She made another attempt. “I’m guessing you didn’t call in sick to enjoy the weather.”
“You could say . . . I’ve been given time off for good behavior.” He folded his hands behind his back.
So aside from being a serial killer, he could be fresh out of prison. Lovely. She slowed her pace, threw him a shifty look. “Time off for good behavior,” she repeated.
“Okay, you’re looking at me like I’m an escaped convict or something. The prison thing was a metaphor.”
She said nothing.
“For the record, I’ve never been arrested. Never even got a speeding ticket.”
“I bet Ted Bundy never got one, either.” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words tumbled out.
Theo laughed so hard, he had to stop walking to brace himself against a glass storefront.
Was he laughing at her appreciatively or mockingly?
“Actually,” he said as he straightened up, “Ted Bundy ended up getting arrested because he was stopped for a traffic violation.”
“That’s funny?” Astrid held the shopping bag with both hands, twisted the handles as if wringing water from them.
“No, but your paranoia is.” His face grew serious. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. You have every right to be cautious. You’ve known me for ten seconds. And the bad guys are rarely gonna come out and tell you they’re bad guys. But I’m not dangerous.”
People can be dangerous in different ways, she wanted to reply. Instead, she said, “Okay.”
“How about this. I say or do anything that makes you even a little uncomfortable, you tell me right away.” He held out his hand to shake on it. “Deal?”
The concerned sincerity in his eyes, his physical proximity, the urge she had to touch his jacket again, the warm promise of his skin—all of it made her uncomfortable. But she shook on it anyway. His palm against hers sent another blistering current through her.
“Your face is bright red right now,” he said.
“I feel silly.”
“For thinking I might murder you?”
“No, for not remembering how Ted Bundy got arrested. I just read that Ann Rule book about him a few weeks ago.” Why was he staring at her like that? Was that an odd thing to mention? Too late now. “I don’t read too much stuff like that . . . but I enjoyed it.”
“The Stranger Beside Me is a true crime classic. I don’t read too much stuff like that either . . .” He smirked. “But if you liked that one, you should definitely read Graysmith’s book on the Zodiac Killer.”
Her face lit up. “Are you kidding? That’s one of my favorites.”
“I bet you’ve never seen the cheesy 1971 movie about the Zodiac.”
“Not only have I seen it, I had the poster hanging in my room when I was in high school.”
“Somebody really needs to make a better movie about him.”
“Seriously.”
They exchanged glimmering smiles over their shared interest in the macabre and resumed their walk, spending the next few blocks discussing theories over the Zodiac’s real identity.
“ . . . though I still think the evidence against Allan is circumstantial and . . .” Astrid went quiet as they approached a towering angel on the corner.
Or rather, a street performer dressed as an angel. She stood on a crate, covered by the hem of her silver toga, which gave her an imposing nine-foot height. A makeshift celestial beacon, a painted metallic face to match the dress and wings, dark hair pinned back with a garland of white feathers, a small basket in her hands. She watched an indeterminate point in the distance and blinked infrequently, convincing in the role of living statue.
The angel’s stillness was contagious. Astrid froze in place, entranced.
Theo threw a quarter into the tin box at her feet and the woman began to move in slow, jerking motions, like a puppet whose strings were being tugged. She plucked something out of her basket and handed it to him with a sad smile: a white feather. When the sequence was complete, she resumed her motionless stance.
A few steps later, out of the performer’s earshot, Theo asked, “Did we just witness art?”
Astrid giggled, though she’d been strangely moved by the scene.
“Maybe I’ll put that in one of my scripts . . .” he mused.
“Oh boy, he’s a writer.”
“Oh, no, worse. He’s an aspiring filmmaker. C’mon. You’d like me more if I was a corporate drone?”
