by Susan Conley
A liberal spritz of smoky, sexy Addict by Dior added to the femme fatale aura, and gave Annabelle a huge boost in the esteem department, whether she was really trying for a fatality or not.
She came up short when it came to footwear. Damn. A girl just never got over being the tallest in the eighth grade class. Deep in her heart, Annabelle knew that a nice, narrow, three-inch heel was what was required to do the outfit justice, but she simply didn’t own any. Again, an annoying image of wide, white clad shoulders and a six-foot-one, six-foot-two frame sprang to mind, but she drove it out and stepped into nondescript but functional black flats.
A small but deceptively voluminous little black evening bag was commandeered to hold her cell phone, lipstick, ATM card, cash, keys and smokes. She was ready.
She walked out into the low light of the living room, and paused. It had been, literally, years since she’d gone out on her own, gone out socially without a man by her side. Her stomach did a little nervous flip, and she had to sit for a second at the ‘dining room’ table. She knew better, knew that being with someone who lied to her, and who didn’t tell her the proper dress code, and dumped her in the middle of the day, wasn’t a worthy companion in life. Such a person was not someone who had what she was looking for.
What was she looking for? She rose and stood before her altar, and by extension, her mystery monster plant. She wanted someone who … thought she was funny, and who thought she was smart, and listened to everything she said, and paid her compliments, and made sure she was never alone at a party … and was taller than she was.
Oh, damn it. Not more tears. She checked herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the outside of her bathroom door. No damage. Wished she could say the same for her heart, and then rolled her eyes at her own melodrama. Grabbing up the short black leather biker jacket that took the overly sophisticated edge off the Miracle Dress, she slung her bag diagonally across her body for safety’s sake, and started unlocking the many locks of her door.
Behind her back, the plant snapped to attention, and as Annabelle cautiously peered around the edge of the doorway — no Nosy Ned lurking on the stair — it shot out a sparkling, iridescent cloud that wrapped itself around Annabelle from head to toe.
Annabelle sneezed, checked herself once more in the mirror, and left the apartment.
As the locks shot into place from the other side, the plant bobbed its head, and giggled.
• • •
“No hard feelings?” Lorna appraised herself in one of the elevator’s mirrors. She wiggled her skirt up a little higher — as if it were possible, thought Annabelle.
Annabelle leaned against the opposite wall. “Nope. Funny — my words exactly to my mystery monster plant. I did a ritual last night and made its branches disappear. I think it’s mad at me.”
Lorna chose to ignore this obvious and pathetic attempt to try her patience, and glanced at Annabelle’s ensemble. “The dress?”
“Armani.” Sometimes talking to Lorna felt like speaking in tongues, but she always got a little thrill when she could play along. “Wilson hated it.”
“I approve on all fronts.”
“So, are you trying to set me up with somebody?” Annabelle fussed with her hair, and scowled at her reflection in the elevator door.
Lorna checked that her hose was equally transparent from heel to thigh. “Why in the world would I do that? I know how you hate it.”
“Or are you trying to get me into a rebound situation? I mean, what is this, a bunch of interns having a beer bash or something? I know that you and Maria Grazia think I’ve got something for rebounding with younger guys, but I don’t, even though every time I’ve ever broken up with someone I’ve ended up getting drunk and boffing some Columbia sophomore.”
“You’re out of luck, this bunch all went to NYU. And they’re graduates.”
“And Maria Grazia, for some strange reason, wants me to go to some book launch or something, a book about sports! Maria Grazia? Please! She couldn’t tell a baseball from a hockey puck! And Kelli is running around telling everybody that some sloppy Irish guy is talking about me, or something. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know — ”
The elevator’s happy chime let them know they’d arrived, and cut off Annabelle’s tirade. Lorna wiggled her skirt up another millimeter or three, and led the way out onto the fifty-second floor. “Anna, just leave it to us, all right? We’ll get you back on the road to recovery,” said Lorna as she headed toward the loud, thumping music.
