Hex and the Single Girl (28 page)

“What’s so great about this parade?” asked Sherman Hollow, Esq. “It’s just a bunch of queers dancing in the streets, high on Ecstasy, wearing idiotic costumes, if they’re not completely naked.”

“Exactly!” said Emma. “You coming?”

“Do I have to wear a costume?” he asked.

“Why don’t you come as a lawyer who didn’t go to Harvard to watch half a million gay men dance naked in the

street?”

“I could do that,” he said. “Or come as the Wolfman.”

“Tonight, eightish. Costumes preferred, but not required.”

“It’s a good view?” asked Natasha of Crusher Advertising. “Because I want to see everything.”

“My friend’s building is on Sixth,” said Emma. “He’s got a terrace that hangs over the avenue. You won’t miss a thing.”

“Will there be any single guys?”

Emma thought of William. “Why else would I throw a party?” she asked. “Natasha, if you don’t mind, could you give Daphne a message for me? Tell her she was right to cancel the check. I don’t deserve the money.”

“I would tell her. But she no longer works here.”

“She got fired?”

Natasha said, “Fired? Ceramic bowls get fired. Daphne Wittfield has been excommunicated from Crusher Advertising.

She no longer exists. She is like a dead person. I’ve been reassigned to another exec, a thirty-year-old white boy who must’ve been raised by a mean black nanny. He’s terrified of me.”

“And you’ll use your black power for good?” asked Emma.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Natasha. “My mother didn’t scrub toilets so I would go easy on the man.”

“But she didn’t.”

“That’s what I
just said.
”

“Tonight, eightish. Can you and Susan bring some food?” asked Emma. “Victor insists that we serve only fun-size candy bars. And what’s so fun about a teeny-tiny Snickers? A fun-size Snickers should be three feet long.”

Hoff said, “What about drinks?”

“Victor will allow only a hard cider punch. Mulled.”

“I’ll order a few sandwich platters and a couple of cases of beer,” said Hoff. “And you’ll reimburse me.”

“Absolutely,” said Emma, counting down to her last dollar. “And, maybe, grab a few boxes of Clementines. And a case of wine. Also, if possible, some olives for martinis. Plus vodka. And vermouth. And some chips. Dip. Salsa. Oh, and wear a costume.”

Hoff said, “Why don’t I come as the caterer?”

“Or you could come as the sexiest man at the party, who also happens to be a genius editor, stupendous friend, stylish, charming, articulate…did I say sexy?”

“You said sexiest,” said Hoff. “Does that means William Dearborn isn’t invited?”

“He’s not on my list, no.”

“Has it occurred to you that everyone you know is better off since you met William? That, in the last nine days, you’ve changed lives, created couples, inspired art, boosted careers, and, in Marcie Skimmer’s case, possibly saved her very soul?”

“Daphne’s not better off,” said Emma.

“Who is Daphne?” asked Hoff.

“Tonight. Eightish. Costume. Friends.”

“I work until nine,” said Deidre at Oeuf. Emma could hear the plates clattering in the background.

“So come at nine.”

“But I have to go home and get on my costume first.”

Emma sighed. “So come at ten.”

“Guess what my costume is,” prompted Deidre.

“Laura Bush.”

“Noooo.”

“Minnie Mouse.”

“Wrong again,” said Deirdre.

Emma said, “A pain in the ass?”

“See you at ten,” said the Oeuficious waitress. “Closer to ten fifteen.”

“Tonight. Eight or nine. Bring Alfie. Congrats on the Old Navy thing, by the way.”

“It’s been a whirlwind,” said Marcie. “Will Daphne be coming tonight?”

“No,” said Emma. “She’d rather die than see me again.”

“Or me.”

“Considering what she did to you, you should be glad to be rid of her.”

“I hope I am,” said Marcie cryptically. And then, chirpily, “See you later!”

“It’s tonight. Eightish. At Victor’s.”

“Didn’t Victor tell you? We broke up,” said Ann Jingo.

“So?” said Emma.

“Breaking up means you no longer see the person you broke up with.”

“I didn’t realize you were so conventional,” said Emma.

“I won’t be lied to,” said Ann.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, he’s sorry,” said Emma dismissively. “What do you want from him? Blood? And, if so, does it have to be human?”

“I’m never going to forgive Victor,” said Ann.

“Right,” said Emma. “So I’ll see you tonight.”

Ann said, “Hold on one second.”

