With me out of it, she reads. The thought of it makes her inexplicably sad.
He remarks, “I’m going to see Billy today too . . . to pick up that mural job where I left off.”
She smiles. “You never started.”
“Well, I didn’t have the inspiration before. I do now.”
They exchange meaningful glances. She can only hope that this is the start of him paying his own way without having to be bank-rolled by any sadistic female freak.
“I’m going out now,” she finally says. “I’ll catch you later.”
He looks so beautiful in the natural light of his studio/lounge, even in his overalls covered with smudges of different colored paints. A frog bolts into her throat.
“Later,” he promises, and turns back to his painting while she grabs her jacket, her keys, and goes out of the front door.
INTERVIEW
Crossing a busy street, Abby chances upon a woman who looks exactly like the blonde goddess she has seen with Devon in Orso.
The woman is walking very fast in her heels. She is wrapped up in a Burberry trenchcoat and a white Hermes scarf. Abby can’t be totally sure it is the same woman, but the blonde’s looks are very distinctive. The blonde navigates the streets like a seasoned New Yorker, barely giving the window displays a glance as she purposefully strides towards wherever she is going.
She breezes past Abby. And Abby decides to do the needful. She turns heel and follows the woman down the block.
Abby is certain that this woman is responsible for the whip lashes on Devon’s back. Don’t ask her how she knows, but she has a suspicion from his body language towards the blonde at Orso.
She follows the woman discreetly from a distance of about twenty feet. It is easy. She blends into any crowd like any typical New York college student – blue blazer with hoodie in tow. The woman turns around a corner and walks into a store called ‘Zipangu’.
Abby pauses outside the storefront. The window is filled with jars, vases, urns and vessels of all sorts – all lit in a way to display their attributes to the best effect. There is an African tribal vase that is carved out of mud but which possesses impressive animal motifs, so it has a price tag of $2000. An unusually shaped Chinese Ming Dynasty jar nestles beside a jade snuff box. Both carry the price tag of well above $5000.
But most promising of all is a printed sign by the glass door: SALES ASSISTANT WANTED.
Abby pauses only for a moment before pushing the door open.
Inside, the store is warmly lit. The vessels are mounted everywhere on tripods and shelves. They are massed on tables in alcoves carved in the walls. Abby is very careful not to knock something over, especially when the ‘Nice to see, nice to hold, once broken, consider it sold’ placards are everywhere.
The blonde is behind the cash register counter, speaking to a blond man who resembles her remarkably. He can almost be her twin, but there’s something a little off about him. Whereas she is ice cool and regal, he is restless and shifty. He is handsome, but in an unapproachable in an off-putting way, as if he is a denizen of the lower reaches of Asgaard rather than the crème de la crème, like she is.
They are having a rather heated exchange. Abby hears the words “money” and “running the business to the ground”, but they stop as soon as she enters.
“May I help you?” the blonde says, taking in Abby’s rather drab attire.
She probably figures out Abby will not be able to afford anything in the store. And she would be right in current circumstances.
“I saw your sign outside,” Abby says. “For a sales assistant, I mean. I would like to apply for the job.”
“I see,” the blonde says, relaxing slightly. “In which case, have you brought your resume? We can do the interview in my office.”
The man glances askew at Abby. The expression in his eyes is rather calculating.
“I don’t have my resume today,” Abby says quickly. “I can bring it tomorrow. But I can do the interview today, if you like.”
The blonde thinks about this for a while.
“OK,” she says. “Come into my office, please. I’m Rachel Krieg, and this is my brother, Richard.”
She turns and Abby follows her through the door behind the counter. Richard does not move from his position, but his pale blue eyes trail Abby’s derriere with interest. Abby shivers inwardly. Richard gives her the creeps.
Rachel’s office is filled with more jars and vessels, and so Abby has to navigate herself very carefully to the chair in front of the single desk. She keeps her arms to her body so as not to knock anything over. Wouldn’t do to make a bad first impression.
Rachel seats herself. Even seated, she is extremely tall. Almost as tall as Devon, Abby reckons.
“So tell me about yourself.”
Abby takes a deep breath. “My name is Abby Novak.” Not the truth, but she can easily fudge that in her resume. “I’m twenty years old.”
“College?”
“I never went. My . . . parents couldn’t afford to send me and my grades weren’t good enough.”
“High school?”
“Yes, I finished high school in Atlanta.” Not the truth, but it can be stretched.
“That accounts for your slight Southern accent.”
“Yes.” She does have an accent, but it isn’t as pronounced as it should be. “I have some sales experience. I sold ad space for an Internet company called Groupon.”
That part is true. She did it as a summer job commission, not for the money but for the experience.
“Groupon? That’s interesting.”
Yes, the mention of Groupon always did perk other people’s interests, especially since most of them have had experience in buying something off their website. The basic pay was the pits, but the commissions hefty were if you landed your targets.
“I was junior salesperson of the month,” Abby adds.
That part is certainly embellished.
“Do you know anything about ceramics? In particular, vases?”
