Now
“Lux? You alive down there, girl?” The voice startled me out of my reverie. “Aren’t you meeting with Jeanine in a half hour?”
My eyes flew open, taking in the sight of my wireless computer mouse and a mason jar full of multicolored sharpies. If the discomfort radiating from my left cheekbone was any indication, I’d nodded off with my face resting on my keyboard. With my luck, my stolen ten minutes of daydreaming would result in a permanent ASDF imprint across my face.
So professional.
Pushing strands of long blonde hair that had escaped the once-elegant chignon out of my eyes, I propped my chin in my hands and looked up at the face hovering above the wall of my cubicle. Fae, who occupied the desk space adjacent to mine, was peering down at me, her long mahogany brown hair perfectly styled into a French twist that would’ve taken me several hours and an industrial sized bottle of hairspray to pin up. Knowing Fae, who could’ve doubled as an Herbal Essences model, the sleekly sophisticated up-do had taken her ten seconds flat to accomplish.
“Sorry,” I muttered, lifting my coffee cup for a hefty swig and attempting to rub feeling back into my left cheek. “Late night. I only got about four hours of sleep.”
“I can tell. You look like crap,” she informed me cheerily, skirting around the partition that divided our cubicles to lean against my desk.
I glared at her, but couldn’t object because I knew her words were true. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, worried about the pitch I was giving today. There were bags beneath my eyes and my hair had definitely seen better days. I could only hope that Jeanine would be more focused on the quality of my research and the hard work I’d put into this proposal than she was on my looks.
Hah, who was I kidding?
Fae and I worked at Luster, the largest women’s magazine in the United States. Our issues showed up on every newsstand, magazine rack, and waiting room coffee table in the nation, and circulated to more than 20 million regular subscribers each month – making us the go-to source for every feminine question you probably never wanted to know the answers to.
From sex tips to fashion, from the trashiest celebrity gossip to the latest and greatest diets and workout regimens… we specialized in it all. Complete with pictures of emaciated models in skimpy lingerie, of course.
If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be working, Luster wouldn’t have been in my top five. Hell, it wouldn’t have made the top hundred. Most likely, it would have ranked right above “garbage collector” and just below “competitive hot-dog eating champion” on my long list of dream professions.
Fresh out of college, I’d had big-city dreams – aspirations of working at The New York Times or The Washington Post, rubbing elbows with the best journalists in the nation. Reporting on issues that mattered, like politics, religion, warfare, and finance. Heck, even covering the sports circuit would’ve been an all right gig. Instead, the economy went to shit and I was thrust into a rapidly shrinking workforce with few opportunities and even fewer job openings.
So now, here at Luster – which happened to be the only place I could land something even remotely related to my degree in journalism that also included a decent salary and health benefits – I write about really, truly, deeply important issues. You know, topics like “How to Zumba Your Way to a Better Butt!” and “The Orgasm-Guaranteed Sex Positions You MUST Try Tonight!”
Changing the world, one bimbo at a time. Go me.
But today was the day all that was going to change. I’d slaved over this pitch for weeks, doing research on my own time after work and compiling enough facts to make for a compelling piece in any publication – Luster included. If I could just peak Jeanine’s interest, I was sure she’d let me use it as the topic of my monthly column or, at the very least, as a small feature story.
“Stop worrying,” Fae scolded, thumping me lightly on the head with a stack of glossy proofs for an upcoming edition. “I’ll fix your hair and even let you practice your pitch on me, because I am a wonderful friend. And hey, if you buy me a caramel macchiato from the good coffee cart – the one in the lobby with the cute barista, not the one in the tenth floor break room – I might even lend you my concealer to get rid of those under-eye circles.”
“Done,” I immediately agreed, spinning around on my wheelie chair so she had access to my hair. “Do your worst.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was striding down the hallway – when you’re wearing Christian Louboutin heels, you can’t really do anything but stride – toward Jeanine’s office. My long honey blonde locks were swept up into a graceful bun I’d never be able to replicate, my tired eyes had disappeared with a wave of Fae’s magical Sephora wand, and I was feeling confident after running through my proposal one last time.
I knocked lightly on Jeanine’s opaque glass door and popped my head through the entryway. Jeanine was on the phone, arguing with someone about what sounded like a graphics issue, but she gestured for me to come in and take a seat in the chair across from her desk. Her British accent did nothing to detract from the harsh words she spoke, or her scornful tone.
