Читать книгу Once Bitten - Clare Willis - Страница 7

Neither Suleiman nor Moravia spoke for a long time. Finally Suleiman took a deep breath. “Well, you certainly made us look attractive. But I don’t think this quite gets at what we’re after. After all, it makes us look like we’re trying to join their society, instead of vice versa. I think people might be attracted a little more to the dark side. The seductive lure of the vampire, so to speak.”

Moravia chimed in. “Yes, Sully’s right. We don’t really see our target audience as the debutante ball, Junior League types. Frankly, most of us don’t go skiing. Too much risk of sunburn.”

I got up to close the projection screen, using the motions to cover my discomfort. How could Lucy have been working with these people for the last month and not know what they wanted? I consoled myself by thinking that if she had let me talk to them we wouldn’t be having this problem, but I knew that wasn’t necessarily true. Sometimes clients have to see a pitch to realize what they don’t want, and it helps them clarify their desires. It’s awkward, however, and a little embarrassing.

Kimberley cleared her throat. “You know, I totally agree with you,” she said. “Angie and I were pushing for something a little more, uh, edgy, but Lucy felt sure you would love this. We’ve got some other great ideas for you, though, in that vein.” She giggled at her own joke.

I kept my head down. Kimberley was now insulting Lucy in front of the clients. If Lucy caught wind of it when she came back I didn’t want her to think I’d been involved.

Suleiman jumped in, his voice enthusiastic. “I think it would be a great idea if you both came to the club and soaked in the scene, met some of our friends. I bet some of them would even be willing to be part of the campaign. Why don’t you come tonight?”

Moravia leaned across the table like she wanted to confide something. Her bosom threatened to pop out of her dress. “There’s just one thing. If Lucy comes back today, well, if you could possibly keep tonight’s date between us…It’s not that we don’t like Lucy, not at all, but we think you two deserve a chance with this.”

Suleiman nodded. “We see how things are with her,” he said pointedly.

There’s something we call account executive telepathy, which is a subtle form of body language we use to communicate around clients. I tried to silently ascertain what Kimberley thought of their proposition, but she seemed to have turned off her radar.

“Well, we’ll certainly try to come,” I said, “if not tonight, then another time. We’ll just have to check our calendars. Why don’t you write down the address?”

Suleiman pointed at Kimberley, who was stacking pens on a legal pad.

“Ask Kimberley, she’s been there before.”

Kimberley and I saw Suleiman and Moravia to the reception area. All the way back up in the elevator and down the hall I waited for Kimberley to speak. I’d already imagined the scenario—Kimberley’s tearful confession followed by my generous forgiveness. Lucy had kept us both on a short leash, but her absence had set us free. Kimberley had decided on a Machiavellian approach to career enhancement. I, on the other hand, had been raised by an Eagle Scout and a Sunday school teacher, and wasn’t capable of taking two newspapers out of the kiosk when I had only paid for one. If I were Kimberley I’d be riddled with guilt and waiting for the first opportunity to unburden myself. But Kimberley didn’t seem to feel any such obligation. When we reached her office she walked in without another word to me. Before the door had shut I followed her inside.

“So you’ve been to the House of Usher before?” I asked. “What’s it like?”

“I’m not sure.” She brushed a stray golden hair from her eye. “It was dark.”

“When did you go? Was it with Lucy?”

“Yeah, I guess it must have been. Anyway, what about going to the club tonight? It seems like Suleiman and Moravia want to give us a chance to manage their account.”

“I don’t know, Kimberley. It doesn’t seem right, with Lucy not here. We should probably put them off and wait until she shows up to decide on our next move.”

“Angie, Angie, Angie.” Kimberley shook her head. “That’s why I like you, you’re so…nice. Can’t you smell an opportunity here?”

She moved closer. “You and I both know that Lucy was never going to let us get ahead. I hope she’s all right, and I’m sure she is, but this is our chance.”

I was sure she wanted to say “my chance,” but I let her go on.

“If we show some initiative I’m sure Dick will take notice. Then maybe we can go over Lucy’s head to get a little more responsibility.”

