by Tara Moss
But Pepper had already stalked off to get back to whatever vital task she was busy with. I couldn’t tell whether she was impressed by the serendipity or not.
When I arrived at the penthouse I again remembered to knock.
Celia was in her spot under her reading lamp. Her feet were up on the hassock, ankles crossed elegantly next to her cat. A pair of high, slip-on shoes were lined up next to the chair. Her veil was in place, as usual. Even as an older widow, that habit of hers seemed quite eccentric.
‘Good evening, Great-Aunt Celia,’ I said, and slipped my shoes off.
‘Hello, darling Pandora. You are home early. How was your day?’ Celia marked her page with the long feather, and closed the novel she was reading. She remained seated, and I walked over to her and put my briefcase down at my feet. My case was still empty, save for the new romance novel I’d bought. Freyja jumped down from her position on the hassock and padded up to me.
‘Hi, Freyja,’ I said in a singsong voice and gave her a nice pat. ‘How are you?’ She butted her head into my hand and purred. I stood and turned to Celia, excited. ‘My day was good. I have a computer at work now – and I have my first assignment. I’m covering a product launch tonight. Something called BloodofYouth.’
Celia’s eyes flashed with recognition. Freyja stopped her purring progression around my ankles and sat at my feet, staring up at me.
‘I have to be there in an hour,’ I explained.
‘Well, you ought to get ready, then. I’ll organise my chauffeur to take you there,’ Celia replied serenely.
‘That’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘I’ll call a cab.’
‘Call a cab? Nonsense. We don’t have a phone. Cabs are simply impossible around here, and more importantly, darling, how you arrive at these things is half the trick. The other half is when. You must be late so you can make an entrance. You must make them wonder who you are. You must make them all curious about you, and jealous,’ Celia said with a wicked look in her eye.
This was obviously how things had worked in the forties and fifties, when Celia was hanging with the Hollywood crowd, but I wasn’t convinced in the least. I didn’t want to make an entrance, as she put it. I wanted to write about the launch, that was all.
‘I’ll have the chauffeur ready for you in one hour,’ Celia insisted, and I could see that there was no talking her out of it. ‘And I suggest you wear the dress hanging on your wardrobe door,’ she added.
I raised an eyebrow. Another outfit?
‘I designed it for Lauren Bacall. I think you’ll like it.’
I smiled and started towards my room. ‘Celia, you said that Edmund Barrett designed this building?’
She smiled through the omnipresent dark mesh of her veil. ‘You’ve been doing a bit of research, clever girl.’
‘A little, yes,’ I replied. ‘Just on the Internet. What was the Global Society for Psychical Research?’ I asked.
Again, a veiled smile, doubly wicked now. ‘We’ll talk about that when you get home, shall we? You go and get ready now.’
So I went.
The dress hanging from the door of my wardrobe was ravishing. It was made of scarlet silk, and designed with a collar, delicate buttons down the front, and a tie waist. It was certainly the most stunning piece of clothing I had ever owned or borrowed, and tonight, I would wear it to the media launch of BloodofYouth, with a certain pair of ruby red Mary Jane shoes. I slipped it on and felt quite transformed. The silk hugged my figure, the collar adding formality and the tie emphasised my small waist. I seemed to fit all of Celia’s clothes perfectly. Uncanny.
‘Ta-da,’ I said when I stepped into the lounge room forty-five minutes later, all showered, changed and freshly made-up.
Celia sauntered up to me. She looked me over and nodded. It seemed she approved. ‘Just one more thing,’ Celia said, seeming to derive pleasure from seeing her clothes on me.
She disappeared into her side of the flat, and I stood waiting for a spell. When she reappeared she held a beaded ruby red purse, which matched the shoes perfectly. She also had a little brightly coloured enamel hair clip of red, blue and black. ‘May I?’ Celia asked, and carefully arranged my hair for me, her fingers cool and dexterous against my scalp. When she was done, she secured my hair with the little clip. I turned and looked in the mirror next to the door.
‘You ought to show off your cheekbones and delicate jaw,’ she explained. ‘They are two of your best physical assets. And look how elegant and long your neck is.’
