“Excuse me.” A short, round woman with red cheeks tries to edge past me. She looks grumpy. I realize I’m blocking the entrance to Connections and step aside.
I walk to the corner and cross the street. The dry cleaner is another block up but if I pick up my cleaning I’ll just have to lug it back to Esther’s or to my apartment and I don’t want to do either and I wish I had thought of this earlier so I could have made alternate plans. I could have gone to the art museum or had a pedicure. I still could, I suppose, do those things or something else entirely. I slump up against the Satin Rules building and watch the people at the intersection. Everyone has somewhere to go, a place to be. I have nowhere to go, no place to be. I have a pending bank transfer and dry cleaning to pick up. I need somewhere to go, I need a place.
“Waiting for someone?” It’s George Jr.
“Huh? Hey. No.”
“So you just like hanging out in front of empty buildings?”
“Something like that. I like the graffiti.”
“Ah, yes. Satin Rules.”
“It truly does.” I have no idea what I’m saying. Am I flirting? Am I retarded?
“I would have thought satin might go against all your rules,” George says. I think he’s flirting with me. Maybe he’s retarded.
“I have no more rules.” Who is writing what’s coming out of my mouth? I’m not drunk; I blame it on the Ativan.
“What about your DOs and DON’Ts?”
I shake my head. “Done.”
“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“I am officially retired. Well, officially as soon as I sign the papers and sell my half of the company to my partner—ex-partner?—Ted.”
“Business partner or partner-partner?”
It takes a second for me to get what George is saying. “Oh, God, no! Business partner, definitely. Artner.” I laugh as I say this.
“Artner?”
“Never mind. It’s a joke.”
“I like jokes.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Because you’ve got someplace you have to be, right?”
He’s sarcastic and his words puncture my spirit. “Nope. No place to be.”
“I’m just about to open up. I could make you a coffee?” His voice is warm, the sarcasm gone. He wounded me and I know he knows this and I hate that so I say no thanks and he tells me he’ll see me around.
I watch George make his way across the street and past Connections to the bar. I sit on the pavement and root through my purse, not looking for anything in particular, but wanting it to look like I’m doing something. I check my home messages from my cell and wish I hadn’t—there’s only one call and it’s from Eva, wondering if she can use me as a reference. “I was a good assistant, Sara,” she says and it’s true, she was, except for the part where she screwed my married partner in my home and fucked up my relationship with my best friend. I don’t want to think about this.
I sit on the pavement for I don’t know how long, but for a couple of hours at least because the quiet streets abruptly fill with people and I know it must be noon. I stand and brush myself off. I’m stiff and the Ativan has worn off, I’m no longer numb to the traffic and chatter and sun. I lean beside the Satin Rules graffiti and light a cigarette but quickly stub it out. There are too many people on the street and there’s nowhere safe to blow the smoke. The Satin Rules graffiti is sprayed on a plywood board that is nailed over a window. A corner of the board has been hacked away and I bend over and peek through. I can’t see much, but the sun catches the building at just the right angle and I can make out a curved counter, a staircase and a second floor overlooking the first. I lean against the building again, covering part of the Satin Rules graffiti with my back. I look at the For Sale sign. I have nowhere to go and I don’t want to move so I pick up my cell phone and dial.
“People do this every day, Sara.” Esther lifts a pile of Lila’s magazines and places them carefully in a box. “They buy things, they sell things.”
“I know, I know. But I didn’t think it would be so easy,” I say, sealing a bankers box with packing tape and labeling it Harper’s Bazaar, 1955–1957. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Of course, my dear. I think it’s wonderful. Lila would be so pleased. I know you’ll take excellent care of her things.”
Esther has given me everything—all the magazines, the notebooks, Lila’s clothes, the patterns for the clothes, a dressmaker’s dummy. She even dug out her box of Stephen’s paperback porn for me. I turned down her offer of the furniture, though. There’s only so many dead woman’s things I can live with.
“So are you planning to get a new roommate?” I ask.
“Oh, heavens, no,” Esther replies.
Every day I make a point of asking Esther at least three things about herself. I keep a tally in my notebook just to be sure. Yesterday I asked her only two questions for her but have forgiven myself since there was so much going on with Ted’s bank transfer to me and my bank transfer to a man called Mervyn who owned the Satin Rules building. Now I own the Satin Rules building and I have somewhere to go.
The movers take Lila’s things away and drive them the two blocks to their new home. The boxes from Snap were delivered to the office of Susan the lawyer this morning and according to Susan, they’ve taken over her office. I told her I’d arrange to have them picked up and delivered to Satin Rules this afternoon. My books, my cameras, my clothes, my computer and my music are all I brought from my apartment. I didn’t go back there. I hired someone to clean up my mess and pack my things and get rid of everything I didn’t want, which was practically everything. I gave my notice to my landlord via voice mail. Still, I couldn’t help but cringe when I thought about the movers and the mess in the living room, the bloody condoms in the trash and the red stains on the rug. “No one will care, dear,” Esther said. “They do this all the time—it’s their job—they’re not going to see anything that they haven’t seen before.” I told her I’d spilled wine on the rug and that my place was a disaster. The truth about the paperboy and bloody condoms is not something Esther needs to know.
