Janine laughs, softly, every note glimmering silver. “Where did that come from?”
“That dude—”
“It was hardly your fault.”
“Yes, it was. I asked you to come with me. If you were somewhere else instead, you wouldn’t—”
“Zelda.” She closes the gap between us, fingers grazing my forearm. “You’re not serious. That had nothing to do with you.”
“Look, can we just agree on the fact I’d like to spend more time with you?”
The statement dangles in the air, laden with months of missed opportunities. I tense.
“Even though I beat you at Scrabble every single time?”
“Yes.”
We end up ordering too much: two seasonal specials from Pizza Express, Barbacoa beef, chipotle salsa, garlic oil, and excessive cheese; some chicken wings, jalapeno poppers, too many helpings of honeycomb cream slice. Janine’s housemate, a wiry vegetarian who fancies herself Cirque de Soleil material, was appalled, and totally no help. Consequently, we made a pact to work on the leftovers tomorrow.
As for Scrabble, Janine beats me, of course: ten games to three. While discussing theories for Westworld, season two. And answering text messages from her supervisor. Under that covergirl smile, Janine’s practically Professor McGonagall, except she enjoys working at Vogue.
“Hey.” I lean back into my chair and glare at the board. All night, Janine’s been pulling out words like NUMINOUS and PATHOGENESIS. The best I managed was BISCUIT. “You think you’ll stay in Vogue?”
“Hm?” Her smile is distracted as she tips cheap white wine into my empty glass.
“You know.” I shrug. “Are you planning to stay on? Maybe, move into an editorial role instead? See about climbing the food chain? Or is this just a temporary thing?”
“I don’t know.” She scrunches her mouth into a moue, a leg drawn up to her chest. Janine rests her chin against her knee. “I haven’t decided yet. Depending on whether the scholarship’s approved, I might see about going to university somewhere. Get my PhD. The possibilities are endless.”
“Well, you’ll be amazing. Whatever you decide to do.”
“Thanks.” The smile widens into something dazzling. “What about you? You planning to stick with the fashion industry?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I—” am a werebear, with a moving van full of related emotional baggage. “I’d at least stay as long as you do.”
Whoops.
“Zelda.”
Wine-dulled and carb-addled, I slop onto my feet, fingers raking through my hair. “I have to go.”
“Zelda. Wait.”
Did I just hit on her? I think I might have just hit on her. Gently. Possibly, even gallantly. But I hit on her. And after we’ve silently agreed to a platonic relationship. Will this result in a trip to human resources? Can this be construed as workplace harassment? “Night. Janine. Um. I can—I’ll find my way to the door. Thanks. Good night.”
“Zelda, wait!”
Face burning, I stagger out of the door, chased by a cavalcade of uncertain regrets. Tomorrow is going to be awkward.
Surprisingly? It isn’t.
I look over Janine’s head to where Benedict is standing in the hallway, a hip cocked like a loaded gun. He’s nursing a cup of oversweetened Starbucks latte, and there’s the barest trimming of a foam mustache over the rim of his upper lip. On any other adult male, it’d look ridiculous, but on him, it’s just an endearing failing.
Fae, am I right?
“I am totally serious.”
“No.”
“Come on,” I shake my head free of visions of Benedict half-naked, his shirt crumpled and transparent with sex-sweat, the ridged column of his abdomen bared to the ceiling. “He’s hot. What do you have to lose? And rich.”
“Don’t you want him for yourself?”
I pause. Do I? We shared a moment, sure, and it was the stuff of wet dreams, but do I want him? I mean, I have Jake.
Well, not have have, but there’s certainly some potential of having fermenting there. More importantly, what is the etiquette of explaining your hierarchy of desires in front of someone you’ve crushed on for ages?
“Course not. I’m into Jake.” I say, at last, not really certain if I believe my own half-lie.
“Are you sure you want to give up the opportunity at going out with a billionaire whatever for a zookeeper?”