I’d never noticed. This new hairstyle did seem to flatter me. My hair was swept off my face, high at the crown, and clipped into place high behind my head. It cascaded down around my shoulders elegantly. I wasn’t accustomed to looking this way, but I did look much more sophisticated. It seemed to shake the last of the ‘small town’ image off me.
‘The red lipstick suits you, also. Yes . . .’ she mused.
I had matched it to the shoes. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
Freyja appeared at the end of the hallway and sat down. She meowed.
‘Go on, have a wonderful time,’ Great-Aunt Celia said, and ushered me out the door. ‘Vlad is waiting for you downstairs.’
Vlad? The chauffeur’s name was Vlad?
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ I told my great-aunt again.
‘It’s impossible to get a cab out this way, darling,’ she repeated. ‘Really. Trust me. And you shouldn’t be walking across town in those shoes, nor in that dress.’
True enough.
‘Okay, but I’ll take a cab home. And I’ll be paying you back for this driver.’
‘As you wish,’ Celia responded, with a knowing smile. ‘As you wish.’ The expression on her face told me I was a stubborn girl, but I didn’t mind that tag one bit, and my great-aunt seemed almost to respect it.
There is nothing comfortable about social events for me. I don’t have a lot of experience of crowds – and crowds of beautiful people? Well, the thought was a little terrifying as well as exciting.
According to the invitation Pepper had given me, the launch of BloodofYouth was being held at a trendy restaurant called Elizabett in the Meatpacking District. The address was printed on the beautifully produced invitation, along with the dress code ‘cocktail’ and a vampish image of the face of BloodofYouth slung over a chaise longue in a clinging blood red dress, her skin luminous, lips glistening. I tried not to dwell on Athanasia’s image, disturbed as I’d been by our brief encounter at Pandora.
Celia’s driver Vlad knew where to go. As I had with Celia, I insisted that I would make my own way home after the launch. Vlad only nodded silently in response. (He either didn’t speak English or didn’t speak, I decided.) The silence in the car gave me time to steel myself for my first big social outing.
Before long the big black car pulled up at the kerb outside the venue. I must have been nervous because I actually got out on the wrong side of the car while Vlad was coming around to open the door for me. I found myself standing on the cobblestone street with cars whipping past, clothed in Celia’s beautiful red dress and clutching the invite like an oversized bus ticket. I turned towards the restaurant and froze.
Oh. Of course.
Spotlights were set up outside along a red carpet. The hot lights illuminated the entrance like an interrogator’s lamp, and swarming around this blast of light was a nest of photographers snapping guests as they entered. Every few seconds the night was brightened with another strobe-like flash. It was enough to send a person into epileptic fits. I’d seen scenes like this during coverage of the Oscars. Logically, this had to be a on a much smaller scale, but it didn’t seem it just at the moment. Why couldn’t I have at least arrived with Pepper? Why had she insisted on arriving separately? I didn’t have a great impression of her so far, but at least I would not have felt so lost.
I bid Vlad goodnight with an awkward stutter, and walked around the car. There was no moisture in my mouth, I noticed. My tongue felt like a dried-out husk. My ha
nds were clammy. I took a breath, and stepped on to the red carpet in Celia’s ruby shoes.
Please don’t trip.
‘Hey!’ a photographer yelled, and then another. I strode quickly up the red carpet with my head down, smiling nervously. A few flashes went off around me (for someone else, I hoped) and after a tense thirty seconds that felt like much longer, I was inside the doors of the restaurant and catching my breath. I had managed to dodge my way inside without falling over my shoes or otherwise embarrassing myself. This was a small triumph, I felt, under the circumstances.
‘What’s your name?’ someone asked.
I whirled around. ‘Oh. Pandora. Pandora English,’ I said.
It was a petite young woman in a black T-shirt emblazoned with the product name. She checked her clipboard. ‘Pandora . . . Ah, Pandora magazine. Enjoy BloodofYouth,’ she told me, before walking away to quiz the next guest.
Phew.
