Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “So?” Lorna asked.

  Annabelle looked up from her plate. At least when Lorna had lunch in, she had it in style. None of this eating out of a clear plastic deli box: a tablecloth had been produced and employed, and proper utensils and cloth napkins rounded off the illusion that they weren’t actually pathetic people sitting in an office eating at a desk.

  “So what?” Annabelle forked up another chunk of spinach salad. Even the take-out was designer, she thought, and realized: I’m not really into this labeling stuff.

  “So, Titian! What’s he like?” Lorna pushed her arugula around her plate, and poured them some more sparkling water.

  “His name is Jamie.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. That vow hadn’t held, had it. “And you’re not supposed to be bugging me, remember?”

  “I’m not bugging you, I’m just asking, and I didn’t think a strict ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ proviso had been declared. I’m still your friend, I still want to know things.”

  Annabelle thought about it. “That’s fine. But I’m going to be watching you like a hawk.”

  “So what’s he like?”

  “What do you mean? Oh.” Annabelle squirted some lemon into her glass of sparkling water. “Don’t know.”

  “He came over, made you dinner, by hand, and you didn’t sleep with him?” Lorna rolled her eyes. “Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.”

  “I didn’t even kiss him.” Annabelle grinned. “Almost, but not quite.”

  “How … chaste.”

  They silently went back to their food, Annabelle gazing out of window. The day had gone cloudy, and she could see the weather rolling down from the north. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

  “You didn’t even make out?” Lorna would not be swayed from the topic.

  “I have decided that I’m not going to go around just making out with people, or having one-night stands, or even sleeping with someone I’m dating before the fifth date.” Annabelle grabbed a number out of the air.

  “Fifth date!” Lorna shrieked. “Has Maria Grazia finally brainwashed you?”

  “Maria Grazia’s okay, isn’t she? I mean, she’s doing well with work and everything, I know, but she hasn’t had a relationship for … ” Annabelle did the math, “Jeez, eight years. No flirtations, nothing.”

  “She hasn’t ‘shared’ with me,” said Lorna, pushing aside her half-eaten salad, which Annabelle immediately scraped onto her own plate. “I think when we were setting up you and Rodin — Jamie — she got all longing at one point.”

  “Really,” said Annabelle. “That’s interesting.”

  “Mmmm,” Lorna concurred. “She denied it, but I heard it. Longing. In her voice. From talking about authenticity or some nonsense.”

  “Your cynicism is monolithic,” Annabelle chided, and gazed out the window again. “It’s definitely going to rain. I wish she’d meet somebody nice, someone monogamous, someone who was as talented as she is, someone who — ”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Lorna scolded. “Just because you’re all settled again doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to live vicariously through MG.”

  Annabelle muttered into the last bit of her salad. “I’m not settled. Haven’t even kissed the guy.”

  “Yeah, well, didn’t that monster thing say — ”

  “She’s not a monster! She’s a Pooka!”

  “ — That you were going to hook up with — you know, your — a — a long-termer.” The word ‘husband’ stuck in Lorna’s throat.

  “Something like that.” Annabelle looked at Lorna, as fiercely groomed as ever, and yet, there seemed to be something going on beneath that atrociously expensive blow dry. She reached into her bag and handed Lorna a paper towel.

  “Oh, lovely,” Lorna purred. “Just what I always wanted. Is it extra absorbent?”

  “I am, I realize, ignoring a certain boundary that I set myself about distributing little bits of magic, but I thought you might like this.”

  Lorna unfolded the towel, looked down at the confetti. “I thought they disappeared,” she whispered.

  Annabelle realized she had huge issues around the idea of Lorna crying again. “Um, some of them fell onto my little altar, and they stayed.”

  They sat in silence until Lorna’s quiet voice filled the room. “I was junior prom queen, if you can imagine it.”

  She threw a few pieces of the confetti into the air, dancing silver and gold, and they hung suspended around her head, like a fragmented halo. She laughed and shivered. “Bizarre,” she commented mildly, and gathered them back up again.