“I can do it myself,” mumbled Annabelle. As she got no reaction, she shouted over the now-deafening music. “I CAN! MYSELF!” Annabelle wedged herself into the apartment in Lorna’s wake. A long narrow hallway clogged with downtown-fashionable young bodies seemed to go on for days until they arrived into the spacious living room. If it wasn’t for the extremely loud Duran Duran CD blasting on the stereo — the Eighties were the new Seventies, after all — you could have heard a pin drop as the hosts clocked that Lorna, their ice-queen, untouchable colleague, had arrived. Even in the midst of a blaring rendition of “Hungry Like The Wolf”, Lorna could make an entrance. Annabelle squirmed around her friend as the minions paid their respects, and headed for a window.
Air. And view. Times Square shone in the distance, an endlessly recycling festival of bright lights and flashing signs. Annabelle lit a cigarette, and leaned against the windowsill, as Lorna materialized with two bottles of Heineken and three young men.
Oh, crap. This isn’t going to be worth it, thought Annabelle, as she tried to look even vaguely interested. All three young men seemed so … bright and shiny, all sporting oversized skateboarder shirts over top of incredibly expensive Hugo Boss trousers. Cookie-cutter boys, with the same unsullied, open faces that practically shouted Score!
Not if she had anything to do with it.
“Annabelle, this is Mike, Marty, and Mitch. Some of the … freshest talent at the agency.” Lorna ran a finger down Mitch’s arm, and sent him into visible paroxysms of delight.
Annabelle felt compelled to make conversation. “So … are you guys roommates?”
Mike took the lead. “Yeah. Since college.”
“Yeah. NYU,” illuminated Marty. Mitch was still quivering, and was, for all intents and purposes, out of the picture.
“Buddies,” said Annabelle.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Definitely. Omega Beta Phi, woo hoooo!”
The guys banged bellies, and fell back, grinning.
“ Lorna and I went to art school, we weren’t into that Greek stuff — we were roommates in college back in — ”
“Yes, thank you, Anna — ”
“ — Well. I was very interested to discover that the fraternity initiation process has its roots in actual Greek culture, geared more toward the Goddess, mind you. Do you guys know anything about Goddess culture? It’s a viable alternative to the truly debilitating and denigrating patriarchal society, such as the one we ourselves live in at the moment and — ”
Lorna grabbed Annabelle by the elbow and forcibly dragged her toward the kitchen, leaving three pairs of glazed eyes in their wake.
“Lorna, I was about to enlighten your colleagues with a bit of matriarchal wisdom — ”
“Very funny. Just relax, for God’s sake. Relax!”
They stood with their backs to the wall of another hallway, one which, if the noises were any indication, led to the bedrooms and the bathroom. Endless flushing and moaning emitted at intervals from down the narrow hallway’s length, and Annabelle was shocked at how quickly the bedrooms had been commandeered by gasping couples. I really must be out of it …
Both she and Lorna finished their beers at the same time, and made the move for more beverages simultaneously. As they squeezed their way to the kitchen, Annabelle’s back brushed up against someone else’s and that
someone else immediately grabbed her arm. Lorna took one look and kept moving.
Annabelle turned and gazed up into a dazed face that was at least a full foot above her own. A severe brush cut indicated a recent trip to the barber’s, and flushed, beefy cheeks seemed to point to a few post-work, pre-party cocktails. The loosened tie thrown over the shoulder screamed ‘Wall Street’, and the large hand had the kind of calluses that bellowed ‘racquetball’.
“Excuse me — ” Annabelle made to follow Lorna, who had disappeared.
“My name is Chad, and you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” The look in his eyes resembled the expression on a love-sick puppy.
“Don’t get out much, do you, Chad?” Annabelle tried to retrieve her arm.
Chad threw back his head and laughed. Loudly. And long. “Ah HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! What a sense of humor! I love a sense of humor in a woman!” He stopped laughing abruptly, and gazed soulfully at her once more. “I love your jokes.”
