by Tara Moss
He drove uptown, across Central Park and into the tunnel, and the city grew darker as we approached Spektor. Despite the occasional streetlight, the air seemed thicker, denser, and the taxi driver slowed down and leaned forward to examine the quiet buildings out his front windscreen. He didn’t say anything, but I imagined he was wondering what I was doing living in such a neighbourhood. I had to admit it looked a bit spooky on this particular night. I was quite surprised to see Harold’s Grocer was closed when we passed it. The lights were off in the shop, and it even had an abandoned air about it. I thought Harold had said he was always open? I had planned to drop in and pick up that cheese he’d said he would get in for me. I loved my cheese and crackers. Comfort food. I hoped nothing bad had happened that would force Harold to close. He’d seemed a nice, albeit green, fellow.
We pulled up at Celia’s building, which had a small yellow carriage light glowing out the front, and the cabbie kindly waited for me to open the spiky iron gate and the heavy wooden door with my keys before he drove away. Then he drove fast.
If there was a trick to opening the heavy door of Celia’s old gothic Victorian building, evidently I was learning it. After anticipating that it would be troublesome, I said a little encouragement to myself, pushed with all my might, and nearly fell into the lobby when it opened with ease. The door closed behind me with a puff of dust. Well that hadn’t been so hard. I grinned triumphantly as I crossed the tiles of the entryway, anticipating the pleasure of sharing my good news about Pandora magazine with Celia. She would be well pleased that her advice had paid off so spectacularly. I barely registered the cobwebs and dust, the broken pieces of ironwork, the flicker of the once-majestic chandelier overhead. I was halfway to the caged lift when I stopped dead in my tracks.
There was a sound coming from beneath the floor.
My ears pricked and I fixed my eyes on the tiles below my feet, holding my breath, and gripping my briefcase with white knuckles. All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
What. Was. That?
Movement below. A tremor? Creaking? Shuffling? Chanting? What had I heard? It seemed indescribable in any language I knew, and while I couldn’t identify it, the sound had set my nerves on edge. I thought the building was empty save for Celia, Freyja and myself? Were we on a fault line? I felt a cold sensation in the pit of my stomach.
K-k-k-r-a-a-c-k. S-s-s-h-h-h-k.
I continued to stare at the tiles, eyes wide, but the floor did not crack open and pull me into a fiery pit or dark abyss. Nothing happened at all. The building grew silent once more and I was left frozen in the lobby. Perhaps that had been the building ‘settling’? Or there was someone in the basement? My imagination was getting the better of me. Surely it hadn’t been so dastardly a sound. It was hardly surprising that an old building should creak. You’re nervous about your move to the big city, I told myself, and continued to the elevator.
When I arrived at Celia’s penthouse apartment I remembered to knock. I was relieved to be ‘home’ again. I’d shaken off the weird feeling I’d had about a supposed sound coming from beneath the lobby floor (imagined), the supermodel at Pandora magazine (just a not-so-nice supermodel; what did it matter?) and the weird parcel from the courier as well (my active imagination – again), and now all I could think about was how amazing it was that my great-aunt had known I should apply for a job at the magazine that shared my very name. On only my second day in New York I already had a job in the media. This more than made up for my rejection at Mia.
After knocking I waited a few beats, and then opened the door.
‘Hi, Celia, I’m home,’ I sang.
I stepped inside the penthouse smiling and saw that Celia was at her usual spot, under the halo of her reading lamp in the little alcove to one side of the lounge room. The curtains were drawn shut. This time she wore her veil as she read. Her shoes were off and her feet were up, ankles crossed elegantly. Freyja was curled next to her toes. She raised her head to acknowledge me with her pink opal eyes, and then went back to resting.
I couldn’t wait even to ask her how her day was. ‘Great-Aunt Celia, how did you know?’ I queried. I took off my winter shawl, put my briefcase and umbrella down in the entryway and walked towards her, then remembered to take my shoes off. ‘They hired me on the spot! I couldn’t believe it!’
