A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  I slump across my bed. I have no cigarettes, no pudding cups, or other sources of addiction, so I toss around, consigning my work, my living situation, and my unresolved questions to outer space. I cling to a pillow as I doze off into the mysterious melody of the night.

  ***

  AFTER THREE HOURS of sleep last night, I decide to sleep late. But at 8 am, Kim calls and presents me with the day’s duties.

  “Come on...give me a break. It’s Sunday.” I yawn, rolling around in the sheets. “Call me tomorrow.”

  She goes on blathering like it’s three in the afternoon. I stare at my ceiling fan, thinking it’s more than I can handle in my exhausted state.

  I quickly sit up. “What do you mean already here?” I walk over to the window and see Reed’s car parked out front. I bang my head lightly against the window. “Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I get inside the car, semiconscious, and in no time I’m having breakfast with Alana Edelman at Le Pain Quotidien, a very quirky French coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment, and debating whether to get waffles or oatmeal. Kim has made it a point to end the press’s hounding for answers to the so-called feud between the agency and me.

  Breakfast was a painful affair, and not just because I had to wait twenty minutes for a café au lait.

  “Confirm a rumor for me: Are you dating Oliver Black?” Alana says into her cappuccino.

  I look at her ghostly white face and conniving brown eyes. “Jesus. No.”

  “Good. Because if Oliver Black were rain, he’d be a hurricane and you’d be a frail tree snapping in half at his power and strength. I’m sure you don’t want to be caught up in another storm, do you?”

  Now I’m exceedingly taken aback. “No, I don’t.” Pause. “I understand you’re friends with Oliver.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Oliver?”

  “Mr. Black,” I rectify.

  “Much better.”

  “My point is I wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience, and I know reporters will probably come running with pitchforks and torches if that were to happen.”

  “Oh, darling. This isn’t about the media, let alone me. This is about being smart. Dating is a challenge in and of itself, my dear, and I fully comprehend that dating a man who lives on his own, works for himself, and spends his money as he sees fit seems like the trifecta of suitable men for any woman. Regardless of what happens, if you decide to involve yourself with him, be prepared. Nothing but trouble will come of it.”

  “I’m not sure if this is a threat or advice.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  “You’re not really telling me anything.”

  She reaches across the table, puts her hand over mine, and says, “Smile.” I sit there dumbfounded for a moment, until I somewhat turn and notice a paparazzi photographer standing just a few feet away from us.

  After our little stunt, Alana gets up and leaves. Knowing all she came here for was to make herself look good in front of the world, I would say her work here is done. I’m left reeling with questions and decide to hit a few shops to get my mind on something else, if it’s even possible. Reed follows me around all morning and doesn’t leave my side—into and out of buildings, into and out stores, across the street. It’s getting out of hand, even when strongly discouraged, telling him to lay low or get lost. To anyone who breathes near or on me, Reed makes a face with a look in his eyes that says, “Back away.” His tall stature alone is commanding, but combining that with his dark skin and doomful voice—even dogs go running when they see him.

  I sneak out of a designer shop in Soho, slowly and quietly without telling Reed, disguised in a ridiculous coat and sunglasses way too big for my face.

  Birds are chirping and cooing in the trees as I walk through the streets of West Broadway. Ahead, street vendors call out their wares from quaint booths selling all sorts of things set up along the sidewalk. The organic fruit stand lures me in. I mix and match a bag of strawberries, orange sections, and diced cantaloupe. I throw a papaya into a second bag before continuing on my excursion all by myself.

  Some time later, I get back home and say hello to Jess as I enter the kitchen.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” Jess mumbles, spraying the cabinet faces and passing a scrubber along them afterward.

  I slam the heavy fruit bags onto the counter, go to the refrigerator for milk, then the freezer for vanilla ice cream. “I wish I had been,” I say, “I went to breakfast with my boss. I got some fruits on my way back. Care for a milkshake?”

  She ignores my question. “Did you go by yourself?”

  I break out the blender and squeeze all of the ingredients into it. “What do you think? No, Reed won’t leave me alone for a second.”

  “Really? Then why did he just call asking if you were here?”

  “Oh, I ditched him like an hour ago.”

  There is a brief passing silence. When I don’t hear Jess say anything, I turn to look at her. She has one hip slanted to the side and her fingers are drumming on the counter insistently. Her negativity runs down to the floor like an electric charge surged across the linoleum. It invades my whole body.

  I shrug, clueless. “What?”

  “I was just wondering that since someone did recently try to kidnap you, maybe you might want your bodyguard to go with you everywhere. But hey, don’t let my humble opinion get in the way of what you were thinking.”

  “Will you relax? Nothing’s going to happen to me a block away from home.” I fire up the blender and shake it violently, aiming for better circulation of my ingredients.

  “Okay. If that’s the way you see it. Let’s all hop on Sophie’s train of foolishness.”

  The blender suddenly bursts like a balloon. The fruit soars into the air, coating the cabinets, the countertop, and me from head to toe.

  “You broke it,” informs Jess. “You clearly overfilled it.”

