by Nina Harper
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that intense flying feeling meant I was falling in love, but I ignored it.
chapter
THIRTEEN
The next morning I awoke well rested and ready to attack the Lawrence problem. First, I donned battle dress. I wore a simple chocolate Jil Sander suit that said I meant business, with a sleek Ralph Lauren messenger bag without any of this year’s must-have hardware. Hardware was fun and today I was anything but fun. Today I was the avenging angel of Hell on a mission.
I arrived at the office at eight thirty, which was the earliest I had managed in nearly two years. Only the assistants and interns were in, and the hallways were quiet. I slipped into my office and surveyed the damage.
It was as nasty as I remembered, with purses tossed around as if they’d been caught in a hurricane. My boxes, all organized with names of editors and shoots written on the fronts, were torn and crumpled. But worst of all, my notebook had been shredded and flung around the office like confetti. All my notes, all my careful descriptions of upcoming shoots were destroyed.
I took out my phone and started taking pictures. Everyone might have trooped through yesterday, but they might not remember the full extent of the damage, how abused and forlorn all those lovely bags looked. The disrespected Fendi, the demoralized Coach, the oppressed Gucci, such beautiful purses, any one of which any woman would be thrilled to own, all of them treated like so much trash. By my colleague.
I set the purses on the sofa, gauging the extent of harm. Most could still be used, though a few might need a daub of shoe polish to cover a painful scuff. The lovely little Fendi had fared the worst. Several beads had been ripped from the complex design and the silk had been snagged in several places. I laid it on my desk to bring to the meeting as evidence.
When that was done, I tried to untangle some of the remnants of my notebook. I did find a few pages whole, or at least with most of my scribbles intact, but the rest were hopeless.
The office door was thick and the walls well insulated. Deep carpet covered the floor, not only of my office but of the hallway and every other office on the floor, with the exception of Amanda’s Brazilian cherry with a custom Tibetan hand-knotted carpet. Even surrounded by quiet, I could hear that the area was no longer deserted. Wisps of conversation, an echo of laughter, a random knock on the wall all told me that the place was coming to life.
A timid knock sounded on my door. I wasn’t in the mood for company. “Go away,” I yelled.
The handle moved gently and Danielle stepped in. “Oh, Lily, I thought I’d come by and see if you wanted any help in cleaning up. Or a hazelnut latte.” I noticed the cup in her hand.
She handed me the coffee and I handed her the violated blue Fendi bag. Danielle held it carefully, as if afraid to inflict more damage. “A travesty,” she whispered to the purse. “You shall be avenged. And we will see Lawrence in Hell.”
I blinked, and then remembered that for Danielle that was merely a figure of speech, not a concrete reality.
But really, I wanted Lawrence in Hell. Not anywhere where I could see him, of course, but stuck in some backwater of torment. If there were any reason to try to heal the rift between the succubi and incubi, now was that time. And I was ready to take the risk because I could not bear the thought of Lawrence ending up anywhere other than eternal damnation.
“Now come.” Danielle pulled a little box of eye makeup remover wipes out of her huge Kate Spade tote that could double as luggage. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the meeting. Just think, these are the last twenty minutes that Lawrence will be here to torment us. Because Amanda will not tolerate this kind of random destruction. Especially not of samples. Some things are sacred. Now blow your nose and use the Visine, and tell me where you keep your makeup bag.”
“Bottom drawer, left,” I said. We all keep full makeup kits at work, along with several pairs of shoes, hose, and as many hair accessories as we could pack into one desk drawer. And Visine. It is a fashion magazine, after all. We are expected to fulfill the image, to dress and look every day the way we tell women they ought to look for work.
Danielle went through my bag, chose the heavier foundation and concealer to hide the red blotches, picked out a warm cocoa eye shadow and matching pencil and lay them all with military precision on the desk. She even placed the cotton balls next to the foundation and the brushes right in front. “No blush,” she said. “Your color is already high, you don’t want to emphasize it.”
I looked in the mirror. I looked pale without any blush. Pale and angry and vengeful, and I hoped threatening, in my very tailored clothes. My eyes were so green they nearly glowed. I hoped the effect was good enough to worry Lawrence.
“Excellent,” Danielle approved. “You look like some ghost come back from the dead for vengeance.”
“I don’t want to look dead. I just want my office back and my work put back together.” I touched the beaded blue bag lightly.
“Come, let us go now and take good positions at the table.”
She was right. The meeting didn’t start for ten minutes, which meant that no one would arrive for fifteen and Lawrence for twenty. As predicted, the conference room was empty. Danielle set her tote almost at the far end and indicated that I should take the foot of the table, immediately opposite where Amanda would sit. She was the only one who had a reserved place; the rest of us jostled where we could.
“You don’t think I should sit next to her so that she can see the Fendi?” I asked.
Danielle shook her head. “She needs to see you, dead-on. And when you pass the Fendi to her, every other person at this table will have to examine it. Besides, the end of the table is almost as powerful as the head. And it will mean that Lawrence won’t sit here.”
I wondered where she had gotten so much information about authority in the workplace. Had she taken some kind of adult ed class? But she was right, we had often left the foot of the table for Lawrence, mostly because it was closest to the door and he often arrived late.