“Uh, joke, singular — ”
“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Did you hear that?” Chad addressed the entire party. “Don’t you just love funny women!” He continued, softly, in Annabelle’s ear. “I know I do. I know I could love you.”
Damn it! “You don’t even know my name — ”
“Please tell me, tell me your name! But I know already that it’s the most beautiful name in the history of names, in the pre-historic history of names, tell me, please tell, I beg you, I beg — ”
“Annabelle, okay, just shut up.” Shit! She told him her real name.
“Annabelle. Annnnnnabellllllllllllle. The goddess Annabelle, the Shakespearian queen of the fairies of the forest!” Chad trailed off in ecstasy, and grabbed her other arm and pulled her close.
“There is no Annabelle in Shakespeare, you dumb ass!” She tried to struggle out of his grasp without struggling.
“You’re so smart! So literarily astute! I love smart women — but only smart women named … ANNABELLE!”
Lorna! Lorna! Maybe for once she’d actually manage a telepathic communication. LORNA!
“I need to … go to the bathroom. Please. My friend, uh, she’s sick, I need to find her — ”
Chad eyes lit up at the idea. “We’ll go together! We’ll find your friend, together!”
Annabelle edged away, as best she could with six-feet-seven-inches of male attached to her like a limpet. “I’d prefer to go on my own — ”
“I’d NEVER leave you alone!” Chad was looking positively wild-eyed at the thought. “I’d NEVER leave you alone at a party!”
Wait a minute. Annabelle stopped dead in her tracks.
Laughing at her jokes.
Thinks she’s smart.
Won’t leave her alone at parties — “I don’t believe this!” She shook her head, and triggered off a manic spate of nodding from Chad.
“Neither do I! I don’t believe that the smartest, funniest, most beautiful woman in the WORLD is talking to me right now!” He looked as if he might weep.
Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “So, Chad. What do you think of my dress?”
His eyes closed, blissfully. “I think I might be blinded by its sexy sophistication.”
“Think I’m pretty funny, do you?”
Chad threw back his head and howled once more with laughter. Lorna appeared with two fresh bottles of beer in her hands, and looked utterly appalled.
“Think I’m smart, too?”
“I could fall at your feet in my own intellectual inadequacy.”
“Right.” Annabelle leaned into him and tugging on his arms, brought her mouth up to his ear. Leaning closer, closer, as Chad’s face took on a look of sheer ecstasy, she whispered, “Sacred circle hear my doubt, shield me safely round about, bring love in — keep freaks out!”
As if a bucket of frigid water had been dumped over his head, Chad stood straight up and let go of Annabelle. He looked down at her, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Whoa. Like, sorry,” he mumbled, and backed away.
Lorna handed off the beers to an innocent bystander, and grabbed Annabelle’s recently liberated right arm. “Are you okay? What in the world was that?”
Annabelle took a deep breath, and looked Lorna in the eye. “You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you. I gotta get out of here.”
• • •
Back out on Thirtieth Street, they paused at the corner of Eighth, waiting for a taxi. Annabelle was mumbling to herself, and Lorna, a little peeved at the early exit, kept prodding for an answer.
“I told you, you don’t want to know.” Annabelle lit up a restorative smoke.
“It’s not that hazelnut nonsense, is it?”
“You. Don’t. Want. To. Know.” She offered a Marlboro, which Lorna accepted grudgingly. “Thanks for the outing, anyway.”
“Just trying to help.” Lorna exhaled elegantly.
“Yeah, you and … everybody else.” Annabelle looked west as Lorna looked uptown.
“Anna. We care about you. We want you to be happy, to have what you want. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea in the world, maybe that guy was a bit over the top — ” Lorna cut across Annabelle’s sarcastic “Ha!” “ — but you’re the one who’s always wanted a boyfriend, and always had to have a boyfriend, and whined when you didn’t have a boyfriend, and whined about the boyfriend when you had a boyfriend, and now you don’t have a boyfriend, and you were at a party where you could, quite possibly, have found another boyfriend, if you’d given it a chance!”