“Yes,” I say, after a slightly longer pause than before. Was this Janine’s way of saying “let’s forget about yesterday?” Or Benedict’s glamour working on overdrive. It’s hard to tell. “At least, I think so. Eye of the beholder and all that, you know? Seriously, though, you should go for it. Even if I wanted to, I’ve got a proper date tomorrow. Just do your thing, Janine.”
“He is—why are you doing this, anyway?”
“Because I was rotten to you, and this is the first step in my multi-tiered plan to make it up to you.”
Janine stares at me, incredulous. “You’re a strange one, Zelda.”
“Come on. Just think about it. Wine, fine dining, the opportunity to live a life of leisure on the arm of an attractive bachelor. Sure, it’s no guarantee. But this could be your chance at perfect love.” I coo, all the while trying to ignore the admonishing voice at the back of my head. Inner Zelda is much too paranoid. I’m not feeding Janine to the wolf. I’m introducing two attractive people to one another. She’s a grown-up. It’d be fine.
I am absolutely not doing this to distract her from the awkwardness of the evening before.
“I—okay, even if I am into this. What makes you think he’d be into me?”
“Trust me. You’re his type of woman.”
“You think?” She smooths long fingers over her stomach, a coil of friendship bracelets clanking in harmony. “You really think so?”
“Swear to god. If circumstances were different, I’d be begging you to elope with me.”
In answer, she lets out a shimmery little laugh and nervously winds a lock of hair around her fingers, over and over. “And I could totally see myself saying yes.”
Honestly, Janine could probably overthrow the Queen in a week. All she’d need to do is promise the country a regular diet of saucy Snapchat photos. She isn’t just beautiful, she’s promotional billboard-ready, a gluten-free Helen of Troy for the men of—
Wait. What did she just say?
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Janine interrupts my thoughts, tittering uncomfortable. “Absolutely, positively sure.”
“You’ll be doing me a favor.”
Janine doesn’t say anything further, instead turning to undulate up to Benedict. Their chemistry is instantaneous, even majestic to behold. It takes no time at all for their body language to go from salutations to sexual invitation.
But Janine holds her own. When Benedict tries to hook an arm about her slim waist, she twists away, winks at him from under the glimmering, salon-mussed tangle of her hair.
I turn away then, nonplussed, I’m not into Benedict, and I’m definitely not into Janine, who is going to be okay. I’m into Jake. I repeat his name under my breath like a prayer as I shuffle my stack of fresh photocopies into position, and weave back into the main office.
“What’s Janine goin’ on about then?” Oscar grumbles, looking up as I pass by. I glance at his screen. He’s gone and inflated the breasts, lightened the bronze skin, added a whiff of gold to the model’s ash-brown locks.
What an arsehole. I make a note to ping his handler, see what she thinks of his covert alterations. We’ve been making a push for diversity, largely because it finally occurred to the the higher-ups that it’s actually profitable to cater to a larger audience, instead of just the usual suspects.
The other reason is because our new managing editor, Liz, is completely badass, and I want to see her go me
dieval on his rubbish.
“Just meeting and greeting,” I drawl in reply, thumbing out a message to Liz.
Oscar is being a dick. Xx
“That how she says hello?” Oscar rucks his brow. “Blimey. I hope she’s going to make this into an office-wide tradition.”
“Just shut up, Oscar.” I roll my eyes and slump into my chair in the opposite cubicle.
My phone beeps.
What now?
I twitch my mouth. This isn’t the first time that Oscar’s gotten into trouble with Liz. Last week, he got an earful for trying to touch a singer’s hair. Her hair. Said it was because he’d never seen an afro so large. The truth is that I think he’d have been sacked ages ago, except that he’s best friends with the chief financial officer’s ex-wife’s godson, or something ridiculous like that.
As I log into all my social media accounts, notifications popping up everywhere, I slide a glance over at Oscar. He looks uglier than I remember. Squatter. Like some fairy godmother was going to turn a toad into a human, but got bored halfway.