“So what are your plans for your first night?” Esther asks as we pull up in front of the building. There are workers prying the boards off the windows and blasting the grime from the exterior with pressure hoses. There is a cleaning crew inside, as well. The phone and Internet guys are scheduled to arrive at two. You can hire people to do anything and this discovery tickles me with infinite satisfaction.
“I have that interview with Ellen at seven for her book, but other than that, I don’t know. Read magazines?”
Esther laughs. “You have plenty of those. I’m so happy that we’ll be neighbors, Sara. You’ll have to come by for dinner at least once a week.”
“At least,” I agree, getting out of the car. As I step onto the sidewalk I see a burly man readying himself to rip off the plywood with the Satin Rules graffiti. I run to him. “No! Wait!” The man stops and looks at me quizzically. “Hi, there. I’m Sara—the new owner.”
“I’m Jean-Pierre.”
“Look, Jean-Pierre. This is going to sound really weird, I know, but I was wondering if you could be extra careful pulling that board off.”
“I will not break the window,” he says, his English heavily accented. I think I’ve insulted him.
“No, no. I know you won’t. It’s just—It’s just that I’d like to keep that board. I want it all in one piece.”
Jean-Pierre looks at it. “Satin Rules, eh? Okay. It’s to you.” He shakes his head and shrugs.
I sit on the floor in the corner of the second-story loft, smoking and talking to Ellen. I can see the Satin Rules board downstairs, by the door. I’m using a half-empty plastic water bottle as an ashtray. It’s disgusting and it smells.
“Sorry things didn’t work out with the Lila book,” Ellen says. “I really thought Teresa would bite.”
I don’t want to talk about Teresa or the Lila book. �
��It’s no big deal.”
“Very exciting about the new building, though. I can’t wait to see it. What do you think you’re going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Read magazines?”
Ellen laughs and I decide that’s what I’m going to tell people I do if they ask. People are insatiable in their need to know what do you do? What do you do? Like the answer holds the secret key to who you are.
“Okay, so I want you to take me back to the beginning, not just the beginning of Snap, but when you first developed an interest in trends and realized that you had a talent for knowing what the next big thing would be.” Ellen is all business now.
I liked fashion, I liked music. I’ve read American Vogue since I was ten and kept every issue. I spent my allowance and whatever money I managed to earn babysitting, even though I didn’t much like babies, on imported records, limited-edition twelve-inch singles. I made my own clothes and shopped at thrift stores, which perplexed and annoyed my mother, who thought I should dress like a lady. This was ironic because she was anything but—single mom, too many boyfriends including, when I was seventeen, one of mine.
“Oh my God, you’re kidding!” Ellen says when I tell her this.
“I wish I was. Don’t put that in, okay?”
“Don’t worry about it. But—off the record—what did you do?”
“I moved out. She moved to Victoria with some old rich guy.”
“Do you talk?”
“No. But I send her a birthday card every year to remind her that she’s old. She hates getting old. I think it was easier for her when I left. I was a constant reminder that she was aging.”
“What happened to the boyfriend?”
“We got back together. Not for long, just until he went off to university in the States.”
“You didn’t go to university, right?”
“Nope. Ted did.”
I worked as a fashion stylist and photographer for crappy little magazines for six years, but on my own time I’d take pictures of people everywhere—on the street, in clubs. Then Ted started writing articles for crappy little magazines after he graduated. And one night he came over and got drunk and we thought it would be funny to divide my pictures into DOs and DON’Ts like in Glamour magazine, but without the black bars over the eyes of the DON’Ts. Then we made this little ’zine and left it in all the cafés and bars we went to and pretty soon people were talking about it and wanting to be in it so Ted asked his dad if he’d loan us some money, which he did because I think he was embarrassed that Ted’s degree was in English literature and wanted to be able to say he was a publisher instead.
“You see, it was all a fluke,” I say.
“More like you were in the right place at the right time with the right idea—like all successful entrepreneurs. It must have been very satisfying to watch the business grow and see people respond to your ideas.”
“It was—for a long time.”
“And now?”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“Now I don’t care. I’m tired and I’m guilty.”
“Never feel guilty for your success,” Ellen says.
“But what if your success was based on judging and making fun of people?”
Ellen doesn’t have a snappy, Infinite Woman—power answer for this and neither do I.
I have a place but I don’t have anywhere to sleep and I take this as proof of my long-suspected retardation. I left my furniture behind, refused Lila’s and now it’s eleven o’clock and I have no bed. I have no cigarettes, either, having smoked an entire pack during my conversation with Ellen. I need to get on the patch or something—but tomorrow. Right now I need cigarettes and a bed. I could stay in a hotel. I have plenty of money. I could take a suite at the Ritz and order truffles and call all my friends to tell them I’ve taken a suite at the Ritz, but I don’t have any friends except maybe Esther and Ellen, but she doesn’t count because she’s in Toronto, so I’d have to hang out at the Ritz bar and make new friends. I could stay for days—a week—and shop for beds all day. The staff won’t know what to make of me. I’ll buy a turtle and a puppy and I won’t comb my hair. I’ll play Eloise and crash a wedding in the ballroom.
