I surveyed myself in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all.

I checked my attaché case for any unwanted gifts from Prozac. Say, a hairball or a Tampax or some delightful eau de kitty piss. I breathed a sigh of relief to find nothing amiss. Then I grabbed my car keys and started for the door.

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” I asked Prozac, who was still sprawled out on the sofa. “It would mean an awful lot to me. You know how much I love you.”

Tell it to the tush.

And with that, she rolled over, showing me exactly where I could put my love.

I showed up at Union National, where Queen Elizabeth the receptionist greeted me with an icy smile and pointed me down a plushly carpeted hallway toward Sam Weinstock’s office.

Now I don’t know what you think of when you hear the name Sam Weinstock. I pictured a short, fat fellow with more hair in his ears than on his head.

Well, I pictured wrong.

For starters, Sam was short for Samantha. And far from being short, fat and bald, Sam was tall, slender and impossibly beautiful. Her finely chiseled features were straight out of a Clinique ad. Her gleaming auburn hair was parted in the center, a fringe of perfectly cut bangs framing her face. Not a single hair on that spectacular head dared to stray out of place.

She and Andrew were laughing about something when I poked my head in the door. It was an intimate laugh. Something about the way they looked at each other told me they were more than just coworkers.

“Jaine!” Andrew said, jumping up from where he’d been comfortably slouched on Sam’s sofa.

“Come on in,” he said, waving me inside. His hair, I couldn’t help noticing, was still curling most seductively at the nape of his neck.

“I’d like you to meet our CFO, Samantha Weinstock.”

“Everyone calls me Sam,” the auburn-haired stunner said.

She stood to greet me, her hip bones protruding from her slim pencil skirt. I felt like a tugboat in comparison.

“Hi,” I said, no doubt bowling her over with my conversational skills.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said, shaking my hand. For such a tiny little thing, she had a surprisingly strong grip.

She looked me up and down, taking in my unruly curls and my drugstore makeup. Under her wilting gaze, my Prada pantsuit suddenly felt like one of Ethel Mertz’s housedresses.

Obviously deciding I was no competition for Andrew’s affections, she permitted herself a faint smile.

“Sit down, and let’s have a look at your writing.”

“I think you’re going to be very impressed with what Jaine’s going to show you,” Andrew said, winking at me. “I know I was.”

Was it my imagination or had he just made a sneaky allusion to my pantyhose?

“She’s really an excellent writer,” he added.