“Who said I liked you at all?” She meant it tongue-in-cheek, but his hurt and confused face said she missed the mark. “Wait . . .” They paused in the street and Astrid held up her hand, tried to wave away her earlier words. “I do this sometimes, like, I try to do that thing where you playfully pick on the guy, and it’s supposed to be flirting, only when I do it, it comes out all wrong.” She winced, certain that the more she talked the less it helped.
Theo kept watching her, his face blank. He didn’t reply, so she kept talking.
“Anyway, I wasn’t trying to be bitchy, even though Sally says that would make me more appealing to guys, but what does she know, she’s about to marry a man with a secret identity . . . I really want to stop talking now, so please say something before this becomes more embarrassing, even though right now that doesn’t seem possible.”
Theo held out the feather to her.
She took it between her thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not flowers, but flowers are overrated,” he said. “Feathers don’t wilt.”
She put the feather in her pocket and looked up through a pained smile. “Sorry for that crazy rambling.”
“Eh, it was only about fifty percent crazy . . . but kinda cute, too.”
“Well then . . . don’t you have a bridge to sell me, or walk me across, or something?”
They continued into the heart of Central Square, past a shoe store whose main clientele was drag queens and cross-dressers, a fetish shop aptly named Hubba Hubba, an Irish pub, and The Middle East, whose downstairs was known for eclectic live shows and upstairs for tasty hummus.
“For the record, I am a corporate drone, by day,” Theo confessed. “At a graphic and digital solutions agency. Trust me, that’s all you want to know about it.”
“Then tell me more about this script.”
“Oh, so you like boring stories, too?”
“Sometimes.”
“Uh, you were supposed to say, ‘I’m sure it’s not boring, I’m sure you have the makings of a cinematic masterpiece.’”
“Yeah, well, don’t hate me for not taking your self-deprecating bait.”
“Fair enough.” He licked his lower lip and nodded. “Did you see The Matrix?”
“Of course.”
“The whole premise of the world being one big computer program was brilliant. I also found that decision, where you choose the blue pill or the red pill—face reality or oblivion—fascinating. So I thought about other scenarios where you’d face a decision like that.”
“Like . . .?”
“Death. What if you had the chance to know the exact date of your death? Would you find out? Or would you take the ‘blue pill’ and live out your life not knowing when it would end?”
“Hm . . .” Astrid’s arm grazed Theo’s as she veered to avoid a woman pushing a stroller; she rushed to continue before he could make a crack about it. “That’s a good question. So what’s the actual story?”
“It’s the not-too-distant future, and we have technology to predict the exact date of your death. Society is split into two groups: the Death-Aware and the Death-Ignorant. Among the Death-Aware are two factions: the Early Diers, who have nothing to live for and go about wreaking havoc, and the Late Diers, who do everything possible to protect themselves and their livelihood. Then you have a rebel group who want to shut down the corporation that developed the lifespan predictive technology. They believe it’s ruining society and want the next generation to live without that knowledge hanging over their heads.”
“Th
at sounds . . . really intriguing. I’d pay six bucks to see that.”
“But would you choose to be part of the Death-Aware or Death-Ignorant?”
She tilted her head one way, then another. “I know you shouldn’t willfully choose ignorance, that you’re supposed to live every day like it was your last, blah blah blah . . . But I don’t think I could handle having that kind of clock over my head.”
“Right, because what if your clock was going to run out tomorrow?”
“Then I think I’m having a pretty good last day. So far.” She winced at her earnestness.
Theo stopped walking and grasped her arm, nearly causing her to tumble.
“What is it?” Her neck grew warm, from her clumsiness, from his touch, and she hoped the flush didn’t make a visible ascent to her face.
“You know how there are days you expect to be great?” he asked. “Maybe because of a vacation or holiday or something, but they usually turn out kinda disappointing?”
“Sure.”
“And then you have these other days that do end up being great, but begin ordinarily and become unexpectedly awesome?”
“Yeah. Though I can’t remember the last time I had one of those days.” She kept her voice light, prayed no pathetic undertones crept through.