The main room of Elizabett was already buzzing with important people by the time I stepped inside. Of course, I didn’t know who the important people were, which could pose a problem. I looked around to see if I could spot Pepper, but there was no sign of her. I noticed the organisers had cleared away the tables and had erected a small stage with a microphone stand. A display poster for BloodofYouth had been placed to one side, with a larger-than-life image of the product’s chillingly beautiful muse. There was a pyramid built of the product itself taking up centre stage. They even had a red curtain set up behind it. (I thought it unlikely that the waiters normally emerged with steaming hot food through such a glittering red entrance.) As I looked at the stacked pile of little cellophane-wrapped boxes of product I had some of the same odd feeling that I’d had about the parcel the courier had brought to the office. Again, I had the strange sensation that the considerable energy of the whole room was being sucked into that product display. It was most unsettling.
I moved self-consciously to the back of the room, feeling eyes on me. I was sure that some of the guests were checking me out, as they seemed constantly to be checking out each other. The surreal circumstances of my presence at this event, and wearing Celia’s clothes, made me feel quite unlike myself. I wasn’t in Gretchenville anymore, that was for certain.
I found a piece of wall to stand against, retrieved my notepad and pencil out of Celia’s beaded purse, and set to work observing the room.
Who’s who in this who’s who? I haven’t a clue.
(But I ought to stop rhyming in my head, if I was to find out.)
I think I’ve mentioned that my social skills are not up to scratch? Well, if I was aware of that fact back in Gretchenville, I was approximately thirty times more aware of it in this Manhattan restaurant. It was a little painful to stand alone at the back of such a charged room of cool, beautiful, important people. The women, and many of the men, seemed to me to be impossibly groomed. Really. Impossibly groomed. Not a hair was out of place. Every single fingernail was manicured to perfection. Skin was tanned, despite the season. I looked down at my own (clammy) hands, holding the notepad, and noticed my clean, unvarnished nails and pale skin. I just wasn’t like these people. But if I was ever to rid myself of the outsider status bestowed upon me by the good people of Gretchenville, it would be through the pursuit of that ephemeral, elusive thing called cool. And what could be cooler than writing about glamorous people for a glossy fashion magazine?
Here I was, fresh off the plane from Gretchenville and already in a room full of important people in arguably the biggest and most glamorous city in the world. No more dreaming about it. This was my opportunity and I knew I had better make the most of it. I had to write a piece on this skincare product launch that would somehow be so clever, witty and interesting that Skye would simply have to run it under my by-line. Who’s who and highlights? Pah. That was child’s play. I would deliver a real story. A story about how the product worked, how it was being promoted and what it could or couldn’t do for Pandora’s readers.
Okay, it wasn’t the sort of ‘real story’ that would change the world exactly, but it was better than my brief.
There was activity near the stage. It seemed that BloodofYouth had hired a small-screen actress to act as MC at the event. The woman moved behind the microphone, her grin revealing ultra-white teeth.
‘Hi, my name is Toni Howard, and I am so excited to be helping to launch this revolutionary skincare product tonight,’ she gushed. Toni was resplendent in sequins. I don’t watch a lot of television, admittedly, but I was pretty sure from a glance that I recognised her from one of the long-running soaps. She was vaguely familiar.
‘BloodofYouth saved my life!’ Toni declared breathlessly into the microphone, and tossed her teased blonde mane.
I frowned. Had I heard that properly?
‘Now I am over forty and fabulous. I have never looked better,’ she continued, and again flashed her dazzling, bleached smile. ‘My wrinkles have all but vanished, along with my uneven skin tones and the dark circles under my eyes.’
Looking at this attractive blonde woman, I found it hard to believe she might have been plagued with such things before. She made it sound like she used to be hideous, and I knew that could not be true. She was quite radiant, which made me think of how Skye had looked the morning after her sample of BloodofYouth had arrived.
A movement near the door caught my eye. It was Pepper, arriving just in time. She had made herself up and she looked pretty good, I had to admit. She wore a sharp-looking jacket with a nipped waist and exaggerated shoulder pads, and her hair was pulled back. I waved and then realised that was uncool and lowered my hand again. She seemed not to have noticed me.
