“So what do you think?” Nin asks me. “Is Lillian losing it?”
“She clearly hasn’t read StakeOut,” Rachel says. “She doesn’t know that there’s an ugly item up there about her. The old Lillian would never have missed something like that. And she would have fired the entire junior staff rather than let it go unpunished.”
“Speaking of firings, what happened to Reese?” I ask them.
“We were going to ask you! You were at the party.”
“That doesn’t mean I know everything that went on there.”
“It was during the sit-down dinner,” Rachel says. “You couldn’t miss it. We heard there was screaming.”
“One of the women at my table got really drunk. I had to take her out and put her in a cab.”
“Well, you know how Reese has gone Goth lately?” Nin says. “It’s because of that ridiculous vampire rumor. She believed it.”
Lauren’s comment about someone trying to expense a purchase at a blood bank clicks into place. “She’s not the only one,” I mutter. “But still, I can’t believe she got fired for that.”
“She tried to bite someone at the party!”
“And then,” Nin adds, “she went insane. She started crying and begging and saying she wanted to ‘fit in.’ They took her straight to the mental ward at Bellevue.”
“That’s really sad,” I say.
“Please,” Rachel says. “You benefited. You got her column. Don’t pretend you aren’t psyched about it.”
I don’t want a column at the expense of someone’s mental breakdown. But Nin and Rachel would never believe that.
“Worst of all, Lillian ignored the whole thing,” Rachel says. “She sat there talking to a male model. What happened to ruling with an iron fist in a velvet glove?”
“Gloves are in,” Nin contributes.
Rachel continues: “She’s distracted. She barely edits anymore. She lets Lauren, of all people, do the heavy lifting. Mind you, Lauren dresses from Banana Republic and has spit-up on her clothes.”
“Lauren just gave birth to twins. And she works full time,” I interject.
“Whatever. She’s not a qualified trendsetter.”
I feel uncomfortable criticizing Lillian, who has been so nice to me, but this line of thought gives me an opportunity to bring up something I’m dying to discuss.
“I mentioned the fashion murders last night and Lillian ignored that, too,” I say.
Nin’s eyes widen. Rachel’s hand makes a reflexive dive toward her notebook, before she quells the motion.
“You were at that Saks party, weren’t you?” Nin whispers.
I nod. Finally someone is taking the situation seriously.
“Did you see the bodies? What did they look like? What were they wearing?” Rachel asks.
Of course I remember in vivid detail, but I don’t feel right gossiping about it. “We left before the police showed up. I was with Kristen, Noë, and Matilda when we found out, and none of them acted like they cared at all. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“I’m not surprised,” Rachel says. “Nin cried when she heard about that double murder at the Jean Saint-Pierre atelier—”
“My mom reads Yarn Daily,” Nin explains.
“—and Annabel came in all huffy and told her to get ahold of herself,” Rachel finishes. “We’re supposed to be glamorous and poised at all times.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as excessively cold?” I ask. “Don’t you two get the sense that people here are weirder than can be explained by the industry? Like, have you noticed that they sleep in their offices all morning?”
“I have,” Rachel says. “I saw Kristen Drane lying on her floor. And I’ve seen those French girls sleeping, too. Together.”
“What do you make of it?” I ask cautiously. I’m not sure I want to bring up the vampire rumor, especially because she’s been so scathing about it in the past.
“I think they party too much, so they have to sleep in. They’re addicted to the limelight. And probably drugs,” Rachel says disapprovingly.
“You don’t think they’re actually…kind of evil?” I press.
“Oh, come on, darlin’,” Nin says. “They’re no different from you and me when you get down to it.” Her gaze is drawn by a passing figure. “Ooooh,” she says. “Ruching!”
JAMES DOESN’T call me after lunch. He doesn’t stop by my office to chat or even walk by to secretly signal that he’s thinking of me. I don’t dare go talk to him, so I send him an e-mail that says, “Hey. How are you feeling this morning?” It’s lame but it’s the least lame thing I can come up with.
