Hex and the Single Girl (16 page)

“Thanks,” he said. “For arranging this room. For being honest with me about your…what do you call it?”

“Telegraphopathy,” she said.

He approved. “Very Latinate.”

“I came up with it myself.”

Hoff grinned as much as his bruising would allow. “I also want to thank you for being my friend,” he said. “If you’re sure we can’t be more than friends.”

Emma said, “I promise not to rattle your sexual identity or put a maniac on your trail again.”

“In that case,” he said, “you may take
one
Vicodin.”

Knock on the door. Emma let Susan in.

Susan melted as soon as she saw Emma. Clearly, the strain of being angry was too much for her. “I’m sorry I fired you!” she said. “I was upset and hurt, and confused…”

“Shut up and meet my friend Hoffman Centry.” Emma steered Susan into the room and toward the bed.

Hoff sat as upright as possible. He said, “I apologize for my appearance. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Susan said, “My God, what happened to you?”

He said, “I was mugged.”

“By Jeff Bragg,” said Emma.

“That’s not possible,” said Susan. “Jeff wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Technically, he didn’t hurt me,” said Hoff. “But he did pull a gun on me.”

“And he threatened me—twice,” said Emma. “The fact is, Jeff Bragg is paranoiac and weirdly secretive. His peculiar habits. His anti-social behavior. Think about how well you really know him. Turns out, not so well.”

Susan asked, “You’re sure it was Jeff?”

“Emma helped me identify him with her
telegraphopathy.
” He smiled, liked saying it. Or maybe the Vicodin was taking effect.

Susan said, “I swear, when Jeff and I first met, he was a mild-mannered—albeit, insanely handsome—guy. Just an other accountant among a hundred others at a corporate lunch.”

“I agree with the insane part,” said Emma.

Hoff said, “Hold on. Do you mean to tell me that the savage who stuck a gun in my face is an
accountant?
”

Susan looked at Hoff, at his bruised skin and missing tooth. She sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “He was my boyfriend, on and off, for a year. It’s off now. I’m sorry I got Emma involved with him.”

“Unfortunately, my involvement dragged in Hoff,” said Emma.

Susan sighed. “I wish I’d never met him.”

Hoff said, “And I wish you’d never met him, too.”

Emma wanted to ask more questions, but she’d lost her audience. Susan was busy arranging Hoff’s ice packs. The butterfly grace of her dainty wrists was hypnotic. Hoff stared at her, was at her tender mercy.

Emma said, “Susan is a vice president at the Verity Foundation. She’s in charge of the class action suit against Riptron.”

“I’m impressed,” said Hoff.

“Hoff is a vice president at Ransom House. He edited the Seymour Lankey book that’s coming out later this week.”

“We have Riptron in common,” said Susan.

“And we’re both vice presidents,” said Hoff.

Susan asked, “How do you two know each other?”

Emma fielded that one. “We met in my neighborhood. At a liquor store.”

Hoff said, “I was buying a bottle of wine for a dinner party, and Emma was buying a bottle of Bailey’s.”

“For personal use,” said Emma. “We got to talking. Hoff asked me out.”

“You two date?” asked Susan, surprise and disappointment in her voice.

“We went out a few times,” said Emma.

“Six,” corrected Hoff. “Which was enough for us to realize we’re better as friends. And how do you two know each other?”

“Emma is one of the plaintiffs in the class action suit against Riptron,” said Susan. “I interviewed her, and the conversation turned to our personal lives. We decided to meet for drinks and got to be friends.”

The three smiled at each other. “I’m glad to be here,” said Emma. “Among friends.”

The lonely child inside would always doubt. But Emma did have friends. They were all she had, in fact. And, if she nudged gently, her friends seemed primed to have each other.

Hoff said genially, “Well, friends. I have a minibar. Room service. Vicodin. How may I entertain you?”

“I feel restless,” said Emma. “I’m going to take off.”

“You can’t leave Hoff alone,” said Susan.

“You stay,” said Emma.

Chapter 17

“G
ood morning!”

The greeting was so loud and proud it hurt Emma’s ears. She said, “It is?”

“Welcome to Crusher Advertising. My name is Natasha. How can I help you?”

Natasha at the front desk was about twenty-two-years old with huge black-lined eyes, a closely shorn head, dangling gold earrings, latte-colored skin. Her outfit was an exact knockoff of the gray suit Daphne wore at Emma’s apartment.