“I don’t just want a boyfriend, I want a relationship!”
“I want a relationship!” Lorna mimicked, and Annabelle looked away, stunned. “I do not, in any way, profess to be acquainted with the ways and means under which one undertakes to initiate a long-term relationship, but I think that at the very least, you have to go out and actually meet people!”
Annabelle and Lorna stood glaring at opposite ends of the street. “This is your idea of helping me?” Annabelle’s voice wobbled a bit. “You of all people try to tell me how to build a relationship — you haven’t had one since 2004!”
“We’re not talking about me!” Lorna shouted, and raised an arm to flag down a cab.
“Well, then, don’t expect me to do the things that you do to meet people!”
“I’m not, but this is New York City, how else do expect to meet people if you don’t go out! You don’t have a job, how do you expect to — ”
“Hey. The scribe. Howaya?”
Lorna and Annabelle turned west as the cab screeched to a halt beside them. Annabelle gawked and Lorna stopped shouting.
“Oh. Hi. Restorer-slash-painter.” Annabelle froze, and silence reigned.
Lorna charged into the breach. “We haven’t met. Lorna Bates.”
“Jamie Flynn.” They shook hands, Jamie politely, Lorna assessingly.
“Odd hour for a delivery?” Lorna mused, indicating the wrapped, flat object under Jamie’s arm. Jamie looked at it as if he’d never seen it before.
“Um. No … well, yes. A — something for a relative. She rang me, last minute, I’m to meet her here, somewhere … ” He trailed off, and shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant, as if he always wandered around Manhattan at night, carting paintings around.
“Jamie’s a painter.” Annabelle felt Jamie’s eyes on her and wondered who had let loose the host of butterflies now swarming in her belly.
“How do you two know each other … ?” asked Lorna, and behind her back, motioned at the cabbie to relax.
“The thing — ” said Annabelle.
“The show — ” said Jamie.
They both stopped short, and Lorna smiled inquiringly.
“Jamie — K
elli — ”
“Annabelle — the play — ”
The cabbie honked his horn impatiently. He didn’t have all night.
“Well, okay. Nice seeing you. Uh. Again.” Annabelle dove into the taxi, and waited for Lorna to stop shaking Jamie’s hand. He tapped on the window before he walked away.
As the taxi sped off east, Lorna turned to Annabelle.
“So?”
“So what?” Annabelle turned toward Lorna and tried to camouflage the fact that she was looking out of the back window out of the corner of her eye.
“So. Is that The Irish Guy?”
Annabelle turned fully to look out the window at Jamie’s receding form. “He’s — yeah.” As the cab turned south, Annabelle turned around and slumped slightly in her seat.
“Interesting.” Lorna turned forward as well, her fingers itching to get at her cell phone.
“He’s — we just met at the thing — did Maria Grazia say anything? To you? About … him?” Annabelle twisted the strap of her evening bag absentmindedly around her finger.
Lorna watched her friend cut off the circulation to her pinkie, and suppressed a wicked, triumphant grin. Wilson, and memories of Wilson, the very essence of Wilson, was about to get shipped out to the dump in Staten Island. “She mentioned that some hot guy in a pristine white shirt was into you.”
“He’s not!” Annabelle heard herself and she sounded like a teenager. “He’s just … He isn’t — it’s nothing.” She turned away and stared out the window, as the lights of the Village blurred past the speeding cab.
Ah ha, thought Lorna. Very very interesting.
Chapter Sixteen
When he woke up in his childhood room, it was even smaller than Jamie remembered. It may have been an effect of waking in the dead of night — there wasn’t a sound in the house but for his own breathing, which seemed to echo in his ears. Lying on his side above the covers, he could see the pile of clothes that lay at the foot of his single bed, a pile that cunningly hid his football boots, his stash of sweets, and his prized collection of American comic books.
