She blew a lip gloss–tinted kiss at the camera and took a moment to add a couple shots of the food she’d enjoyed during the first hour of the flight, her bookmarked copy of Wole Soyinka’s The Open Sore of a Continent (mostly for the fans in Nigeria; she found his prose completely confusing) and her slippered feet, propped up in front of a frozen still of Sabrina, which she watched every time she had a flight.
“Ms. Daniels, is the Wi-Fi working all right for you?” A flight attendant materialized out of the air somewhere round her left elbow and she stifled a smile. The man had recognized her and had been trailing her since she’d gotten on. She was fairly sure he’d sweet-talked his way into her section.
“It’s perfect, just posted about how lovely you all are,” she said, then swiftly did so before he could ask for a picture. “Could I be annoying and ask for another bottle of Perrier? My skin just dries out so fast.”
“Of course, Ms. Daniels.” He was gone in an instant, and Delysia concentrated back on her cell.
There was the usual flood of comments from her latest posts; no time to reply to those, ever; there was always an intern to do that. Same with direct messages. Her work email was no less busy, but unlike her comments section, she had to look through these—she didn’t trust anyone else to handle her business for her, not in today’s age.
At the top of the pile was an email from her legal team; that should be interesting. Who was suing her now? Delysia pushed an armful of copper bracelets up to her elbow and opened the email, squinting through her mascaraed lashes. Words were jumping out at her, but in this champagne-soaked context they didn’t really make sense. Something about...potential libel, and Southampton University? Out on Long Island somewhere? What?
She shook her head and logged off. This was why she tried to unplug on long flights—God knew it was the only time she ever had where she wasn’t documenting every moment for the world to see. If it weren’t for the fact that she had to review the Wi-Fi on this flight, she’d never have checked her phone.
I’ll call when I land, get details then. Delysia put away her phone, popped in her cordless headphones, and smiled sleepily as she snuggled deep into her nest of blankets to watch Audrey Hepburn lose her head over William Holden, while Humphrey Bogart’s craggy face hovered in the background, just waiting for her to fall in love with.
However calculating she had to be on the ground, she could be as sentimental as she wanted to be here, shielded from the eyes of the world.
Chapter Two
When his phone rang in his office Thursday morning, Alexander was jolted out of a deep reverie. He tipped his coffee cup onto a library copy of Dining Car Line to the Pacific, swore eloquently, fumbled for the slim device, and held it to his ear. “Hello?” he said, leaping to his feet to intercept the coffee stream with the handkerchief in his inner pocket. The book managed to escape with only the tip of a corner wet.
“Alexander Abbott-Hill, please!” The person on the other end sounded as if she were at a party of some sort; he could hear voices in the background, pop music, clinking of glass.
“Speaking.” Alexander fought back some irritation, mopping away at his desk. Why did people insist on making calls in the noisiest places? “How can I help you, please?”
“My name is Faye. I represent Delysia Daniels?” He heard the muffled sound of a door being shut. Then, blessedly, it grew more quiet. Not completely quiet, but enough. “I understand we have a bit of an issue with how you’re being represented on her social media?” She had a high-pitched voice that rivaled Dean McDermott’s secretary and possessed that annoying habit of speaking in questions.
“Represented?” He was dumbfounded. “I have no idea who she is, Ms.... Faye? I was tagged incorrectly on her account and need her to clarify the error. It’s beginning to affect my reputation.”
Faye exhaled. “Yes, I am aware that you are an academic of some standing in the community? Delysia is quite sorry? She thought you were someone else, and these handles can be so similar sometimes, no? When the two of you meet, I’m sure you can work things out? And—”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m calling to set up, dear? Delysia is free tomorrow night, miraculously—not till eight, but it is a Friday, and I’d want to straighten this out as fast as possible if I were you, yes? Reputation, and all that? I’ll send you the details? Via email? And confirm by text message? Can DM if you want? No? Well, Delysia will be expecting you tomorrow? And really, we are both so sorry.”