“Anton, I told you last week, the photo borders have to be teal, not turquoise. Honestly, after seventeen years in this business, you should be able to discern basic bloody colors. Or has all that time you spend staring at that computer of yours caused permanent damage to your brain?” Jeanine’s lips curled into a condescending smirk. “You know, my five-year-old niece has a Crayola set – perhaps I can arrange for her to give you lessons.”
I’m calm. I’m collected. I’m prepared. Just because she’s an epic bitch to everyone else on the planet doesn’t mean she’ll shoot down my proposal.
Call me Cleopatra: The Queen of Denial.
I sat and tried not to fidget for the next five minutes as Jeanine tore poor Anton a new one. Smoothing my hands over my skirt too many times to count, I ironed out invisible wrinkles so I didn’t have to meet her icy stare head-on. When she finally disconnected her call, I was nearly ready to run for the hills rather than pitch my story to her. Nearly, but not quite – I’d spent far too many hours working on this proposal to back out without even taking my shot.
“Lex, what can I do for you?” Jeanine asked impatiently, her tone immediately conveying that I was wasting her time simply by occupying space in her office.
“It’s Lux,” I corrected quietly. I’d worked here for almost three years, and she couldn’t get my freaking name right? Typical Jeanine.
“Right, of course,” she agreed. “Well?”
“I have an idea for a story,” I began, forcing myself to meet her stare. I imagined it felt similar to looking into the eyes of one of the Dementors from Harry Potter – her gaze radiated frost and seemed vaguely life-threatening, as though if I said the wrong thing she’d lean across the desk and suck the life right out of me.
God, I was such a nerd.
“Alessandra Rodriguez is coming to the city next month. She’s a bestselling author and Nobel Prize winner. Her awareness campaigns to put an end to violence against women have shaped global policy and helped thousands of victims.” I took a calming breath. “But there has been some speculation that her nonprofit is actually embezzling some of the donated funds, artificially inflating the company’s value while giving very little aid to the women they’ve promised to help.” I heard the excitement build in my own voice and hoped Jeanine was listening. “As you know, I have a background in investigative journalism. While I was in college, I had bylines in two national papers when my story about corruption and fraud by university officials hit the circuit. If you’d just let me interview her, ask some questions, and dig around a little bit, I think I might find something. I know Luster isn’t a newspaper, but an investigative piece would be a really great addi—”
The shrill ringing of Jeanine’s antique gold-gilded desk phone abruptly cut off my words. Without a word to me, she leaned forward and snatched the receiver from its cradle.
“What is it Anna?” she clipped into the phone, likely causing her secretary to flinch on the other end. “Oh? And why is that?” Jeanine cast her eyes heavenward, clearly exasperated by whatever Anna was saying. “Fine, I’ll take care of it.”
She hung up without saying goodbye and returned her gaze to me. Her eyes were no longer chilly, but speculative.
“You’ve worked here for almost three years now, correct?” she asked, steepling her fingers in a contemplative gesture. Her out-of-left-field question took my by surprise.
“Yes?” I winced internally at the tentativeness in my voice.
“So you know where they do the photo shoots? At the ArtLust studio on Fifth?”
I nodded, confused about how this related to my pitch.
“I need you to go there for me. Right now. The assistant who normally coordinates the lunch deliveries for the models and production staff has apparently called out sick today, and evidently all of our interns are at some kind of rubbish career-building workshop,” Jeanine seethed. I think she would’ve rolled her eyes or frowned, if she weren’t so afraid of developing crow’s feet. “You’ll need to pick up the lunch order from Gemelli’s and bring it to the studio by noon.”
My mouth dropped open in surprise. She was assigning me a task typically reserved for unpaid interns or personal assistants — so far outside my job description it was almost laughable.
I’d already paid my dues. I’d worked my ass off, despite the frivolous and often unfulfilling nature of my job. This was bullshit.
“Jeanine,” I protested. “This really isn’t in my job desc—”
“If you want me to consider your pitch on Alessandra Rodriguez – not to mention keep your position here – you will do this,” she snapped, cutting me off. She leaned forward slightly with her eyes locked on mine, her coiled posture reminding me of some wild jungle cat about to take down an innocent grazing gazelle. “Without complaint.”
Bitch.
She had me cornered and she knew it. After a casual glance at her Rolex, Jeanine looked pointedly from me to the door. “It’s past eleven already. You’d better get moving, Lex. We can discuss your article tomorrow.”