  I stand still, overwhelmed by a measly kitchen appliance and feeling the mush of half-blended strawberries and lactose ooze down my face. Jess hides inside a cold silence, slamming things around, opening and closing the cabinets with more force than I’ve ever seen her use.

  “What is really your problem, Jess?”

  “What is my problem?” she yells. “My problem is you, Sophie. You are my problem. How many times have I told you about the bathroom? You don’t hang the bath mat and you leave smudges all over the mirror. It seems like you don’t even care. Why do you do this? And do I really have to tell you cigarette butts don’t go in the bathroom trashcan? The whole bathroom stinks.”

  Something fires up inside me. Monsters take to whispering in my ear. I go full speed on reckless thinking. My mouth is so dry I can barely get the words out.

  “Get a grip. I didn’t even smoke that cigarette.”

  “Look at all the mess in here! It’s always a mess. It’s driving me crazy that I have to do everything for you!”

  “Who says you have to do anything for me? I’ve always, always, fended for myself. I do my own dishes. I always take out the trash because you can never bring yourself to do it. I clean the stovetop exactly how you like it and I even did your sheets last week!”

  “Oh, please! That was one time.”

  “You know what else I do? I put up with this crazy, neurotic germ thing of yours! It’s getting fucking crazy. Why don’t you go rearrange our Tupperware or something, since you seem to love that sort of thing? Do yourself a favor and take your babysitting inclinations somewhere they belong. And while I’m at it, let me just throw out an idea. Your boyfriend is in serious need of supervision.”

  My lips tremble as I realize I formulated that last sentence. Jess stares at me with frenzied eyes trying to process what I just said, but she can’t and neither can I. Where did that come from? I have no idea.

  “You want to talk about my boyfriend? Really, Sophie? God, you are so ungrateful! After what he did for you! After what we did for you! If anything, you should be thanking him!”
r />   “Thanking him?” I chuckle. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “All this fame, all this unexpected attention you’re getting, haven’t you stopped to wonder where it all came from? I’ll break it down for you, Sophie. An anonymous call to the press and your career goes boom.”

  “What?” My voice goes nuclear. “What? You’re saying the reason I get pushed and shoved every day by cameras and reporters is because of Eric? He ratted me out?”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Uh, no. I’ll be thanking no one. I was doing perfectly fine in my career before you came along and stuck your nose into my business.”

  The doorbell rings. I hold my breath and tromp down the hallway to fling the door open.

  Oliver doesn’t flinch at the explosive manner in which the door opens. “What happened to you? Why are you covered in...,” he leans in and sniffs the air just over my head, “strawberries?”

  “What do you want, Oliver?” I can’t decide who to yell at in this particular moment: Jess, for defending that backstabbing, two-timing boyfriend of hers, or Oliver, who interrupted my ranting at her in the first place.

  “You did invite me over for lunch today, did you not?” His ability to stay calm in any situation is really irritating me.

  “Well, maybe if it was close to lunchtime I would be fine with you being here. But as it’s not—” I start to close the door on him to return to my attack on Jess.

  Oliver puts a steady hand on the door and plucks a partially blended piece of strawberry off my shoulder with the other. “Is this a new trend in the fashion world no one has notified me of?”

  The twinkle in his eyes and the way his mouth curves as he savors my breakfast finally cools the heat of anger burning in my chest. I sigh heavily and feel my shoulders drop from their defensive position.

  “Oh, this? Don’t pay attention to it.” I shrug at him, feeling lighter by the second. “This is just what I do, cover myself up in strawberries as part of my morning routine. But,” I point a warning finger at him as I take a step back, “boundaries, Oliver. You’re messing with them.”

  “It’s exactly what I want to do.”

  A small smile grows on my face as I shove him away. He keeps coming back like a magnet, brushing his once-impeccably clean clothes against the gushy, red slop. “Stop it!” A sinister ten-year-old laugh escapes from my gut as we are now both smothered in strawberries, of all things. My laugh is constant in between raspy wheezes. “No! Oliver, please! You’re making a mess!” I struggle and squirm, trying to recover from the touch of his mouth eating away my gooey kitchen failure.

  “Why do you want me to stop?”

  I pant like a tired mutt. “Because you are in violation of a million different laws regarding sexual harassment!”

  “Sexual harassment?” He chuckles softly. “I can assure you this is not sexual harassment. Would you like me to demonstrate sexual harassment?”

  “No, and I definitely don’t want your mouth wiping my face clean. It gives me the shivers.”

  “That’s the whole point.” He comes closer. “To make you feel things.”

  I don’t know what just happened, but before I know it, Oliver is letting himself inside my apartment and I completely forget my chaotic rage of what seemed only five seconds before. I can’t control how he makes me feel. He intoxicates me like high-quality vodka, and my mind is already brimming with disorientation.

  When I can think again, I notice his elegant taste in wardrobe as evidenced by his simple gray flat cap, beige slacks, and light blue gauze shirt that opens to show a discreet amount of manly chest, even if he does have a smattering of organic juices on it now.

  “But seriously, what are you doing here so early?” I feel my heart beat clear up into my brain.