She hung up, leaving Alexander staring at his phone with what he was sure was an idiotic expression. He managed to haul his jaw up and stood to go home. His nerves were officially shot for the night; he wouldn’t be able to get a bit of work done. He was barely out of the car when he received a text message—an eight PM calendar request for a meeting at a place called the SoHo Lounge. He looked at the address and groaned. Lower Manhattan, close to Little Italy. He hated going into the city, especially on a weekend.
* * *
“Ten thousand followers!” Natalia exploded as soon as Alexander walked into his office.
He looked at her askance.
“Oh, I follow you on social media now,” Natalia said with absolutely no embarrassment. “Now that it’s actually worth it.”
Alexander groaned and went to his desk chair. “It’s incredibly embarrassing. The dean knows about it. My students know about it, and they think it’s me in that photo.”
“Yeah, well, anyone who knows you...” She trailed off. “I mean, I knew it was a fake the minute I saw it.”
He ignored that. “And this...lady, who owns the account, she wants to meet me tomorrow so we can talk about some kind of retraction—”
“Wait, you’re meeting Delysia Daniels? In person?” Natalia’s eyes widened. “When? Where?”
“Goodness, tomorrow evening, and in SoHo of all places. Somewhere called—” He had to pull out his phone in order to check. “The SoHo Lounge?”
Natalia’s slack-jawed expression showed that yes, indeed, she’d heard of it. “It’s members only,” she said, and her voice was faint. “She’s getting you in on her account.”
Okay? Alexander didn’t even bother hiding his eye-roll. “The whole lot of them are insufferable. Her publicist is one of the silliest women I’ve ever spoken to, and that photo—”
Natalia’s expression rearranged itself into a slightly sharky smile. “I’ll reiterate. I knew there was no way it was you. That guy was hot.”
“You’re not helping,” Alexander said, and irritably. “Do I have any messages?”
“Two people called, asking about that train project of yours. Some European company that specializes in designer storage systems, and someone from Amtrak.”
“Amtrak?” That did pique his interest, and quickly.
“Yes! Looks like your account got some traffic from the whole Delysia thing, and I guess people saw your train restoration project and thought it was a thing you’ve got actual money for. Here—” Natalia passed him a notepad with two names and numbers on them.
“Thank you.” He’d have to call them later. Amtrak? He felt his interest grow despite himself; this was the first good news of the day.
“Do you want to see?” Natalia twisted round. She logged in and navigated deftly to Alexander’s page. @shhistorian had gone from having about eight hundred followers to having over ten thousand.
“Goodness,” Alexander said blandly.
“You’re getting a ton of exposure.” She clicked here, there, pointing as she went. “People are engaging with your content, you know. Even all the boring historical stuff.”
“I’ll ignore that.” Alexander resolved mentally to be as firm as possible with the young woman he was meeting tomorrow. “It will be over soon.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“To the SoHo Lounge!”
“My work clothes, I’ll be coming from the university,” Alexander said. The entire conversation was growing increasingly irritating. “Why, is there a dress code for the place?”
“No, not really, but...”
“Then I’ll be wearing work clothes.”
Natalia opened her mouth and closed it, then opened it again and closed it. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “Should I arrange a car? Can you find SoHo?”
“Don’t push it, Natalia.”
* * *
By the time Alexander bid a tired Natalia good night and left campus, dusk was falling and the chill that would soon take over days as well as nights had crept in, wrapping Southampton in a smoky blanket of crisp autumn air. He could see a hint of his breath as he got off the train, and dug through his messenger bag for a well-worn pair of work gloves.
His ancient white Jaguar, a gift from his late father at his first graduation, was parked in the lot, but Alexander wouldn’t be driving home for at least an hour—he had his train to attend to.
