by Cynthia Sax
I press the button for the elevator and study my reflection in the metal doors. My shirt is an impeccable white, the cuffs neatly folded at my elbows, the style copied from one of this month’s fashion magazines. The designer shirts in that spread had been expensive silk. My shirt is cotton, purchased at a discount department store. I’ve raised the hem of my black formfitting skirt so it skims my bare knees. My shoes match my skirt, the Louboutin knockoffs sporting the distinct shiny red-lacquered soles, the heel height and toe shape perfectly duplicated.
I brush a stray strand of hair behind my right ear. Even my hairstyle is borrowed from the pages of a magazine, my straight brown tendrils swept upward and contained by a plain clip. I might not be able to afford the real designs, but I can look damn close.
The doors open. Lona LaMarre, the notorious occupant of five oh one south, stands in one corner of the elevator. I hesitate, silently questioning if sharing space with her is wise. The aging beauty is rumored to be a high-class escort, a character no decent woman would ever associate with, a woman who makes my perversions appear normal.
She’s profited well from her perversions. Lona is clad in a gorgeous black Chanel suit, the detailing on the buttons and collar exquisite. She clutches a gold phone in one hand and a red Alexander McQueen bag in the other, the leather in mint condition.
Her flawless fashion sense lures me closer. I step inside the elevator car and press the button for the lobby.
The doors close and Lona raises her gaze from her phone. Her blue eyes are cold and assessing, not missing a single aspect of my appearance. I shift my weight from my right foot to my left, uncomfortable with her perusal, suspecting she’s determining my net worth down to the penny.
My measly net worth must amuse her. Lona’s lips twitch, her peach-colored lipstick immaculate. “Good morning, Belinda.” Her voice is husky, hinting of smoke and sex. Her floral perfume teases my nostrils, the scent expensive and refined.
Lona would never wear fake anything.
“Good morning,” I mutter as I claim the far corner. Our images reflect in the mirrored walls, and I wince. Standing next to her, I resemble a girl playing dress-up, short, slender, and insignificant, a cheap imitation of the real thing.
Even my good-girl reputation is a lie, as the tattooed man uncovered this morning. I gaze morosely at the red digital numbers, willing them to change faster. My telekinetic abilities are weak. The elevator descends agonizingly slowly.
“Your purse won’t last the day,” the escort murmurs, breaking the silence. “You should replace it before it falls apart.”
“It’s not that easy.” Her assumption that everyone has money irritates me. This week’s paycheck is already spent, the money needed to pay my mom’s rent.
“It could be that easy.” Lona smiles, her teeth straight and white and perfect. “You’re a beautiful young woman.”
I’m beautiful? I snort softly. Is she looking at the same reflection as I am?
“I have principles.” I want security and safety, a man who won’t leave me as my dad left my mom.
“Principles don’t buy designer purses or pay the rent, hon.” Lona’s brilliant eyes flash. “What happens when your bubbly little friend finds a man and settles down? She’ll want the condo to herself. What will you do then? Go back to that sleepy little one-stoplight town, work at the diner with your mom, taking orders from snotty teenage girls? Will you be content with that life?”
I jerk my chin upward and meet her gaze. “How do you know where I grew up?” How does she know about my mom, about the diner, about the teenage girls who made my high school days a living hell, forcing my mom to wait on them, to pander to their every need?
“Oh, baby.” Lona chuckles. “My sources might have given me the details, but I knew who you were the day you moved into the building.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. I curl my fingers around the strap of my purse and dig my fingernails into the faux leather. Shit. This sensory distraction isn’t enough. I need to know. “Who am I?”
“You’re me, twenty-seven years ago,” Lona informs me triumphantly.
“I’m not you. I’ll never be you.” I’ll resist my unnatural urges, hide my perversions. No one will ever know . . . except for the tattooed stranger. The doors open.
I stride into the lobby, leaving the escort in the elevator car. Lona is continuing to P3, where her Mercedes is parked. I’m the only person in the building without a car. Even Jacob, the security guard sleeping at the front entrance, drives a pickup truck.
