Hex and the Single Girl (7 page)

“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Emma. She was so used to the innocent theatrics in the staged shots of yester month.

She loved her clients as wood nymphs or Cleopatras; the photos reminiscent of lingerie catalogues, female-crafted soft-core porn. It was part of the fantasy Emma created in the minds of men.

But the Daphne portfolio, the stark, conceptual so-called “art” shots? And the total nudity? Emma was embarrassed to look at them, let alone work with them. She also realized that she was at a disadvantage, missing the shoot. Watching the process helped Emma cement the images in her mind. The finished photos became reference points, reminders of what she’d already seen of her clients’, body, heart, and soul.

Daphne hadn’t let Emma see anywhere near her soul. Whether the blond had a heart remained a mystery. Emma

dropped the portfolio on her desk. “I far prefer the usual cheesecake,” she said to Victor.

“You can’t have your cheesecake and eat, too,” he replied, taking a seat on the couch and opening up his copy of the
New York Post.

“I hate this case,” said Emma, dropping the Daphne portfolio. “Daphne shows zero emotion. She’s approaching

seduction like a marketing plan. And she’s weirdly confident. Women in love are insecure. They’re anxious and confused.”

“Sort of how you’re acting right now,” said Victor. “Does that mean you’re in love?”

He meant it as a joke, but Emma was not amused. “Do you remember Susan Knight?” she asked, changing the subject.

“You shot her about a year ago. Petite, brown hair, blue eyes. Headband, nude hose and flats?”

Victor asked, “Posed as a wild west call girl?”

Emma nodded. “I’m working with her again.”

“Who’s the guy?” asked Victor, flipping the pages of the paper. “Does she need new pictures?”

“Same guy,” said Emma. “I made a special exception for her. But I’m done with him. It was one-night only.” She hadn’t called Susan to report in yet about Jeff.

“Emma, I’m impressed. You have achieved a feat that is the goal of every New Yorker.”

“Having two clients at once?”

“You made Page Six,” he said. He saw the expression on her face. “Relax. It’s a blind item. Your anonymity is safe.”

Emma sat down next to Victor and read the entry.

JUST ASKING…

What Anglo artist got caught canoodling with a buxom brunette in the back room at Ciao Roma by a

larger-than-life model who may or may not be his new girlfriend? The brunette’s identity is a mystery to

us—and to the bewitched Brit who’s been searching for her ever since.

“He’s searching for me?” she whined. “How am I supposed to sneak up on him now?” Much as this complicated her case, Emma’s pulse was doing the tango. She couldn’t help remembering their kiss, and a wave of heat careened south.

“Bewitched Brit,” read Victor. “Apropos word choice.”

Ring.
Landline. It had to be either Daphne or Susan, and Emma didn’t want to speak to either one. She let her machine get it.

The message: “Emma. Daphne Wittfield. I hope you approve of the photos. You’ll get to put them to use tonight.

William is having a party to preview ArtSpeak, his new software package. It’s at Haiku on 14th Street and Ninth Avenue. I’ll be working the event. I expect to see you there at eight o’clock sharp. Your name is on the guest list.”

Click. Message over.

“She didn’t say goodbye,” said Emma.

“I love Haiku,” he said. “I’ll be your date.”

“I love haiku, too,” said the Good Witch. “Here’s one:

I am not

A brunette;

But I do

Concede

Buxom.”

“Any shade of brown—including bronze—falls under the category of brunette,” said Victor. “And your poem does not follow the haiku format.”

“Daphne’s voice rings in my head like warning bells. And, because of my sensitive hearing, the bells are very loud.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting a
feeling
about her,” said Vic.

“I’m not
feeling,
” corrected Emma. “I’m hearing.”

“She’s not so bad—for an egomaniacal control freak. I know you like to provide clients with your ’emotional

services.’ Just forget that part. This case is all mind, no heart. Daphne hired you to do a job. Do it, take the money, and be done with it.”

“A job. That’s really all my matchmaking is,” said Emma. “The thing is, I’ve always thought of it as a personal involvement. Like I’m part of something larger than myself.”

“I feel sorry for Dearborn,” said Victor. “You’ve got Daphne for two weeks only. If you succeed, he’ll have to deal with Daphne for a lot longer. Once she reels him in, she’s not going to let him go.”

