"Jill," Ed was saying, "it's just that you've got such a comprehensive knowledge of the Cummings Footwear line. I really don't see a conflict. I mean, Hillyer, Jones is an advertising agency -- they're not in the business of producing annual reports, are they?"

"Well, no" Jill managed awkwardly, stalling for time while she thought about what Ed Grassley was offering her.

"We paid last year's writer a $20,000 fee -- and what he turned in to us was a piece of -- well, never mind, let's just say it wasn't very good. We'd be prepared to up that fee significantly for a writer with your skill and level of familiarity with our products."

Jill had come to know Grassley pretty well while working as a team with Lucien on the latest print campaign for Cummings athletic shoes. Everything she wrote, he seemed to love -- except her tendency to pun. They were really on the same wavelength. He wasn't like the clients she detested working with -- the ones who said they didn't like her copy, but couldn't tell her why.

Conflict of interest? Of course it is. But where money is involved, people like Jill Campbell can have a convenient way of putting ethis aside. Will she come to regret it?

Grassley had phoned to ask Jill if she did freelance work, and, if so, if she would be willing to take on the writing of the Cummings Footwear Company's annual report as an independent project. The trouble was, Hillyer, Jones had an unwritten policy against creatives doing freelance work for the agency's clients. It wasn't exactly a condition of employment, but there was an understanding among all the creatives at the agency -- and at most agencies -- that doing "under the table" freelance for agency clients was ... unethical.

Jill's problem: she needed the money. Bad. She knew she'd be getting a bonus this year, and she'd been working her tail off nights and weekends doing freelance writing -- mainly for a medical publishing company in New Jersey, stuff so boring it was harder to stay awake while writing it than it was to actually write it.

"Ed," she said, "can I think about it? It's really a question of my having to fit it into my schedule."

"Sure, hon," Ed said paternally. It was the kind of comment that, coming from anyone else, Jill would have taken as sexist and obnoxious. But not from Ed -- the most affable yokel on the planet.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow morning at the latest, okay?"

"Sure, Jill. And one more thing -- there won't be a lot of meetings involved. Again, you know the product line -- you might have to come out to Indianapolis once, to the plant maybe. But that's it. Okay?"

"Okay, Ed. Bye."

Jill hung up the phone, leaned over and opened the door to the hallway. She then opened her top desk drawer, took out her checkbook, and looked at the pathetic balance. Between expenses for the baby, the nanny's salary, and her financially non-supporting, aspiring film producer husband, things were getting tougher every month. She was already behind in both the gardener and dry cleaner's bills -- could the diaper service be far behind? It was so tempting to say yes to Ed's offer. But she really couldn't afford to get in trouble with Jim Hillyer at this point.

So Jill decided to do what everybody at Hillyer, Jones decides to do when skewered on the horns of a moral dilemma. She picked up the phone and dialed internal extension 318.

"Agnes? It's Jill. Do you have a second this afternoon so I can get your advice on something? I really need your input."

Sydney Chen was sitting at the white formica counter at the Tasti-D-Lite shop at the corner of Lexington Avenue and 86th Street that evening. After heading uptown and swimming laps for half an hour in the ancient pool at the 92nd St. Y, she began the walk back to her apartment in Yorkville, and on the way, stopped for her favorite "dinner": a medium sized, chocolate pudding flavored, frozen yogurt-like substance that, the shop's sign said, was both non-dairy and kosher. Who knew what was in it -- but it was fabulous, it filled her up, and it was only 260 calories. Sydney's nutrition conscious mother would have a stroke, she thought, if she could see how her daughter ate.

Spooning the cold and creamy chocolate-flavored dessert into her mouth with a plastic spoon, she stared out absently through the shop's window into the misty night, as commuters carrying umbrellas hurried in and out of the subway entrance -- catching the local and express Lexington Avenue trains either uptown to the Bronx, or downtown to Brooklyn.

Sydney had been on jury duty for a week now -- and it had been five full days since she'd given her novel to Leonard Sheldon. They'd been assigned to different cases, so they didn't see each other after the third day. She was positive he thought it was trash, and with every day that passed, she was angrier at herself for having given it to him. Her writing was a stupid exercise, and her ambitions to be published, she told herself, bordered on insanity. She was a secretary, damn it, and she was no more an "author" than all those waiters in West Side restaurants were "actors." She was a wannabe, nothing more.

Walking across East 83rd St., she continued to wallow in her insecurity, as she recited passages from chapters in her novel in her head -- and visibly winced at what she imagined Leonard Sheldon might say when he read them.

It was nearly 7:30 when Sydney reached the front door of her walkup tenement building east of Second Avenue. Edward, her tiny Yorkshire terrier who had just turned seven, would be furious at her, and desperate to go out for a walk -- if he hadn't already punished her and peed in the bathtub, as he occasionally did if Sydney was late getting home.

She walked into the 250 square foot studio flat and switched on the light. Edward was sitting on the sisal carpet in the middle of the room, staring at Sydney's answering machine. He barked once, as if he were going to attack it. "It's okay, Eddie. It's only a telephone call." Edward wasn't the brightest dog, and was always unnerved when a phone call came in and he heard a stranger's voice. "Just let me listen to this message and then we'll go out." Sydney had mentally decided that she was going to take him over to Carl Schurz Park so he could play with the other dogs tonight on his walk.

Too late! Damn! If Sydney had only checked her messages sooner, she would have been able to return that call tonight. But don't worry, Sydney... it's good to not seem too desperate. So you'll call in the morning. Let's just hope it's good news...

Without removing her raincoat, Sydney pressed the "play" button on the answering machine. It rewound briefly, then began, "Sydney, it's Leonard Sheldon. I must talk to you at your earliest convenience. If you get in before 7:30, call me at the office. Otherwise, call me tomorrow."

Sydney looked at her watch. It was 7:45. Damn it. She looked down at Edward, and he looked hopefully up at her, his red nylon leash in his mouth and his bladder bursting.

"This could be it, Eddie!" Sydney said. "But first things first." She fastened the leash to Edward's collar, as the frantic dog pulled her out the apartment door.