Phone muffled. Emma listened as hard as she could, and picked up murmurings—English accented murmurings.

Emma imagined William standing in front of Ann’s desk in his skinny suit, bangs hanging, smiling, eyes alive, thoughts hatching. Then she pictured him completely naked, the dusting of chest hair, package jiggling from laughter.

“You there?” asked Ann, suddenly back on the phone. “Liam just told me that Alfie Delado sold the Penis Christ sculpture to Paris Hilton for fifty thousand dollars. He’s gone now, down the hall. Do you, uh, have a message for him?”

Did he have a message for her? “I’ve got to go,” said Emma.

Victor and Emma worked for hours decorating his studio. At a discount warehouse store they came across a crate of battery-powered motorized ghosts that glided back and forth on a cable and made tormented, creepy sounds. The hosts wired the cables all over the studio, and, after flicking a dozen “on” switches, the loft was overrun with gliding, moaning nylon ghosts.

“Do they sound scary—or sick?” asked Victor.

“They sound like they need a drink,” said Emma, taking a sample of hard mulled cider.

“How many people did you invite?” he asked, pouring a package of fun-size Mounds into a crystal bowl.

“About ten. I told everyone to bring a friend.”

“I sent a mass email,” said Victor. “I haven’t had a chance to check the RSVPs, though.” He powered up his iBook and clicked to the evite page. “Oh, shit,” he said.

“No one’s coming?”

“Everyone’s coming!” he said. “And they’re all bringing five friends. The RSVP total says two hundred!”

“We’re going to need more Mounds,” said Emma.

The two hosts ran out to the corner deli and bought every last package of candy they could find. It would never be enough.

At eight on the nose, the first wave of guests arrived. Victor introduced Emma to his photographer friends, and their friends, and their friends’ friends, but she’d remember them only as the A-Team, the Justice League, the Powerpuff Girls, and the Seven Samurai. Amazingly, her party anxiety hadn’t showed up. She made a point of keeping the music low and the lights dim.
So far, so good,
she breathed.

By eight-thirty, the party was packed. The famous Greenwich Village Halloween Parade was also underway. Sixth Avenue was crammed with floats and revelers on foot. The throng wasn’t comprised solely of gay men, of course.

Emma spotted costumed families (her fave: Frankenstein’s monster, his bride, and two little Igors), singles, couples, gangs of friends, seniors to teenagers. The ad hoc theme this year seemed to be classic horror: monsters, vampires, ghouls, hunchbacks, mummies, ghosts, masks with eyes falling out, head wounds, stab wounds, spilling brains—the good, old-fashioned gore Emma grew up on and was fortified by like spinach and fresh air. In her Glinda the Good Witch gown, Emma felt like a confection, way too sweet.

“You look good enough to eat,” said a Hillary Clinton in a blond wig, taupe blazer, and velour headband.

Emma said, “She gave up the headband in 2001.”

“I’m First Lady Clinton,” said Natasha. “Not Senator Clinton.”

“You look exactly like her!” said Emma. “If she were twenty-two years old. And black.”

“She is black,” said Natasha. “American’s first black First Lady.”

Emma laughed but had to stop when all the oxygen in the loft was sucked into the elevator shaft as it lifted Marcie, Alfie, and Sherman into the studio.

Marcie’s arrival (in the broader sense—and Emma hated to use the word “broad” in connection to Marcie) was

punctuated by her costume. She’d come as Marilyn Monroe, an obvious choice perhaps, but she was a stunner.

Dreadlocked Alfie, head-to-toe in red, green, and gold, accessorized with a cigar-sized joint, appeared to be a white Bob Marley.

Emma pointed out Sherman. “You see that guy over by the elevator dressed as the Wolfman?” she asked Natasha.

“The shrimp in pelts?”

“That shrimp didn’t go to Harvard to fall unexpectedly in love with the first black First Lady whose mother didn’t scrub toilets to see her daughter hook up with a rich, white entertainment attorney with offices on Park Avenue.”

“She didn’t,” agreed Natasha. “You know, I’ve always been attracted to hirsute men.”

Even if they were prematurely balding? “Keep that under your wig,” whispered Emma. “Come, let me introduce you to your new boyfriend.”

She’d only just brought Natasha over to Sherman when Marcie grabbed Emma by the wand and pulled her aside.

“We need to talk. I’m worried about Alfie,” Marcie said breathily. “He’s in moral danger.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Someone wants to kill you too?”

