Say the Word(76)
I studied my work with a mixed sense of accomplishment and concern. It felt good to do something with my hands, to make a small amount of progress, even if it was only the illusion of productivity. The map spanned a good chunk of the wall, framed on either side by charts, images, and notes. A portrait of Vera and me that Fae had snapped on my camera phone one day last summer hung on the left, the picture of Santos I’d found online was pinned on the right. Miri’s handwritten letter was tacked up at eye level, and I’d marked distinct locations — the tenement in Two Bridges, the coffee shop in East Village where I’d met Miri, the precinct where Santos worked, the brewery on The Point — with red pins, so I could keep track of all the different locations I’d visited since this misadventure began.
A resigned sigh slipped from my lips. Creating a conspiracy-theory mosaic — à la Carrie in Homeland — was typically an indicator that someone was about to plunge straight off the deep end into Crazytown. If Simon and Fae saw this, they’d have me committed to a mental facility immediately, no questions asked.
Fae had been right that day in Two Bridges, when she’d said I’d stumbled down the rabbit hole.
Naive blonde girl wandering a strange, unfamiliar landscape?
Check.
Enemies lurking around every corner, waiting gleefully for a chance to chop off my head?
Double check.
***
I should’ve known the day was going to be a train wreck when I spilled coffee down the front of my favorite little black dress and got whacked in the head by four separate umbrella-wielding madmen on the way to work.
Rain in New York is always an experience. Never in your life can you be nearly bludgeoned to death by the overwhelming volume of commuters’ umbrellas competing for airspace overhead, except on a rainy day during rush hour in the city. As if the overflowing sewer drains and traffic jams didn’t cause problems enough, whenever the slightest drizzle fell from the sky, New Yorkers would have their umbrellas out in spades, poking each other in the eyes and pushing one another off the sidewalks rather than risk a single raindrop wetting their hair.
I’d have to check the city records to verify it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were far more casualties on rainy days than sun-drenched ones. I’d nearly died just this morning, when an overzealous power-walker elbowed me off the street into the path on an oncoming taxi. I’d escaped with my life, but my black and white Miu Miu pumps hadn’t been so lucky — the puddle I’d landed in was deep and spilling over with grime, leaving stains no amount of suede-cleaner would ever lift.
Work itself hadn’t been so bad, I guess. Sebastian wasn’t there to torment me from afar and Angela had finally assigned me a project in my wheelhouse, writing a period piece that would be sandwiched between the 1920s and 1930s photo spreads in the Centennial issue. I spent my day settled at one of the work stations in a quiet corner, researching the years leading up to the Great Depression and immersing myself in a world that was, surprisingly, not all flapper dresses and finger curls. It was hard to tear myself away to break for lunch — I’d become enthralled by all the fashion and flagrancies that made the Jazz Age so deliciously immoral — but when the two Jennys invited me to grab salads with them, I couldn’t say no. We ended up at a small cafe just around the block, where the lines weren’t too long and the food was inexpensive but remarkably good.
“This project is so much fun,” Jenny S. squealed, pouring some vinaigrette over the bed of lettuce on her plate. “Way better than some of the other spreads we’ve been working on lately. Remember the sex position shoot we had to do last month, Jen? With the chocolate sauce we had to smear all over that model’s ti—”
“Please!” Jenny P. interjected forcefully. “Don’t remind me.” She grimaced before stuffing a forkful of salad into her mouth.
I laughed, easily envisioning the horror. Practically every month Luster featured a photo spread of scandalous poses inspired by the Kama Sutra, typically accompanied by a user guide of helpful tips and tricks to spice up our readers’ sex lives. Despite all my complaining, at least I could say my column rarely strayed in that direction.
“Seriously, though, we are so totally lucky to be working on this,” Jenny S. gushed. “And with Sebastian Covington of all people. I mean, the man is like the hottest thing in photography right now.”
“Not to mention the hottest thing in a five hundred mile radius,” Jenny P. chimed in.
When I remained silent, they both turned to stare at me expectantly. I felt my cheeks heat.
“Yeah, he’s hot I guess,” I mumbled, dropping my eyes to my plate. “Why is it so delicious when they put strawberries on top of salad? I mean, you’d think fruit and lettuce would be a totally gross combo, right? And yet—” I stuffed a large bite into my mouth. “—delicious.”
My oh-so-subtle attempts to drive the conversation elsewhere were ignored. Sigh.
“Ohmigod!” Jenny P. had a terrifyingly astute gleam in her eye. “You totally like him!”
I shook my head in denial. “That’s ridiculous,” I snorted.
“Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad.” Jenny S. nodded her head in sympathy.
“He’s dating a model!” I deflected. “I’d never be attracted to someone who was into girls like Cara.” I crossed my fingers under the table as the white lie slipped out.