I push my way through the front door, step into the daylight, and all of my irritation vanishes, melting under the bright, hot sun. It’s yet another beautiful summer day. I tilt my face upward. The sky is clear and blue, the perfect weather explaining why the tattooed hunk stands naked on his balcony. It tempts me to shed a few layers of clothing.
I won’t strip. Not in public. Standing naked on your own balcony is allowable. Streaking in a common area will result in eviction or jail time, and neither of these interests me.
I follow the winding sidewalk, strolling toward the park. Birds chirp happily as they flutter from branch to branch, safe and free, semiconcealed in the thick hedges. I unclip the passcard from the waistband of my skirt and wave it in front of the fence’s sensor. The locks buzz, releasing. I swing the heavy wrought iron gate open and slip into the park.
The lawn is lush, watered every morning. The hedges block the view of the surrounding buildings and dampen the sound. Bright pink perennials line the patio stones, the blooms bowing in the morning breeze. The flowers will be gone next month, unlike the giant maple tree dominating the center of the park. It will remain, tall and steadfast, its trunk too thick for me to wrap my arms around.
I sigh, contented. This park is a serene sliver of green in a big, noisy city. I understand why Nicolas spends every morning here.
Few of the residents have the same appreciation for nature. The space is devoid of human life. I hurry toward the bench. This doesn’t mean someone hasn’t entered the park and then left, taking the phone.
I spot the edge of the metal case and exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s still there. I bend down and retrieve the phone. The screen illuminates and I freeze, shocked. The device is unlocked. Anyone could have accessed the names, numbers, and other information contained within its database.
This makes returning the phone more complicated. I can’t simply leave it with security. The tabloids would pay large sums of money to extract the personal and business details the device contains. This would tempt anyone, even the hardworking Jacob.
I’m tempted. With money from the tabloids, I could pay my mom’s rent, buy a new purse, treat Cyndi and myself to a shopping spree. A girls’ day out might fix our flagging relationship, restoring our friendship.
No. I shake my head. This isn’t the route to wealth I want to take. As I told Lona LaMarre, I have my principles. I won’t benefit from someone else’s misfortune, especially since this someone else is Nicolas Rainer, the man of my dreams.
He’s the only person I trust with his phone. I drum my heels into the paving stones as I consider my options. His penthouse suite can’t be accessed without his passcard. Even if I had his phone number, it makes no sense to call it. I’m holding his phone.
I’m an idiot. My laughter startles a sparrow from the nearby branch. I’m holding Nicolas’s phone. It must contain an emergency contact number, someone I can call to relay a message to him.
I tap on the address book and scroll through the names. My eyes widen as I scan the names of gorgeous Hollywood starlets, sexy supermodels, CEOs of multinational companies. Nicolas’s address book is a who’s who of the rich and famous.
And I have their direct numbers. My fingers shake as I force myself to call the number labeled Emergency. Tomorrow, I’ll kick myself, wondering what the hell I was thinking. Today, I’ll do the right thing.
The phone rings twice and a woman answers. “Ellen sp
eaking.” Her tone is cool and professional. “What can we do for you, Mr. Rainer?” It sounds as though I’ve contacted a service.
“Ummm . . .” I hesitate. Can this service be trusted? “I need to speak to Mr. Rainer.”
“You’re calling us from his phone, miss,” Ellen points out.
I roll my eyes. I’m not the only person who thinks I’m an idiot.
“Can you relay a message to him?” I try again. “I found his phone.”
“Give me your address and the Organization will send one of our employees to collect it.”
I’m not giving the phone to a complete stranger. For all I know, her Organization causes emergencies, rather than solves them.
“I’d feel more comfortable if I gave the phone to Mr. Rainer directly.” I glance around me, ensuring no one is listening. “It’s unlocked,” I whisper, cupping my lips with my palm.
