Hex and the Single Girl (9 page)

“It says all that in four characters—one of which I’m pretty sure means house?” asked Emma.

Sushi Girl said a pithy, “Yes.”

Emma reached into her jacket pocket and found her wallet. She removed a fifty (Mr. Cannery would so
not
approve), and held it against the flat fly of her trousers. “You didn’t see me. You didn’t talk to me,” she said. “I am invisible.”

Sushi girl said, “Slide the bill under my shoulder and keep walking.”

Chapter 11

W
illiam Dearborn sat on Emma’s white couch, fluffy pillows on either side of him. He was shirtless, in jeans and bare feet. His hair was damp, just out of the shower, and marvelously sloppy. Placing a hand on his belly, he closed his eyes. His hand rubbed his hard ab muscles, dipping into the waistband of his jeans.

And then he opened his eyes and looked right at Emma. He said, “Are you just going to stand there gawking? Come over here. Have a seat. You’re not going to make me wait all night, are you?”

Emma’s eyes snapped open. She’d been in bed, lazing on a Sunday morning, ignoring the phone that had been ringing since 8:00 a.m., replaying her favorite daydream about Dearborn. But this time he’d broken form—and talked. That was not in her script. And, frankly, she didn’t appreciate the improv. Everything was wrong. She couldn’t even fantasize right.

Pulling the covers over her head, Emma wanted to hide in her bed forever. What would she say to Daphne (who, she assumed, was the person calling every half hour)? How to justify her colossal failure at Haiku last night? Her pathetic attempt to hit Dearborn. And then the mad panic and wild dash. And the portraits! Daphne would surely want an explanation about those. Emma threw the covers off and reached for her phone to turn the ringer off. She didn’t work on Sundays. It was in the contract.

But the phone rang in her hand. Instinctively—as in, before she remembered not to—she hit the on button and said,

“Hello?”

“I’m in love,” said Victor. “I’m also on my way up with coffee and cupcakes.”

Emma said, “I’m in my pajamas.”

“Me too,” he said.

He let himself in two minute later. As promised, he wore a pair of drawstring flannel pants, a gray sweatshirt, and unlaced hiking boots with no socks. He handed her a large cup of coffee and said, “Have you ever noticed, when you’re in love, that senses are heightened? The sun seems brighter. The air smells fresher. The coffee tastes better?”

Emma placed both hands around the cup and drank greedily, burning her tongue just a little. The coffee was delicious.

She peeked under the window shade. The sun was bright today. Cracking a window, she inhaled the city air, which was remarkably fresh. Did this mean she, too, was in love? Shaking her head, she reminded herself that her senses were always heightened.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” she asked.

“The woman with the clipboard,” he said. “She wouldn’t let us into Haiku last night.”

“Tweedy?”

“She wore a tweed skirt, if that’s what you mean. Her name is Ann Jingo. She’s William Dearborn’s right-hand

woman.”

“And what exactly, as William Dearborn’s right hand, does Ann Jingo do for him?” asked Emma, sounding oddly

jealous.

“Her job requirements vary. For instance, last night, she spent half of the party searching for a short bearded man in a wool suit. I helped her. But we never found the guy. We spoke to nearly everyone at the party. Including the sushi girl, who pretended not to speak English.”

“So I’m safe?” she asked.

“Not quite,” said Victor. “Ann remembered that we were together at the door. She remembered that you claimed to be Emma Hutch, but no one admitted to putting a woman of that name on the guest list. Daphne, FYI, is an excellent liar.

I had to swear I’d never seen you before last night.” He took a sip of coffee. “I asked Ann out. She’s thinking about it and will get back to me.”

“You’ll hear from her today,” said Emma. “I’ve got a
feeling.
”

“You don’t get
feelings,
” he reminded her. “I hope you’re right anyway.”

“Why is Dearborn so bent on finding me?”

“You know why. He’s a Bewitched Brit,” said Victor. “A moment for self-congratulations: My costume was flawless.

Dearborn thinks that the bearded man is related to his mystery woman—a brother or a cousin.”

Emma was flooded with relief. If William had recognized her through the beard, she might as well resign from the case, lose the cash cow client, walk to the bank, and turn over her keys today. On the other hand, if she weren’t working for Daphne, she could reveal herself to Dearborn and maybe kiss him again, an idea that was as terrifying as it was tantalizing.