It’s Lux, you narcissistic cow.
Cow or not, unfortunately she was right – the walk from our main office on West 57th to the ArtLust building on 5th took at least twenty minutes, not including the extra stop I’d have to make at Gemelli’s to pick up the food. And Gemelli’s was always packed during the lunch and dinner rush, with lines of hungry New Yorkers extending out onto the street as they waited for a variety of salad, soup, and deli creations that were some of the best Midtown had to offer.
“Thank you, Jeanine.” I almost choked on the words, but managed to paste an acquiescent smile on my face. “I look forward to speaking with you again about my pitch.”
I rose and walked out of her office, defeated and reeling. I’d prepared for the possibility that she’d shut down my proposal, but I’d never anticipated her assigning me to be her personal errand-girl for the day.
As I headed for my desk, lamenting the fact that I hadn’t packed a pair of flats in my purse and would thus be forced to run around the city in heels, I thought my day couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Little did I know.
By the time I made it across town from Gemelli’s — which was just as jammed as I’d thought it would be — to the studio, my formerly pristine blue blouse was wrinkled from the relentless late August humidity, I’d stepped in a disgusting wad of pink bubblegum someone had been kind enough to spit out on the sidewalk, and I was running late. Juggling the flimsy handles of two massive paper bags containing a spread of salads and sandwiches, I glanced down at my cellphone as I pushed through the crush of workers on their lunch breaks and winced as I saw that it was already quarter past noon.
I was late. Jeanine was going to skin me alive.
I startled as the phone rang in my hand, Desmond’s name flashing across the screen. Adjusting my grip on the bags so they were both clutched in my right fist, I lifted the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I asked, breathless from my efforts.
“Hey babe,” Desmond drawled.
“Do you need something?” I clipped, my tone sharper than I’d intended.
Desmond and I had been out on a few casual dates, but I could tell he wanted more. He was a nice guy – perfect for me, really. He was a physical trainer at the gym I sometimes worked out at, and when he’d asked me out a few weeks ago I was in no position to turn him down. I hadn’t been out on a date in three months and I hadn’t had a real boyfriend for at least double that period. Fae was threatening to sign me up for eHarmony if I didn’t break from my streak of solitude, and it was only a matter of time before she tricked me into another horrendous blind date with some poor soul from her seemingly endless stream of male acquaintances.
The last time this had happened, she’d told me we were going to get lattes at a funky, yet-undiscovered — and thus trendy in the eyes of every hipster in a five mile radius — coffee shop downtown that smelled vaguely like patchouli oil, was littered with beat up furniture that didn’t match, and had purposely left its street windows too grimy for passerby to peer through. This in itself was troubling enough, though not half as concerning as what Fae did next.
Upon our arrival she’d immediately feigned a headache and excused herself, forcing me into an awkward coffee date with a poet named Lucien, who wore exclusively red flannel and donned thick-framed black glasses with nonprescription lenses. He’d read his angst-filled poetry to me for three painful hours, was offended on a fundamental level because I worked for the — and I quote — “materialistic magazine-industry machine,” and didn’t even pay for my chai tea latte afterwards.
Obviously, it was a match made in heaven.
So by the time Desmond asked me out, I figured he was the lesser of two evils and, at the very least, he always paid for coffee. Not to mention he was funny, laid-back, and good-looking – well-built, with dreamy blue eyes, a buzz cut, and a dimpled smile.
I wanted to like him, I really did. My heart just wasn’t in it, I guess.
Not that it was ever fully in it, but I knew I could at least try a little harder to like the poor guy. Especially because, for some unknown reason, he seemed to like me.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said, hurt evident in his voice. “Wondering how your pitch with Jeanine went this morning.”
Face, meet palm. I was such a bitch sometimes.
“I’m sorry, Des,” I said, picking up my pace as I spotted the ArtLust building up ahead. “Jeanine was a total pit-bull as usual and now she has me out delivering lunches to the models at some photo shoot. Which, when you think about it, is pretty ridiculous because it’s not like they’re going to violate their air-diets and actually consume solid food anyway.”
He snorted. “Sorry babe, that sucks. How ‘bout you come over to my place tonight and I make you dinner?”
I knew very well that by dinner he really meant sex.
“Um, maybe, I don’t know,” I evaded, unsure whether I wanted to take things to the next level with him yet – or at all. “Hey can we talk about it later? I’m at the studio now.”
