Officially, the office of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn doesn’t open for business until nine A.M.

Unofficially, the phones start ringing at eight sharp. Which is why they need the receptionist there early, ready to transfer calls.

I’m in the fancy black leather swivel chair (with wheels on it) behind the reception desk, trying to grasp what Tiffany, the afternoon receptionist (no, really. That’s her name. I thought she was making it up, but when she got up to get us coffee from the high-tech kitchen in the back, I peeked in the drawers on either side of the desk, and I saw that, in addition to twenty different shades of fingernail polish and about thirty different samples of lipstick, she’s crammed all her pay stubs in there, and I read one, and it said, right there, in pink and black, “Tiffany Dawn Sawyer”), is explaining to me.

“Okay,” Tiffany says. She is supposed to be a model when she isn’t working behind the reception desk at Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, and I believe it, because her skin is as clear and as smooth as porcelain, her hair is a lustrous shoulder-length curtain of tawny gold, she’s six feet tall, and she looks as if she weighs about a hundred and twenty pounds—especially after a big breakfast like the one she’s enjoying at the moment, courtesy of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn’s kitchens, black coffee and a pack of cherry Twizzlers.

“So, like, when you get a call,” Tiffany explains, her carefully made-up eyes heavy-lidded, because, as she’s already explained to me, she drank “way too many mojitos” last night, and she’s “still wasted,” “you ask who’s calling, and then you tell them to hold, and then you press the transfer button, and then you put in the person’s extension, and then when that person picks up, you say who’s calling, and if the person says he’ll talk to whoever is calling, you press send, and if the person says he doesn’t want to talk to whoever is calling, or if he doesn’t pick up, you hit the line the caller is on, and you take a message.”

Tiffany takes a deep breath, then adds gravely, “I know it’s rilly complicated. That’s why they asked me to come in early today so I could sit here with you and make sure you get the hang of it. So don’t, like, panic, or anything.”

I look at the two-sided typed list of extensions that Roberta from human resources has helpfully shrunk down to palm size, then sealed in clear contact paper, so I can’t stain or tear it. There are over a hundred names on it.

“Transfer, extension, say who’s calling, send or take a message,” I say. “Right.”

Tiffany’s ocean-blue eyes widen in surprise. “Good. You got it. God. It took me like a week to get that.”

“Well,” I say, not wanting to hurt her feelings. Tiffany has already told me her life story—she left her home in North Dakota right after high school graduation to come to the big city to model; in the four years since, she’s done a lot of print work, including the annual fall Nordstrom catalog; lives with a photographer she met in a bar, who’s promised to get her more print work and is “like, married, but, like, she’s a total bitch. Only he can’t divorce her ’cause he’s from, like, Argentina, and the INS is breathing down his neck, so he’s got to, like, pretend the whole thing is for real for a while longer. As long as he keeps paying for her place in Chelsea she’ll lie that they’re still together, but really she’s living with her personal trainer. But as soon as he gets his green card, it’s over. Then he’s going to marry me”; and dislikes the flavor grape—and I don’t want to make her feel bad, on account of the fact that she only has a high school diploma, and I’m a college graduate (well, practically), and so naturally I’m going to catch on to things a little faster than she is. “It is hard.”

“Ooooh, here’s a call,” Tiffany says, as the phone chirps softly. The ringers in the offices of Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn are kept at a very low volume, so as not to annoy the partners—who, according to Tiffany, are extremely high-strung, due to their demanding hours and jobs—or the clients, who are extremely high-strung due to the hourly rates they are paying for legal help from Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn. “So, answer it, just like I told you.”

I pick up the receiver and say confidently, “Pendergast, Loughlin, and Flynn, how may I direct your call?”

“Who the hell is this?” the man on the other end of the line demands.

“This is Lizzie,” I say, as pleasantly as I can, considering his tone.

“You the temp?”

“No, sir,” I say. “I’m the new morning receptionist. How may I direct your call?”

“Get me Jack” is the terse reply.

“Certainly,” I say, frantically scanning my little shrink-wrapped list. Jack? Which one is Jack? “Who may I say is calling?” I ask, stalling for time as I look for the name Jack.

“Jesus Christ,” the man on the other end of the line yells. “This is Peter fucking Loughlin, for fuck’s sake!”

“Of course, sir,” I say. “Please hold.”

“Don’t you fucking—”

I press hold with trembling fingers, then turn toward Tiffany, who is dozing in her seat, her lusciously long black eyelashes perfectly curled against her high cheekbones.

“It’s Peter Loughlin,” I cry, waking her up. “He wants someone named Jack! He swore at me! I think he’s mad I put him on hold… ”

Tiffany is on it like a frat boy on a pizza, snatching the receiver from me and muttering, “Shit. Shit shit shit,” beneath her breath before leaning over me to press the hold button, then saying smoothly, “Hi, Mr. Loughlin, it’s me, Tiffany… Yes, I know. Well, she’s new… Yes, I will… Of course. Here he is.”

Then her long, manicured fingers fly over the keypad, and the call—and Peter fucking Loughlin—is gone.

“I’m sorry,” I say tremulously, as Tiffany hangs up. “I just couldn’t find anyone named Jack on the list!”

“Stupid bitch,” Tiffany says, pulling out a ballpoint pen and scribbling something on the list Roberta gave me. Passing the list back to me, she sees my alarmed expression, and laughs. “Not you. That whore, Roberta. She thinks she’s so great, because she went to an Ivy League college. Like, so what? All it got her was a job scheduling people’s vacations. A monkey could do that. Big fuckin’ whoop.”

I blink down at the change Tiffany’s made on my list. She’s crossed out the first name “John” in front of the last name “Flynn” and written “Jack” over it. Because she’d used a ballpoint to write over clear contact paper, the change is barely legible.

“John Flynn’s real name is Jack?” I ask.

“No. It’s John. But he calls himself Jack, and so does everybody else,” Tiffany assures me. “I don’t know why Roberta put his real name instead of what people actually call him. Maybe because she wants to fuck with you. Roberta’s totally jealous of girls who are better looking than she is. You know, since she looks like a horse-faced troll.”

“Oh, there you are!” Roberta cries, as she pushes open the glass door from the elevator lobby and steps into the reception area. She’s wearing a trench coat—from the lining, I can tell it’s Burberry—and carrying a briefcase. For someone who only “schedules people’s vacations,” she looks superbusinesslike. “Everything all right? Tiffany showing you the ropes?”

“Yes,” I say, throwing Tiffany a panicky look. What if Roberta overheard her calling her a horse-faced troll?

But Tiffany doesn’t look the least bit worried. She’s fished a nail file from one of the many drawers into which she’s crammed her personal belongings, and is working on one of her gel tips.

“How are you this morning, Roberta?” Tiffany inquires sweetly as she files.

“I’m great, Tiffany.” Roberta, now that I look at her, does sort of resemble a horse. She has a really long face, and superbig teeth. And she’s kind of short and has terrible posture, making her, truth be told, a little bit troll-like. “Thanks so much for helping us out by pulling a double today in order to train Lizzie. We really appreciate it.”