I had my laptop out and my exhibits arranged when others began to arrive. Amanda came in precisely at ten past, threw her clipboard on the bare glass and glared at us all. “I have heard about some, difficulties, yesterday. Let me say that I will not tolerate any kind of disruption that jeopardizes the production timetable. Is that clear?”
Danielle and I looked at each other. Lawrence had not yet arrived. Who was Amanda talking to, then?
“Well, now, then let’s get directly to business. Articles for the July issue are already in process and we’re shooting our September features. Let’s go over the rest of the fall before we start ideas for January.”
And with that, the meeting continued like every other meeting we had. I didn’t have an opening to talk about what had happened yesterday. Surely Amanda knew that Lawrence had been responsible for the disaster.
The disaster chose that moment to enter. He stood over me and glared. “You’re sitting in my seat.”
“I wasn’t aware that seats were assigned,” I answered smoothly, glad that my voice did not show how badly I was shaking inside.
“You know that is my seat. Well, Lily, you are merely the accessories editor. You can be replaced.”
“Stop it,” Amanda ordered us both coldly. “Lawrence, there is a seat up here. Take it. We are in the middle of discussing the evening gown spread for the December issue. If either of you continues to behave like this is a day care center, I will ask you to leave.”
I nodded mutely, horrified. While Amanda was not directly taking Lawrence’s side, she was certainly not censuring him for having destroyed my office. Danielle patted my thigh under the table and caught my eye. She shook her head imperceptibly, as if she had known what I was thinking.
Ian was at a loss as to where to do the shoot for his December evening wear spread. This was always one of the most important spreads in the most important issue of the entire year, and it was a mark of Amanda’s trust in Ian that he had been g
iven the job. He was nervous and uncertain, and kept glancing at Lawrence as if His Snottiness should have been favored with the evening wear piece.
“And so I thought it would be great to do the dresses outdoors, with snow. Very evocative, with all that white to frame them. But I’m not sure of the location, though if anyone has any ideas . . .”
Lawrence leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest as if he were daring Ian to come up with a decent idea. “If Ian can’t manage a location that will properly set the most important feature of the year, perhaps he isn’t up to the job.”
And all of a sudden words started tumbling out of my mouth. “I know of this stonecutter’s yard on Elizabeth Street,” I said. “There are all kinds of white stone pieces, statues, funeral pieces, closer together than a cemetery, but very haunting and pale. And interesting. And there are big iron gates and such, so it could look like a formal party with the boundaries of inside and outside confused. Magical realist for a magical kind of New Year’s.”
Ian gaped at me. Lawrence glowered. And Amanda smiled. “That might do,” she said, musing.
“Is there some time I could see it?” Ian asked, halfway between excited and disbelieving.
“Sure,” I said. “Probably anytime you like. I’m not sure of the number but it’s on Elizabeth Street, just around the corner from Houston.” I wrote down what information I could recall and passed it over to Ian. I was sorry I’d never bothered to note the name of the place across the street from Public, and I wasn’t about to mention the restaurant.
Amanda looked pleased with me. Lawrence was furious, which made the entire effort worthwhile. I’d worked with Ian for several years, and he really was quite a good editor, creative and interesting, and supportive of the rest of the staff.
“If that is all, then.” Amanda began to wrap up, when Danielle waved her hand.
“Amanda, we had an incident on the floor yesterday. Lily’s office is a complete ruin and several of the samples have been so badly damaged that we will have trouble returning them to the designers.” She waved a hand at me and I mutely passed the Fendi up the table.
“And Lily is making a scene because she doesn’t have the accessories I need for my shoot,” Rebecca spoke up. “Her office looks like it was ransacked. I don’t know why she can’t keep her office in anything like decent condition and do her job.”
“Mr. Carroll and I had a disagreement about booking Mr. Keefe for the cover shoot for the November issue,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“What did you want Keefe to shoot?” Amanda turned to Lawrence.
“This,” he said, and tossed a set of photos into the middle of the glass expanse.
The clothes were beautiful, brilliant, very different from what we were used to with Italian and British and American design. These younger designers were clearly influenced by Issey Miyake and by Japanese art and textile.
“We have never given proper consideration to Japanese fashion, and now there are several interesting people working in India, too. When India and Bollywood have become such an inspiration to fashion in the West, we should start to look at the new fusion in Tokyo and Bombay.”
The idea had caught Amanda’s attention. Danielle’s mouth was open with shock, and after a minute I realized mine was as well.
“Hmmm,” Amanda said. “This has merit. But you won’t need a photographer for a while yet and the shawls feature is a cover story. Lawrence, come into my office and we’ll nail down the details here.”
“Excuse me,” I said, standing. “My office is still a disaster, the work I’ve done for the past two months is thrown all over the floor and I do not deserve the derision of my colleagues for someone else’s lack of control.”
I was fuming. At that point I didn’t care what happened. I turned my back and left the meeting before Amanda dismissed us. I was beyond furious, cold and controlled and completely focused on the disaster. If I got fired, I would be free of Lawrence and at the moment that was my main concern.