The gleam in her eye was that of a cat who’d just spied a lame mouse. I loved the way she kept saying “we.” I could tell she felt she couldn’t go to the House of Usher by herself, since the invitation had been to both of us. But given the events of this morning, I figured she’d try to find some way to leave me on the highway with a flat tire.

“Okay, we’ll go,” I said. “Then if someone wants to suck our blood, we can defend each other.”

“Whatever.” Kimberley rolled her eyes.

“By the way,” I tried to make it sound like an afterthought, “about this morning, what you said to Dick…”

She brushed an imaginary lint fleck from her jacket.

“I know we’ve both been feeling a little controlled by Lucy, and it seemed like a good chance to show your stuff, but really, what you did was out of line.”

Kimberley knitted her perfect eyebrows and tilted her head as if she were trying to understand a foreign language. “It seems like you’re accusing me of something, Angie.”

“Someone deleted all my Macabre Factor files and emails.” I summoned my acting prowess in an attempt to look menacing and accusatory.

“Someone? Are you saying I did it? How would I know your password?”

“It’s my birthday.” My twenty-eighth birthday had just passed. Theresa had brought out a cake at the end of the day and everyone sang Happy Birthday, then the men ate cake while the women drank Diet Coke.

“Theresa told me neither you nor Lucy were here this morning, so I got ready to handle things by myself. And when you did show up you weren’t prepared. As for your computer, if it’s organized like your office or your bedroom, it’s no wonder you lost the files.” She smiled and twitched her head like a bird. “I’m going to do you a favor and forget we had this conversation. By the way, I’m house-sitting at my parents’ for a few days, so I won’t be at the apartment. Why don’t we just meet at the House of Usher, say about eleven o’clock? I bet things get started late.”

“How are you going to change clothes?”

“I have clothes at my parents’. And there’s my mom’s closet as well.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you at the club.” I left, closing her door gently behind me. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe I’d been wrong about Kimberley, maybe the loss of the files was a computer glitch or a big, stupid mistake on my part. And even if I’d had the presentation ready on my laptop I wasn’t sure I would have been able to take over the way Kimberley had, without any concern about other people’s feelings. Kimberley had me beat in the ambition department and now I could see my ruthlessness wasn’t up to par either.

Back in my office, I organized my email files until the blue screen of my desktop was as clear as the Tahitian ocean. Then I sorted through every piece of paper that was on my desk. I never found the Macabre Factor files, however, so I ruefully sent Kimberley an email asking for copies. That killed most of the morning, and I decided to leave a little early to move the car and have the alfresco lunch I’d promised myself.

In the ground floor lobby I ran into Steve Blomfelt, in an impeccable charcoal gray suit and white shirt so starched it looked like it was made of paper. While other men just tied their ties, Steve actually knew the difference between a Windsor knot and a four-in-hand and alternated them depending on the fabric.

“Leaving already?” he asked. “Did one of the other kids steal your crayons?”

Steve was a master of the split personality—starched and serious with clients and a riotously bitchy queen with friends and colleagues. He was also the closest thing to a friend that I had at this house of mirrors we called an office. Steve was thirty-five, seven years older than I, but he’d been in the advertising business for only two years. Before that he worked as a travel agent booking gay tours, until the Internet made his job obsolete. We also had that in common—we both wanted to be doing something else but hadn’t been able to make a living at it.

“Hey, Steve, I’m glad I ran into you. I want to ask you a favor. You know my clients, Macabre Factor?”

“You mean Lucy’s clients, don’t you?” Steve grinned evilly.

“Lucy’s still not back yet, Steve. No one’s seen her yet today.”

The smile turned to concern. “That is strange. I hope she’s all right.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said, and immediately felt guilty.

“Your clients, Angie?” Steve prompted.

“They rejected the preliminary ideas. It appears they want normal people to see themselves in the vampire lifestyle, not Suleiman and Moravia in the normal one. They want Kimberley and me to come out tonight to a club. Their idea is that they’ll use people from the club as models.”

“It could work. At least in New York and LA. I don’t know about Paducah, Kentucky.” Steve patted his wavy black hair, but it was already perfect. “Actually I take that back. All the teenagers in Paducah will move here when they see the ads.”