But I forgo my imaginary suite at the Ritz and instead trudge up the street to the depanneur to buy cigarettes and then to George’s to celebrate and make myself drunk enough to sleep on the floor of my new home.
I don’t see George Jr. when I come in and I’m relieved. He puts me on edge; he’s never impressed. There’s a stack of Snaps by the door and I pick one up, slip into a booth and wedge my body into the corner for optimum privacy and darkness. I order a double vodka soda. Ativan dissolves into my system as I wait for my drink and open the magazine. I scan the masthead and am surprised to find my name there, at the bottom, under the title cofounder. That was nice of Ted. I consider calling him to say thank you for the recognition, for making the buyout deal happen so fast and so smooth, but then I remember what a shit he is and change my mind. I wish I could talk to Gen.
I flip to page six, where my DOs and DON’Ts once were, and there they are. I read the fine print. The shots have been sent in by readers; there’s an editor’s note announcing the new system and soliciting pictures.
See something on the street you have to share? Send your DOs and DON’Ts attention Eva B. at Snap.
Eva B.? As in Eva B., the home-wrecking cunt? I turn the page and there it is: Eva B.’s Life of Style. I flip back to the masthead. Eva B., associate editor. This is bullshit. This is wrong. And didn’t she just leave me a message wanting a referral? What is wrong with Ted? How can he do this to Gen? I close the magazine and turn it over. On the outside back page is an ad: Coming soon: Snap TV. Watch for it. There’s a list of credits on the bottom of the page, like on a movie poster. Produced by Ted, produced by Jack. Inaugural online broadcast hosted by Eva B. This is bullshit. This is wrong. This is going to make me crazy so I go outside to smoke.
A million scenarios race through my head but none make sense. Maybe Eva’s blackmailing Ted. That can’t be right. Gen already knows about the affair. Maybe Gen has finally come to her senses and left Ted and he’s clinging to Eva and promoting her is his way of making sure she won’t leave but she is because she wants me to give her a reference. I stamp out my cigarette and head back to my booth. I catch a glimpse of George Jr. behind the bar but scurry by unnoticed.
I finish my drink and order another. I take my cell phone out of my purse and punch in Eva’s number. It’s close to midnight but who the fuck cares. She’s probably fucking some married guy; she deserves to be interrupted.
“Hello?”
“Eva. It’s Sara.” I know she knows it’s me; she has call display.
“Sara, hiiii. Thanks for getting back to me. I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“So what can I do for you?” Saying this makes me nauseous but I want to—I need to—know what’s going on.
“I know this is a delicate situation but I was hoping I could use you as a reference.”
“Yeah, I got that from your message. Didn’t you just get a promotion or something?” She doesn’t know what I know or how I know it. Ted could have told me. She doesn’t know I have to pick up the magazine to know anything about the company I started.
“That. Yes. And it’s great and amazing to be working with Ted and Jack, but I have another offer.”
The mention of Jack’s name stings. “Another offer?”
“From Apples Are Tasty. They want me to be their new style editor.”
“Apples Are Tasty?”
“They’re expanding and it’s a great opportunity for me to really get my name out there and put my stamp on something. And after everything that’s happened at Snap…”
“Yeah, everything.”
“I couldn’t believe it when Ted wanted to keep me on after, well, you know, and I totally admire his commitment to the brand and not wanting to let personal issues interfere with tha
t, and you were amazing to hire me in the first place, and I’ve just loved working with Jack this week, but I have to do what’s right for me.”
I hate her. I want to hang up. “Does Ted know? About Apples Are Tasty?”
Eva laughs. “No way! You know how he is about them. That’s why I can’t ask him for a reference—I need you.”
She’s talking to me now like we’re old friends, war buddies, colleagues, equals. I hate her more. I want to hang up. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Could you let me know by Monday? I’d really appreciate it. And, Sara?”
“Eva?”
“I’d really appreciate your discretion. I know you don’t talk to Ted or Jack and that you and Gen aren’t friends anymore, but if you could keep this under your hat that would be great. And hey, what are you doing for work now? I was talking to Ben and he said he ran in to you. He got the impression that you were taking some time off?”
I hate her. I hang up and throw the phone down on the table.
“Stood up?” George Jr. is smiling down at me holding my double vodka soda in one hand, a full bottle of beer in the other.
“No. Just work.”
“I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”
“I don’t. It’s complicated.”
“Of course.” He says this like it’s a given—that everything with me is complicated and weird and fucked up.
“Can I have my drink?”
“Only if you’ll let me join you for a moment. It’s been a long night. The ice machine went on the fritz and I had to run out to the gas station and buy bags of it.”
“Did you just say fritz?”
“I think I did. Not cool? Sorry.”
“No. It’s fine. Sit down. I have no idea what’s cool.”
The Ativan combined with the vodka makes me slippery and I stop after one more double, before things get too Valley of the Dolls. I start drinking coffee and George is still sitting across from me as I explain the complexity of my situation minus the part about Rockabilly Ben the paperboy or the parts where I’m a total asshole.
Snapped Page 18