  “Junior prom night … the most exciting night of my life. Isn’t that pathetic?” Lorna tried to cover up emotion with a light laugh, and she, in turn, looked out the window. “Everything I have here, everything I’ve accomplished, it won’t match the night I had on my first ball gown, went out with the cutest boy in the eleventh grade, drove around town in a white limousine. A white stretch limo!” She laughed at the memory. “I’d forgotten about it and then the confetti … when they crowned me in front of the whole class, and a blizzard of the stuff floated down around me, and the boy kissed me, and the band played and everyone cheered, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” She secretly wiped away a tear. Annabelle looked down at her hands. You think you know people, she thought, but how can you, really.

  “That’s so sweet,” she said, and Lorna laughed.

  “Sweet,” she said dismissively. “Sweet,” she sighed.

  Lorna’s intercom buzzed, breaking the moment. “Yes,” she snapped, to cover what she thought was an outlandish display.

  Zoe’s voice quavered slightly. “Devon cancelled for two. Can he reschedule for four? You’re free.”

  “No, this is third time this week. Tell him I can’t see him until next Tuesday at 3:35.” She snapped off the intercom and glared at it. “Something’s up with that guy.” At Annabelle’s inquisitive look, Lorna waved her hand, shelving it. “Politics. Who cares.”

  Ah well, that moment passed, thought Annabelle. Lorna had exhibited sentiment, something she normally avoided the way that other people avoided catching infectious diseases. “Maybe you could go shopping with me.”

  Lorna perked up immediately. “For?”

  “Shoes.”

  “What kind?”

  Annabelle paused for effect. “Heels.”

  Lorna gasped and grabbed up her purse. “Off we go!”

  • • •

  On a whim, since she had the whole rest of the day to herself and she refused to feel guilty about it, Annabelle decided to drop in to Maria Grazia’s storefront and show off her new shoes. Walking down Third Avenue toward Fifth Street, she speed dialed the number, humming along with the tune that came pumping out of the Sketcher’s store. Maybe she’d wander around the Strand Bookstore before she kidnapped MG, or run back up and over to the Union Square Market —

  “Hello, this is Maria Grazia.”

  “Hello, this is Annabelle!”

  “Hey, you!” Her voice warmed considerably, and Annabelle was once again grateful that they’d all made up. “What’s up?”

  “I was going to come over and drag you kicking and screaming down to Starbucks.”

  “A coffee break sounds good, but I’m not giving those caffeine monopolizers another dime for their overpriced coffee. Seven dollars for a Frappacino! I refuse to support it — and that’s not even a grande! When I think of all those little ‘mom and pop’ coffee shops run out of business because of this conglomerate — ”

  “See you in a few!” Annabelle hung up, and ducked into the nearest ‘Bucks.

  Maria Grazia was still ranting as she bustled in, and back out again, which Annabelle nipped in the bud by telling her she liked her jacket. As they made their way across to the park, they linked
arms and strolled at a pace that went well against the grain of the surrounding hubbub. Bike messengers swarmed the sidewalks, earning many a well-deserved curse and shaken fist, people hurried in and out of buildings and delis, and even the casual shoppers were negotiating the crowds like fullbacks.

  “Isn’t self-employment great?” said Annabelle as they sat on a bench with their iced coffees, and watched everyone else rush by. Maria Grazia stretched her legs out and stirred up the four sugars she dumped into her cup.

  “Oh, yeah. Even when I’m up until four A.M. doing work that should really be done by three underlings. Oh, for an underling! Just one!”

  “I’m just happy not to be an underling anymore,” Annabelle mused, as she looked up at the darkening sky. “Do you know if it’s supposed to rain tonight? I really don’t want to have to wear a raincoat.”

  “Don’t know,” Maria Grazia said. “What are you going to wear?”

  “Well,” Annabelle sat up and reached for her shopping bag. “The red dress — ”

  “Somebody means business!”

