by Amber Kay
“Ah, and is this your new protégée?” Gia asks. “She’s gorgeous, Viv. Oh and what beautiful hair!”
Gia combs her fingers through my hair, grasping a fistful of my ponytail with a look of awe coloring her features.
“What are we gonna do with this today?” she asks me. I glance at Vivian and hope she’ll consider my hesitation as a sign.
“I'm thinking of a dye for her,” Vivian replies. “But Cassandra won’t listen to reason.”
I pull my ponytail from Gia’s hand, clutching the strands in my fist like a dog protecting its tail.
“I don’t want a haircut,” I say. Vivian scowls, but eventually smiles as she walks me over to the side, away from Gia.
“You promised you’d do the makeover,” she says.
“I didn’t agree to a haircut.”
Vivian sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine, then what will you agree to?”
I consider her question as if it’s a life-altering decision. I don’t like arguing with Vivian. I don’t like agreeing with her either.
“I’ll only let her dye me a couple shades darker.”
Vivian offers me a conceding smile.
“Will you at least consider getting bangs?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “The dye is all I’ll agree with.”
After a moment of deliberation, she gives in.
“Alright. No haircut.”
She walks me back to Gia and discusses the plans for my hair. After we all come to a unanimous agreement, Gia gets to work while Vivian takes a seat near my chair to monitor Gia’s progress. After hours of work, she twirls me around in the chair to see the finishing product.
I spot myself in the mirror, leaning closer to touch the glass. I can't believe the reflection staring back. Nothing about it looks like it did before. My hair falls in choppy layers of auburn along my shoulders. It’s darker than before, no longer its natural strawberry blonde shade.
I'm not sure how I feel about the change. I grasp a handful of hair to examine the sun-kissed highlights then I spot Vivian behind me in the mirror, gazing at me as I realize that my hair is the same shade as hers. If I had agreed on the bangs, she and I would have the exact same hairstyle.
“Well? Cassandra, what do you think?” Vivian asks as I recover from the realization that tongue-ties me.
“I like it,” I say. “But…don’t you think it’s a little too dark? I’ve never cared much for being a brunette.”
She places her hands onto my shoulders and leans against the back of my styling chair.
“I think it’s perfect,” she says. “You are gorgeous.”
I try ignoring the sensation in my stomach that makes me nauseous, but I can’t make it stop. Vivian has decided on every aspect of my makeover and made every decision with the intent of making me resemble her as much as possible. It’s like she wants me to become her.
Once we’re in the car, I can’t stop scowling at my new hair in the mirror. I'm a Vivian Lynch clone with more of her in me than I even recognize. I sigh at my reflection, disturbed by the image of me as her.
“You haven’t said a word since we left the salon,” Vivian says. “What’s wrong?”
I fold my arms and like a petulant child with a tantrum to throw, I seethe.
“I don’t like what you’re doing to me.”
She turns away from the road for a moment to face me.
“What do you mean? I think you look great.”
“I look like you,” I mutter. “Vivian, you’re turning me into you.”
“You agreed to the haircut,” she says. “Don’t get buyer’s remorse now.”
I turn in my seat to glower at her.
“Most employers don’t mutilate their interns! What are you going to do next? Force me to get plastic surgery?”
She stops the car abruptly in the middle of the road. Cars behind us swerve to avoid colliding into the back of her Porsche. The sudden impact jerks me forward, forcing me to grip the car door to keep from slamming into the dashboard. Vivian doesn’t even acknowledge the other motorists. Color smears across her cheeks. A vein pulses in her forehead. She’s pissed.
“When you’re with me, you do what I say,” she snarls. “Do you understand me?”
I don’t respond. I'm not even sure how to react. Vivian starts the car back up. Neither us say another word for the rest of the drive.
PART TWO
The husband
16
We pull into the manor driveway around 4:00 pm.
I notice the time the second we arrive because as of now, I'm counting the minutes. Asa, the doorman, empties the Porsche of our shopping bags and the valet William commandeers the car to park it.
Once inside, I notice the dim lighting and the smell of food wafting into the foyer from the kitchen. The scent seduces my senses. Vivian drifts upstairs, leaving me in the foyer to fend for myself. I feel like a deserted island, alone and idle. I step forward to follow her. Out of the darkness appears Asa.
I gasp at the sight of him, clutching my chest to calm my pulsating heart from the scare. Normal people would announce themselves before creeping up on others. He just…emerges. He says nothing to me for several awkward seconds. He stares me down, authoritatively stoic.
“Dinner will begin in a moment, ma’am,” he finally speaks. “Is there anything I can get you beforehand?”
“Um, I was looking for the restroom,” I say to alibi myself before he can ask why I was wandering off. Asa’s expression suggests that he could care less. He rolls his eyes, choosing to keep the things he’d like to say to himself.
“There are three restrooms on the ground floor. You’re free to use them.”
“Okay,” I say, but he lingers, staring at me as though I'm supposed to be somewhere specific, as if I'm in his way.
“It’s preferable that you wait for dinner in the living room,” he says in a voice more antagonistic than the actual words.
