The Charm Bracelet(3)

When Arden Lindsey was in a zone like this, it was as if her soul had suddenly left her body and now hovered over her watching from above with the exposed ductwork and the wood beams of the drafty warehouse ceiling.

She could see her hands fly across the top row of her keyboard, using keys few ever touched.

Brackets and parentheses, number signs and ampersands.

Arden had a job few even realized existed.

Arden spent her day editing and rewriting, creating search engine optimization, click-throughs, coding, links, all the things that nobody considered when they read the magazine from their laptop, iPad, or cell, but which made advertisers happy and made Paparazzi the most searched celebrity website in the world.

Arden began to click through the pictures that Paparazzi’s photographer had sent at dawn: Beyoncé hugging Gwyneth. Jay-Z in shades. Impossibly tall Kimora in high heels.

Of course, Simóne was stunning, too.

Simóne looked like she belonged in the pages of Paparazzi: Lush, dark hair, pale skin with emerald eyes, exotic yet accessible, a sort of step-Kardashian. In person, Simóne was maybe five feet tall, perhaps a hundred pounds. But in photos, she looked like a star.

And she acted like one, too. She could chat with celebs in a way that made her seem as if she belonged in their inner circle. She could get them to say things after a few drinks.

That is, if she remembered to take notes, Arden thought.

As Arden studied the pictures, she suddenly caught her own image in the reflection of her laptop screen, her pale face and dull dress juxtaposed against the beauty of Alicia Keys and Kelly Rowland.

She stared more closely at Kelly Rowland’s hair, studying it, wondering if her sleek mane was actually a wig.

Now, that’s a good wig, Mother, she chuckled, remembering the embarrassing wigs her own mother wore to entertain tourists in her resort hometown.

[PHOTO CODE: “TZQ189&04L”]

Arden gave the article one final review, then uploaded it to Paparazzi.com, a stunning photo of Beyoncé and Gwyneth hugging the top of the page under a red banner that danced and screamed, “BREAKING NEWS!”

Arden picked up her coffee cup and arced it into her trash can. She stood and walked over to her eighth-floor window, which offered a peek—between the elevated tracks of the train and the high-rises around her—of Lake Michigan.

It was a beautiful, mid-May day, and the sunlight turned the surface of the water into a kaleidoscope.

Arden watched the deep green waves rock the boats dotting the lakeshore.

She had grown up on Lake Michigan, seemingly a million miles away—“on the other side,” as Chicagoans sometimes referred to their Michigan counterparts.

It was only one lake, but it was, truly, a “great” lake to Arden, and it had seemed to separate her from the rest of the world when she was a kid.

“I can’t smell salt,” LA and New York celebrities would always say when they visited Chicago. Or, “You mean you can’t see the other side?”—unable to comprehend the vastness and freshness of Lake Michigan.

“Nice job on the Beyoncé story.”

Arden turned at the sound of her boss’s voice.

“Thanks,” she said to Van, noting his Zac Efron hair and bow tie.

“Online a couple of minutes, and it’s already gotten a few thousand views,” he said. “Jay-Z already texted me to thank us for adding all the links to his corporate ventures. We do a great job, don’t we?”

We? You may be the editor of Paparazzi.com, and we may cover the royals every single day, but that still doesn’t give you the right to use the “royal we” in regard to my work, Arden thought.

“Yes,” Arden said, instead. It was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes.

She hesitated.

“Is there a chance you’d let me cover her after-party tomorrow night?”

“Sounds like a great idea, but we need you here,” Van said, smiling, in the same sweetly condescending way her ex-husband used to speak to her when she talked about writing her novel.

Even a decade later, Arden still couldn’t believe that her ex fought with her about everything—writing, money, the news—everything except for his own daughter. In the end, he didn’t even fight for custody. He didn’t want Arden. He didn’t want Lauren. His iciness had frozen Arden, paralyzed her ability to stand up to him and, as a result, she walked away with little financial support. Now, her ex had a new family, a new wife and a new life without them.

“How would we survive without you?” Van asked.

Arden smiled at the irony of his question, before turning to look out the window in an attempt to hide her disappointment and frustration.

“Let Simóne do that,” he continued. “She lives for that sort of stuff. She’s going to be our next feature writer anyway.”

Arden winced, as if her boss had suddenly walked over and slapped her. Out of habit, she tugged at her earlobe, a quirk that had started years ago watching The Carol Burnett Show with her mom. It had morphed into a nervous habit when she first went to kindergarten and was too scared to leave her mom.

“Just tug your earlobe like Carol,” Lolly had told her outside the classroom door. “It’s your silent way to tell me—and yourself—that everything is going to be all right.”

Arden kept her back to Van until she could hear him walk away. Van was—what?—a decade her junior and her seventh boss in the last decade? They all came and went, like pretty toy soldiers, putting in their time until the New York office called them up, or they landed at People, EW, or Entertainment Tonight.