Only those her grandmother collected.
“Whatever I don’t know, I can learn. I’m a very quick study. I’m resourceful and I do a lot of research via the Internet.”
“So if I’m a customer walking into the store, how would you approach me?”
Abby thinks for a while. “I would let her browse around first, because there is nothing so annoying as to be approached by a salesperson the moment you enter a store. The customer might opt to leave, deciding that the merchandise is not to her liking or is out of her price range. But if she lingers for a while, I would approach her and say ‘Can I help you, Miss?’”
Rachel nods. “Miss, not Ma’am?”
“I have always found ‘Ma’am’ to denote someone older by default. Although most women say they don’t ascribe to being called ‘Miss’, it does confer a psychological advantage.”
She is going by what her grandmother prefers while shopping. When someone called her ‘Miss’, her grandmother tittered and beamed like the moon.
Rachel seems impressed.
“Go on.”
“Most people go for aesthetics while collecting vases, unless they are really serious collectors. I would ask the customer what she is looking for. Most of the time, she is looking for a decorative piece to fit in the décor of her living room or whatever space she has in mind. She is usually going by the color and contrast it would make against all the other pieces she has.”
Abby pauses, thinking furiously.
“She is less concerned about where the piece comes from most of the time, unless it has a unique history and if it’s from a country that suggests a certain exoticness. If she’s looking for a conversation piece, we will have to give her enough information to deliver to her friends. Kind of something in a sentence or two that she can reel off to sound knowledgeable and important.”
“Very interesting,” Rachel says, nodding. “Those are my sentiments exactly. So tell me, how did you get to know so much about s
elling vases?”
“I had a grandmother who collected them. And you’re not really selling the vase. You’re actually selling bragging possibilities. It’s up to us to make the customer see those possibilities.”
Rachel keeps nodding, a light in her eyes. Their blue color is deeper than her brother’s and she doesn’t look so forbidding.
“You’re hired.”
Abby is stunned. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Rachel smiles. “I wasn’t advertising for a person with a degree in rocket science.”
“Ah.” Abby has always thought getting a real job was a lot tougher than that. Groupon certainly gave her a tougher time than Rachel Krieg.
Rachel outlines the pay package and commissions. There are no medical or dental benefits, but then, Abby doesn’t expect any for a job like this.
“I’d like you to start tomorrow,” Rachel says. “I like you, Abby Novak. I think we will work well together. Between you and me, my little brother needs a firm hand and an eye on him in the store – to make sure he doesn’t doctor the books, if you know what I mean?”
Abby hesitates, and then nods.
“Good. Come tomorrow at nine, and I’ll teach you more about the business.”
“I’ll bring my resume then.”
“No need.” Rachel chuckles. “This isn’t exactly a big, multinational corporation here. I have been hiring college students who want to earn a wage in the summer. The last salesgirl I had left us in the lurch last week when she had to go back to Canada.”
They exchange a little more information, and then Abby stands up, promising to come back tomorrow. As she leaves ‘Zipangu’, she can feel the baleful eyes of Richard Krieg moving over her body like hands.
SIMMER
“You’re looking chipper tonight,” Devon greets her as she waltzes through the door.
“Chipper?” She laughs at the Britishism. “You’d be so proud of me. I just landed a job today.”
“Get out of here!” He throws a rag smudged with different colored paints at her.
She catches it, grinning. He is in his painting overalls, and his hair is mussed up.
“We should celebrate,” he says. “We should go for dinner. You’re paying.”
She agrees. It’s about time she paid him back for his kindness.
“What kind of job is it?” he asks.
This is when she has to decide how much to tell him. She has to assume he is the kept lover of Rachel Krieg and that he knows everything there is to know about her.
“I’m the proud salesgirl in a store that sells home décor.”
“Cool. Who’s your new boss?”
Her temperature rises a notch. “He’s the owner of the store that sells home décor.”
“Ha ha. What’s his name? What’s the name of his store?” Devon puts his paintbrushes away. He is not looking at her.
Abby thinks for a while.
“Dick,” she says.
“Dick.” He pauses in collecting his paint tubes and gazes at her. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are. I should know. That color looks good on you. Is he young?” He suddenly seems super-interested. And is that a touch of jealousy in his voice?
“Yes, he’s young.”
“Is he hot?”
She is becoming chagrined at his line of questioning. “Yeah, some people would say he’s hot. But he’s not interested in me, Devon.”
Something tells her that she shouldn’t be so sure about Richard Krieg.
“Why shouldn’t he be? You don’t give yourself enough credit.” He averts his face so that she wouldn’t see his expression.
She pauses for a bit before saying casually, “The store is called ‘Zipangu’. Do you know it?”
Devon frowns. “No, can’t say I do. Why don’t you show it to me next time we’re out?”
“OK,” she says, relieved. So he doesn’t know what Rachel does for a living. “Shall we go out? It’s my treat, remember?”
“But first, a little present from me to you.”
“You got me something?” She’s amazed.
“It’s an outfit for your next portrait.’