“What you looking at?”
I jolt back into the moment, after realizing Oscar caught me staring, a shit-eating grin fastened on his maw. “I—”
“I’m not doing anything tonight, in case you were—”
A laugh bubbles out. “I’d rather shoot myself.”
“That’s not what you said last—”
“That was because I hadn’t seen how small your prick was yet.”
The office hushes. That came out really, really loud. Oscar raises his eyebrows as far as as they can go, skin already an ugly pink. He clambers onto his feet.
“What’s that?”
“I’m making a penis joke at your expense.” I feel the Change jostle under my skin as I stand up, a junkyard dog stirring in the dead of the night. Muscles clench and bones knit, pushing me towards a more combat-ready form. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Why are you two acting like a pair of gunslingers at high noon?”
We both turn around. Liz arrives with a whisper of silk, an aquamarine dress clinging to her golden frame, a desperate lover who just won’t let go. She’s absolutely stunning, Afro-punk princess gone haute couture, big hair and elfin features, arm muscles like Michelle Obama. According to rumor, a teenage Liz turned down a barrage of modelling contracts, wanting instead to focus on her higher education.
It was certainly the right decision. At twenty-six, she’s one of the youngest managing editors that Vogue’s ever taken on.
“Oscar’s being a dick.”
He glares at me. “She’s the one causing a scene.”
Liz flicks her cool, dark stare at Oscar’s monitor. “And what are you doing?”
Instantly, the churlishness slips from Oscar’s face, like a light winking off. He narrows his eyes, mouth pinching. “Doin’ up the piece like y’asked.”
“Try whitewashing.”
“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Miss Middle-Class—”Oscar looks about ready to jump the divider. I tense, eager for the conflict. Talons push against my fingertips.
“Okay, enough. Both of you! No more mud-slinging, no more name-calling, no more anything. This is a place of work.” Liz raises her hands, a frown chiselled into her smooth brow. “That said, I’d like to see you in my office, Oscar. Preferably with Powerpoint slides explaining each fucking stage of the thought process that led to this shit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And that’s it. Just like that, it’s over. Liz turns and sashays off, the very image of a cosmopolitan empress. Oscar doesn’t make eye contact, just sinks down and begins pecking at his keyboard, gurgling curses the whole way. I follow suit, sliding back into my chair, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.
In stops and starts, the office resumes operation: a clatter of typing, a hum of gossip, an occasional bloop and beep from the Candy Crush addicts, all the comforting noises of people at work.
After some rifling through Facebook and a bit of good-natured stalking, I pull out a spreadsheet of expenses, and dive into the gory task of calculating who spent how much on what party last month. You’d think that working at Vogue would be more glamorous but nah, not yet.
As I dig into the numbers, my mind expands with dreams of high profile photoshoots. I’d be the only woman there, but I’d be more competent than anyone else, full of ideas for dynamic shots that don’t involve the subject being ruthlessly objectified. And of course, Chloe Moretz will then come over to ask me to hang out for a coffee because of that, and I’d say—
Fizzy laughter breaks through my daydreams. I look up from my screen to see Benedict and Janine waltzing down the corridor, looking like they’re a hair’s breadth from jumping each other. To my surprise, Benedict actually looks… charmed. As though the steel of Janine’s will is a novelty. (Probably is.)
Before I can overthink my emotional reaction, something else snags my attention: the sound of my phone bursting into the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody, just loudly enough to make a few heads turn. I yank it out, squeaking apologies, and press it to my ear.
“‘Ullo?”
“I was just calling to ask if we’re still on for the weekend.”
“J-Jake!” I stammer, looping a curl of hair around a finger, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “How are you? How did you get my number? I—”
“You… gave it to me? Is this a bad time?” Behind him, I can hear the sounds of the zoo, and also a slightly shrill mother begging her son to oh god, not clamber over the fence. “I could call back later.”