  “And I’ve just been shopping with Lorna, and we got me these.” In her hand sat a beautifully formed black pump with an open toe and a thin, borderline stiletto heel. Maria Grazia growled suggestively, and a guy passing by on rollerblades gave two thumbs up. Annabelle laughed and tucked the shoe back in its box.

  “That’s a departure,” said Maria Grazia.

  Annabelle nodded. “I’m tired of being ashamed of my height. And Jamie’s pretty tall, so I won’t be towering over him or anything.”

  Maria Grazia sat, silent. Annabelle waited for the inevitable plea for details. She heard MG start to sing to herself under her breath, as a way to overcome the perfectly natural urge to ask how things were progressing with The Irish Guy, and Annabelle took pity on her pal. “Look, I know I said what I said, and I meant it, but I don’t mind talking about this if I’m the one talking about it. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Oh, okay,” Maria Grazia said lightly. “’Cos, you know, whatever.”

  “But if you don’t want an update, that’s perfectly fine, too.” Annabelle sat back, annoyed. I know that I set that boundary, she thought, but this is different … isn’t it?

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” shouted Maria Grazia, frightening some birds. “Tell me, tell me, tell me! Nobody’s perfect! Tell me everything!”

  “There’s not that much to tell,” admitted Annabelle, and told her all of it anyway.

  “It’s so cute, like he was going to come and pick you up at your house,” Maria Grazia cooed. Annabelle nudged her sunglasses down her nose, and removed Maria Grazia’s from her face. Shocked, MG grabbed them back, and shoved them back on.

  “Just checking for longing,” Annabelle sat back and crossed her legs.

  “There is no longing, nor is there yearning. Despite what any of our so-called sharp-eyed mutual friends may claim.” Maria Grazia tried to do that haughty thing that worked so well for Lorna, and never worked for her. “I am merely very happy for you and wish you all the best.”

  Annabelle slung an arm around MG’s shoulders, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Whatever you say, my friend.” She paused. “I brought Lorna some of that confetti.”

  “That,” breathed Maria Grazia, “Was astonishing. So did stuff like that happen all the time?”

  “No, it was mostly annoying. It figures, now that the time is almost up, Callie gets all sweet and starts distributing bottles of expensive champagne.”

  “So what did Lorna do?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “Well, the falling confetti reminded her of a happy memory from high school — ”

  Maria Grazia snorted. “Nobody has happy memories from high school!”

  “ — And she kind of cried a little, again.”

  Maria Grazia shivered. “It’s not very nice of me, but I was so freaked out.”

  “Me, too! And when it happened again, I thought, even when you think you know somebody, how can you really, ever? It’s like, how can you even really know yourself? It was so unexpected, but lovely, but ‘not Lorna’. Which isn’t fair, we’re all complicated people — ”

  “I can’t talk about this at the moment. It really, really freaks me the frick out.” Maria Grazia patted Annabelle’s hand. “We must change the subject. So. We like The Irish Guy.”

  Annabelle inclined her head. “We do,” she said, formally. “We like him, we know things about him — not that we can ever know everything about him — but we intend to get to know him better.”

  “Between that dress and those shoes, you aren’t going to have much of a choice.”

  Annabelle shrugged. “I am having all these expectations, and some nerves, and then I throw out the expectations, and get calm, and then it starts all over again.” She threw up her hands. “I’d like to have fun. Meaningful fun. Is that too much to ask?”

  Maria Grazia’s reply was cut off by the ringing of a cell phone. The scramble that ensued revealed Annabelle to be the winner.

  “Hello? Yes, speaking. Oh. Oh. Oh!” Annabelle grabbed Maria Grazia’s forearm and held on tight. “I would be, yes. Oh yeah, we got on really well — oh he did, did he? Uh huh. Uh huh.” Maria Grazia looked perplexed and Annabelle grinned and bounced up and down on the bench. “I see. Yes, my blog’s unique user stats are going up by 20% every week. Well, let’s meet. Next week? I’m out of the office at the moment, I’ll need to check my book. Very good. Thanks for calling — bye!”

  “What what what?” Maria Grazia demanded as Annabelle continued to bounce even though the seat was really hard and it was beginning to hurt.