“Really?”
He plucks a Saks Fifth Avenue paper bag from the couch and hands it to her. There is a translucent tissue wrapped package inside. She eagerly takes it out and tears at it.
“Real ladylike,” he observes, laughing.
Inside the folded tissue is a dress the color of a robin’s egg. She holds it up in awe – not because it’s one of those expensive second tier designer brands you get on the rack, but because the dress itself is exquisitely feminine. The material is chiffon, with embroidered lavender flowers and leaves sewn in intervals. The neckline is a plunging ‘V’.
“Wow,” she says.
“Wow is right. Why don’t you wear it when we go out tonight?” His suggestion is mild, but she catches the undercurrent in his voice.
“OK, but only if you dress up too,” she says with sudden cunning.
“Me dress up? I don’t have a tux.” He laughs.
“No. I would like you to dress up like you’re going out with one of your friends.” She says ‘friends’ with a loaded significance.
He flinches. “Sure, I can do that.”
She sighs, wondering why she did that. Why does she want to bait him when things are going so well? Maybe it’s because she cannot contain her ire about his being kept on a leash by women like Rachel Krieg.
But this is the strange thing. She wanted so much to dislike Rachel Krieg when she met her, but she doesn’t. She finds herself admiring the entrepreneur in the woman. Even if Rachel is from old money, she is enterprising enough. It only goes to show how many layers there are to a person.
Of course, Abby is only assuming Rachel Krieg is the aggressor because of Devon’s body language towards her. She could be dead wrong. It could have been the other woman who is the dominatrix.
“I have news of my own,” Devon announces to change the subject.
“Oh?”
“I started painting that mural for Padraig’s today.”
“That’s great.” She is genuinely pleased.
“Thanks to you, I’ve found my muse.”
Smiling, they go into the bedroom to get dressed in their respective outfits. She discreetly goes into the bathroom to put on the dress. When she finishes, the vision in the mirror stuns her. She has almost forgotten what she looks like in a dress.
A knock comes on the bathroom door.
“Ready?” says Devon in a muffled voice from outside.
She is a little anxious when she unlocks the door to let him in. He sees her standing there in front of the bathroom mirror, and he does a double take. His eyes widen and his lips part in a grin.
“Oh wow,” he says, frozen to the spot. He can’t stop staring at her.
She blushes. “I’m not that pretty.”
“Are you kidding me? You should be wearing girly dresses all the time. You look fantastic.” His smile is warm and genuine as he appraises her from head to toe, and up again. “In fact, you look more than fantastic. You’re gorgeous.”
If he heaps any more compliments on her, she thinks she will sink into a hole in the floor. It is almost like dressing up for a prom date with the hottest boy in school.
As promised, he is dressed in a black sleeveless shirt with clasps instead of buttons and black jeans, ripped at the knees. He looks sexy as hell. Her knees go a little weak under the asymmetrical skirt of her glorious dress just to look at him.
“You’ll look even nicer with longer hair,” he says, coming into the bathroom and standing behind her in the mirror. He lifts her short tresses. “Maybe twice as long as this. Don’t cut your hair.”
For you? she wants to tease him. But then, the cloud of his female patrons shadows her enthusiasm.
“We should go.”
“Sure.”
Once they are on the subway, he wants her to t
ake him to see ‘Zipangu’. She is glad that he is so interested in her job and wellbeing. When he sees the front of the store, he pauses for a bit. She searches his face for signs of recognition, but he doesn’t appear to have seen the shop or heard its name before today.
He studies the display vases with more scrutiny than normal, as if something about them rings a bell. But of course, Abby thinks. It would make sense for Rachel Krieg to have such vases in her apartment.
“I want to see your murals,” she announces when the ‘Zipangu’ danger has passed.
“I’ve just started.”
“I want to see them anyway.”
“Later,” he says, laughing. “You were always too impatient.”
“But you’re good. You’re seriously good. People from all over will see those murals at Padraig’s and ask who did them. Then you’ll be getting commissions from all over New York.”
“Woah. One step at a time, pardner.”
She likes the fact that he calls her ‘partner’, even if it’s in jest.
They dine at a cozy French bistro called ‘Yeast’. She orders a canard and he has a poisson. Both come smothered in delicate cream sauces.
“With all this cream, it’s a wonder French women stay so thin,” she says.
“Have you been to France?”
She hesitates. How much to tell him?
“No,” she lies.
“You could use a little meat on your bones yourself.”
“Why?” she mock gasps. “I do declare you have been observing me at close range.”
“Of course I have. I’ve been painting you, remember? I know every curve and angle of your head and body, every freckle on your nose.”
“You don’t know everything,” she challenges. “I haven’t posed nude for you.”
“So you haven’t,” he drawls. “But that’s not the aim of my composition of you in stages.”
“What is your aim?”
“I haven’t fully thought it out yet. I have an outline, but inspiration will suddenly come to me at odd times. Who knows how I might feel in two weeks’ time, or a month?”
She glances at her purse.
“I have a present for you too.”
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