“Still grieving your camera?” my roommate Jules asks as she breezes through the living room the next morning. She grabs her toast just as it pops out of the toaster and takes a bite in the same motion. Jules is a master of efficiency. She has to be, or the law firm she’s trying to make partner at would already have worked her into an early grave.

I set my poor, waterlogged hunk of equipment down and sigh. “It’s not a camera anymore. A camera is something you can take pictures with. That is a very expensive paperweight.”

Unfortunately, when I crashed into the lake yesterday, my baby crashed with me, and no amount of coaxing, begging, pleading, and crying has convinced it to turn on since then.

What do you call a photographer without a proper camera?

Broke. And also, screwed. If it wasn’t for the truly excellent kiss I got out of the event, the whole day would go down in history as one of my least shining moments ever.

Jules pauses by the back of the couch to assess the situation. With her power-suit getup and her black hair pulled back into a smooth French twist, she looks every inch the corporate badass lawyer.

“Won’t your insurance cover it?”

“Is there anything insurance actually covers?” I ask, then sigh. “I already checked. No can do.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. How about I write them a super-threatening lawyer letter to tell them to smarten up?”

I perk up. “Do you really think that would work?”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “No. But it might be satisfying anyway.”

I wave her off. “Never mind then. I don’t want you damaging your professional cred. I just need to get a job, and then I can buy a new camera. Of course, to get a photography job, I need actual photography equipment . . .” I trail off, wincing at my catch-22. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jules says.

“And I’ve got an interview today,” I add.

“See?” Jules declares. “This is just a hiccup. Is the job anywhere good?”

“Carlisle Publishing,” I answer, feeling a spark of excitement. “Junior staff photographer for one of their life and culture magazines. It would be amazing: I could build up my portfolio, get tons of experience, and learn from some of their big hitters . . .”

“After they see your pictures, they’d be idiots not to take you on.” Jules gives my arm a reassuring squeeze and looks at her watch at the same time. “Crap. I’ve got to jet, or I’ll miss that eight o’clock meeting. Good luck with the interview!”

---

I change into my best “hire me” outfit (minimal wrinkles, maximum Girl Friday vibes) and head uptown on the subway with plenty of time to spare. After spending years as a personal assistant to a demanding investment genius, I’m used to thinking of all the tiny details. So, I plan a backup train route in case there’s construction, pack an umbrella and sunscreen, and even remember to stash a spare blouse in my purse in case of any last-minute coffee stain emergencies. In fact, I’m so careful to plan extra for every disaster, I arrive at my interview a grand total of forty-five minutes early.

Great start, Hallie.

The Carlisle Publishing building is practically a Manhattan landmark. The huge art deco-style tower looms over its neighbors, with a marble-tiled lobby and an ornate chandelier gleaming off the bronze walls. Inside, I loiter by the main reception, clutching my portfolio and wondering how to kill time, until I see a small gallery space, set in the back of the lobby.

Hello, procrastination.

I wander over and check out the display. Framed photographs hang on the walls, an eclectic collection of photojournalism and art prints, and I browse for a while, curious. I come to a stop in front of a vintage photo of Cary Grant from back in the day, and there’s something about the swagger he’s throwing off that makes me think of the guy from the wedding. He had confidence in spades too, and a chiseled jawline to boot.

And deliciously kissable lips . . .

I flash back to the moment he reached for me; the hard, lean feel of his body pressed against me, and how his tongue did wickedly sensual things to my mouth. Five seconds, and I was more turned on than I have been in, well, I don’t even want to think how long. And sure, he would be the #1 example in the dictionary if you looked up “recipes for heartbreak,” but damn, that guy could kiss.

“They’re all from Carlisle publications.”

A voice from behind me makes me jump. I spin around. It’s an older guy, looking like Santa Claus dressed for spring in the city: half-bald with a big white beard, twinkling blue eyes, and a portly belly encased in a dapper linen suit.

“Sorry,” the man says, looking amused. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” I catch my breath. “I’m kind of nervous. I’m here for an interview,” I explain—leaving out the part about hot kiss flashbacks.

“Ah, best of luck. The name’s Ernest Hammersmith,” he adds. “You’re interested in the pictures?”

“Oh. Yes. They’re amazing.” I turn back to the wall. “I didn’t realize how many iconic images were published in Carlisle magazines.”

The fall of the Berlin Wall . . . Demonstrators in Tiananmen Square . . . Rocket launches in Cape Canaveral . . . I’m getting seriously intimidated just looking at the record of this place.

“Carlisle publications have always been a window to the world,” Ernest says, with obvious pride. “In fact, this very building used to be the tallest in the city, before the Empire State Building was constructed. I curate the collection here, and let me tell you, it’s no easy pick.”

“I can imagine . . .” I gaze at the images, wondering if I’ll ever take a photo that is seen all over the world. I’ve never thought further than just making a living from my work, but suddenly, surrounded by all these images, I feel inspired to maybe one day join their ranks. “Thank you,” I tell him. “This is just what I needed.”

Ernest quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m a photographer,” I explain. “That’s what I’m here interviewing for. Hallie Gage,” I introduce myself.

“A pleasure, Hallie,” he says. “To tell you the truth, most people just cut through here on the way to the bathroom. It’s nice to have someone actually look for a change.”

“Their loss,” I tell him. “I mean, look at them. You can see the history of the world right here—”

I catch sight of the ornate clock on the wall. For all my planning, I got distracted, and now it’s two minutes before noon. “Crapwaffle!” I exclaim. “I have to go. Sorry! And thanks,”

“Good luck!” Ernest calls after me, as I dash back out to the elevators. I hit the button for the twentieth floor, and try to collect myself. It’s just the dream job I’ve been waiting for, the one that will let me wave goodbye to doggie portraits and retirement home boudoir pics (don’t ask). Nothing to be nervous about.