“’Kay babe, let me know. I make a mean macaroni and cheese.”
“Kraft?” I asked, knowing full well that he couldn’t cook anything that didn’t come either frozen or canned.
“Of course,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It tastes better when it’s from a box. Everyone knows that.”
I laughed and hung up, just as I reached the front doors of the looming skyscraper before me. The studio was on the fifteenth floor – I’d only been there once before, more than two years ago when I’d had to have my photo taken for the magazine website. A thumbnail of my washed out portrait from that day accompanied every column I wrote and I still cringed whenever I saw it in print. Hopefully the photographer they’d hired for today’s shoot was more skillful. Then again, how hard could it possibly be to take good pictures of practically naked, anatomically flawless women in lingerie? Unlike some of us, they didn’t have any bad angles.
I crossed the gleaming black marble lobby floor and boarded the elevator, praying that nothing had changed in the months since I’d last been here. I was seriously late and couldn’t afford to waste time wandering the hallways like a lost intern.
Thankfully, the elevator made relatively few stops as it climbed to my floor, and within minutes the doors were sliding open with a low chime. Entering the studio, which was essentially a large open plan with floor to ceiling windows, I saw that the right side of the room was set up for a photo shoot, cordoned off with large shades to block out any unwanted natural light. Numerous spotlights, tripods, reflective umbrellas, softboxes, and strobes surrounded the photographer, whose back was to me as he snapped photo after photo of next month’s cover girl, Cara Stein.
A slender brunette whose plastic surgeries had ensured that she was abnormally well endowed, Cara was posing in a mock kitchen set, nude except for a flimsy red apron. Covered artfully in flour, she gripped a rolling pin suggestively in one hand and a cake-battered spoon in the other. As she slowly licked it clean, her seductive gaze trained on the camera, I averted my eyes so as not to gag and headed for the other side of the room.
There were three long rolling racks of garments for the models – apparently they occasionally wore more than baking ingredients – along with a hair and makeup station, where several beauty technicians hovered among their vast array of brushes and powders. Two models wearing silk bathrobes sat at the vanities, pecking feverishly at the screens of their cellphones. No doubt keeping their Twitter and Instagram followers interested with minute-by-minute updates about their like, totally, like, glamorous lives, while waiting for a turn in front of the camera. In the back corner, I finally spotted what I’d been searching for: a long, empty buffet table upon which I promptly dumped the heavy Gemelli’s bags.
Flexing my hands, I winced as pins and needles shot through my fingertips. I was tempted to slip off my heels and rub feeling back into my arches – feet were not designed to walk ten blocks in stilettos, it’s a scientific fact – but I refrained. I was about to touch people’s food, after all.
When feeling had fully returned to my hands, I reached into the bags and unloaded the boxed salads and sandwiches. I heard Cara’s whiney voice distantly responding to some of the photographer’s directions, and tried to tune her out – she might be gorgeous, but she sounded like a feral cat caught in a rainstorm whenever she opened that million-dollar set of collagen treated lips. The studio was surprisingly quiet, the atmosphere saturated only by the hushed whispers of the makeup artists and the faint yet familiar refrains of classical music drifting through the overhead speakers.
Vitali’s Chaconne, if I wasn’t mistaken – one of my favorite classical pieces. I’d heard it for the first time on a rainy afternoon eight years ago, and in the many years since I hadn’t been able to listen to it — or any other classical music, for that matter — because it was irrevocably tied to too many painful memories. And yet, as I began to arrange the containers on the tabletop, I found that no matter how much time had passed, I still knew each mournful note by heart. The violin was mesmerizing, heart-wrenching as it climbed effortlessly through the scales. As I listened to its defiantly beautiful strains, I had to fight the urge to weep.
Jesus, Lux, it’s just a song. Let it go, already.
I quelled the gathering mist in my eyes and let the music wash over me. I couldn’t help but think that it was a strange soundtrack choice for such a sexy photo shoot, but I was just a lowly columnist – the artistic process wasn’t something I had any right to question.
I’d just lifted the last salad from the bag when I heard something far more upsetting than the tinny speaker music. Something that caused the container to slip from my fingertips and thud against the floor in an explosion of lettuce and croutons.
Or, to be more specific, someone.
Someone whose voice I hadn’t heard for seven years – whose voice I’d never expected to hear again. That same someone who’d first played Vitali for me all those years ago.
Sebastian Covington.