by Tara Moss
‘My wife was around your age when we married,’ he observed, smiling gently. ‘She was very lovely, like you.’
I bit my lip. ‘How old are you?’
‘I am twenty-five years of age. That is, I was twenty-five in 1861.’
1861. I tried to take that in.
‘Are you unwed?’ he asked.
I blushed. ‘Um, yes.’ I looked at my hands.
‘Oh, I am sorry. I have embarrassed you.’
‘Oh no, it’s fine. Yes, I am unwed.’
‘I am sorry for my question. I sometimes only think in the old ways. I don’t have much experience in the new world. In fact, I can’t pass outside the walls of this building.’
I tried to imagine what that must be like.
‘That was all a long time ago and I have been here, just . . . waiting. For what, I don’t know. For many years I expected to find my wife and daughter here, but they never arrived. I am alone.’
Wow. This illusion of mine was beginning to sound quite convincing. I pondered that. And I pondered why a ghost like Luke – if that’s what he was, a ghost – couldn’t escape these walls, couldn’t get free even after all of his family must have passed over. What was it that held him here?
‘It must get very lonely for you,’ I said.
‘Yes. In one sense. But there are sometimes others to talk to.’
I felt another shiver. ‘There are?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean to alarm you, but yes, from time to time there are others. And I do see some of what goes on outside these walls, even though I can’t be part of it. I can ‘see’ things, as it were. I can see the world changing around me. I experience things much differently to how I did before this.’
Before you were dead.
Interesting. This, at least, was something we had in common. I sometimes knew about things I couldn’t rightly know about, and because I had no good reason to know these things, and no rational or scientific explanation for why I knew them, I was as good as a ghost. No one would believe me. My father had taught me to distrust my gift, and my mother, whether she intended to or not, had taught me the trouble it could cause. Those were the lessons of my strange youth.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Lieutenant Luke said, and paused.
I nodded, and watched him through eyes that were a touch blurry from fighting back tears.
‘It is true, isn’t it? That we won?’ he asked, and seemed to hold his breath in anticipation of my answer.
I found I had been doing the same, and when I realised what he was asking, I exhaled. ‘Yes. Your side won,’ I told him.
Lieutenant Luke closed his eyes and nodded. After perhaps a minute he opened his eyes and smiled gently at me. ‘I had heard, but . . . I wasn’t sure.’
‘The war lasted a few years, but yes, the Union side won,’ I said. ‘Of course, that was one hundred and fifty years ago now.’
Lieutenant Luke stiffened. ‘Did you say that was one hundred and fifty years ago?’
I hoped I hadn’t said anything wrong. Had he not known? Was this bad news for him? Had he believed it still possible that he would find his living daughter or wife?
‘Yes. The Civil War ended about one hundred and fifty years ago,’ I explained more cautiously.
At this apparently new piece of information, the young man appeared lost in thought. ‘These are interesting times, then,’ he said at last. ‘Very interesting times.’ When he looked up his bright eyes searched my face with new curiosity. Had I said something significant?
‘Thank you, Miss Pandora,’ Lieutenant Luke said. ‘Thank you for listening to me. I’m sorry if I saddened you. It was not my intention.’
I shook my head and a tear fell down my cheek. My guest ghost gently wiped it away with a hand that looked as real and human as any I’d seen, but felt like a cool, soft cloud.
‘May I visit you again?’ the handsome visitor asked.
I nodded, and at that he kissed my hand. His lips felt like a cool tingle against my skin and my body responded with a flush of warmth.
Oh boy.
‘If you ever need me, just call for me. Good night, Miss Pandora.’
And he vanished.
On my second morning in New York I woke with painful pins and needles in one arm, and an odd ‘pulled’ feeling in both armpits. I noticed that I had somehow worn my suit jacket to bed, over my white nightie. This was not the most comfortable or logical of sleepwear choices.
Then I remembered how it got there.
Luke. Lieutenant Luke.