“Me neither, but guess what? Today is going to be one of those days.”
“Are you saying you’re unexpectedly awesome?”
“Maybe I’m saying you are.”
A breeze blew her hair back and she closed her eyes. She could’ve been on a rollercoaster the way her insides flip-flopped, the way the ground beneath her vanished.
“I don’t know, though. It’s still too soon to tell.” He nudged her with his hip.
They walked on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
..................
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1999
I OPEN MY EYES. WHERE am I? A quick rewind of yesterday: taxi, bus, T, fire, Lab, payphone, hotel. Jesus. Here’s hoping today is less eventful.
What time is it? 9:07 a.m. Shit. I forgot to set a wake-up call, so I’m already late for work. Throwing on the first dry clothes I pull out of my bag, I dress quickly, and book it to the Central Square T stop.
A train comes right away, but less than a minute later, it jolts to a halt. A fire on the tracks causes further delay (more fire, causing more trouble). The Central Square taxi stand is right above my head, but the train doors don’t open for ages, so a trip that should take me ten minutes takes forty-five. By the time I reach the office in Harvard Square, I’m over an hour late.
It’s not until I rush into the building lobby that I realize I’m in jeans, sneakers, and a faded Bowie T-shirt—way too casual, even for a business casual dress code. I also forgot to put on deodorant or brush my hair or teeth. Awesome. In the elevator, I twist my hair into a quick bun and smooth the top of my head. A quick peek in a lobby mirror and—nope, still an unkempt mess.
The Spellman Rosenberg Literary Agency was set up ten years ago by Jonathan Spellman, a shark of an agent who left William Morris and the Upper East Side to start his own company after falling in love with a Boston-based caterer who refused to relocate. After a chance meeting with uber-agent Nellie Rosenberg while she was visiting her daughter at Harvard, it wasn’t long before he convinced her to leave New York, too. Her list of award-winning authors gave the agency literary prestige and balanced Jonathan’s commercially successful mystery and political thriller list. Both racked up six-figure book deals for their clients and on any given week, the New York Times best sellers list contains at least one book represented by Spellman or Rosenberg. They continued to expand and today, it’s the eighth richest agency in the Northeast, with six agents, two junior agents, five assistants, a handful of interns, a revolving door of receptionists, and me.
I wave to the receptionist du jour and head to my office, which is filled with Staples boxes piled high on my desk and most of the floor space surrounding it.
Chloe, a junior agent and proud trust fund kid who favors tanning products and open-toed spike heels year-round walks by as I boot up my computer.
“Oh cool, you’re back. The copier’s been broken since last Wednesday. Jonathan’s been having fits because of how expensive it is to have manuscripts copied at Kinko’s.” She fiddles with the zipper on a satin sheath that probably cost more than I make in a week.
“Nobody thought to call the repairman?”
She lifts a brown bony shoulder in a half-shrug. “You weren’t here. We didn’t have the number.”
“It’s written right above the machine.”
Chloe gives a bored look, as if such matters are of no concern to her.
“I’ll get it fixed right away,” I promise.
“Thanks. We’re also out of coffee.” She walks off.
I make an appointment with the copier repairman and drag the Staples boxes into the mailroom, where I replenish the office supplies.
“Hey, Astrid.” It’s Peterson, Jonathan’s sycophantic assistant. “We’re out of number seven Jiffies.”
I turn around, arms full of accordion folders. “They’re in one of those boxes. Probably the one with the bright green sevens on it.” I nod in their direction.
Peterson wrinkles his nose. “I’ll wait until you’re done in here. Also, the copier’s broken.”
“Since Wednesday, so I heard. The repairman’s coming in an hour.” His mouth opens to interrupt but I don’t let him. “And I already ordered more coffee.”
“Great. Could you get extra hazelnut next time? We always run out of that one first.” He cracks his knuckles and leaves the mailroom.