It was eight o’clock in the fucking morning. This Natasha had no right to be so put together at the ungodly hour. She smelled good, too, like black tea and mint. Emma said, “Daphne Wittfield wanted to see me.”

“Your name?”

“Emma Hutch.”

Natasha paused. “The mutant?”

Emma sighed. “Yes.”

“You were expected an hour ago.”

“I’m not used to impromptu seven o’clock meetings,” growled The Good Witch in a bad mood. Daphne had called her at six.

“Ms. Wittfield demands total commitment from her employees.”

Emma squinted. Was Natasha being snarky about Ms. Wittfield and her “demands,” or was she a faithful member of Daphne’s flock? “I’m not her employee,” said Emma.

“I thought you were,” said Natasha. “Follow me, please.”

Emma did, warily. She knew she was about to be fired. What else would explain the six o’clock summons? Emma

wanted to get it over with, go home, and crawl back under the covers where she belonged.

The Crusher Advertising office building was located on Madison Avenue at 38th Street. Not a glamorous block. The building itself was limestone with ornate cornices. Otherwise, the high-rise was uninspiring and utilitarian. Crusher Advertising occupied the top four floors. Daphne’s office was at the tippy-top.

As she was escorted to her execution, Emma checked out the framed print ads that hung on the hallway walls. Crusher had some huge accounts, including a pharmaceutical company that revolutionized anti-depressants, a food company that invented low-carb cookies, and a beverage company that promised good health and long life in five fruity flavors.

Emma slowed to examine the series of ads for SlimBurn diet pills.

Emma stopped and said, “I haven’t seen this one before.”

“It’s not out yet. We’re debuting the ’after’ part of the ad on a Times Square billboard on Friday.”

The top text line of the ad read, “Fat to Fabulous.” Underneath the copy, there were two photos. In the ’before’ shot, a rotund Marcie, wearing a tent-cum-evening gown, was seated in front of a lavish spread of food on a well-set table.

She was laughing, a Henry VIII turkey leg in her fist, grease on her lips. The photo was staged, but it was supposed to look like a candid paparazzi shot.

The ’after’ photo was also a staged candid that must have been photo-shopped down to the last pixel. The picture was a full-frontal shot of Marcie on a beach in a bikini. She was laughing, her jaw tilted back to showcase her sinewy throat. Slim fingers flitted on her jutting collarbone. Her bikini was brief, showing a flat tummy and slim hips. The text underneath the two photos: “It’s Time.”

“Marcie is an inspiration to us all,” said Natasha. “A beautiful woman and a great humanitarian.”

“Okay, that time I’m positive you were being snarky.”

Expression blank, Natasha said, “Here we are.” She knocked on the four-paneled door and walked away, quickly.

From inside, Daphne called, “Come in.”

Emma entered the spacious corner office. As she’d suspected, Daphne’s window blinds were closed, blocking out natural light and the view. The furniture was cushy and expensive looking, including a leather couch and desk chair, a titanium-legged desk, and a computer stand to match. Emma’s olfactory nerve endings detected the faint scent of oiled machinery.

“Close the door,” said Daphne. She was well turned out at that ridiculous hour, too, in a suede jacket, black skirt, and knee-high boots.

Emma closed the door. She stood by it, since she would be leaving soon anyway.

Daphne said, “What did you do to Liam Dearborn yesterday?”

“I can explain. A friend of mine was mugged…”

“That’s too bad,” interrupted Daphne. “Now, tell me about your encounter with Liam. Precise details.”

“I wish I could,” said Emma. “My head is a bit fuzzy at this hour.” No way was Emma going to describe the heartache she’d felt in the limo with William, wanting him, but knowing that, for at least three good reasons, she’d never have him. One of those reasons was sitting behind her titanium desk, glaring.

Emma said, “I take it that my work here is done.”

Daphne snorted. “You got that right.”

The Good Witch nodded. She’d been teetering on the edge of disaster for months. With this firing, she’d officially fallen off. Somehow, Emma was relieved. Dreading a disaster might be worse than living it, she realized. She’d had a ten-year run as The Good Witch of Greenwich Village. She still had time to sell her apartment before the bank took possession. She’d make a profit, start over somewhere else. Do something else and be brave about it. Grace, a flower rising from the mud, blossomed with acceptance and resignation.