‘Pandora, honestly,’ I berated myself aloud, and this time the ‘room’ did not respond. Was I so desperate for a man that I had to dream one up? I hadn’t thought so. But then dreams could be revealing. On the surface, at least, I didn’t like what the dream of Lieutenant Luke might say about me. And I certainly didn’t like the dream about Great-Aunt Celia the vampire.
Why couldn’t I dream of puppy dogs and kittens like most girls?
My eyes lit upon the Chanel jacket that hung from the wardrobe in my room. I recalled my conversation with the beautiful and wise former designer Celia. Should I really present myself at Pandora magazine, as she suggested? Could I risk the second day in a row of heart-wrenching rejection?
I was still undecided when I shuffled into the kitchen, my hair askew. What I found there surprised me. There was a note waiting for me on the counter, beneath a string of costume pearls:
Dearest Pandora,
The offices of Pandora magazine can be found at the following address. See Skye between nine thirty and ten.
Good luck. See you tonight.
Best regards,
CELIA
PS Chanel Inspiration.
Hmmm—.
This note was accompanied by a piece of paper listing the SoHo address and details of Pandora magazine. Skye DeVille was the editor. The demographic for the magazine was said to be females aged seventeen to twenty-five, which I fitted well. Beneath this note and the address was a carefully torn page from a magazine. It was a picture of a young woman in a Chanel jacket worn with a white T-shirt, strings of costume pearls and faded blue jeans. She wore her hair a bit like I did, loose and natural.
I smiled. Inspiration indeed.
Just before ten I found myself eye to eye with the hollow twin orbital sockets of a full-sized skeleton in a shop window on Spring Street.
I’d followed the directions on my map to the SoHo address for Pandora magazine and found this strange display. I pressed my hands up to the glass to shield the glare and saw that beyond this skeleton were more skulls and medical models, taxidermied birds, bats, even an alligator’s head. Venus flytrap plants lined the window with green mouthlike leaves open with what seemed like bared teeth. Was this unusual shop where Celia had purchased hers? What was this place? I took a step back from the glass. It was called EVOLUTION, according to the sign. Sadly it wasn’t open yet. I’d check it out after my (quite possibly humiliating) trip to Pandora magazine.
South of Houston Street sure was interesting, and had a different flavour to what I’d seen on 5th Avenue and around Central Park. SoHo was once known as Hell’s Hundred Acres, and had been filled with brothels, bars, factories and sweatshops. Former industrial warehouses were now artist residences and high-end fashion boutiques. On the way to Pandora I’d wandered past Bloomingdales, Dolce & Gabbana and Chanel; I walked with my head high, knowing I was wearing Celia’s jacket designed by Coco Chanel herself. The fashion boutique that left the biggest impression was a store for Prada. It had a huge sloping window display as deep as a Gretchenville front porch, and decorated with gravity-defying couture-clothed mannequins.
I looked at Celia’s note again and realised that I had not quite arrived at the right address. I was standing in front of number 120, instead of 120b, which showed as a narrow doorway next to the shop. I smoothed my hair down in the reflection of the shop window, approached the doorway and nervously pushed the buzzer for Pandora. Still warm from walking (which people
seemed to do a lot of in New York), I waited on the wintry street in my T-shirt, jeans and worn ballet flats, wearing Celia’s exquisite vintage Chanel jacket and pearls, all covered by a heavy winter shawl I would take off before presenting myself. My briefcase was armed with my résumé and I was armed with a glimmer of hope. I waited, a little warily, for a reply.
Buzzzt.
There came a brief babble of loud static and voices, and the door buzzed. I pushed on the unlocked door and gratefully stepped inside.
Pandora magazine was on the fourth floor of a six-storey walk-up, according to Celia’s note, and the rubber soles of my ever-flatter shoes made dull little noises on my ascent through the cold and graffitied stairwell. There were signs over the doorway for each floor, indicating photographers and design studios, and I was panting lightly by the time I reached the doorway bearing the sign PANDORA MAGAZINE.
If nothing else, this city would keep me fit.
