Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  “No.” Nora swatted at Oli’s words hanging in the air. “Of course not. It’s part of The Beaumont Medical Institute. It’s all Beaumont, with some shareholders, obviously.”

  “Right. Obviously,” Oli said, her face flushed. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean . . . Anyway”—Nora grabbed a paper towel and wiped off the ruined book jackets—“so who poisoned Barnes? Thackeray?”

  “That’s why I’m so obsessed with this podcast!” The gleam returned to Oli’s face. “Thackeray got pinned with it, but now—twist! Fingers are pointing directly at the British government, who may have been in cahoots with the silent Alton brother, the estranged baby brother, or was he adopted? Both maybe? That’s a pretty gnarly deal, right: adopted and estranged?”

  Nora’s modest grin fell away, replaced by a clenched jaw and folded lips.

  Oli noticed the minute her mood shifted. She had become acutely aware of Nora’s wild swings, especially in these months leading up to the wedding. “Hey, do you want me to see if Mateo can run this out to the Apple store”—she slid Nora’s phone toward the newly dried section of the desk and picked it up—“maybe get you a new one? He’s due here in, like, fifteen minutes and he’s got returns to do anyway.”

  Nora shook herself out of her temporary fog. “It’s okay. I’ll do it later.” She swallowed hard, her heartbeat quickened in her ears. “Actually, I’ll just run out now.” She snatched the phone from Oli’s hands, gripping it as if it were a safety bar on a ride.

  “Oh, for sure. Now is always better than later.” Oli started fidgeting with her sternum piercing—a nervous habit—as Nora breezed by her on the way to the door. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. It can be fixed.” Oli raised her chin, motioning toward the useless, slim brick pressed into Nora’s palm.

  “Me too,” Nora said, barely above a whisper, and glided through the propped-open white door.

  CHAPTER 6

  The whirling sound from the sleek blender lulled Nora as she stared, unfocused, at its fancy, illuminated base on her kitchen counter. Only when she pressed the Off button did she hear the front door: the end of the bell’s melody first, then a loud series of knocks.

  She didn’t bother checking the video monitor, instead spending those few seconds slicking her hand up through her hair and adjusting the necklace along the deep plunge of her blouse. Nora touched the handle and pressed her eyelids together tight before opening them along with the door.

  “Mateo,” she said, half breathless and smiling. “I had the blender going. I didn’t hear a thing. I apologize.”

  “No problem,” Mateo said. “Doorman sent me right up. Said you were expecting me, so I figured you were somewhere in there. Plus, Oli said you went straight home.” He craned his neck past her shoulder into the dim foyer.

  “Oh, gosh—sorry.” Nora shook her head and dragged the door open wider. “Come in, come in.” She spanned her arm out and in stepped Mateo Ignacio de la Vega. Great-grandson of the late, renowned New York artist Rafael Ignacio “Iggy” de la Vega, Mateo brings his sharp sense of style to Nora’s company as her trusted accessories editor.

  “There we go. I was wondering, because . . .” he said, trailing off and adding a dramatic raise of his brow as he walked in. Though he’s worked for Nora for less than a year, their relationship is somehow new and familiar at once. Part sweet: he is like her witty, little brother and astute apprentice. And part sour: Nora often considered him a rival-in-the-making just resting under her wing, waiting for his felicitous moment to pounce and gobble her up whole. He’d watch her closely, how she worked, the way she’d handle even the most demanding client with unending grace and patience. Early on, he’d always have a list of questions to ask Nora “real, real quick,” but she noticed that he soon put that curiosity on mute, opting instead to make mental notes and quietly find his own answers. Though it didn’t worry Nora—she knew her value here—it did give her pause. She kept an eye on him, kept him close, and made sure she always knew what he knew; a lesson she had learned the hard way at boarding school.

  Growing up under the broad shade cast by the Iggy de la Vega prestige, Mateo moved through the world scrappy, hungry, and ready to prove that he was worth more than a surname. He told Nora as much during their first meeting; a protracted semi-interview that started with coffee late morning and spanned the whole day, ending with drinks that night. Oli joined them near last call to add her stamp of approval, which came easily after she bonded with Mateo over being raised by Caribbean parents (his mother is Puerto Rican) and, by extension, the correct pronunciation of plantain. Nora could only listen in and smile, a forged look of wonder painted on her face.