Celia placed a big feather bookmark in the novel she was reading, and rested it on the arm of the leather chair. ‘Things went well today, then?’ she replied, and turned to grin at me through her veil.
‘Did it ever!’ I slid her Chanel jacket off, and folded it carefully over my arm. She remained seated, elegantly reclining in her chair. ‘You are just amazing,’ I marvelled. ‘How did you know they needed someone so urgently?’
Great-Aunt Celia just smiled enigmatically.
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I repeated. If she hadn’t suggested the magazine, who knew how long it might have taken me to find a job? How many days of rejection would I have endured? How quickly would I have run through my measly savings in this town? The taxi home had cost more than two dinners out in Gretchenville.
‘You’re welcome, darling Pandora. Call it serendipity,’ Celia told me.
‘You were so right. I just can’t believe my luck,’ I said.
Not that my new job would be all easy, of course. Skye DeVille did seem a little difficult.
‘I think their print deadline for the next issue is in a few days, so everyone’s a bit stressed. Perhaps it’s like that every month? I don’t know. And I saw the cover model for the next issue,’ I said, thinking of Athanasia. ‘The model was . . . very interesting-looking.’
‘Is that so?’ Celia lifted her stockinged feet off the leather hassock, and sat forward.
I could see she wanted to know more, but what was I going to say? That a really hot fashion model gave me a dirty look?
‘Um, Great-Aunt Celia, is there anyone else living here?’ I asked to change the subject.
She cocked her head. ‘No, Pandora, there is no one else living in this building,’ she said. ‘Just the three of us.’ She nodded to Freyja, who looked lazily in my direction and rested her chin on her white paws.
‘No one living in the basement or anything like that?’ I had to double check.
I thought I detected a brief smile beneath the veil. ‘Not a living soul, no. Why do you ask, Pandora?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ I replied quickly to cover my anxiety. ‘I was just curious. Anyway, I can’t believe the magazine hired me on the spot. Thanks for your advice.’
‘I am happy for you, Pandora,’ Celia said. ‘And I think you’ll be surprised at what you can achieve when you put your mind to it.’
The next morning I went back to Pandora’s offices. It felt exciting to return, even knowing it wasn’t my ideal job. Yet. In my mind I was already plotting ways to showcase my writing ability and ditch my position as Skye’s minion and personal barista.
To my surprise, the receptionist Morticia presented me with a slimline computer monitor and a wireless keyboard. She placed it on my desk with a clumsy thunk.
‘Samantha used this for a while,’ I was told. ‘Before we got her the laptop.’
‘Oh, good. A computer.’
‘I kinda borrowed it when Samantha got the laptop,’ Morticia admitted guiltily. ‘Which she hasn’t returned yet. Anyway, this should do. I’ve set up your email account, and here’s the WiFi password.’ She had written it down for me on a purple Post-it note with an illustrated spider web decorating one corner. It made me think of the cobwebs in Celia’s building.
‘You know how to use it?’ she asked me.
I was pretty good with computers, and I tended to be a quick study with new things. I’d had use of a computer in Aunt Georgia’s study, though her bulky old second-hand monitor was the size of one of those old cathode-ray tube television sets. Her Internet was still dial up. I could read a book while I waited for websites to load, and often did. But dial up had been better t
han nothing, and the Internet had been my portal to bigger places; an escape from that little town. I had surfed the news sites, the fashion blogs and websites for my favourite authors and movies. This computer, on the other hand, was sleek and new. I was already excited about the possibility of looking up a few things online – vintage clothing trends for the article I planned to write, info on the supermodel Athanasia, and that miracle beauty cream she was the face of, among other things.
‘I’ll let you know if I have any questions,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Morticia. This is great. I appreciate you parting with it.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Morticia winked. ‘Pleasure.’
‘How were things last night?’ I had to ask. ‘With Athanasia?’