And then I wait for a response. And wait. And wait.
At six P.M. I walk by his desk, but his computer is off and he’s gone for the day.
11
The Queen of Suck-up
I CAN’T BELIEVE she still wants to come upstate with me,” I’m telling Sylvia via phone Saturday morning. “People like her vaporize if they leave Manhattan.”
But of course, I can believe it. Annabel is the queen of suck-up and our location-scouting mission is of the utmost importance to Lexa, a high-profile assignment. Annabel wouldn’t miss it for a brand-new pair of Chanel wedge heels.
“And she’s really going to sleep over at your dad’s house?” Sylvia is scandalized.
“Yes!” I wail. “She wants to. She says it’s too far for a day trip.”
Moreover, it’s Saturday morning, and now I have to wait for her to wake up and call me. I’m eager to be on the bus, leaving behind the island of Manhattan and all its bloody rumors. With my aunt in Italy, the too-big apartment feels even emptier than before.
“You know, in Dracula, the count had difficulty crossing bodies of water.”
“Blood-sucking is the least of my problems right now.”
“I wish I was there,” Sylvia says.
“I wish you were here, too,” I tell her. “Believe me.”
MONTICELLO HAS never struck me as particularly green, but two weeks in New York City has put my native town in perspective. The grassy median strips look positively bucolic. I roll down the window of my dad’s car for a deep breath of the fresh country air.
“Kate, that’s pitiful,” my dad says, laughing. He’s just picked Annabel and me up from the Greyhound bus stop.
“Dad, you’re numb to the beauty of your natural surroundings. Look at all that grass. Those trees. The wildflowers by the side of the road.”
“Sounds like you’re turning into a New Yorker! God forbid,” he says, still laughing.
“Dad!” I say. “Be polite. Annabel is a New Yorker.”
Annabel, wrapped up in a black Indian-cotton shawl, and wearing oversized sunglasses, is perched eagerly in the backseat of our tiny lime-green Prius.
“I don’t mind New Yorker jokes,” she says, jumping to Dan’s defense.
I’m glad to see she’s fully recovered. Leaving New York by bus sent her into shock—the emotional kind, not the medical kind, which in fact is a state of inadequate tissue perfusion. She was quiet and jumpy for the whole ride, but is now gawking at the countryside as if she’s never seen it before.
“Born and raised in the Big Apple, huh?” my dad asks her cheesily.
“I’ve lived on Park Avenue for my entire life,” she says. “Was that a wolf?”
“Might have been. But it was probably somebody’s dog,” Dan replies tactfully.
It’s going to be a long weekend.
Dan McGraw learns more about Annabel in one car ride than I have in two weeks.
“How do you like your job?” he asks her.
“I hate it,” she promptly replies.
“You do?” I turn around in my seat. “I thought you adored it.”
“Do you adore working for Lexa?” she asks me. Then she addresses Dan. “Our boss is a nightmare, an incompetent nightmare. It reflects badly on me. I’m worried she’s jeopardizing my chances for promotion.”
“That’s what you’re after?”
Dan asks. “A promotion?”
“Yes. I’ve been at Tasty for a year already.”
“I see.” Dan nods thoughtfully, though he’s the least ambitious person in the world and would probably work ten years before starting to simmer about a promotion. “What’s the next step? Can you change jobs?”
“If I do that, I’ll have to start at the bottom again,” she says.
Dan mulls this over. “Can you get the boss fired?”
He’s joking, but Annabel doesn’t realize this.
“Kate,” she says, “I love your dad!”
Basking in the attention, Dan insists we go out for ice cream. Privately, I don’t think Annabel will eat any, but it turns out to be the right call. Our local White Horse Farm Stand has a blood-orange sorbet that’s her favorite.
We sit at a shady picnic table in a grove of river birch and lick our cones, Annabel still mummied up in her shawl and glasses like a celebrity gone grocery shopping. She and my father totally hit it off.
“Let me ask you something,” Dan says, leaning across the table toward her. “Do you like fashion? Do you truly thrive on it?”
