's performed, Hannah adopts a manifesto of hardcore principles. Don't turn into most sensible buddies with the dreaded ladies at paintings. Don't drink fourteen glasses of Moët & Chandon at PR launches. Don't pass domestic with irrelevant males. and positively don't get all besotted along with your most sensible friend's brother.
As her ideas begin to slip away, Hannah reveals herself having to choose extra very important issues than simply the right color of lip gloss . . .
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You walk me off ledges, steer me back to writing, and teach me how to be a professional in this business. To Barbara Scott, my fearless and tireless editor at Abingdon Press, who championed this novel: I admire your faith, appreciate your tenacity, and enjoy your friendship. You believed in Leah, and I will be forever grateful. Thank you for your expertise in bringing her story to life. To Peggy Shearon, Fiction Publicist, and all those at Abingdon: thank you for all you do to bring our novels to readers.
I waited to breathe again. Waited for the tornado of emotions to stop swirling in my chest. I sat. “Yesterday, Carrie called to see if you’d made it home. She wanted to drive you, but you absolutely refused. ” “So I had a few too many. It was a party. People drank. I drank. ” “You don’t remember, do you? ” She paused while two tricycling kids and a set of parents meandered past us. If my brain had a file cabinet of events, the drawers were stuck. Dinner at Rizzo's. Retirement. Somebody retired.
The closet floor and its contents drifted in a swelling carpeted sea. Tidal waves of the closet's barren dampness, Carl's exploding accusations, and the lingering scent of baby powder sweetness crashed over me. I rode them out until the floor finally settled itself underneath me. “How dare you! ” I summoned a voice from places in my soul I’d buried a lifetime ago. My arms cradled the pink bag. I fell to my knees. I wanted to suffocate myself in the quilted softness. Its emptiness screamed of what was, what could have been.
Air Kisses by Zoe Foster