Well, not an entire train, he corrected himself mentally. When people asked Alexander if he had any hobbies, a short “train study and collecting” was usually sufficient to make them lose interest. People, he knew, immediately pictured him going home to a wood-paneled den to play with replicas, and perhaps paint them or build them by hand. The reality was that he did restoration.
The Abbott-Hill family train had long since been lost to creditors or sold off in pieces over the years. What was left in storage at the Southampton yard were two cars, the family lounge car and a sleeper. Since his father’s death Alexander had been restoring them on and off. He unlocked and entered the sleeper, switching on the lantern he kept inside for the purpose.
Soft light illuminated the interior, revealing the part of the car he was working on; a series of cushioned seats built into one wall and facing two enormous windows which were now of course boarded up. They were upholstered in blue brocade nested in fine walnut wood. Alexander had finally located material that matched it in a little fabric shop in Boston and was working on it now. His tools were already here: bundles of stuffing, the crooked upholsterers needle, a seam ripper, scissors. He sat cross-legged on the floor and began to work.
Calm relaxed his shoulders, smoothed out the lines in his forehead. This was exactly what he needed after his hellish day. He took a deep breath that smelled of wood polish and dust and knelt to get to work.
He wasn’t sure exactly what drew him to this kind of work. He’d hated it when he was younger. His father had spent almost every waking moment on the restoration, ignoring the fact that he’d never have any reason to use an actual train. But when he died...well, Alexander found himself coming back. Why, he still wasn’t sure.
Well, you’re not really good for anything else, are you? Even as a little boy, Alexander could not remember wanting to do anything else but teach. You’re turning into your father. And a rather inferior version, if his evaluations were anything to go by. At home precariously close to the weekend, no dates, no friends over, no plans except to reupholster a vintage window seat. There was nothing wrong with that, he countered mentally. If nothing else, he deserved some peace in his life.
And anyway, tomorrow he’d have to be at that place. The SoHo Lounge. He shuddered a little.
Chapter Three
Friday evening found Delysia on her usual rounds. The weekends were her busiest. New York City never slept, and Friday to Sunday was when it was fairly pulsing, throbbing with a life that overtook the other four days combined. Weekends were for partying hard, meeting out-of-town contacts and most importantly, growing her texting, posting, virtual army of acolytes.
The social scene in New York was responsible for her success, and she took her engagement with her thousands of followers as seriously as her contemporaries took their nine-to-fives. Her diary resembled a carefully planned military campaign: names, dates, addresses, locations and times were all plotted out with scientific efficiency. Faye was possibly the best investment she’d ever made once she committed to being a social media socialite years ago.
Delysia’s meeting with—what was his name again?—was low on her list of priorities for the evening. She knew that Faye had a proposal for the two of them, and she planned to glance over it in line, or in the car, or when she was using the ladies’, or whatever. She had bigger things on her mind. Fellow influencer-slash-rival Eden Kim and her twin brother, Nicky, were celebrating their birthdays that very night in a converted opera house in Hell’s Kitchen. Rumor had it that the girl had managed to swing Cirque du Soleil to perform.
Delysia had also dated Nicky a few years ago but she didn’t want to dwell on that at the moment.
Maybe I should take this guy with me. Delysia needed to arrive with just enough of a splash to be conspicuous without being an obnoxious scene-stealer, and being seen at the SoHo Lounge beforehand with the guy all her followers were speculating about was just the thing to do it. She’d arrive late, she thought, and just tousled enough...
If she really thought, deeply and truly, about how shallow and silly it all sounded, Delysia might have hated herself.
In fact, the young woman who’d come to New York from Dubai six years ago to attend medical school probably would have scoffed at all this, and despised her for it. She’d long since managed to push those thoughts to the back of her mind, though. She’d be more than willing to have a few nobodies think her an idiot if her future was secure. She could study at any age; this she couldn’t do forever. And her critics would never pay her bills, would they?