“The weird thing is that they said Kimberley had been to this club with them, but she never mentioned it to me, though, or anyone else.”

“I guess it wasn’t worth mentioning. I’ve certainly been to some strange places to schmooze a client. Me, at a baseball game?” He shuddered. “Clients are fickle, Angie. You know that. They wake up one morning and decide that dancing bears are the best way to sell their product. Go to this club with them. Maybe you’ll see something that Kimberley didn’t.”

“Can you come with me?”

“Tonight? No, sorry, I have a date. What about Kimberley?”

“Oh, she’s going. You wouldn’t believe what she did this morning, Steve. It’s like Lucy being gone has made her crazy.”

I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “I swear she got into my computer and deleted my Macabre Factor files. Then she asked Dick to let her make the pitch this morning.”

“What did she say when you confronted her?” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “You did say something, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I confronted her. She denied everything, of course.”

“So all you know is that she tried to take the lead at the presentation? That’s not crazy, Miss Angie. That’s what we call ambitious. Maybe you could learn something from Kimberley’s, um, initiative?”

“Steve, the thing I hated about acting was that every time you got a gig you had to screw someone, one way or the other. I intend to do things the honorable way.”

Steve rolled his eyes so vigorously the irises practically disappeared. “Angie, you really are too sweet to live. Let’s go get some lunch before I have to take a shot of insulin.”

I grabbed Steve by the sleeve. “Steve, do you think I should be nervous about going?”

“To lunch?”

I punched him in the arm. “No, to the club.”

“Why?”

“Well, Lucy is missing. And these guys are, they’re…”

“Posers.” He sniffed. “Honey, Lucy’s fine, I’m sure of it. She could have just decided she was tired of the advertising biz and was going to raise goats in Mendocino. I’d be out of here too, if not for my indentured servitude to Master Card and Mistress Visa. Besides, this club is a public place, there’ll be lots of people there. Go, have fun. Just don’t let them show you the crypt.”

I knew one thing: even if I didn’t go, Kimberley would. She would steal the account out from under me and I’d only have my naïveté to blame.

I checked with Theresa on my way out that night. No one had heard from Lucy. Mary in HR had called the police, who drove over to Lucy’s house in the outer reaches of the city by the ocean. They had looked in the windows and seen no signs of disturbance. Since no one except us had called them they were going to contact her sister in St. Louis before breaking in.

When I arrived home I flopped down on the living room couch in front of the window. I could never look at this view without thinking how lucky I was to have an apartment in Pacific Heights, the nicest neighborhood in San Francisco. The view of Angel and Alcatraz Islands was like looking into a jewelry case, emeralds tossed on the blue velvet background of the San Francisco Bay, framed by the Golden Gate Bridge.

Before I became Kimberley’s roommate I had been living alone in the converted attic of a dilapidated three-story Victorian in the Excelsior district, between a check-cashing store and a Popeye’s Chicken. At night the flashing red Popeye’s sign punctuated my dreams at two-second intervals.

Despite the obvious charms of this urban lifestyle, when I read a notice on the company’s electronic bulletin board saying that someone wanted to share a two-bedroom apartment in Pacific Heights for $800 a month I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Or at least to Kansas, where apartments probably still cost less than $2,000 a month, the going rate for a studio in San Francisco. It took me a while to figure out why the rent was so cheap, but when I did, it still seemed like a sweet deal.

It turned out that Kimberley’s father, Edward Bennett, a plastic surgeon, owned the building, as well as several others. Kimberley’s mother was high society, from an old San Francisco family, the Prestons. Trudi Preston Bennett’s people had come west in the Gold Rush of 1849. Edward Preston’s roots were not nearly so deep, but that didn’t keep the family out of the Chronicle’s society pages. San Francisco’s “in crowd” was not nearly so persnickety about pedigree as their East Coast counterparts. They couldn’t afford to be, since a hundred and fifty years ago the whole town was up to its neck in mud.

The Bennetts didn’t like their precious girl living alone; in fact they wanted her to live with them in the family home, a colonnaded Georgian Revival mansion at the top of Pacific Heights. The compromise was that she was allowed to live nearby, as long as she had a roommate for security. I wasn’t sure why she picked me, since I offered all the security of a Chihuahua puppy. Not to mention the fact that we are about as different as two people can get.

