I smack my forehead. “Is there anyone in New York who doesn’t know I got a rack of clothes delivered to my apartment?”
“I’m sure the news hasn’t travelled to the outer boroughs. Yet.” Isabella’s pawing shamelessly through the rack. Clarita examines the garments with care, holding up sleeves and hems and examining them.
Edna examines the sleeve of a silk jumpsuit. “I guess sin pays pretty well these days.” She purses her lips thoughtfully, in a bright-pink lipsticked line. “I mean, this is the twenty-first century. Times change. Hmm. A few gents from the senior center are always giving me the eye. I wonder…”
“No!” I squawk indignantly.
“You’re right, you’re right. They’re a bunch of cheapskates. They’re all so cheap, when they die they’ll walk towards the light…and turn it off. If I’m going to sell my virtue, I’m charging top dollar.”
“Isabella!” I plead. “Talk to her.”
Isabella has other things on her mind. She holds up a color-blocked pink, black and gray silk blouse. “Oh my God! You must have made him see stars. You’ll have to give me lessons – Emilio’s coming home soon. Was it an oral thing? Did you learn how to deep throat?”
I smack her on the arm. “It was my sparkling personality! I’m the human equivalent of a bottle of champagne!”
“Hold on, I’m taking notes.” Edna rummages in her purse and pulls out a notebook and pen. “Wait, what am I writing down again?”
“Look at the quality of this fabric. There’s some nice stitching there.” Clarita admires a pleated polka dot skirt.
“I’ll go make us some coffee,” Edna decides. “Then you can tell us exactly what you did to earn these outfits.”
“When Hell freezes over,” I mouth at Isabella.
She’s typing on her cell phone. I glare and try to look threatening, but it just makes my forehead hurt. I’m not a good scowler.
“Do not tell me you’re updating anyone else about this.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you,” she says agreeably. She taps the phone. “And…send! Oh, you know Bernice, Delroy’s daughter, right? She wonders if any of this stuff is a size ten? And if Blake has a brother?”
“I seriously hate you right now. And no to both questions.”
This was incredibly generous of Blake, but we’re going to have to have a talk. A new wardrobe ostentatiously delivered to my apartment building for the whole block to see? I feel like the mistress of a Madison Avenue mogul in a Jacqueline Susann novel.
“I just don’t know if I can accept them,” I murmur, fingering a shimmering champagne-colored blouse.
“Why? It makes sense,” Isabella protests. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a personal shopper or assistant to his Royal Hotness, you’re still basically a brand ambassador, so you need to look the part.”
“Never let him hear you use that nickname,” I scoff. “His ego is already dangerously inflated. You give him a compliment like that and his head will actually explode, and since I’m his assistant, I’d have to sweep up.”
“Whatever. You’re keeping these.” She gestures at the rack. “The hospital provides us with scrubs. Hudson’s is providing you with an appropriate work uniform. More importantly, need I remind you that we’re the same size and I plan to rifle through your closet on a regular basis?
“Well…” I sigh, stroking the sleeve of a butter-soft khaki blazer.
The truth is, I was starting to worry about what to wear to work, because I don’t have that many outfits that are Hudson’s-worthy. Even consignment store shopping would be tricky for me right now. My paycheck’s pretty much gone already. I don’t even have enough money for a lucky latte today.
But I’m smiling, because I’ve got a rack full of gorgeous clothes and a great job, and soon I’ll be bombarded with Blake’s snark-rageous text messages. I didn’t hear from him at all yesterday after I left, which was more unsettling than I’d expected, but I’m ready to dive into the fray this morning.
“What about my date with Marshall this Friday?” I wonder aloud. “Should I cancel it?”
Isabella shrugs. “It’s kind of a blackmail date, isn’t it? I wouldn’t sweat it.”
I actually think that Marshall’s a nicer guy than people give him credit for. And it doesn’t matter, I can’t lead the guy on. “No, when I show up I’m going to tell him that Blake and I actually are kind of dating now, and if he wants to call off dinner I’ll understand.” I wince. Sure as shooting, it’s going to cost me that stupid doll, but I’ve been lied to by dates a time or two, and it never feels good.
It takes me half an hour to shoo everyone out of the apartment. When I get to my office – or rather Shanice’s office, where I seem to have taken up long-term occupancy – I’ve got a mile-long list of tasks waiting for me, as always.
I shoot Blake a quick message.
How many ties does one man actually need? Are you going to tie them all together and scale a wall or something? Whatever, I’ll have them delivered to your house before noon. And thanks for the gorgeous clothing, but we need to set some rules when it comes to extravagant gifts.
I don’t hear back from him, but that’s not surprising. The closer we get to Popup Palooza, the busier he’s getting. Around noon, I send him a message.
You asked for a new cummerbund but didn’t specify the occasion. You’re slipping. Don’t feel bad, we all get senile in the end.
Half an hour later, lunch shows up on my desk, delivered by a guy from the cafeteria. Pasta, fruit salad, latte…nothing with peaches. I guess now that he knows the truth about my peach aversion, he’ll move on to other harassment tactics.
As I eat lunch, I check my inter-office message program and see he hasn’t replied yet to either of my messages. That’s weird. Even though he schedules his day down to the microsecond, he never lets more than half an hour go by without sending me a snarky comeback to my emails.
Then again, he did basically toss a grenade into his precious schedule on Saturday night and Sunday morning, so he’s probably just playing catch-up.
So why do I feel a sudden chill sweeping over me?
By six o’clock, my nerves are jangling. I send him the least snarky message I’ve ever emailed.
Don’t want to pester you, I know you’re very busy. Did you get my messages? Send proof of life.
Half an hour later…nothing. And it’s time to go home, because I’m done for the day. I’ve gotten crazy-efficient at running his errands. I’ve had to, as a survival instinct. Yes, he’s gotten more reasonable now that he’s no longer openly trying to sabotage me, but he’s still a hard taskmaster.
Hard taskmaster. A giggle bubbles up inside me as I think those words. Because I’ve got the maturity of a middle schooler, and the phrase summons up images of me bent over his desk, with him thrusting into me from behind.
And then the image fades, and I feel a little worried. I can’t deny it. It’s not so much that I haven’t heard a word from him since Sunday morning, it’s that it’s completely out of character for him. Is he all right? Surely I’d have heard if he’d fallen down an escalator or had some tragic mannequin-related accident.