At this, Morticia took a deep breath. ‘Oh, isn’t she beautiful?’ she gushed, more to the heavens than to me. ‘Well, she sat in Skye’s office for an eternity and picked out the shortlist of photos, I guess. Apparently all that’s needed now is some text about the product launch and we are good to go with the feature. I knew she would come through on time.’
I smiled at her. ‘Did you get to meet her?’ I knew that had been her goal in hanging around.
Her crooked smiled dropped. ‘No. Some creepy guy came to collect her and she left about an hour after you did.’
Maybe that was for the best. She didn’t seem to me like a very nice person, and Morticia would doubtless have been disappointed if she’d actually met her idol.
The door chimed and Morticia jumped to attention.
It was Skye – boss, magazine editor and office dominatrix. It was nine-thirty on the dot as she sashayed through the empty reception and into the office, radiating confidence and, well, just radiating. She swanned past us, seeming unperturbed that Morticia was not at her post. This morning she was dressed in some expensive-looking silk beaded top and immaculate designer jeans and heels, a woolly winter coat thrown over her arm, and when I caught a glimpse of her face I thought she looked different from the day before. Her hair was the same; short and slicked back from her face. Her makeup didn’t look especially different, but she looked sort of ‘glowy’ and fresh, like she had managed a peaceful twelve-hour sleep, though that seemed unlikely considering the publishing deadline.
Morticia watched Skye pass warily, and when the editor’s door closed behind her, we both exhaled. The receptionist gave me a nervous little crooked smile, and walked away with her Doc Martens squeaking on the polished concrete floors.
Left to my own devices, I gratefully turned my attention to my new computer.
I fumbled around a bit and found a power switch at the back of the computer, in a dome-shaped spot like a mosquito bite. Once it had powered up, I quickly familiarised myself with the set-up, logged on to the email program and sent my first message from my new account:
Dear Aunt Georgia,
Having a great time here in New York. The city is amazing. Celia is a generous host, and very interesting. I already have a job at a magazine called Pandora. What a coincidence, hey??? I hope all is well with you and the kids at school are being good.
Love, Pandora
PS All the buildings here are enormous.
PPS I’ll send you my number when I get a cell phone.
I clicked Send and found myself wishing I had some friends in Gretchenville to impress with an email from my new job in New York. But I didn’t. I had always been considered a strange girl in a small town where strange was noticed every single day. I had had a bit of interest from boys, naturally, but had only had one real boyfriend, short-lived though that relationship had been. The gene pool was lacking, and I refused to be desperate about it. I had grown quite accustomed to being alone. Perhaps things would be better for me here in New York, where my differences seemed so much less pronounced.
The morning passed in a monotonous cycle of filing and beverage preparation. Skye was in a good mood, but nonetheless demanding. At noon, most of the office left for lunch, including Skye, and I stayed behind to take advantage of my new Internet capabilities to search out info for my article.
Vintage clothes.
Recycling.
Pre-loved fashion.
I took a few notes and thought again of Celia’s insight into the difference between fashion and style. And then I thought of her unusual home, and something else she had said when I first arrived. Something about the building at Addams Avenue. I struggled for a moment to recall the name Celia had mentioned in the elevator. Edward, was it? No, it was Edmund Barrett, and as soon as I recalled the name correctly I got a number of relevant Google hits for the Victorian-era architect and scientist. It seemed that the man who designed Celia’s unusual building in 1888 was not just any run-of-the-mill scientist dabbling in Gothic Revival architecture (as you do), but a founding member of something called the Global Society for Psychical Research. I didn’t know what such a society would do, exactly, but it seemed important to his biographical information, as it was frequently mentioned.
Psychical research?
I cut and pasted the name of the society and was about to click on Search when I heard footsteps behind me. It was nearly one o’clock; time to get back to work and get Skye’s post-lunch chai ready. I guiltily closed the search window on my screen and the email window quickly popped up. I turned and actually sighed with relief when I saw that it was Morticia. I should have recognised her squeaking Doc Martens.
‘I can’t believe Skye has fallen ill just like that! And only days before deadline. She must be steaming mad!’