An image flashed in Emma’s mind. William, naked (as usual), with a rope around his waist. Daphne was pulling the rope, drawing him toward her. William struggled, not understanding why he couldn’t overpower her. He stared at his captor, eyes wild. Then he turned his head and his eyes seemed to look right at Emma, the audience. He said, “What are you waiting for?”

Vic chuckled suddenly, bringing her back to the living room. “I just got an idea for your costume. I can guarantee you he won’t look at you.”

Her heart still pounding from imagined eye contact with Dearborn, Emma said, “Ladies’ room attendant?”

He shook his head. “Considering your history with him, and his history with women, we have only one option.”

“Which is?”

He put down the paper and stood up. “I’ll be back in a few hours with everything we need.”

“Just tell me,” she said impatiently.

“And ruin the surprise?” he asked.

Victor left and Emma was alone with the photos of Daphne. She couldn’t bear to look. Instead, Emma reached for the phone to call Susan. But what would she say? Jeff proved himself a scumbag by touching her and a paranoid maniac by accusing her of spying? It was all too weird. And for Emma, who was weird by any conventional standard, that was saying a lot.

Emma’s mind kept going back to Dearborn. What would he make of these odd images of Daphne when Emma popped

them into his head? Would he think the sun shone out of Daphne’s ass, as the client intended? Or would he be

mystified by Daphne’s apparent cumulous flatulence? What would happen if Emma put herself in his mind? If she did self-serve? For one thing, she couldn’t easily do it. Since she avoided being photographed and hardly ever gazed at herself in mirrors for long languid minutes, she couldn’t quickly conjure a still picture of herself to send.

But her job was to send these images of Daphne. She’d been paid, and her professionalism was above reproach.

Emma closed her eyes and visualized making the transfer. A ghostlike wave would travel from her cranium and into William Dearborn’s. His green eyes, shiny like stones in a brook, would react to the transmission, a cocky grin erupting on his face, stretching his sideburns, dimpling his cheeks. The same cheeks she had held in her hands when they kissed.

Her eyes snapped open.

This would not do. Emma said aloud, “Keep focused.” And, “Remember what’s at stake.” And, “It’s just a job.”

She made, “It’s just a job” her mantra for the remainder of the afternoon. The phrase came out of her mouth with ease.

But she couldn’t get Dearborn out of her head.

Chapter 9

“N
ame?”

“Emma Hutch.”

The officious-yet-cute woman with the loose brown bun and tweed mini-skirt checked her clipboard. She flipped pages on it. She tapped it with her pen. Emma and Victor were standing outside of Haiku on the coldest night of the year thus far. “I see the name. You’re Emma Hutch?” Tweedy asked, doubtful.

“You bet I am!” said Emma.

“I don’t think so,” replied Tweedy.

“Check for Victor Armour,” said Victor.

“Are you together?” asked the gatekeeper.

He smiled slyly. “Why do you want to know?” Tweedy gave him a flirtatious smile. “I have nothing to do with that person,” he said.

She checked her list. “No Victor Armour. Sorry.”

The crush of people behind them forced Victor and Emma to the side. They watched as Ms. Tweedy approved and

rejected the aspiring guests one-by-one, occasionally reminding the crowd, “This party is invite only!”

Victor whispered, “Your costume is presenting a problem. It’s too good. Better call Daphne.”

“But she can’t be seen with us,” said Emma, watching a cluster of gawking tourists, a passel of local press, a klatch of slutty women, and a pride of hero-worshipful tech geeks, all of them leaning across the velvet rope, desperate to pass through the black-lacquer doors of Haiku.

Emma said, “You look dashing tonight, Victor.” He really did, in a slim-legged gray suit and blue tie, hair tousled with precision. “I’m proud to have you for my date.”

“You look good too,” said Victor. “If I were a woman, I’d fuck you.” He looked down the length of her, stopping at her fly. “You should have let me pack your panties, though.”

She’d drawn the line there. Emma was more than willing to strap down her breasts, glue on an itchy fake beard, mustache, sideburns, and man wig. She liked her wool suit and the wingtips. But she steadfastly refused to put a stuffed sock in her underwear. She said, “Say it slid down my pant leg and landed on the floor.”

“That would be awkward,” said Victor. “I can’t believe I’m going to meet William Dearborn! You have to call

Daphne.”

Emma dialed Daphne’s cell.

