“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sam said, with a tight laugh. It was meant to be a joke, but we all knew she wasn’t kidding.

I reached down into my attaché case. In spite of the fact that I’d checked it for booby traps, I was still nervous. Could Prozac somehow have managed to sneak in something that I’d overlooked? I took a deep breath and pulled out my sample book, saying a tiny prayer of thanks when no kitty turd tumbled out onto Sam’s desk.

She looked through my writing samples slowly, not saying a word, turning the pages with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker.

Finally, when I was convinced she was about to send me packing, she slapped the book shut and said, “Nice work. Very nice indeed.”

She liked it! She actually liked it! Did this mean she was going to offer me the job?

Apparently not. Not yet.

“I’d like to know a little more about your work history,” she said. “Tell me about yourself, Jaine.”

She folded her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair, waiting to be impressed.

“Well, I started out as a hooker, but then I hit hard times and had to take up writing.”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. I didn’t say anything. Because just then, Sam’s secretary, another elderly aristocrat, came to the door and reminded Sam that she and Andrew were late for their lunch reservations.

“Damn,” Sam said, checking her watch. “You know how crowded it gets at Simon’s. If we don’t get there, they may not save our table. Why don’t you come with us, Jaine, and we can continue the interview there?”

“Fine,” I said. I’d heard about Simon’s. It was a hot new steak house, an expense account destination, where the three-inch thick sirloins cost as much as a midsized Hyundai.

I couldn’t wait to wrap myself around one of those steaks. Medium rare. With a heaping side of thick-cut fries. I was salivating already.

We rode over in Andrew’s car, a jet black BMW convertible. Up to then, I’d always thought guys who drove BMWs were arrogant jerks, but suddenly BMWs didn’t seem so pretentious, after all. I was certain Andrew must have bought his for the expert German engineering, that he wasn’t even thinking about using his car as a shallow status symbol. Come to think of it, hadn’t I read somewhere that Consumer Reports actually liked the BMW? Why, for all I knew, Ralph Nader drove one.

Sam and Andrew sat up front, while I jammed myself into the tiny backseat, my knees poking uncomfortably into my chest.