  “I was about to make a frozen drinky-poo . . . well, after I down this thing,” Nora said, gesturing at the sludge in the blender. “Green gross: It’s what’s for dinner.”

  Mateo shook his head and leaned back on the counter, his nose pointed to the sky. “I don’t know how you do it. For real. Some things are not meant to be liquid.”

  “Got to fit into that wedding dress.” Nora poured the foamy green mud into a waiting cold cup. She tilted it in Mateo’s direction and raised her brows.

  “Hard pass,” he said, and put a palm up between their faces. “Like, super hard.”

  Nora closed her eyes and took a long, deep sip. She slammed the stainless-steel cup on the counter and wiped the mossy residue from her lips with the back of her hand. “If I told you it’s actually not that bad—”

  “Yeah, no. I’d say that’s bullshit.”

  “You’d be right.” She had the beginnings of a natural chuckle rumbling in her lungs, but it quickly dissipated. The sadness settled back onto her face like a shaken snow globe returned to the shelf. Get it together. She looked up to meet Mateo’s eyes, dark and shining at the same time.

  Nora knew that if she were to give him even the slightest signal, Mateo would happily slide up in her sheets. She saw how he looked at her on the sly—she felt it, actually—and, regrettably, it was all too familiar. Although he was straight as an arrow, it was often assumed that Mateo was gay. It was a stale hypothesis tied to his profession that he never bothered to confirm or deny. He saw it as an asset, a unique edge, like being a Trojan horse, and would use this winning card stashed in his back pocket whenever it served him. If it meant models (and lesser women) stripping naked in front of him in fashion closets, fine. Or men openly flirting with him and having to find creative ways to politely turn them down, also fine.

  Mateo shifted in place, breaking through the thick silence, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a white plastic spoon and jammed it in his mouth.

  “Still doing that, huh?”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes locked on her.

  “But you smoke so good,” she said with an amplified whimper. “It looks so cool the way you smoke, Matts. When you hold the stick in between your lips, dangling just off the side—I bet the girls love that. My thing is that first big exhale you do after lighting up, and that huge, dirty-white plume floats everywhere and you’re kind of winking a little like a young Johnny Depp.”

  Mateo opened his mouth wide with exaggerated outrage. “You’re so corrupt! Seriously, I want to quit this time, but I’m not down with the patch. And you already know my general beef with gum. So”—he slipped the spoon out and held it near his lips—“sublimation. That’s what I’m rockin’ with.”

  “Oral fixation without the weight gain. Got it.” Nora moved the cup with her half-drunk glop to the sink to clean it. She skipped the dishwashing gloves and used more soap than was needed. Her engagement ring swung around her finger, covered in thick suds. A flash image of letting it drop and go down the drain jumped to the front of Nora’s mind. She shook her head to clear the thought.

  Off her look, Mateo piped in. “I was doing toothpicks at first, but I landed on spoons and kept it rollin’. It’s kind of unique, you know?”

  “Yeah, for sure. You defin
itely stand out in a crowd with a white plastic spoon falling out the side of your mouth.”

  “Oh, you got jokes?”

  The chuckle found its way back and out into the air. “So, did you want a cocktail? I’m feeling some kind of frozen peach champagne goodness. Or there’s beer . . . by the spoonful.”

  “Har-har. Nah, I’m good. I’ve gotta head way uptown for something.”

  “For something or someone?” she said, bending down and peering into her champagne fridge. When she returned to Mateo and the blender, Nora’s smile had spread clear across her face.

  “That’s good,” he said, matching her grin.

  “What—this year?” Nora danced the bottle around. “Yeah, I opened it last night.”

  “Nah, I mean it’s good that you’re smiling and joking and stuff. You’ve been mad serious lately. I guess the wedding business got intense. Which I don’t get.” He looked around the sparkling kitchen, deliberate and with added drama. “You’re about to marry into a dream, and you’re super stressed out. Does not match, man.”

