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JENN
‘Jennifer,I know it was supposed to be one wild night, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Come with me to Paris for the weekend, I’ll take care of everything, first-class all the way. We’ll drink champagne and stay at the Ritz, and I’ll spend all day on my knees licking your—’
“Okaaay!” My friend Millie stops reading, her eyes wide. She peers closer at my email. “He’s really going to townthere? Is that a thing now? I didn’t know it was a thing.”
“Apparently, it’s a thing,” I agree.
“So? What are you waiting for?” She squeezes baby puree on top of her yoghurt and takes a bite. I dropped by her apartment for coffee on my way to work, and as usual, the place is a disaster—with a sleeping baby in the center of the mess. Millie scoops up a stained shirt with one hand, and wipes applesauce off the counter with the other. “I mean, Jenn, just think about it. Paris, champagne, unlimited oral pleasure with Stefano here… You should totally take him up on that offer.”
“I would, but it’s not me he wants to lick!” I shut my laptop with a laugh. “And the only thing I’m making sweet, sweet love to is your espresso machine.”
“The Other Jennifer Walker?” Millie asks.
“Strikes again.” I nod.
It was funny, to begin with. A couple of years ago, I started getting emails that were clearly meant for someone else. VIP invites to swanky parties. Receipts for gorgeous, designer clothing. I even got a confirmation for a yacht rental in the South of France.
Since I was sweating on the subway with my nose in someone’s stinky pit at the time, it didn’t take me long to realize I had a name doppelgänger out there. A quick google confirmed it: Jennifer Walker, also from New York City, also thirty years old, but that’s about all we have in common.
While I’m toiling away in the marketing department of a supremely boring corporate law firm, she does something in fashion PR. Her social media is packed with glamor and adventure, not just her sourdough starter and knitting projects.
And then there are the men…. This Stefano is only one in a long line of hopefuls sending emails into the void, ready to whisk the Other Jennifer away for sexy, luxurious adventures in exotic locations. From the way they talk to her, this woman is clearly an expert in Tantra and teasing—with beer-flavored nipples.
“Should I try to forward this one to her?” I ask Millie. “I hate to leave Stefano hanging.”
“Does she ever reply?”
“Nope.” I sigh. “I’ve tried to let her know about the mix-up a dozen times, especially when I got her tax return from her accountant, but she doesn’t seem to check her DMs. She did, however, claim over a thousand dollars of Botox as a business expense!”
Millie laughs. “Some people have it all figured out.”
Other people.
Not me.
Just one letter separates me from[emailprotected]. One letter, and our entire daily reality. Because, according to the stray emails that land in my inbox every other day, the Other Jennifer Walker is having the time of both our lives.
“I better get to work,” I tell Millie, setting my mug in the sink.
“Tell you what,” she says brightly. “Let’s go to that Parisian café in the Village this week.”
I smile back at her, cheered by the thought of a small bistro table and an extra-large plate of frites. “Sounds great.”
“I know I’m no Stefano, but…” Millie drops her voice, with the breathiness of a perfume ad voiceover. “We’ll drink café au lait and stay close to home. I’ll spend all day—”
“Millie!”
“…Complaining about how tired I am,” she says, with a laugh. “Obviously.”
“Have a good day!” I call, waving on my way out the door. I turn to blow the baby a kiss.
“You too, Isla!”
I walkthe familiar path to my station, enjoying the morning sun. My job is pretty average, so I’ve learned to soak in small workday pleasures. When I got my marketing degree, I imagined fast-paced pitch meetings and cutting-edge tactics. I would stun glamorous clients with my fresh ideas about jewelry and champagne. I would wear tasteful designer dresses and work in an office with fancy lamps.
I would beEmily in Paris, basically.
Instead, I landed a marketing gig at a corporate law firm right out of school. My work at Strauss, Nichols, and Zimmerman is almost indescribably boring. I organize the annual prospectus, I send press releases to the same dozen media sources, and I help stage our conferences. Privately, I pronounce the acronym SNZ as “Snooze.” Last week, I pitched the idea of a breakfast burrito bar at our annual conference. One of the partners said, and I quote, “Let’s slow down here.”