  “Agent — agent — representation — book — money money MONEY!” She rose up and leaped onto the bench and let out a rousing “Woooo hoooooooooooooooooo!” — and even the most jaded New Yorker had to crack a rumor of a smile at the utter exuberance that one’s first big break can bring.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jamie perched on the windowsill, away from the gathering crowd, and frowned into his beer. He was brooding, and everyone knew it — actor-y types were especially hypersensitive and they had picked up on his ill-tempered vibe immediately. He glared down at the highly polished floor and then scowled up at the ceiling. The party space was about twice the size of his place and twenty times as clean. Gelled lights cast their multi-colors onto parquet floors, and candles in twelve-foot hammered metal stands burned in strategic locations, mostly flanking tables full of hors d’ouevres that would sit there until the techies showed. Kelli kept throwing him quizzical glances, but he ignored her.

  I’m not a coward, he told himself. I simply don’t feel like explaining myself to some avant-garde off-off-off-off Broadway producer who conspired to throw some woman at me. In fact, he went on, to himself, it seemed that everyone, including his Aunt Maeve, who normally stayed out of this aspect of his business, was trying to tell him what to do as well, not to mention random supernatural creatures that were doing their best to stir the pot.

  What I really feckin’ resent, he added, is the fact that I am completely crazy about this bird and I would be pursuing her under normal circumstances. Normal circumstances. And it didn’t help that he’d put two and two together and come up with feckin’ thirteen, by having finally remembered Maeve’s scary fairy story about the destruction of the wedding stone of the Queen of the shaggin’ Ban feckin’ Sí. That was the deal-breaker, the out-and-outer, the last straw. The last thing in the bloody world he intended, he swore, was to be manipulated into a relationship because of some friggin’ piseog.

  He stared down the mouth of his beer bottle, and heaved a sigh. Nature had been taking its course, no worries, but between the meeting with his wayward clairvoyant Aunt, and the penny dropping as regarded Annabelle’s Pooka, he was feeling rebellious and irritated, which ran directly at odds with his desire to see Annabel
le, get to know Annabelle, snog Annabelle —

  Where the hell was Annabelle?

  He looked up and saw that her two friends, the co-conspirators, had arrived. Lorna and Maria Grazia. They scanned the room with the air of professionals, used to casing a party in twenty seconds flat, and saw them make the decision to venture over toward himself.

  He reckoned he could scare them away in under a minute.

  “Hello,” said Lorna, extending her hand rather formally. “We met in the street.”

  “Right,” Jamie grunted, not ill-mannered enough to refuse the hand.

  “Maria Grazia Bevilacqua,” and another hand was extended formally, and duly shaken. “What can I get you?”

  “Bass Ale.” He was overdoing the surly bit, and he got the impression they weren’t buying it. “Thanks.”

  Lorna cut her eyes at Jamie, and then looked away. “Look at them. Actors. They’re all the same.” She shook her head. “I’m in — ”

  “Public relations.”

  “Yes. And you’re a restorer-slash-painter. Entertainment would be a great business if wasn’t for the so-called talent. But enough bitterness,” Lorna smiled like the cat who’d got the cream. “Have you heard Annabelle’s news?” Jamie shook his head no, and shrugged. She took her glass of wine from Maria Grazia, who had returned, and Jamie took the proffered bottle. “Jamie hasn’t heard Annabelle’s news. But let’s have the first of many toasts, regardless.”

  “Cheers.” They clinked, and Jamie took a long, cold pull, and the conversation didn’t flag as so much as up and die.

  “Cast parties,” MG moaned, trying to draw him out. “They’re all the same.”

  “You’re an actor, yourself?” I’m not an awkward lout, Jamie thought to himself. Just an annoyed, confused, exasperated, mutinous lout.

  “Oh, God, no. I’m a fashion designer. We met at the meeting, that extravagant dinner thing. I was supposed to be dressing the actors, but why in the world they needed me to hand out black leotards to a buncha mimes is beyond me.”