I pushed my way through the door and a soft chime sounded. I found myself in a classic converted New York warehouse space with painted concrete floors, exposed metal beams and brick walls. The office was sparsely furnished but quite chic, with several large cubicles spaced out around the floor, and one walled office built into the corner, presumably for the magazine’s editor. A broad, white reception desk was immediately in front of me as I walked in. Behind it sat a faux red-haired receptionist. She offered a distracted ‘Hello,’ seeming a little preoccupied with flipping through her Rolodex. She seemed a little panicked, actually.
‘Hi there. Excuse me,’ I started, staring at the dark part in the receptionist’s dyed hair. After yesterday’s record, I felt I had experienced rather enough rejection for a while and I wasn’t keen to get started on the next phase of disappointment, but there was nothing for it but to get on with things, however they were destined to turn out.
‘Oh dear, what a day!’ the redhead exclaimed quite suddenly, and looked up at me with a dazzling, crooked smile. ‘Hi. Ohhh, cool jacket. Is that vintage?’
I nodded.
‘How may I help you?’
I recalled my rude reception at Mia and Vogue. This was a different experience already. ‘I’m here for, um, a job . . .’ I began, a little too uncertain for my own good.
‘Oh! Oh, thank god you’re here,’ the young woman said, cutting me off. ‘I’m Morticia. It’s so nice to meet you! You were so quick!’ She leapt to her feet and shook my hand.
This Morticia had a body that was tall and bent like Popeye’s lady friend, Olive Oyl. She looked about my age, and despite her handle she didn’t seem to be much like the Addams Family’s matriarch, apart from her skin, which was as pale as parchment. She sported red, shaggy hair instead of straight black locks. No shuffle. No Gomez. This Morticia came around the reception desk, smiling. I took in the minidress and striped, opaque stockings she wore with Doc Martens, and some part of me immediately liked her.
‘It’s been absolute chaos this morning, as you can imagine!’ I was told. ‘I just couldn’t believe it when I got the message. I think Skye will want to see you first, then we can get you settled in.’
Holy cow. I had to stop her there. ‘I’m not sure if there is some mistake,’ I explained. ‘I would love to meet the editor but I’m just here looking for a position. My name is Pandora English. I don’t actually have an appointment . . .’
I trailed off. Morticia was paying no attention whatsoever, and was instead ushering me past the sleek reception area to where the ‘real’ work of the magazine happened. The writing. The editing. The design. I counted five stylish young women and one man hunched over laptops. Half of them looked up when we walked in, and then quickly got back to whatever tasks they were absorbed in.
‘My name’s Morticia, by the way. Did I mention that?’
‘Yes. It’s a great name,’ I told her.
‘You can begin today?’ she asked eagerly.
I nodded vigorously, and then stopped myself. This was simply too good to be true. ‘I’d love to, but—’
‘You speak English? No visa problems?’
I shrugged.
‘Good. Now I think you’ll find Skye a bit—’ she began, but stopped when a petite, formidably groomed woman about ten years our senior stepped into our path and narrowed her mascaraed eyes at me. She had the air of a coiled snake, and although she was arguably much more stylish and sophisticated than either Morticia or myself, she wore her expensive clothes like a suit of armour. There was nothing fun about it, or about her demeanour. I wondered fleetingly if Celia would call it ‘fashion’ or ‘style’, or neither. Her hair was worn short, black and slick, and her lips were a thin line of pastel. I noticed angry lines around her mouth.
‘Skye, this is Pandora,’ Morticia began, her head bowed towards the fearsome woman’s designer shoes. ‘She’s replacing Samantha. Isn’t it great that her name is actually Pandora? Pandora is your real name, right?’
I nodded in reply, reduced to mute head motions by this surprising turn of events.
‘Samantha,’ Skye DeVille hissed. From the tone of her voice I gathered that the woman of that name had fallen out of favour before her sudden departure, or perhaps it was the suddenness of the departure that had caused her to fall out of favour? The editor’s dark eyes moved to me and I was looked up and down with an X-ray-like scan. She seemed to sneer at my hair and unmanicured nails, but thankfully, incredibly, I seemed to pass muster. (Thank you, Celia.) ‘So, you are the new girl,’ she observed. ‘Well, we have five days until deadline. Be on time and get the damn coffee orders right. Samantha didn’t know her chai lattes from her double espressos.’
