By Zoe Foster
If the satan wears Prada, then God wears l. a. Mer.
Hannah Atkins - the woman probably to be wearing unblended beginning, 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 international of guerrilla air kisses, achingly hip PR campaigns and goodie-bag overload, she reads approximately her boyfriend and one other lady within the gossip pages of the neighborhood rag. Then she will get dumped. via 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 develop into most sensible acquaintances with the feared ladies at paintings. Don't drink fourteen glasses of Moët & Chandon at PR launches. Don't pass domestic with beside the point males. and positively don't get all besotted together with your top friend's brother.
As her principles begin to slip away, Hannah unearths herself having to choose extra very important issues than simply the suitable colour of lip gloss . . .
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Extra resources for Air Kisses
That day, he moved in and out of the shadows of our house like someone uncomfortable in his own skin. At eleven o’clock, we watched the nightly news. The headline story was about a woman who had bludgeoned her three-month-old infant with a can of salmon. The woman was taken to a psychiatric hospital. Her husband kept telling reporters he should have seen it coming. When the news was over, my father went to his old cherry desk and took a blue velvet box from the top drawer. I smiled. “I thought you’d forgotten,” I said.
When he was eighteen he’d moved from Bridgeport, the Irish section of Chicago, to a small neighborhood off Taylor Street made up mostly of Italians. He never drank. For a time, he tried, unsuccessfully, to cultivate a midwestern twang. But religion for my father was not something you had a choice about. He believed with the zealousness of an evangelist, as if spirituality were something that ran through your veins and not through your mind. I have wondered if, had it not been for my mother, he would have chosen to be a priest.
In just that second, looking at Nicholas, I can see a younger man who dreamed of getting to the top, who used to come home and heal in my arms when one of his patients died. I can see, reflected, the eyes of a girl who used to believe in romance. “I’d like to hold him,” I whisper, and at that Nicholas’s stare turns dark and shuttered. “You had your chance,” he says. He stands and goes into our house. By moonlight, I work on my sketch. The whole time, I am wondering whether Nicholas is having trouble sleeping, too, and how angry he’ll be tomorrow when he’s not one hundred percent.