“I’ll have to get him when he’s alone and unprotected,” said Emma. “I can’t concentrate at parties. The noise, the lights. It’s too much for me. I’m a deeply, achingly sensitive person.”

“So you say.”

“When Dearborn grabbed my wrist, I felt a million eyes on me. I wanted to jump out of my skin.”

“It was weird to watch. Like you two were in a bubble together,” said Victor. “Maybe something about him is jamming your signal.”

“Whenever we touch, I get hot,” she said.

“I told you he shouldn’t be underestimated,” said Victor. “You should fuck him and burn off all that heat. Then you’d be able to work on him for Daphne.”

“I’m sure the client would object.”

“You’re right,” he said, smiling wryly. “What was I thinking?”

He’d been thinking the same thing she’d been thinking. For two days already. Nearly non-stop.

Buzzer. Emma pushed the talk button and said, “Hello?”

“Good morning. My name is Ann Jingo,” squawked the speaker. “I’m looking for Emma Hutch.”

“It’s her!” Victor mouthed excitedly.

“Emma moved. She couldn’t pay her mortgage and fled to escape debtors’ prison.”

The speaker squawked, “Does Emma Hutch have any relatives in the area? In particular, a diminutive man with a full beard, dark brown hair…”

“Emma doesn’t have family,” she said. That was true, at least.

The intercom kept squawking. “I’d appreciate five minutes of your time. I have a sketch of the man. If Ms. Hutch could take a quick look at it…”

“I told you: She’s not here,” said Emma.

“Is there a way I can get in touch with her?”

Emma said, “No, goodbye,” and clicked the speaker’s off button.

“Doesn’t she have the sweetest, cutest, coolest voice?” said Victor. “I think she’s from Chicago.”

“Michigan,” said Emma, whose ear for accents was sharp.

“There’s no such thing as debtors’ prison.”

Phone. Emma checked caller ID. Daphne Wittfield. She took a deep breath and answered. Before her client had a chance to berate, Emma started in with, “I’m very angry with you, Daphne.”

“You’re angry with
me?
” asked the client.

“You put me in a terrible position last night. I won’t stand for that kind of treatment. If you do that to me again, I’ll cut you as a client—keeping your initial payment for the time I’ve already spent on your case, which is in the contract.”

Daphne said, “I agree that the event wasn’t the best setting for our purposes. I’m faxing you William’s schedule for this week. Try to get him coming or going from his appointments.”

“You do realize that he has a girlfriend?” asked Emma.

“You mean Marcie Skimmer? You use the term ’girlfriend’ lightly,” said Daphne. The fax machine on Emma’s desk started humming.

“Do you always work on Sunday?” asked Emma.

“By choice.”

Emma caught the fax sheet hot off the printer. She scanned it for an optimal stakeout. “William has a one o’clock lunch at the Four Seasons tomorrow.”

“It’s a standing reservation,” said Daphne. “But he hardly ever misses it.”

“I’ll be there from noon on,” said Emma. “I’ll hit him coming
and
going.”

“Good,” said Daphne. “One more thing. The portrait William used to demonstrate ArtSpeak last night. Did it remind you of anyone? Anyone you know?”

“You bet it did,” said Emma. “It looked a lot like you, Daphne. The colors were slightly off, but feature by feature it was you all over.”

“I thought it looked like someone else.”

“I can’t image who,” said Emma. “I immediately thought of you.”

“My other line,” said the client. She hung up.

Victor said, “Did she buy it?”

“I’m not sure,” said Emma. “People believe what they want to believe.”

“Which could be the summation of organized religion,” said Victor. “And love. Here’s the thing: I don’t want to lie to Ann about you. But I will, for as long as I possibly can.”

“And how long is that?”

“Until she gives me a start-to-finish blow job,” he said. “My allegiances will shift at that point.”

“I understand completely,” said Emma. “Can you hold off for two weeks?”

“That depends on Ann,” he said.

Victor’s cell phone rang. He took the call in the kitchen.

When he returned, Emma said, “That was her?”

He beamed. “I’m seeing her tomorrow night. She invited me to an exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.”

Emma looked at William’s schedule. “I’ll see you there,” she said. “But you won’t see me. Now get out. I’ve got one day to organize two brilliant disguises.”

“Need help?”

She pushed him toward the door. “I can handle it.”