Back on stage the MC was carrying on with her spiel. ‘And all this, ladies and gentlemen,’ the actress explained, ‘because of BloodofYouth. And how long have I been using this miracle product, I hear you ask?’ No one had asked, but I was curious to know. ‘Three days. That’s right. I have only been using BloodofYouth for three days.’ There were a few surprised murmurs in the crowd, and the people at the front seemed ready to surge forward and snatch the product samples from the display table. ‘And that is why I am here to tell you tonight that this is the best beauty product available in this country. It sold out in stores across America today, faster than they could get new stock. It may be expensive, but ladies – and gentlemen too – it is well worth every single penny!’
I thought the MC was laying it on a bit thick, but the crowd appeared to be eating it up. Perhaps that’s what was done at these launches?
‘Hi,’ came a man’s voice, just near my ear.
I flinched, startled, and turned to see an enormously tall, rather good-looking man wearing a leather jacket. He was standing quite close to me, smiling.
‘Hello,’ I responded.
‘My name’s Jay,’ the man said. ‘Jay Rockwell, Men Only magazine.’ He extended a hand.
Oh my. It was the guy from the elevator. The guy who’d thought I belonged in the law offices. The guy I’d had that strange fantasy about. I’d seen with vivid clarity this man’s muscled torso and my own hand sliding up his chest. I’d felt his warm kiss. And now I felt a ripple of distaste on recalling the tacky cover of Men Only magazine.
‘Yes, I remember you,’ I said, my cheeks feeling a little warmer. ‘Pandora English.’ We shook hands.
‘You know me?’ he asked, evidently surprised.
‘Of course,’ I assured him, smiling.
He seemed confused. ‘I’m sorry, where have we met?’
This stumped me. I thought he’d come up to me to be polite because we had met before, but it seemed he didn’t remember the incident at all.
‘Sixteenth floor, right? We met in the elevator,’ I explained.
‘Yeah, sixteenth floor,’ he agreed, but I could tell by his face that he didn’t remember the encounter in the slightest. ‘The elevator?’ He somehow made it sound possible that we’d got up to no good in the elevator, and he had subsequently forgotten me.
&nb
sp; ‘I was going to a job interview with Mia magazine, and you thought I was working in the law offices. I flicked my jacket in your eye, as I recall.’
The penny finally dropped. Jay’s attractive hazel eyes widened. (Neither of them red. Thankfully I hadn’t caused any permanent damage.) He looked me over approvingly. ‘Oh, wow. You look so . . . different.’ He wasn’t leering, exactly, but I did feel a little exposed by the intensity of his appraisal. ‘You look really great,’ he told me, and I could tell from his tone that he meant it.
‘Thank you,’ I said. And thank you, Celia. Her red Lauren Bacall dress was having quite an effect.
By now a promotional video for BloodofYouth was playing on a big screen. After a flash of Athanasia’s beautiful, sultry, terrifying face, the picture flashed to a grey-haired man looking authoritative in a white lab coat. He was evidently explaining the revolutionary qualities of the new skincare product. He was subtitled in English. I couldn’t make out his voice because of the din of the crowd. His name, according to a caption, was Dr E. Toth.
‘So you got the job,’ Jay said.
‘Well, no,’ I explained. ‘Not at Mia. But I got a job at Pandora. I’m covering the launch for the next issue.’ I liked the way that sounded, and it was the truth, even if it was only because of Skye’s mysterious illness that the invitation had come my way. And even if Pepper was ignoring me. I flicked my eyes in her direction and saw that she was shaking hands with a couple of well-dressed women. They gestured to a short, balding man next to them and Pepper shook his hand too. There was a lot of smiling and nodding. She was evidently networking.
‘Are you covering the launch for Men Only?’ I asked Jay. ‘I can’t imagine your magazine would be the right demographic.’
I pictured fishermen, lumberjacks, truckers. I imagined manly men flicking through bikini photos before heading to the hardware shop.
‘Have you been living under a rock?’ Jay exclaimed, coming fairly close to accurately describing my hometown. ‘This product is hot stuff. The buzz these past weeks has been huge. It hit the shelves this morning and Macy’s sold out after one hour. A lot of readers are dying to get their hands on it. Especially if it really does turn back the clock like it claims to.’