Within three minutes, the client sneaked them in a fire exit, Tweedy none the wiser.

The writing was on the wall as they entered the club, but Emma had no idea what it said. She didn’t read Japanese.

Daphne snapped her fingers. Both Victor and Emma stopped admiring the club’s murals of cherry blossoms and mount Fuji and gave their attention to the client. “William is in the main room, down the hallway there.” She pointed a finger to the left. “In half an hour, there’ll be a demonstration of the software. After that, William will be working the room.

You can hit him then. Excellent disguise, by the way. You are utterly forgettable as a man.”

“Too short,” said Emma, feeling tiny without her heels.

“This is the last time we’ll talk tonight. I don’t want William to see us together, even in your disguise,” said Daphne, who was exquisitely put together in a red halter dress with gold beading. “Did you like the pictures?”

“Like isn’t the word,” said Emma enthusiastically.

The client nodded. “Hit him three times tonight, at the very least.” Emma gave her the thumbs up, but Daphne was already gone, dashing down the narrow hallway to the main room.

Victor, meanwhile, had found a seat at the front area’s bamboo bar. He ordered two mai-tais and asked the bartender

—of Asian descent and American demeanor—what the Japanese characters on the wall meant.

He said, “It’s an ancient Japanese proverb.”

“
Japanese
proverb?” asked Victor.

“You think the Chinese are the only Asian people with proverbs?”

Victor, who was half-Italian, half-Polish and sensitive to ethnic stereotyping, said, “No! I’m sure the Japanese are pithy as hell.”

Emma asked, “So what does the writing mean?”

The bartender cleared his throat. “It reads, ’A wise man drinks quickly, quietly, and leaves a big tip.’”

Emma laughed and the bartender smiled at her, his almond skin stretched over gracefully rounded cheekbones. He was a doll. Cute, funny, employed. Three qualities she could go for. Emma fluttered her lashes at him. The bartender looked spooked and walked to the other end of the bar.

Victor said, “I guess he’s not into facial hair.”

Touching her cheeks, Emma remembered: She was a guy. “I forgot!” she said. “Maybe I should’ve used the sock, just for the bulging reminder.”

Emma and Victor quickly and quietly drank, left a big tip (as instructed), and headed for the main room. Pushing open the screen door, Victor and Emma were engulfed by the smell of sandalwood and jasmine. For her sharp nasal

receptors, it was a bit much.

“One lap, then we lock on target Dearborn,” suggested Emma.

Victor nodded and they were off, squeezing their way through the crowd of beautiful people, young, gloriously dressed, laughing, drinking, having a swell time. Emma wondered how long it’d been since she went to a party. Years, probably. She avoided large gatherings. Too much noise. Too many places to look, things to smell. Her senses would become overwhelmed and she’d feel trapped. She usually lasted about half an hour. Then she’d run home for the sensory static of her white sanctuary.

Tonight, though, she felt somewhat calm, thanks to her costume. It served as a protective shield, like an invisibility cloak. Men simply overlooked her (she was only 5’5”), and women would either appraise her in two brutal

nanoseconds or overlook her completely to check out dashing Victor at her side.

Emma said, “Women are looking at you, Vic.”

“What did you think of that girl out front?” he asked. “The one with the guest list?”

“Cute. For a clipboard Nazi.”

Toward the far end of the room, the crowd loosened. Through the slit of space, Emma saw a naked woman, flat on her back, on a table.

Victor spotted her too. He said, “This is the best party ever.”

The nude woman—mixed Asian, jet-black hair cascading over the edge of the table—lay prone on a lavishly

garnished table. Clusters of sushi were artfully arranged on top of her, dotting the length of her arms, legs, torso, piled on her breast and pudendum. Globs of wasabi and pickled pink ginger connected the sushi dots.

“Quite a spread,” said Victor, grinning.

The human platter looked right at him, which was disconcerting to say the least. “Before you make a stupid crack about where to find the spicy tuna, you should know that I can kill with a single chop stick.”

He stepped backward, away from the table, a bit shaken. “I
was
going to ask for the spicy tuna,” he said to Emma.

“Victor Armour? Is that you?” A tall, bony blond with pink frosted lipstick and glued-on eyelashes rushed at him, grabbing Vic by the lapels. Emma only glimpsed her face before she leaned in to kiss him.