A limo pulled up at the East 57th Street entrance to the Four Seasons Hotel. The driver opened the rear door for three men in Armani. The men strode toward the hotel. Poised to receive them, two people held the handles of the double doors, one on each side, like bookends. The taller one, an older man, swung the heavy door open, bowing. He wore a black tunic, black slacks with gray piping, black patent shoes, a black cap with a shiny bill, and white gloves. His co-doorperson—a woman, shorter, curvier, her bronze hair in a tight bun—had on the identical uniform, minus the

gloves. She also wore opaque black Ray Bans.

Hanging high above their heads, flags from four nations flapped in the October breeze, calling attention to the I.M. Pei designed building, as if it needed the help. The Four Seasons was one of New York’s most famous hotels. The Pool Room was the ultimate power lunch spot for the media and advertising elite. Being a doorman at such a luminous location was a privilege.

“Not just a privilege,” said the older man, name of Mr. Reade. “It’s an honor to stand under this canopy and open the door for these fine citizens.”

“Yes, sir!” said his female colleague.

“I’m old but I’m not deaf,” he said. “I hear your sass. Trainees get worse every month. Where did you say you worked before?”

“I didn’t,” Emma responded. She’d been trying to deflect conversation since she showed up an hour ago, but Mr.

Reade insisted on chatting away the excruciatingly uneventful minutes. She was impressed, though, at how the hotel guests and luncheoneers completely ignored her, as if she were a handle-happy robot, programmed to swing and shut but not to speak.

“Nearly one o’clock,” said Mr. Reade. “Go on your break.”

“I can’t,” said Emma, expecting Dearborn any minute. “You go first.”

“No, I like one o’clock. This is when the famous people come.”

“I want to see famous people, too,” said Emma. She was primed for it. For one famous person anyway. Emma had

been visualizing the transfer all morning. She’d forced herself to study the “sun out of ass” photo of Daphne so that it’d rocket out of her head and into Dearborn’s with the slightest touch. She planned to pull open the hotel door for him, brushing his hand with hers. It would seem like an accident. He’d never notice, as long as she didn’t heat up. But she wouldn’t. She’d be cool. Emma made a pledge to herself that she’d think of Dearborn as a target only. That said, she was butterflies-in-gut excited to see him.

Another limo. Another flutter on the wings of anticipation. Another group of men in suits chewing on unlit cigars. No change in the clientele since the last time Emma staked out the Four Seasons. She’d trailed men here before (which was why she had the uniform). The influx of guests got heavy for a spell and time moved more quickly. When the foot traffic slowed, Emma asked Mr. Reade for the time.

“One thirty. Take your break now or never,” he said.

“Bullocks,” she said. Dearborn was either late, or he wasn’t coming. He could have slipped inside via another entrance, but why would he do that? He didn’t know he was being staked out. This was beyond frustrating. She’d never had so much trouble getting close to a target before.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go on my break now.” Emma decided to roam the lobby. If she’d somehow missed him, maybe she could find him inside.

But then a taxi pulled up to the entrance. A handsome man hopped out and snapped his fingers at the door people.

Mr. Reade jumped (creakily) to serve. Emma took her time walking over to lug three heavy suitcases to the entrance.

“Bring these inside and take them to the bell station,” said the man Emma recognized immediately.

Her chin down, Emma asked, “Under what name, sir?”

“Roger,” he said. “Mr. Roger.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, doffing her cap. “Will you be staying long, sir?”

“Long enough,” he said, paying the cab driver. “Let’s go. Come on! Jesus Christ, do you want a tip or not?”

Emma remembered what a lame tipper he was. She said, “Roger. I mean, yes, sir!”

He stopped. “Are you trying to be funny?” he asked.

Mr. Reade said, “She’s a trainee, sir.”

“Just bring in the bags,” said Mr. Roger, otherwise known as Jeff Bragg. Emma marveled at the vehemence of his condescension. She was the size of a bug to him. A mite on the bug. A speck on the mite. If Susan could only see how he treated the servant class, she’d be ashamed of herself for fucking him. Emma felt a pang of said shame. She owed Susan a phone call, even if she had nothing to report.

Emma dragged Jeff’s bags inside to the bellhop stand and filled out the tags. Jeff strode up to the concierge desk. She lowered her chin practically to her chest to get past him and then wandered into the lobby proper. She made a tour of the bar and the restaurant and couldn’t find Dearborn. Shit and double shit! thought Emma. Where was that slippery Brit?