“You’re back!” A pair of skinny arms envelops me in a hug, which only hurts a little. It’s Jasleen, half-Pakistani, half-Turkish, all-adorable, and my favorite person in the office. While she’s been allowed to start developing her own list of writers, she’s too good at being Nellie’s assistant so her promotion keeps being put off. Jasleen always makes time for a friendly word no matter how busy, and practices thoughtful gestures, like giving interns birthday cards (whereas the rest of the staff barely remembers their names). She also has encyclopedic knowledge of the local music scene and writes occasional reviews for the smaller papers. Jasleen knows the schedule for local clubs like TT’s and the Middle East as well as she knows Nellie’s clients.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Not bad, considering I was hit by a car a week-and-a-half ago. Of course, that’s a minor nuisance compared to the catastrophe of the broken Xerox machine and lack of coffee.”
“Oh my god, are you ok? Nobody around here said anything.” Jasleen’s eyes get anime-character big. She clutches a piece of pink paper to her chest.
“Really? I left a message . . .” Am I that insignificant to the agency that the information wouldn’t get passed on? “Anyway, I’m a lot better now. I appreciate the concern and would be glad to honor any office supply request you may have.” I hold my hand out for the paper.
“Actually, this is for an upcoming show at TT’s.”
“The Blind Vultures.” I read aloud from the flier.
“They’re a really good post-grunge garage band, and I’m not just saying that because my boyfriend is their bassist.”
The telephone intercom at my desk buzzes. “Astrid, are you there?”
It’s Jonathan.
“Come see me in my office,” he says.
Jasleen and I exchange a dark look.
“He probably just wants to welcome you back,” she says.
Yeah, I’m not so sure. I doubt the big cheese is going to present me with flowers and balloons.
“Any idea what the weather in his office is like today?” I ask.
“A little stormy. I heard he lost an eBay auction on this musket . . .”
“Oh, boy.”
I go down the hall to his corner office, nicknamed “The Museum” for its Civil War memorabilia. Dozens of framed coins, stamps, and medals line the walls, though it�
��s only a fraction of his collection, the rest of which, rumor has it, takes up two rooms in his Newton mansion.
“Please close the door.” Jonathan beckons me toward a ridiculous chrome and wicker chair. It’s as uncomfortable to sit on as it looks.
“You look well.” He nods up and down. “Like there’s hardly a scratch on you.”
I contain the flash of anger that seizes me. “Yes, well, I’m still pretty banged up under my clothes and I have a bump on my head the size of—”
“Yes, your clothes . . .”
“ . . . an egg,” I mutter.
“Interesting choice of ensemble.” He fixes a cuff on his immaculate navy suit for emphasis.
“I can explain that. See, I was locked—”
“I had to call the front desk to even find out you were here, and the receptionist told me you were nearly two hours late. I suppose that’s something else you can explain?” He pokes a Mont Blanc pen into the dimple on his chin.
“It wasn’t two hours and I will explain, if you let me finish a sentence . . . please.” I grip the metal bars of my chair, determined to retain some of my good manners.
“See, that’s just the attitude I was telling Nellie about. To be clear, she is behind my decision.”
I look into his eyes, pale and soulless as the rest of him, and ask, “What decision? Am I being fired?”
“You are.”
I want to take the cannon-shaped paperweight on his desk and hurl it through the window behind him (even in my fantasies, I can’t bear to cause bodily harm). Instead, I clench my hands into one large conjoined fist in my lap and ask, “Can you please explain why?”
“You call out in the middle of a Thursday on a family emergency—”
“Wait, what?”
“Please don’t interrupt me. Then, you disappear the entire following week, and it’s no longer a family emergency but a personal medical one. You’d have to agree it all sounds rather dubious. Meanwhile, we’re all drowning in Frankfurt preparations.”
“I don’t know about Thursday, but I really was in the hospital. I can get you a doctor’s note.”
Asleep From Day Page 6