  Nora poured even more champagne into the blender cup and looked at him blankly. “It’s not that simple, Mateo.”

  “It never is, though, right?” He rolled the spoon around his mouth and smirked.

  She exhaled loudly, resting the bottle hard on the counter. “There’s just a lot I need to work out and the wedding only adds more to the plate.” She was surprised at how much she said already, how freely she was speaking, and continued anyway. “I have choices to make, real decisions with real implications, and I can’t say I’m sure what’s the right way to go.”

  “Look”—Mateo leaned in closer to her; his face focused and eyes dense—“people seem to believe, especially in the most dire situations, that there are only two options available. They think that they should either do this or do that. The poor fools never once consider that there’s a third option: They can do nothing. And then be pleasantly surprised when it all works out in the end.”

  Do nothing. It was so simple it was almost absurd.

  Nora looked at him, at the lopsided grin edging up the right side of his face with the plastic spoon jutting out the other end, and she tried to process all that Mateo had just said. There were times when he would prove to be a true twenty-three-year-old, cavalier, beautiful boy with a modest trust fund waiting in the wings. Doing a line of coke off model Bianca Munro’s freshly tattooed sternum at the Vogue after-after-party, for instance. But then other times, like right now, Mateo felt wise, as though informed by something outside of his realm, beyond his years.

  Do nothing, Nora said to herself once more, nodding this time. She felt her shoulders slide away from her ears. Her back straightened and she cocked her head at Mateo, still standing close and smiling at her. He looked as if he were standing taller, too; his already broad chest puffed out. He removed the spoon, tucking it in his pocket. She was seeing him. Nora didn’t always see him—not as a person. Mateo was often more of a symbol, a bookmark to the pages she thought were turned over and long behind her. He was a proxy for those Montreal boys: rich and wrapped warm in privilege, good-looking always, and good-natured until they figured out they didn’t have to be. Those hand jobs, blow jobs, and gropes of exposed young tits were theirs for the taking. Cajoling, begging, floating out empty promises, none of these things needed to be in order for these young burgeoning men to land “full pen” sex, not with girls like Nora; girls who were never given the chance to know the free and absolute kindness of strangers.

  “That’s actually good advice, Matts.” Nora looked down at the half-filled blender, smiling. “I kind of feel better already. All thanks to nothing, right?”

  “Yeah, you look it.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Nora said through her teeth, and flipped her middle finger at him.

  “Ah, man. You know what I mean.” He swatted at her. “And you know you look good, Nora. I’m sayin’ that you already look less stressed. Like, the lines in your forehead disappeared right quick.”

  “What?! I have lines in my forehead?” Nora said, taking exaggerated umbrage and pretending to paw at her reflection in the chrome toaster.

  “You and the jokes.” Mateo shook his head, chuckling. “Anyway, boss, I gotta bounce. I’m heading uptown for—”

  “Something, yes, we established this. You sure I can’t fix you a drink for the road? Fisher has a flask or fifteen around here that you can hold.”

  “Thanks, but nah. I want to be sober for this,” he said. Nora raised a brow. “Uh, ma’am, I can be sober at parties, okay? This isn’t even a party. A friend, she’s part of a theater group and they’re putting on this amazing one-act musical uptown. It’s supposed to be like the next Hamilton. I don’t know . . . I just want to support her. And I want to go in fresh and clean, you know? No opiates, no lubricants, just me, whole.”

  The light on him shifted again, and Nora tilted her head again, seeing him again. “That’s sweet.”

  He shrugged and looked down at his shoes. “I try sometimes.”

  “She’ll notice.” Nora stepped over to him and opened her arms. “All right, get out of here. Hug me before we both start crying or some shit.”

  “There she is! And now I know you’re legit feeling better,” he said, squeezing Nora tight.

  “So . . .” Nora started talking into his shoulder. “Are you just happy to see me or is that an iPhone in your—”

  “Oh, shit. I almost forgot.” Mateo pulled away and reached into his pocket. “Here.” He handed Nora the slim phone. “Brand new. It’s all powered up, but you’ll have to handle grabbing all your shit from the cloud.”