‘What?’ I said with surprise. Skye had looked so well and relaxed only that morning. ‘That’s sudden. Is she okay? Is it a stomach bug or something?’
‘I dunno. She just phoned to say she isn’t coming back in this afternoon.’ And at this next bit, Morticia lit up. ‘And so . . . it looks like she can’t attend the launch of the BloodofYouth beauty cream tonight. I wonder if they will let me go? It should be a real exciting night!’
I didn’t think magazines normally sent receptionists to product launches, but then, what did I know?
Despite her enthusiasm, my mind was on one track. ‘This is a probably a weird question, Morticia, but have you heard of something called “psychical research”?’
The receptionist frowned. ‘Like research on crazy people?’ Morticia cocked a pencilled eyebrow and thought about that. ‘I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Did you see that movie? They zapped them with electricity or something, because they were mental patients.’
‘The Jack Nicholson film? Yeah, I’ve seen it,’ I replied impatiently. ‘I don’t know what the term “psychical” means,’ I repeated, this time to myself. But it doesn’t mean crazy. ‘Never mind. So, tell me about this launch tonight . . .’ I wasn’t really interested, but I thought I ought to at least be polite. Morticia was probably my only friend in New York, apart from Celia. She was certainly my only friend in the office.
‘Uh-oh, here comes Pepper,’ Morticia hissed, in a slightly strained voice.
I turned around and found myself face to face with Pepper Smith, the deputy editor. I took her title to mean that she was second-in-command. Such was the level of stress in the office and the lowliness of my status within it, I had not been formally introduced to Pepper the day before. In fact, I had not been introduced to anyone but Skye and Morticia. Pepper, the deputy editor of Pandora, was ice blonde and wiry, like a long-distance athlete. She wore a cool T-shirt and jeans under a thigh-length suede coat. I guessed her to be in her twenties.
Pepper surveyed my apparel – another ‘vintage’ ensemble I’d borrowed from Celia, including a knee-length wool skirt and short jacket with a scoop neck and large round buttons.
‘Vintage,’ she stated more than asked.
I nodded.
‘You’ll have to tell me where you shop,’ she said.
I smiled. Not a chance.
‘You can write?’ she asked me.
I nodded vigorously. ‘I am a writer. Yes.’
‘Well, Pandor
a, we are on deadline, as you know, and our editor has just fallen ill. She can’t get to this launch tonight. I need you to go.’
I heard an intake of breath from Morticia.
‘Which launch? The launch?’ I was too surprised to answer with anything more intelligent.
‘The BloodofYouth launch,’ Pepper confirmed. ‘We’re covering it for this issue. All I need you to do is take a few notes. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘I can help,’ Morticia chimed in before I could reply.
‘There are only two invites and I didn’t ask you,’ Pepper informed her brusquely, and the receptionist seemed to actually deflate. Crestfallen, she drifted back to her reception desk, her shoulders slumped. I wondered if she would be angry at me for going to the launch she wanted so desperately to attend. If I could have, I would have invited her in a heartbeat.
‘I can absolutely cover the launch,’ I told the deputy editor in my most professional tone. ‘What sort of piece do you want me to write?’
Pepper curled one side of her mouth in a smirk. ‘No, Pandora. I’ll be writing the piece. You just take some notes and get them to me tomorrow. Social stuff. Who was there, celebrities, any highlights. I’ll be coming but I won’t be able to stay long. I’ve got my hands full here.’
Now it was my turn to deflate a little.
‘And make sure you get as many samples as you can,’ she told me emphatically. ‘They’ll have gift bags or something.’
So Skye was hogging all the samples. ‘I can do that,’ I told Pepper confidently. ‘Will we leave from here or . . .?’
Pepper looked at me as if I’d burped. ‘I’m not going with you. Just get yourself there, take notes and give them to me tomorrow.’ She placed the invitation for the BloodofYouth launch on my desk and started to walk away. ‘Is Pandora your real name?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘Sure is,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Quite serendipitous . . .’