All of Kimberley’s clothes were sorted by color and arranged from light to dark in her closet. Her shoes were stacked neatly with a photo of each pair pasted to the box. My clothes arrange themselves when I throw them on the floor, and I often search for ten minutes to find the mate to a shoe I want to wear. But as long as I confined the mess to my room our arrangement worked out.

Three months after I moved in Kimberley was transferred from High Tech to my department, Consumer Products, with Lucy as her boss. This created a little more togetherness than either one of us would have chosen, but we seemed to be making the best of it, at least until today’s showdown. Macabre Factor was the only account we shared, thank goodness.

I made a sandwich and a bag of microwave popcorn, the mainstay of my diet. “We” don’t eat in the living room, so I flipped through Kimberley’s fashion magazines in the kitchen. Then I watched TV until 10:00, took a shower, and headed to my room to find something to wear to the club.

I plowed through my closet, pulling things out, looking at them, and then dropping them into piles that I fully intended to pick up later. Anything that wasn’t black wouldn’t do. Luckily that didn’t eliminate much of my wardrobe, since most my clothing was black, the preferred palette of both actors and advertising account executives. A lot of my stuff was also vintage, which didn’t work too well in a business that worshipped the new, but would be great for mixing with folks who favored floor-length gowns and cut-away frock coats. In the back of my closet I hit pay dirt: a beautiful Victorian silk mourning dress with long narrow sleeves that closed with a dozen tiny buttons, even a little train falling from a slight bustle in the back. I had found it a year ago in a used clothing shop on Haight Street and had paid two hundred dollars for it without argument. The silk was worn and there were a few tears at the stress points but that just added to its appeal. It was so Arsenic and Old Lace that I couldn’t resist it. I hung it reverently in my closet but never imagined there’d be an occasion to wear it.

Now makeup. I had some Macabre Factor products: white base makeup, black eyeliner, a lipstick called “Coagulate,” and some greenish-black fingernail polish. But really, how far was I going to take this? Normally I wear just enough makeup to ease the contrast between my pale skin and dark freckles. I powdered my face with my own powder, lined my eyes with the Macabre Factor eye pencil, put mascara on my lashes. Finally I dabbed on a little Coagulate lipstick, which was red with a disturbing blue undertone.

My hair was looking pretty good, thanks to the three products I’d applied to tame my curls. The McCaffrey hair, inherited from grandfather Seamus, is what an advertiser would term “irrepressible,” and what my mother called unruly. When I was a child my hair stood up on my head like a frizzy auburn halo, when it wasn’t arranged in braids so tight my teeth hurt. I used to pray every night that I’d wake up with straight hair. God never changed my hair, but He did eventually send me antifrizz crème. Stepping back from the mirror I surveyed my handiwork. I still looked a little too sanguineous to pass for a vampire, but I was pleased with the results.

At eleven o’clock I was in Hayes Valley, driving down Divisadero Street. Home to many of the loveliest Victorian homes in San Francisco, the neighborhood had started out rich, then turned working class and African-American for dozens of years. During that time many blocks fell under the axe of urban renewal, replaced with ugly high-rise apartment houses. The remaining Victorians, old-fashioned and cheap, provided shelter to cash-poor but culture-rich music clubs, theaters, and cafés. Now that San Francisco’s property values were sky high there wasn’t a neighborhood in the city that wasn’t experiencing gentrification and this one was no exception. Victorians restored to their nineteenth-century glory with BMWs in their driveways shared walls with Dollar Stores and aromatic barbeque joints.

I identified the House of Usher not by the address, but by the line of people in front who looked like they had slithered out of Nosferatu, the black-and-white version. They were waiting to enter a narrow nondescript door in the side of an Italianate Victorian with faded multicolored paint and a sagging colonnaded front porch. I parked a block down and scurried back to the club.

The bouncer—a typically large man with an absurdly small bowler hat perched on his bald head—was turning people away right and left, checking everyone’s name on a clipboard he held in his hammy hand.

Uh-oh, Suleiman and Moravia didn’t mention anything about a guest list.