I am that flower,
thought Emma.

Daphne opened the top drawer of her desk and reached inside. She pulled out a black ledger. She opened it and clicked a pen. “I’m writing the check to cash,” said the blond.

“The check?” said Emma.

“I’ll make it for ten thousand. Five for completion and a five thousand dollar bonus for getting the job done in less than a week.”

Her eyes fixed on the swirling pen. Emma asked, “Completion?” And then,
“Ten thousand dollars?”

Daphne ripped the check out of her book and waved it in the air. Emma inched close enough to the desk to snatch it.

Ten thousand. To cash. Emma said, “I don’t understand.”

Daphne grinned arrogantly. “I had a lovely evening with Liam last night.”

Did he sleep with Daphne? Impossible! Emma said, “In what sense?”

“We had a delicious dinner at the Broome Street Grille. And then he brought me to his studio on Greene Street and sketched my portrait for an hour. Emma, it was the red pose I’d done for Victor.”

“The human flame.” The words William had used to describe Emma in his arms.

Daphne nodded. “After I saw the rough sketch, I knew you’d done your job and done it well. William and I shared a bottle of wine, talked business. Came to some agreements there. And then he kissed me goodbye.”

“Was this a deep, passionate kiss with open lips and tongue?” asked Emma.

“That’s none of your business,” said Daphne shortly.

“That’s exactly my business,” corrected Emma.

“It satisfied my definition of a first-date kiss,” said Daphne. “Liam wants me.” She laughed suddenly, as if

remembering a private, intimate moment between them. “Yes, he most definitely wants me,” she repeated.

Emma smelled something bad—sudden and overwhelming. On top of that, her ears started ringing and her eyes stung from a glare that wasn’t there. Her senses were reacting aggressively to this news, or Daphne’s presence. Emma had to leave immediately. She said, “If you’re happy, I’m happy. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Daphne said, “I wrote that check on the condition of total confidentiality. You can’t tell anyone about our transaction.

Is that understood?”

“It’s in the contract,” said Emma. The Good Witch reached for the knob. But she stopped and said, “I’m curious about something.”’

“Yes?” asked Daphne, not hiding her impatience.

“Marcie is your friend,” said Emma. “You said so at Victor’s. But you went behind her back, hiring me to steal her boyfriend.”

“And?”

“And I was curious why you’d do that to a friend.”

Daphne said, “I knew they wouldn’t last.”

“And your seduction had nothing to do with getting William to hire you for the ArtSpeak campaign? You gave me two weeks to lure him to you, and he’d given you two weeks to audition for the job.”

“You do have big ears,” said Daphne. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Little bird.”

“You should be ashamed, Emma,” said Daphne. “You call yourself a matchmaker and you can’t recognize a woman in love when she’s sitting right in front of you.”

Chapter 18

R
eason to be cheerful: She was suddenly rich.

Reason to be miserable: William wanted Daphne.

Emma was not in a reasonable mood, either way. She’d achieved her goal, secured her future, but now the future seemed bleak and gray. Sunshine free. As soon as she left Daphne’s midtown office building, Emma headed straight to Victor’s. She sought succor. And Victor had always been a super succor. Granted, his comfort would be cold (i.e., platonic). But she’d take what she could get.

She had a set of keys for his place, so she let herself in the front doors. Emma rode the grindingly slow elevator to Victor’s third-floor studio. As the box ascended, she heard music, the rhythmic techno Victor used for fashion shoots.

Fine. She’d watch him work. She’d be happy to watch him clean out his freezer. Just as long as she didn’t have to be alone.

The pulsing beat got louder. Victor’s apartment gradually came into view as the platform rose (he’d forgotten to close the loft-side elevator door again). As the room came into full view, Emma blinked in confusion at what she saw. In the middle of the loft, Victor was dancing in a frenzy, a belt with silk scarves tucked into it around his waist and a feather boa around his neck. On the floor, draped in a gold and sequined cloak, a bejeweled crown atop her head, Ann Jingo lounged on the beanbag chair, yelling, “Faster, faster,” over the music.

Before Emma could punch the buttons to take her down, Victor did an impressive twirl and saw her standing inside the steel cage. He froze. Ann turned toward Emma and then buried herself in the beanbag. Victor unfroze and turned off the music.