“No! I mean, no. No. It’s fine! It really is. I’m, um, just—it’s been an interesting morning.”
“Well, I see.” A twinge of amusement warms his voice. “Really, though, if you’re busy, I’m perfectly fine doing something—”
“No!”
“No?”
“No,” I smooth a hand through my hair, trembling, all the while fighting to beat my head into the desk. Maybe, Zora was right all along. Maybe, I’m dreadful at this human relationships thing. “I want to see you. All of you.”
Fuck.
“All of me?”
I suck in a breath through my teeth. Is there any dignified way out of this? Probably not. I might as well embrace it. Be a goddess, Zelda. Accept your inner goddess. Channel your goddess.
Just do it, Zelda.
Do it like Nike.
Or something.
“Yeah. All of you.”
Did I just say that? I did. Oh, god. Those were words straight from my mouth. Honestly, how do phone sex operators do it? I barely said anything risqué, and I’m already imploding with gentle embarrassment.
His answer has teeth, a predatory sensuousness that digs into my core. “I see. Well, that can be arranged. Are you still picking me up from my apartment?”
My confident facade immediately melts into low-level anxiety. “Yes? No? Is there a right answer? Haha. That was a silly thing to say, wasn’t it?”
A polite silence replies.
“Right. Um, so I was thinking that, maybe, you know, we could meet up in—” I probably should have thought about this beforehand. “—Olive Garden.”
“Olive Garden?” He asks, about the same time a voice in my head demands an annotated explanation. The most significant date of my twentysomething life, and all I have to offer are the words Olive Garden?
I cringe. But then I’m hit by inspiration, or more specifically, a memory of Zora eagerly describing this place that September’s boytoy had taken her to. “Actually, how ‘bout Bao?”
More silence before he acquiesces, slow and careful. “Sounds lovely. Do you want to meet there, or shall we go together?”
“We’ll meet there.”
“Perfect. See you soon.”
Jake’s apparently not one for awkward good-bye
s. The abruptness isn’t enough to leech from my happiness, though. Delicious with excitement, I attach my phone to its charging port, and swivel to find Janine and Benedict standing about a foot behind me, both smiling.
“Hi.” I cross my arms.
Benedict doesn’t reply, only curls his lip. Janine has finally consented to having him wrap an arm about her shoulders.
“Soooo…” Janine purrs, stroking the back of her fingertips along Benedict’s chin. “We were thinking—”
“Yeeeees?”
“Do you want to do a double date?”
“A what?” My jaw slops open, and all the sudden, I’m a goldfish out of water, a cow being led to the slaughter, gaping and gawping and completely out of my element. What’s even happening anymore? “You want—wait, what. You—”
“Do you want to go on a double date? Tomorrow? You and me and Benedict—” Janine shrugs, fingers pulled back into an uncertain fist. She’s still fighting the glamour, but it looks like she might be losing. “—and whoever.”
“Jake. His name is Jake. But, that isn’t really relevant, is it?” I grind the next words through my teeth, every syllable spoken very slowly, very deliberately. Hopefully, Janine gets the hint. “Don’t you,” I look between them, “think that it’d be better if you two had some private quality time together? Get to know each other alone? Without interruptions by another happy couple?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
Damnit.
Benedict untangles his arm from Janine, his eyes practically phosphorescent. “Really, Zelda, just think about how useful a double date could be! You’d be able to fulfill your obligation to my aunt and enjoy a beautiful night with two people who love you, and who can help vet your nascent paramour. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
I’d rather listen to Zora singing karaoke.
“It sounds exquisite.” I growl.
“Goody. We’re all set, then. Just send us the time and venue, and we’ll see you there,” Benedict scans the office, a lord in his castle. “Why, we could even walk there together!”
Chapter Six
ON A SCALE OF “MASCARA in the eyes” to “apocalyptic destruction of all mankind,” today’s been about an eight, so far.
Bearly a Lady Page 5