Again, I’m surprised by her answer. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I know I love the magazine business. And I know I want to be an editor-in-chief. But…” She shrugs. “I never like what I’m wearing. It’s kind of agony and ecstasy all at once.”
“Have you explored your options? Considered working at a different magazine? At this point, it’s so important that you get on the right track. Now is the time for you to find out who you are and what you want, before you get stuck on a career path.”
A crease forms between her blond eyebrows. “Thanks, Mr. McGraw, but it’s too late,” she says. “I’m already stuck.”
“Sweetie, you’re what, twenty-four? You can still move around. I know it seems old to you now, but take it from a guy who’s pushing fifty—you ain’t old.”
“I can’t leave the fashion industry,” she tells him, an edge creeping into her voice. “It’s impossible.”
He acquiesces gracefully. “Well, what do I know? I’m just a guy who makes hemp shirts for a living.”
“Now, that’s cool!” she says, gushy again.
They are so annoying me.
ONCE WE’VE dropped off our bags at my dad’s house, Annabel wants to scout the Tasty Girl location while we still have light. We borrow the car, leaving Dan, who is looking a little wistful, behind. I drive. The directions take us out of the village on Route 97 and then right on 52, deep into Sullivan County. It’s not an area I’m very familiar with.
“What are we looking for?” Annabel asks as the car glides along.
“Turn left at the rusty bridge five miles outside of Jeffersonville. After the first three miles, the pavement ends. Keep going straight. Cross the creek, cross the dry creek-bed, and then turn right at the fork.” I hand her my notepad so she can see for herself. “These directions came from Lexa. I hope we find it,” I add.
“We’ll find it,” she says. “We won’t leave till we find it.”
Eventually we do find the rusty bridge—or at least a rusty bridge—and I pull the car off the road and into the woods. We hum along through thick foliage. I’m thinking about Lillian, and how she doesn’t know I’m the one responsible for that mean StakeOut item. She gave me Reese’s column. I know it’s not my fault, not really, but I feel guilty.
“Your dad is so nice,” Annabel says, her head tilted back on the headrest.
The pavement ends with a jolt. The underbrush, pierced only by a narrow lane, swells up around us. Branches scrape along the sides of the car as we nose forward.
“Do you think this is right?” I ask Annabel dubiously.
“They said it was isolated,” she replies, sounding pleased.
I turn on the headlights and we crawl forward.
“I don’t have parents,” she says, making me regret my uncharitable thoughts about her and Dan.
“What happened to them?”
“Oh, they’re alive. But it’s too unhealthy for me to expose myself to them. I took over a maid’s apartment in our building and haven’t spoken to them in ages.”
“That’s awful. Why?”
“Lecherous stepfather. Controlling ex-model mother who just can’t get over losing her looks. You know the drill.”
I don’t, and I’m not sure what to say about it, either. “That’s awful,” I repeat. Annabel doesn’t seem inclined to add any more.
“You might want to close the window,” I suggest as some leafy greens are ripped off and swirl into her lap.
She smiles at me. “You’re so thoughtful. It’s no wonder everybody loves you at work.”
“No one loves me at work! Lillian is going to discover that StakeOut item about me and James sooner or later, and then she’s going to kill me. Lexa already wants to kill me. And Rachel and Nin are only putting up with me because I might be useful to them.”
Annabel shrugs. “Internet items are fleeting. If Lillian hasn’t seen it yet, you might get away with it. And for now she loves you. Lexa, I agree, needs some work. And Rachel and Nin don’t matter. They don’t have what it takes.”
“How is that possible? They’re rich and connected. Rachel’s smart, Nin’s beautiful and stylish.”
“You’ll understand eventually. Trust me, okay?”
“Maybe they just need more experience….” I trail off. “Holy shit.”
We have arrived at the location.
Two hundred years ago it was probably a nice clapboard farmhouse in the New England saltbox style. Now it’s a ruin of broken windows and collapsed foundations. Queen Anne’s lace has overtaken what once were fields. I turn off the engine. Sticky air and the drone of insects flood the car.