Probably, thought Emma. “Do you mean
mortal
danger?”

“What did I say?” asked Marcie.

“Let’s find a quieter place to talk.”

Emma was daunted by having to push through the crowd, but it turned out she needn’t have worried. The people parted for Marcie as if she were Moses and they were the Red Sea. The two women found privacy on Victor’s bed behind a Japanese screen in the back of the loft.

Emma fluffed out her tulle and watched Marcie sit gracefully beside her on the bed, cross her endless legs, and look at her host from under thick, black eyelashes. For a moment, Emma was speechless.

Marcie asked, “You think I can pull off Marilyn?”

“If you can’t, no one can,” said Emma.

Marcie smiled and said, “I might manage to achieve iconic status on my own.”

“What a relief that will be.”

“You have no idea,” said Marcie. Then she sighed heavily, sexily. Emma fingered her wand.

“I’m afraid of Daphne,” said Marcie.

“Me, too.”

“I’m afraid she’s going to kill Alfie.”

A nylon ghost flew over their heads, moaning.

Emma said, “Does that sound scary, or sick?”

“You know Daphne and I were roommates in college,” said Marcie. “When we graduated, we got an apartment

together. We were both broke. Daphne was in business school at Fordham and I was trying to get modeling jobs, but I was always either too old or too fat. We talked about becoming stars all the time. But neither of us could get a break.

“We survived on dates,” she continued. “Dates for dinner. Dates to pay the phone bill. Dates for movies. I might have gotten a few more dates than she did. I might have stolen a few of hers, too.”

Emma didn’t need intuition—or super vision—to see where this was going. She said, “The rumor that Daphne killed a guy.”

Marcie nodded. “Steve Wren. Daphne met him at a party. She brought him home. She went into her bedroom to

change. I found him alone, on the couch. I’d been rejected by an agency that day, and I needed a boost. You

understand, right?”

Not in the slightest. “Go on,” said Emma.

“Daphne caught us. She says I shoved her first. I remember it differently. Years of mutual resentment came out in the fight. We were punching and scratching. Hair pulling. Steve tried to stop us. He was pushed back, tripped on the rug, and landed face first on the corner of the glass coffee table. We called 911, but it was too late.”

A ghost whirred above, its tormented cry low and slow.

“That ghost needs new batteries,” said Marcie.

Emma said, “I heard that the police found Daphne alone with the guy. She claimed self-defense.”

“We not only killed him, we killed his reputation,” said Marcie. “Daphne looked more beat up than I did, which worked for the self-defense story. She said, ’I’ll get this one,’ like she was picking up the check at dinner, and told me to leave. That was five years ago, and she’s been holding it over me ever since. She uses our secret like”—she glanced at Emma’s accessory—“like a magic wand. She waves it, and I do whatever she wants. I’ve gone out with men so

she’d get jobs and promotions. I’ve agreed to her schemes, like the SlimBurn ads. It’s almost like Steve Wren’s death was part of her master plan to get control over me.” Then, almost reverently, she added, “Daphne is an excellent long-term planner.”

“Both of you got to the top of your professions. She must have done something right,” said Emma.

“But I dumped her yesterday,” said Marcie. “She’ll want payback. Alfie is my world, so I assume she’d go after him.

I’ve seen first hand how cold-blooded she can be.”

“Why did you want to know who Daphne hired me for?” asked Emma.

Marcie shrugged. “That old jealousy, I guess.” The two women had been needling and tormenting each other for years as if their lives depended on it, thought Emma. Maybe they did.

Emma said, “You should confess, about the accident.”

“I know,” said Marcie. “Alfie needs to know.”

“I meant to the police.”

“Well, that would be taking the soul cleansing a little too far.”

The host’s ears pricked up. Despite the party noises, Emma heard someone calling her name.

Marcie said, “I need you to help me protect Alfie.”

“I will. Whatever I can do. He wasn’t the man Daphne wanted, you know,” said Emma. “I tricked you about that.”

“On a subconscious level, you knew what you were doing to send me to him,” said Marcie.

“EmMMMA! Where the devil are you?” shouted the voice again. Hoff.

Marcie heard it too. “Shall we?”

The two women returned to the party. The hostess found Hoff quickly enough. “You look beautiful,” said Satan

himself, with horns. And a forked tail. “The food is on the table. I have a receipt.”

“Susan is an angel?” asked Emma.

“She’s also dressed up like one,” said Hoff. “Let’s go find her.”