“It’s unlocked and you don’t know who we are. I understand completely.” Ellen’s voice rings with approval. “Text your contact information and your location to this number, and I’ll personally ensure your message reaches Mr. Rainer. It could take a few hours for him to reply to you. He’s a busy man. But he will contact you about retrieving his phone.”
“Thank you.” I end the call. Nicolas will contact me. I grin, ecstatic. He’ll finally know who I am.
Chapter Two
I TEXT MY name, phone number, and work address to Ellen. Nicolas’s phone hums seconds later, the incoming call originating from the mayor’s office. Should I answer his phone? I tap my lips with my right index finger. What would I say? I have Mr. Rainer’s phone. Can I take a message? They’ll send the police after me, thinking I stole it.
The call goes to voice mail, and I slip the phone into my purse. The increased weight strains the strap even more. Lona may be right. My purse might not last the day.
There’s nothing I can do about that. I stride to the bus stop. No one is waiting there because no one else living in this neighborhood takes public transportation.
The number three bus arrives. It’s four minutes late, and there’s standing room only in the vehicle. Two confused tourists are trapped in the morning rush hour, their faces rosy as though they’ve spent too much time enjoying the sun.
I squeeze onto the bus, pay the fare, and wish the driver a good morning. He scowls at me and hollers to the other passengers to move to the back. The two tourists move. The native Chicagoans ignore him, staring at their tablets and phones.
I doubt anyone ignores Nicolas. Everyone listens to wealthy people. The average hardworking person like the bus driver or my mom is overlooked. I hold on to a metal pole, my body swaying as the bus moves.
“Young lady. Young lady.” An elderly woman seated to my left whacks me hard across the shins with her cane. Pain shoots up my legs, and I press my lips together, swallowing my shriek.
“Your purse is torn.” The woman waves her makeshift weapon at the offending accessory.
I pivot around the pole, attempting to move my body out of my gray-haired assailant’s reach. “I know about the strap. Thank you.” I don the same polite smile my mom wears while dealing with challenging customers at the diner.
“In my day, young ladies didn’t wear their purses across their bodies.” The deceivingly sweet-looking woman squints at me through thick lenses, the bridge of her eyeglasses covered with clear tape. “We held on to the handles. If the boys got fresh with us, we’d wallop them with our purses.” She laughs, clearly treasuring this violent memory. “Are you going to school, Miss I-know-about-the-strap?”
“I’m not going to school,” I reply, wondering why she’s asking about my plans for my day. She can’t care about me. We’re strangers. “I’m twenty-three years old and I’m going to work.”
The man sitting beside the elderly woman smiles.
“What are you grinning at?” The woman turns her steely gaze to him. “In my day, men gave up their seats when women or children entered the bus.” The man’s smile dims. “Well?” She brandishes her cane and the man hastens out of his seat, pushing his way to the back of the bus. “Sit, child.” The elderly woman pats the red covering with one wizened hand.
“I’m not a child,” I mumble but I sit because I don’t want another whack across the shins and because she truly is concerned about me.
“You think you’re not a child, but you are.” The lady smacks my knee hard, her warm, wrinkled fingers inflicting less damage than her cane. “You’re all in such a rush to grow up nowadays, wearing high heels and short skirts.” She clucks her tongue, and I glance down at my hemline. I suppose my skirt would be considered short half a century ago. “Being an adult isn’t as exciting as it looks.”
“That’s what I hear, ma’am.” I won’t ever convince her I’m not a child. My feet dangle, not touching the floor of the bus, and I suspect, by the way she’s peering at me, she’s half-blind.
“If you promise to go to school today, I’ll give you a cookie.” The woman searches through her cat-themed tote. I settle back in my seat, preparing to be mothered, content with this notion. It’s rare that anyone, even a crazy person, gives me her complete attention. I won’t fight it.
By the time I exit the bus at the Ontario Street stop, I’ve eaten three digestive cookies and one whole-bran granola bar and had half a bottle of water spilled in my lap. My stomach hurts, my purse is damp, but my shins escape unscathed and I’m free of the morning commute.