  The corners of his mouth turn upward. “I know it’s early. I just wanted to see you.” He looks to where Jess is making herself look busy, but I know she’s taking in every word. “Hey, Jess. How’s it going?”

  She sighs. “She’s all yours.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know, Oliver...you were lucky. Sophie just got back from cruising around New York all by herself, you could’ve missed her, or worse...she could’ve gone missing. So, again, she’s all yours.”

  She is unbelievable.

  Jess draws the curtain on her act and covertly slinks toward her room, leaving me to deal with the can of worms she’s opened. Oliver waits to hear her bedroom door shut before turning a determined glare on me.

  Oliver has no hold over me, nor has he given me reason to think I have to explain myself to him. Still, I’m not sure what to expect if I tell him the truth.

  “What does it matter if I went out on my own?” I ask. “This is a friendly neighborhood, and the stores are within walking distance. Reed was with me the entire morning. I just lost him for about an hour. What’s the big deal?”

  He is looking at me steadily and I can feel his disapproval like a physical thing in the kitchen.

  “Sophie...,” He lets out a heavy breath. “Do you know the crime rate in New York?”

  He surrounds me with his bewitching presence, a presence so overbearing it has me under its wing.

  “Why would I know?”

  “You should know. It is way above the national average, which means the likelihood of you becoming a victim of armed robbery, aggravated assault, rape, or murder is high. Add on the threats and one failed kidnapping attempt and we have a highly dangerous situation. Your logic escapes me, Sophie. Why do you insist on putting yourself at risk? How am I supposed to keep you safe when you won’t even do that yourself?”

  My interior thermometer is registering abnormal heat.

  “Supposed to keep me safe?” I can hear the clock ticking like it’s the million-dollar question on a quiz show. My thermometer is either calibrated wrong or now I’m boiling. “Come on! I don’t need you or anybody else to take care of me. I told you this before, Oliver. What is it with everyone today? Why does everyone feel like they have to take care of poor, helpless, Sophie? Do I have a sign on my forehead that reads ‘I need babysitting’?”

  “Sophie.”

  “No! I don’t! The answer is no! You and Jess and everyone else seriously need to back off. I don’t need constant protection.”

  “I don’t know about everyone, but I know I’ve discussed the issue with you previously.”

  Now the quarrel I had with Jessica ten minutes ago catches up to this latest outburst of temper and other impertinent thoughts are now all jammed together, screaming inside my head. I try dragging down the notion of Zen to a level where I can still act levelheaded, but eventually I explode.

  “Yes, I understand. I’m the girl who works for a company that employs you.” I cross my arms. “Just answer me one thing. Do you take care of Madison like this?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Madison?”

  Would you prefer I call her Twiggy? “Yes, Madison Wolfe,” I reply, finding strength within me to respond fiercely. “She happens to work for E Models too. I remember her very well from the runway show and from the agency party at the lounge.”

  “I know many girls at E. That doesn’t change anything, nor does it have anything to do with you. Madison is a friend whom I’ve known for a very long time.”

  Yes, a friend with seniority benefits.

  “I’m sure that’s how she sees you. A friend.” I pause long enough to catch my breath and start up my new tirade. “Oliver, what is it exactly you want with me?” My voice is cold and distant. “Because I keep bouncing all over the place, between you kissing me and things being just business. So what’s the deal?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. “Well?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “Right about what?” My voice goes up. At this point, my mind is bursting to release whatever it holds in its dark corridors.

  “The business side of things. The way I’m treating you. I don’t mean to make you unhappy.”


  “You don’t get it. It’s not that. I just...I want to know what’s going on. I haven’t had anyone else walk in here like a guard dog. I dislike not having the freedom to live my own life.”

  “Is that what you believe you’re doing? Trying to live your life while you’re being threatened by some unknown person to have it ended? Sophie, you’re smart enough to figure this out on your own.”

  “You think too highly of me.”

  “No. You think too little of yourself.” His face is impassive. No angry sigh, no black looks. He leaves my apartment with, “I’ll be out of your way.”

  I pace around the kitchen trying to walk off steam, then snatch a bottle of water out of the fridge and take a swallow. I lean on the counter, drumming my nails on the surface the way I usually do when my comprehension is not at its best. I drop to the floor and wipe up the strawberry mess. I feel tears straining for release, which scares me more than the death threats I’ve been receiving. I never cry.

  Somewhere down the path of my trials and tribulations, I removed myself from anything that would cause me pain. I never let anything get to me, much less to a melodramatic, blubbering degree. But now, teardrops find a crack in the dam I constructed long ago.

  I run back to my room and slam the door behind me. I take a fuzzy pillow in my arms and squeeze it close to me, burying my face in it, weeping and trying to think of some way out of whatever I’m feeling.

  “Sophie?” Jess knocks on my door. She jiggles the doorknob a couple of times. “Are you okay? Open up, or please, just say something.”

  Okay? My face looks like a melted candle and I’m not even sure why.

  ***

  I SURFACE OUT of the ocean of my tears and drag myself to the bathroom, hardly recognizing the unsightly face with sore, red eyes staring back at me from the mirror.