She glanced at her ever-present phone. Eight-ten. The evening would begin with a photo shoot in the new Cadillac XT6, rendered in her favorite shade, deep purple. She was supposed to meet with the professor at eight, but the car hadn’t even arrived yet, and the darned photo shoot would be sure to take longer than expected. Oh, well, he’d have a drink and enjoy the scenery—it was the SoHo Lounge, after all.
She glanced at herself in the mirror to reassure herself that yes, she did look as good as she thought she did. She wore a tailored suit of silver brocade, embroidered with flowers of the same hue as the luxury SUV on loan tonight. She wore her shoulder-length curls loose and wild, gleaming with the designer hair products she’d been gifted days before from a celebrity stylist who worked out of L.A. Shoot. She needed to post about that...
She wrapped up her extensive makeup job with a swipe of violet lip gloss and held her phone up to her face. “Hey, everyone,” she said brightly, “just about to head out—going to be driving a Cadillac for the first time! I’m ridiculously excited.” She ran her fingers through her hair, dimpling at the camera. “Bjorn Handel Hair has got me covered for the ride—my hair’s been so ridiculously frizzy lately. I’m committed to laying down that flatiron for at least a couple weeks, though. I’ll post what products I used—maybe a tutorial video? Tell me what you think, okay? See you out there!” She blew a kiss, posted, and yes—that was the rep from Cadillac calling her. She slung her thoroughly impractical Versace mini-purse over her shoulder and clattered down the stairs.
The goon they’d sent to guard the Caddy was there, arms crossed, looking decidedly bored—this was probably on par for a Friday night for him. “Hi, how are you?” she greeted cheerily.
He opened the driver’s door. “License?”
Well, okay. Not even a word about being forty-five minutes late. She handed it over, although she knew he had her paperwork already; Porsche had practically run a federal-level background check before offering her the sponsorship.
He squinted at it suspiciously then at her. “This doesn’t look like you.”
“Well, it was six years ago.” And pre-expensive hair products, makeup, and a serious skin routine.
He grunted and gestured that she step in, then gave her a terse overview of the vehicle’s functions. “No f
unny business and no speeding,” he snapped, and climbed into the back seat. “You’ll drive up till the next block, record whatever you need to, and then I’m taking over.”
That hadn’t been the agreement with Porsche at all, but whatever. She nodded and began to set up the portable tripod that came everywhere with her. It folded just enough to fit in her purse.
“What’s that?” he barked.
“It’s a tripod. I need to record myself pulling out, and addressing my—” God, fans sounded obnoxious, especially with the way the guy was looking at her. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? “Audience.”
“No equipment, miss. I can do it for you.”
Seething, Delysia pre-set it, then handed it to him. She recorded a brief but cheery message asking her fans to meet her at SoHo Lounge, then pulled out. She and the driver switched as planned, and Delysia had time to play with filters and write a perky message even though she felt anything but. Her driver eyed her through the rear-view mirror, but said nothing.
Ten minutes into the ride he made a call, speaking through a tiny headpiece tucked in his ear; Delysia’s ears perked up. Was that Tigrinya? Yes, it was! How funny. She usually ran across a lot of other Eritreans in DC, but almost never in New York. It took some work to understand him—his Tigrinya was peppered with slang that was definitely not a part of her conservative mother’s vocabulary, but she got the gist of it.
“...driving a celebrity? Hardly. I’ve never heard of her,” the man was saying to his companion. He paused, then he laughed. “One of those girls that spend all their time showing their breasts online or whatever. Never puts their phone down. Yeah, I know...doesn’t take any sort of talent anymore. This one’s not even pretty. One baby and she’ll go fat...”
Color rushed up to Delysia’s face, clashing, she was sure, with both the suit and the Cadillac. She felt frozen in her seat. She’d heard criticism of social media influencers before, both in print and in person; this was hardly the first time. Still, to hear it coming from a stranger’s mouth and in her mother’s language...
The Sweetest Charade Page 2