“You win,” I told her as I came back from McDonald’s the next morning with two Egg Mc-Muffins for breakfast. “No more dieting.”

I knew eventually you’d see it my way.

Okay, so I was a pillar of tapioca, a woman who let her 16-pound cat boss her around like a medieval serf. But it was the only sensible thing to do, really. One more day on that diet, and she’d be on Weight Watchers Most Wanted List.

And frankly, I was thrilled not to have to eat another meal perched on the bathtub. How nice it was to have breakfast the civilized way, standing at the kitchen counter, tossing bits of Egg McMuffin to Prozac as she howled at my feet.

As the sunlight streamed in the kitchen window, I felt ashamed of my crazy call to 911. No doubt about it. I’d gone a little mad. There was no way Marty could have squeezed through my bathroom window.

Nevertheless, all the sunshine in the world couldn’t wipe my fears away entirely. Marty may not have broken into my apartment last night, but that didn’t mean I’d heard the last of him.

Prozac and I had just polished off the Egg Mc-Muffins and were licking our fingers (well, I was licking my fingers; Prozac was concentrating on her genitals) when the phone rang.

It was Andrew Ferguson. At the sound of his velvety voice, all thoughts of Marty and the murder flew out of my head.

“Good news, Jaine!” he announced. “You’ve got the job. You’re the new editor of the Union National Tattler.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Can you start tonight?”

“Sure. Your place or mine?”

Okay, so what I really said was, “Absolutely.”

“Tonight’s the night of our annual dinner dance downtown at the Stratford Hotel, and we want you to cover it for the Tattler. Think you can do it?”

Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sky blue? Are fat cells attracted to my thighs like ants to a picnic?

“Of course!” I squealed.

“Terrific. Six o’clock. Stratford Hotel. Formal dress.”

After thanking him profusely, I hung up, swooped Prozac in my arms, and danced around the apartment singing We’re in the Money. That is, until the words “formal dress” registered on my brain. The last time I’d been invited to anything requiring formal dress I’d been a senior in high school, and I seriously doubted I’d be able to fit into my prom dress even if I still owned it, which I didn’t.