The building where I work is located two blocks north, and these two blocks are home to the most esteemed retailers in Chicago. I look around me, and a fierce joy fills my soul. This is where I feel the happiest, among the exclusive shops and gorgeous fashions on the Magnificent Mile, the city’s style Mecca.
I walk with a bounce in my step and a genuine smile on my face, my heart light. Employees sweep in front of their stores, arrange objects in the windows, take inventory in the back of the spaces. I wish everyone I meet a boisterous good morning, my small-town roots showing.
My brisk pace slows as I pass Cartier. A diamond necklace sparkles in the lit window, the elaborate design fit for a queen. I touch my collar, imagining how I’d look draped in jewels. Everyone would know I was important, that I belonged. I’d walk into these stores and be waited on, pandered to.
I wander farther along the famed street, lusting after the items in the window displays, dreaming of a life I can’t afford. The scarves are so sheer, so delicate, the designs resemble images seen through a luxurious waterfall. The suits are exquisite, the buttons a work of art. The shoes are divine, too beautiful to touch the ground.
None of these treasures compares to the Salvatore Ferragamo purse. I stop in front of the window, the highlight of my morning walk. Trends will come and go. This purse, with its handcrafted red leather, dual top handles, and zippers made of real gold, will remain timeless, elegant, classic.
I move closer to the glass, my yearning to own the limited-edition purse painfully intense. It’s clearly a heritage piece, designed to be passed from mother to daughter, and when it first appeared in the store ten days ago, I fell instantly and hopelessly in love.
I’m destined to have my heart broken. The price of the purse is more than the annual rent on my mom’s one-bedroom apartment. My fingertips hover near the window. I can’t spend that much money on myself, not now, maybe not ever.
It tortures me that some woman in Chicago can. That soon, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll pass the window and the purse will be gone, sold, never to be seen again. I sigh, my breath fogging up the window.
As though mocking me, the phone in my scuffed knockoff purse starts to hum. I could trade the phone for the Salvatore Ferragamo purse. Some media outlet would pay that much. No one would know.
Except I’d know. My shoulders slump. Sometimes I wish my ethics were a little less ingrained. I take one long, perhaps last, lingering look at the purse of my dreams, and I stroll away, turning west on Huron. I continue walking for two minutes and reach the side entranc
e to the Magnificent Ball’s temporary headquarters.
There’s no difference in the air temperature as I enter the building. The windows are open, the air conditioner broken. My friend Susan is already seated at reception. Bike couriers set their packages on her desk as the busy blonde signs slips. She smiles and waves her pen in the air as I walk past her.
The off-Michigan Avenue address implies glamour. The rented office is no-frills, the drywall chipped and the carpet worn bare. The furniture was contributed by the local businesses, and nothing matches, the combination of colors and wood grains offending my sense of style.
I’m the only one offended. Financial supporters never see the office. They’re wined and dined at surrounding restaurants. The other workers are too busy to care.
They rush along the narrow hallway, file folders clutched to their chests, their expressions strained. I wish them good morning, seeking to make the connections my boss says are critical for the full-time job. They smile, not slowing their strides. Many of them are volunteers and their time is limited, donated to the event by their employers. I’m paid temporary staff, one of two women hired to address the invitations and reminder notices.
I duck into the small side room allocated to this task. The windowless space is dreary, the walls and carpet painted prison gray. Fluorescent lights flicker over our workstations, two large hideously ugly wood veneer desks. I’m alone. My boss’s office door is closed, and my coworker is missing.
Mr. Peterson must be giving Dru yet another work-or-get-fired speech. I plunk my purse into the top drawer of my desk and sit down, the chair seat as hard as concrete under my ass. He talks to her every morning and almost every evening. Nothing he says or does changes her attitude. She refuses to exert herself.
Publicly, I act dismayed. Secretly, I’m delighted. I’m the only employee Mr. Peterson needs. I’ve proved this to him again and again.
And, on Friday, he’ll announce which of us has landed the one available full-time job. There’s zero doubt in my mind that the new hire will be me.