“Is this what Lexa had in mind?” I ask.
“It’s perfect!” Annabel jumps out of the car, beating a path through the tall grass toward the house.
I follow more slowly, dutifully taking pictures with my digital camera. My bare legs are immediately aflame with the phantom itchies caused by walking through underbrush on a hot day, and I scratch absentmindedly. The place is definitely on the creepier side of beautiful, if not downright creepy. But I suppose I can see it as a backdrop for girls in luxurious clothing. It makes fashion-shoot sense. And Giedra Dylan-Hall is known for her lush, unusual work. I wonder what Shane is going to think of it.
Closer to the house, the ground becomes hummocky and uneven. I stumble over it, thinking of burial mounds and shallow graves.
“Annabel?” My voice sounds forlorn. She’s gone around back. I pick my way after her, following the trail of crushed grass and scratching my prickly skin.
She’s standing at the edge of a dark hole in the ground, head bowed.
“Annabel!” I yell, freaked out. She looks up at me and smiles radiantly. “This is some kind of cellar,” she says. “Isn’t it great? Take my picture.”
“Why don’t you stand away from the edge?” I ask her nervously. “I don’t want to have to come down there after you.”
“Kate,” she says, “you’re bleeding.”
“What?” I look down to see that my nails have dug shallow grooves in my legs.
“Oh. It’s the humidity. Did you know scrapes bleed more easily when it’s sultry like this outside?”
She gives me a very weird look. Her face falters. Then she says, “Give me the camera. We won’t have useable light for much longer.”
BECAUSE OF the tight deadline for my first “Clean Clothes” column, I have the perfect excuse not to socialize after dinner (Dan cooked, he and I ate, Annabel moved the food around on her plate without taking a bite). Even though she’s being perfectly nice, and has even confided in me about her creepy rich-girl family life, something about her makes me edgy.
Dan, with an aura of gentle reproach for my sulkiness, has gone over to his friend Phil’s house for poker night. I try to work while Annabel flops around on the sofa in our den, reads a competitor’s magazine, stares
at herself in the mirrored panels on our TV cabinet. Finally she gives up on the quiet night at home and starts texting with our coworkers. “They’re at Death & Co.”—a hip underground nightclub in Manhattan. “They want to know what we’re doing. What should I tell them?”
“How about working?”
“Nah,” she says. “Boring. I’ll say we’re going through your closets.”
“Okay,” I reply, distracted. An e-mail from Sylvia has just come in, supplying me with a list of vampire qualities. She’s been research-mad since I told her what Beverly said. The qualities are:
1. Nocturnal, sunlight intolerant, sleep in a box or coffin, or don’t sleep at all
2. Cold fleshed, drink fresh blood
3. Endowed with eternal life
4. Driven away by garlic, holy water
5. Can be killed by a silver bullet, a stake through the heart, sawing off the head, fire
6. Don’t like to eat but can, if need be
7. Superhuman strength, extrasensory powers, transformations into bats or dogs
8. Glamorous, materialistic, well-dressed
Besides for the bit about turning into a bat or a dog, that sounds like my coworkers to me. And garlic, according to Rico, is banned in the Oldham cafeteria. Ten minutes later Annabel says, “Hey, let’s really go look at your closets,” and I give up on my research for the night. I can’t concentrate, anyway.
As we’re getting ready for bed—after unearthing and trying on every stitch of my perfectly preserved collection of Eva 4 Eva originals—I hear a beep come from my bag.
“Who’s that?” Annabel asks.
The number on the display looks familiar, but I can’t place it until I open the body of the message. It reads:
Somebody’s about to blow…again. Who’s going to get hit next? Hope it won’t be you, kittyKat-SO
I slam the clamshell receiver shut. My hand is shaking. What the hell? It’s the same person who called me “Baby Mac” before, and claimed I was going to be famous. The night before the first piece ran about me on StakeOut.
SO…oh, no. “It was my best friend, Sylvia, from L.A.”
“What did she say?”
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