  She ran her hand over the spotless face of it. “Seriously. Thanks for doing this. I was all set to go on my own, but then I just started thinking about stuff and got overwhelmed and came home—”

  “To make cocktails. I get it. Life be rough sometimes.”

  “Jesus, I know, right? Just ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “But, really. Thank you. This is not part of your job.”

  “Sure it is. It’s my job, it’s Oli’s job, it’s the whole team. We work at Nora Mackenzie, LLC. Which means we work for Nora Mackenzie, which also means we work at taking care of Nora Mackenzie. You’re our General of the Army, five-star, special grade, homie,” Mateo said, raising a stiff hand to his head and saluting her.

  “Oh, in the World War of Fashion or . . . ?”

  “Cállate,” he said, making a fist at Nora. “Yo, you want to ditch that stale cocktail business and roll with me uptown?”

  “Please . . . I’m way too old to be hanging with you young’uns.”

  Mateo threw his head back and flung his hands in the air with a loud pssshh. “You and this fughesi line ’bout, I’m old. You’ve got—what—four, five years on me? You could be my older sister.” He clapped his hands together loud and dipped his head to give Nora the once-over. “More like my blond, white, older sister from another mister. But still fine as fuck and”—he spanned the expansive kitchen again, even spinning around on his heels as if part of an elegant dance to place his eye on its marble countertops, custom cabinetry veneered in stained maple, dazzling pendant lights, and shining stainless-steel details—“in a minute rich as fuck to match.”

  Although she felt a twinge of the disquiet starting to bubble up in her stomach, she pushed against it, forcing it back down into the dark pit from which it came with just two words, whispered so softly she barely moved her lips: “Do nothing.”

  “Well, you go do your supportive thing,” Nora said, and returned to her station in front of the blender. “And I’ll keep working on this, uh, stale cocktail business”—she rubbed the base of the machine like a belly and scrunched up her face at Mateo—“sweet baby brother.”

  “A’ight. I earned that one.” Mateo swooped in for another hug and kept moving to the door. “For serious, though. If you change your mind and want to roll, text me. You might want to clear the fifty-leven messages you got on there from ol�
�� girl first, though.”

  “Who?”

  Mateo gave Nora a look. “Who else? She’s a case, that one.”

  “Don’t start.” Nora raised a foot in a playful kick as he turned to leave.

  “Check you later,” he hollered on the way to the foyer.

  Nora was already scrolling through her messages with her head down. She shouted, “Have fun, and don’t stay out past curfew!”

  There was a string of at least fourteen messages from Jenna, each text getting more clipped as the timestamp rolled on and finally devolving into blaring one-word curses in ALL CAPS. Nora decided to forgo the text reply and called her.

  “What the fuck? Are you at the bottom of the Hudson?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Nora said, trying in vain to talk over her best friend. “I’m fine. I’m on dry land, at home. No sleeps. No fishes.” An easy laugh fell from her lips.

  “Seriously? This is funny to you? You’ve been a complete disaster lately, total bag of nerves. Then you flake on me for dinner and go MIA for hours. I was fixin’ to text Fisher and everything, but you want to giggle now?”

  “Easy, Callaway. Easy. I apologize for the dinner thing. My phone got fried—drenched in water—and I was wrapped up in all of that. I meant to ask Oli to have someone reach out to you about dinner and—shit—the wedding planner. I meant to push the meet-up with her, too, but I forgot about everything. I’m really sorry.”

  “You were going to have one of your staffers reach out to me about dinner instead of, say, showing up as planned?” Jenna sniffed. “Going the Beaumont way already, ain’tcha?”

  “Jenna. Don’t be like that. I said I was sorry, and I am.” Nora eyed the unmixed champagne slush in the blender and waited for the ice in Jenna’s voice to melt as well. She knew her friend prided herself on being no-nonsense, having a notoriously thick outer shell. Nora also knew that it was more of a cobbled-together version of Jenna, this brassy woman with big boobs, bigger gumption, and grit along with some true warmth, a saving grace, glazed over top. She knew that at her heart, Jenna was as vulnerable and soft and wanting as everyone else—maybe even more so. And Nora let her friend have these moments of bluster and theater because she’d learned long ago that allowing someone their story was easier than rolling out the truth.