I wanted to laugh, but Morticia’s expression warned me off the idea.
Skye’s lecture seemed to be at an end, so it was my time to impress. ‘It is such a pleasure to meet you,’ I said, mustering my courage. ‘I assure you that I am the right woman for the job. I am always punctual, and I am ready for any assignments you might have for me.’ I fumbled in my briefcase then extended my hand. ‘Here is my résumé.’
Skye raised an eyebrow. She did not accept my résumé. The air in the office seemed to have actually cooled. I looked to my shoes, all my bravery extinguished. This woman was Medusa, and could turn me to stone if I met her eyes.
‘File those,’ the editor demanded, and pointed at a pile of files sitting on a desk. I lifted my eyes just enough to see where she pointed. ‘Morticia, sort out the paperwork for this girl.’ With that she turned on her Prada heel and disappeared into her office. The door slammed and rattled. I noticed that the other staff had been watching from a (safe) distance. The office had fallen into a dead quiet, and now the buzz of work resumed.
My mouth felt dry.
‘Your desk is here,’ Morticia said gently, in almost a whisper. I was shown to my humble cubicle. Actually, it was a half-sized cubicle outside Skye’s office door. ‘Do you know how to make coffee?’ she asked me.
Just great. ‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘I know about coffee.’
If I was a more independent person, more proud, and with more options in this new city, I might have stormed out of there and told Skye to get an enema with her blasted chai lattes. But I didn’t. ‘You want me to start right away?’ I asked instead, not quite believing my luck. I would rather risk facing Medusa every day than go back to Gretchenville.
‘We need you to start right away,’ Morticia replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’m glad the ad for an assistant was answered so quickly. You’re perfect. You don’t have a criminal record or anything, do you? You’re not an illegal alien?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Perfect. Oh, you’ll probably want to clean out Samantha’s desk,’ Morticia said apologetically.
I nodded and opened the first drawer. I found candy wrappers, dried gum and unopened mail.
Well, you have to start somewhere.
A strange parcel arrived on the afternoon of my first day of work as a humble assistant at Pando
ra magazine.
I’d scoffed down an unsatisfying deli-bought thing called a ‘Reuben’, and I was just preparing a post-lunch coffee to have ready for Skye, when a courier arrived. (The editor appeared to be fuelled solely by caffeine. Really. My head would spin with that much java and tea-leaf.) I heard a little bell chime and watched the man enter, clothed in wet lycra and sweat, a heavy satchel around his neck. Morticia signed for the stack of goods he gave her and the moment the man walked out the door, she turned and nodded to me, her full arms extended. She held a stack of A4-sized parcels I could safely assume were rival magazines or back issues. And she also held one heavy-looking cube, wrapped in brown paper.
Strange.
It seemed I was having one of my odd feelings again. It was as if – as if whatever was in the cube-shaped parcel was quietly leaching the life from the air. I tried my best to ignore it, but it just wouldn’t go away. I searched Morticia’s face to see if she, too, sensed something weird about the parcel she was holding. Apparently she did not.
Morticia gave me a strange look and asked, ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I replied. I hesitated again, and then took hold of all the items, with the cube resting on top of the other parcels, finding that I was reluctant to let it make contact with my hands.
‘What is this?’ I asked Morticia.
‘I dunno. Probably a product sample,’ she explained. ‘Skye gets sent a lot of stuff before it comes out so she can road-test it. The publicists send her everything. Actually, I think she’s waiting on some new skin cream that’s launching tomorrow. It’s supposed to be better than a facelift, not that we need one yet, but boy is it looking like it will be popular! The big celebs have started using it overseas.’
‘Really? Who?’ I asked excitedly.
Morticia curled her lip. ‘Dunno. Real famous ones.’