“I have no idea where that is,” I say so I glance at Asa who offers no solace or further instruction as to what I'm supposed do with myself. I head toward the sound of music coming from a door at the end of the foyer. I recognize the piano piece, a Beethoven original that Sasha has played with her violin.
My body moves on autopilot without my consent as if it wants me inside of that room for some reason. I slide the door open a crack to peek into the room. Near the back, aside the lit fireplace, I see the silhouette of a person hovering over a grand piano, playing it with such precision that I can’t help but listen.
I hum the notes aloud, closing my eyes to feel the music in my ears as a mental image of a sunset sketches itself into my membrane. The song ends then the person begins a sonata of Gymnopedie No. 1, Sasha’s favorite piano piece. I step into the room in the middle of the performance to meet the piano’s player. The room sits bathed in a gauzy, candlelit glow that shrouds the piano and its player in a half-shadow.
I navigate around the furniture, past the sofa and leather sectional, over the white shag carpeting and through the arched doorway that leads into the fireplace area. I move no further as the player finishes the performance and pauses to steal a sip from the wine glass sitting atop the fireplace mantle.
With his back to me, he says, “I see that Vivian has finally allowed you away from her.”
“She went upstairs,” I say. “I didn’t want to bother her.”
“Yes, wouldn’t want to bother her,” he replies sardonically, implying that he knows something I don’t. “So why are you still here?”
“Vivian is forcing dinner on me. She insists I stay and eat before heading back to my apartment.”
He guzzles the rest of the wine and swivels on the piano bench to face me. In the half-light, I glimpse his face. His auburn hair sweeps to one side, brushed. Neat. Not a single strand out of place.
“She took you to Gia,” he says with a smile while admiring my new hair.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
“Vivian can’t
help herself. She can't resist the urge to treat all of her interns like little Barbie dolls that she can dress up. I suspect she took you shopping also? Picked out all of your new clothes? I assume she also treated you to lunch and insisted on ordering all of the food and drinks?”
I don’t reply.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You aren’t her first dress-up doll.”
“She does this to everyone?”
“More or less,” he says. “Vivian wouldn’t be herself if she wasn’t trying to control something…or someone.”
“I remember her saying the same thing about you,” I say and he laughs aloud, his smile stretching the creases around his lips. He stands and runs his hands over the crinkles in his suit to tidy his appearance. In that white tuxedo, he looks dapper, like a life-size Ken doll.
“That’s the difference between her and me,” he says. “I don’t deny my control issues.”
I slip my hands into my jean pockets to distract them. I don’t like my hands to be free. Around him, I fear what they may do. I imagine them touching his tuxedo to see whether it’s really made of velvet, as I suspect.
He moves toward me with the wine glass hanging by its stem from his fingers. I step back when he’s too close and stand on my tiptoes to meet his height. I’d forgotten how much taller than me he is.
“I was heading down to the cellar for more wine,” he says while holding the empty glass up for me to see. “Care to join me?”
“I don’t drink,” I say.
He smirks.
“I won’t force wine down your throat, Cassandra. I merely ask you to accompany me to the wine cellar.”
I notice his eyes as they search mine. Vivian’s words are fresh in my thoughts. Nothing I’ve heard about Adrian Lynch is complimentary. He’s a criminal in an expensive suit with a long list of jilted women in his past. Going into that cellar with him would be like a sheep wandering into a wolf’s den. I don’t intend on being the sheep.
“Okay,” I say. He leads the way. He moves through the manor like a skulking cat, quiet on his feet and quick. We head through the dining room where the servants busy themselves with setting the table. We walk past them toward the kitchen where the cook slaves over the stove, preparing dinner.
Near the back of the kitchen is a door that Adrian unlocks with a key he pulls from his pocket. Inside is dark, but he tugs a string on the wall to turn on a light then he heads down a flight of wooden stairs into the room below.
I remain at the top of the stairs, feeling my heart amp up, fearing it may detonate. Being alone in a cellar with Adrian Lynch doesn’t feel right now that I’ve given it some proper thought. When I turn to leave, he glances at me over his shoulder and reaches out for my hand, urging me to grasp his.
“Um, I should probably just head upstairs to check on Vivian,” I say. “She’s been gone for a while.”
“She has Amelia to tend to her,” he replies. “She doesn’t have you on retainer as her personal caretaker.”
I stare at his hand as it slips around mine. There’s no escaping this situation anymore.
“Come on, don’t be afraid,” he says. “I won’t bite.”
The first step I take down feels like it happens in slow motion. Cool air hits the nape of my neck. Sweat trickles from my hairline. Adrian’s hand constricts around mine, leaving my arm numbed by his grip.
“This way,” he says. The dimness of this room is unsettling. What little light that exists is the single bulb in the entrance. Further in, the cellar is dark and too cold—so cold that I shiver and wrap my free arm around my body. I notice daylight peering in through cracks of the walls from outside.
Cobwebs clasp to ceiling crevices and an occasional spider that scurries up the wall. I turn away and glance at the back of Adrian’s head. Here, his dark hair is streaked with faded strands of gray, a subtle acknowledgement to his age.