Liar. I get off at the editorial floor, and have to catch my breath all over again. It’s all glass and glossy white walls up here, with ultra-fashionable people striding around looking purposeful.

I can feel the buzz of excitement, and it mingles with my nerves to make my heart race faster.

“You’re late,” the receptionist says matter-of-factly when I go sign in. The clock reads 12:02.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, flustered. “Is there any chance she can still squeeze me in? I won’t take up much time.”

The girl sighs loudly and clicks through her schedule. “Fine. Over there.” She nods

to a row of boxy white chairs outside the corner office, so I go take a seat.

And sit. And sit. And sit.

My stomach ties up in so many knots, I deserve a Girl Scout badge. I haven’t seen anyone go in or out, or heard any movement inside. In fact, is she even alive in there?

Finally, a tall, curly-haired woman saunters across the office with a takeout salad in one hand and a Neiman Marcus bag in the other. “Hallie Gage?” she looks around absently, even though I’m the only one here.

“That’s me!” I bob out of my seat.

“Oh.” She looks me up and down. “I guess you can come in.”

I follow her into the office, trying to remember all those power interview tips. Firm handshake. Bright smile. Confidence. I open my portfolio on her polished maple desk.

The editor opens her salad, and drizzles dressing over the top.

“So, I have a degree in photography from RISD,” I say, nervous. She pulls my portfolio closer, and begins leafing through with one hand, as the other steadily forks salad into her mouth.

“Mmhm. Mmhm.”

That’s all she says. I can’t even tell if it’s an approving sound or a dismissive one. She hardly seems to look at anything before she’s moved on to the next spread. I’m not totally sure she can even see past those curls.

I jump in, pointing to a shot over the Hudson River that I’m particularly proud of. “To get that angle, I had to scramble right up on the—”

Her intercom buzzes. “Diane for you on line two.”

“Sorry,” the editor says, through a mouthful of salad. She swallows fast, and picks up the phone. “Diane! So good to hear from you. Yes, I’m in the middle of an interview, but I can give you a second.”

A second turns into a couple minutes of chatter about an ad placement. Meanwhile she’s flipped right through half my book. Is she looking at my work or just exercising her hand at this point?

As soon as she’s off the phone, I grab the opening. She hasn’t asked me any questions yet, so I’ll just have to answer the ones I think she should have. “I’ve loved photography since I was a kid. My grandfather got me my first camera, an old Pentax manual one, and just like that, I was hooked. I know there’s a gap in my resume the past few years,” I add quickly, “but I’ve done portrait work, landscapes, commercial—”

Another buzz from her secretary. “Kevin on line one.”

She doesn’t even apologize this time. “Kevin! So good to hear from you. Did you get those numbers crunched?”

By the time she’s done with Kevin, she’s reached the last few pages of my portfolio, aka wedding central. I needed to show people have been willing to pay me to point and click.

“Mmhm,” she says. This time it definitely sounds dismissive. And that’s it. She flips over the last page. Suddenly I really wish I had a doggie bridal party shot to share in there. That would get more of a comment, wouldn’t it?

I’ve got to say something that’ll get her attention. “There was also the time I climbed Mount Everest,” I start with a dramatic sweep of my arm. I have no clue how I’m going to explain that line if I have to admit I didn’t really. But it doesn’t matter.

This time it’s Ms. Editor who interrupts. She stands up without so much as a blink, handing my portfolio back to me. “Thank you for coming by, Holly. I’ll be in touch.”

She’s already ushering me out the door. That’s it? “Um, it’s actually Hallie,” I say, because damn it, she is at least going to get my name out of this interview. But Ms. Editor is already making a beeline for the new girl sitting outside her office.

And I do mean girl. With that artfully tousled high ponytail, cropped jacket, and tapered khaki pants, she looks like she just walked off the campus of the preppiest college that ever prepped.

“Blair!” the editor squeals, putting more enthusiasm into that one syllable than she did our entire conversation. If you could call what we had a conversation. “So good to see you. How are your parents?”

Preppy Girl shrugs with a smile. “Oh, you know, Dad’s busy at the office as always. Mom’s got her new gala in the works.”

Ms. Editor takes her by the shoulder to guild her into the office. “That’s right. Is this one for the cancer charity or the lupus charity? I can never keep up. Oh, I’m so glad you took me up on the offer to apply. I have the perfect assignments for you.”

The door closes behind them before I get to hear all about the assignments she’s apparently giving out before even starting the interview. Not that it sounded like any interview was necessary. I bite my lip and turn toward the elevators.

And that’s when I realize there’s mustard vinaigrette smeared all over my book.

There’ll be other openings, I tell myself, trying to stay strong. I’ll have other chances. But by the time the elevator arrives, I’m blinking hard to keep back the tears.

I will not cry. I will not cry. Not over one silly job.

That I really, really wanted. That I needed.

Shit. I can’t even go back to weddings while my camera is doing its excellent impression of a paperweight. Maybe I can start busking on the street? I’ll be a mime. A mime photographer. No actual pictures taken. Even a broken camera can handle that!

I’m laugh-crying when the elevator jerks to a halt and the door slides open.

The woman who walks on looks as though she’s never shed a tear in her life. The violet silk sheath dress she’s got on is perfectly smooth—as smooth as her sleek ice-blond bob. Her eyebrows form two narrow arches. She glances over me and purses her lips. I pray for the floor to open up and swallow me.

Then, instead of giving me a sneer, she reaches into her clutch purse and offers me a tissue. I take it, surprised.

“Looks like you’ve had a tough morning,” she says in a sympathetic voice. “You know what always makes me feel better?”

Botox, I answer silently, then shake my head.

The woman grins. “Donuts.”