I went back to my office to try to re-create the work. At least new boxes from the mail room had arrived during the meeting, so I set about labeling them with Magic Markers. Then, my notebook destroyed, I had to go into the sketchy computer files and see if I could reconstruct the various assignments from different departments and what accessories they would need. Paying attention only to the needs of the editors meant that I didn’t have to think about Vincent being missing, or Meph’s rival, and being followed in Venice, and Nathan and Marten. Accessories were a lot easier.
I was in the middle of untangling a necklace from two earrings that were not related when Danielle arrived with two Dove bars and handed one to me.
“Is there anything I can help with?” she offered. And she meant it. Danielle would have happily spent the afternoon trying to piece together scraps of my notebook if it would have really helped me. When I hate all humans and think they should all be delivered, I could think of Danielle. If she weren’t mortal she would be my friend.
That was stupid, I realized. She was my friend. Just like Eros and Desi and Sybil, Danielle listened to me and supported me and was always there when I needed her. There were parts of my life she didn’t understand. I’d never told her about being a succubus, and I didn’t think she’d believe it.
On the other hand, Eros and Desi and Sybil didn’t really understand my work life. Oh, they all worked. Even Eros, the demigoddess, had a day gig as the creative director of an advertising firm. But they didn’t know what the magazine was like, what the demands were. They all thought that what I did was fun all day long, that I got to play with pretty bags and scarves and see the latest fashions before they were ever shown on the runway.
So Danielle was the friend who understood my life at work, about Lawrence and getting a feature article that was going to be a cover story.
I was surprised to realize that Danielle was a real friend. Even more surprised to think that I felt a little queasy at the notion, as if I were betraying my dearest buddies in Hell. I felt vaguely as if I were being disloyal to Satan Herself.
Only I wasn’t, I knew that. Having a mortal friend wasn’t frowned upon. Sybil had certainly had plenty of mortal friends when she lived as a wife.
If Danielle were a true friend, then I could tell her about Marten and Nathan. She might even have some good ideas. They were both mortals, after all, and so was she. She might have insights I’d forgotten.
So, in the middle of refilling my boxes, I turned to her and dropped the Magic Markers on my desk. “Danielle, there’s something I want to ask you about. About men.”
Danielle nodded solemnly and sat on the sofa, in the same spot where Lawrence had exploded. But Danielle’s neat figure perched at the edge of the upholstery was reassuring. “I have a date tonight with this guy I met in Aruba. He came up here for some, well, some business. And I found out that he didn’t tell me the whole truth in Aruba but I’m having a good time with him.”
“And Nathan?” she asked.
It was my turn to shrug, though I couldn’t pack that movement with all the nuances of meaning that Danielle could manage. “He dumped me. I told him some of the truth about my past, it upset him.”
Danielle shook her head. “Lily, why did you do this stupid thing? Even if you love a man, you cannot tell him everything. You must leave some mystery. And they do not want to know so much, really. They say they want to know, but they only want to know their fantasies.” She nibbled gently from her ice cream bar. “American women are sometimes so silly. You want things that do not exist. There is no need for your lover to know everything about you. I thought you were more sophisticated, Lily. You lived in Italy, I thought you knew these things. I thought you said you fell in love with an Italian. Did you tell him everything?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Hmmm,” she said, and pondered. “Italian men are more accepting than Americans. And they take things less seriously. I still would not tell any man, Italian
or French or American, anything that I did not think they truly needed to know.”
“I thought he needed to know,” I said, honestly confused.
“But you are still in love with Nathan, yes? He did not do a thing that hurt you, did he? He did not stop loving you, only that he was upset by a thing in your past. Is this the truth?”
I nodded.
“Then this person from Aruba, he is maybe not so serious. He feels serious because you need someone to think about who is not Nathan. But I think that your heart is not so easily engaged.”
I turned her words over in my mind. She was right about parts of it, about Nathan. But that didn’t tell me anything about Marten. Was I really falling for him or was I just using him to get over Nathan? I’d dated so rarely that the idea of dating one man to forget another seemed strange.
“Could I fall in love twice? So quickly?” I asked.
“This is dating, not love,” Danielle said. “This Marten cannot be serious. He is from Aruba, which is far away. He is handsome and treats you well, yes? So he will take your mind from Nathan while you heal, but then he will be gone and your confidence will be restored to you. And you will be able to find someone else suitable.”
“You don’t think Marten is suitable?” I asked. I thought he was terribly suitable. At least he knew I was a succubus and he was fine with it. He saw me as someone to care for, someone vulnerable, even if I am a fiend from Hell.
Danielle shook her head as if I were a slightly slow child. “He lives thousands of miles away. Suitable is someone in New York.”
“He could move,” I offered lamely.
“That is just fantasy,” Danielle corrected me. “And really, Lily, if he were your real boyfriend you probably would not like him so much. Right now you are hurting. Right now you could use an attractive man to court you, to take you to nice places, to pamper you. And this is what you like. You do not have time to know him.”
Then she stood up and smiled at me. “I will be happy to listen to you at any time, but right now I have some work to do. Elizabeth needs more sandals.”