Adrian releases my hand once we’re within a maze of wooden shelves holding thousands of wine bottles. The room reeks of sour grapes and strong liquor. I don’t know why anyone would enjoy the taste of something that smells so rancid. Adrian smiles at the first bottle he picks up.
“Ah, here’s one of my babies,” he sighs aloud. “Domaine Leflaive Batard Montrachet. The best white wine to ever pleasure any tongue.”
I tense at the word tongue. When he says it, it almost sounds vulgar. The prude in me cringes.
“I don’t know anything about wine,” I say. “This is all foreign to me.”
“Ouch,” he winces playfully. “You are seriously robbing yourself of the experience.”
“Oh? Is wine so important?” I ask. “You talk about it like it can bring world peace.”
“Perhaps if our world leaders were inebriated more often, they’d find some common ground long enough to achieve world peace,” he jokes.
I suppress the smile that tugs at my lips. The last thing I need him to see is any sign of vulnerability from me. I won't allow his jokes to coax laughter from me.
“You should pick,” he says while turning to me. “Go on.”
“Are you sure you want to trust your precious wine collection in my inept hands?”
“You don’t have to be an expert to select a bottle of wine,” he says. “I challenge you.”
“You want to turn this into a game?”
“It doesn’t take much to amuse me,” he says. “Humor me.”
I look him in the eye and imagine cogs twisting in his brain. Is he trying to play me? Is this how he gets women to trust him? I bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud at him and this vain attempt to charm me. Instead, I think I’ll humor him. There’s no harm in playing his games as long as I don’t lose.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll pick the wine, but you have to promise not to laugh at my selection.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“I already told you,” I say. “I know nothing about wine.”
“I’ll allow you some leeway,” he says while gesturing at the plethora of wine shelves around us. “Go ahead and make your decision.”
I wander around the room down each row of shelves, inspecting the bottles and reading their names on the faded labels.
“Hmm, how about…this one?” I ask while handing him a bottle with dark colored liquor inside. Adrian examines my pick with curious eyes that widen as he looks up at me with a smirk and says, “Cabernet Franc. Very interesting choice.”
“Why?” I ask, feeling smug. “What does my wine selection say about me?”
“Red wine is considered an aphrodisiac for some women,” he says and I feel heat blaze in my cheeks.
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say as he looks at me like I’m some high-class whore that’s just propositioned him.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Cassandra?”
When I don’t reply, he chuckles at my blanched expression and offers a reassuring smile.
“No worries,” he says. “I'm only teasing you.”
I stagger backwards, using one of the wine shelves to prop myself up while he continues staring at me. I watch his left hand grip the wine bottleneck. My focus lingers on his fingers as they move down the bottleneck in a stroking motion.
Adrian’s choke fetish is rearing its ugly head. I imagine his hands around my throat. That image makes me shudder away from him. Nausea festers in my stomach. My vision doubles and my body wilts backwards against the shelves.
Tension in our silence fills the room, thick enough to cut with a machete. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even move from where he’s standing. He nails me with a hungry gaze. All I can manage in response is a timid smile.
“I should check on Vivian,” I say. He doesn’t try to stop me when I move. My exit isn’t a graceful one. With him so close and this cellar so damn claustrophobic, I have to slide between him and the shelf behind me.
I nearly topple into him. He grips my waist in time to catch me. I push away and stagger toward the cellar staircase. At the top, I spy
Vivian in the doorway glaring at me, accusing me with her eyes after noticing Adrian behind me.
“Darling,” Adrian greets her. “Cassandra was a very helpful companion this evening. I had no idea she is such a wine aficionado.”
Vivian looks to me, expecting an explanation. Why do I feel so guilty? I’ve done nothing wrong. Less than a day ago, she essentially begged me to flirt with Adrian and flat-out ordered me to marry the goddamn man!
“I’m not an aficionado,” I say. “I was only trying to help.”
I see what I think is a smile on Vivian’s face, but under the dim lighting, I can’t tell.
“You picked the wine this evening, Cassandra?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s sure to be a marvelous time,” she replies in a casual tone of voice. “Now, if you two are done playing with Adrian’s little toys, you can join me upstairs in the dining room for dinner.”
She turns away, leaving me on the stairway with her unspoken warning. Adrian brushes past me on his way up and exits the cellar without saying another word.
17
Dinner is quiet with the Lynchs.
Vivian and Adrian sit at opposing ends of the table with me between them. Neither of them speaks for several minutes. All I can focus on is how distracting the classical music playing in the background is. The music is so loud that I faintly hear the servants in the adjoining room rattling plates and fumbling with pots.
Considering their silence, I assume that there must be some subliminal no talking rule in effect during dinner. I nibble the fettuccini on my plate one noodle at a time, sipping my cider as quietly as possible to avoid disrupting the ongoing silence.
Vivian hasn’t looked at Adrian or me. I can’t help thinking that I’ve done something to deserve this cold shoulder act. I find myself staring at Vivian, collecting a mound of assumptions inside my head. The orchestra playing through the room speakers hits a crescendo with an ominous cello solo that ends the song with the rest of the instruments kicking in some high octave resolution.
