That Magic Mischief (13 page)

Lorna’s sighed windily. “I have conditions.”

“Fine!” Maria Grazia stuffed a spoonful of risotto in her mouth.

“I will not meet for a meal, for a coffee, I will not meet for so much as a street corner pretzel.” Lorna dotted eye cream carefully on her lids. “In fact, I think a street corner is the perfect location for a spot of conspiracy. I would, of course, prefer to do this via email — ”

“She’s got a foolproof idea — and her condition is that we meet in person.”
Stuck in the middle again, Maria Grazia! Faccia di merda!

“If she thinks she’s going to hypnotize me into taking on her ridiculous show — ”

“This is not about you!” MG bellowed.

“This,” Lorna’s voice held a threatening tone. “Had better be worth it.”

Maria Grazia sank onto her hand-reupholstered divan, replete with the cushions she’d run up just the other day, and sighed with relief. “It will be … I have a feeling about this … ”

Annabelle lowered herself down to the floor, and leaned against the foot of her bed. It was now three weeks and two days since Wilson had broken things off. Every Tuesday since then, she had taken time out to have a bit of a twinge or a pang in the early afternoon — they had always marked the anniversaries of things, why stop now? She could visualize an appropriate line of greeting cards:
Thinking of you … even though I dumped you last year.
There might be some money in that.

Or not. Anyway, she felt that she’d been taking pretty good care of herself, although she seemed to be back on the cigarettes again. The drama surrounding the plant had taken her mind off things, and having work had helped, too. So why was she sitting on the floor of her bedroom in front of her open closet, wearing nothing but panties, a bra, and a long face?

Why had she agreed to go to this stupid party with Lorna? Not only did it mean dragging all the way into Manhattan on a Saturday night, it also meant getting cleaned up and dressed up and having to talk to strangers and maybe meeting some guy, some rebound kind of guy, and doing that rebound kind of thing. She supposed all of it was essential to her getting over Wilson, but she had certainly tried this kind of no-holds-barred post-party bang in the past, and it had only made her feel bad. The idea of kissing somebody, frankly, made her feel a little bit nauseous, much less the possibility of nakedness and a mattress marathon.

Now that the plant’s branches were gone, she could chance a phone call to Lorna, begging off. Both the thought of the plant’s absent tentacles — surely her fault — and the idea that the only reason Lorna was doing this was to get Annabelle back into the swing of things, made her feel guilty, and as she was filled up to the brim with stupid feelings, she really wasn’t into adding a new one into the mix.

Well, all this grief had had one interesting by-product; she was pretty sure she’d gone down at least one dress size, if not two, and that therefore opened up the possibilities inherent in the Skinny Section of the closet. She hadn’t dipped in there since last year, before all the rich dinners and various fancy lunches she and Wilson had shared had begun to catch up to her thighs. Just for the sake of argument, she looked through the Party Time Section, and didn’t feel up to all that taffeta and sparkle. The Casual Section was just that, too casual for a ’do in
North Chelsea
(for crying out loud!) and the Dumpy PMS Section didn’t even rate a look.

The only thing about the Skinny Section was that every scrap of fabric in there had associations with the early part of her relationship with Wilson. She wasn’t big on shopping, and hated to waste hours over racks of tops, bottoms, and everything in between. Until she became the significant other of an up-and-comer like Mr. Monroe, black jeans and a low cut top seemed to work just fine, no matter the situation. Dating Wilson had changed all that, and she had the clothes to prove it.

The flesh-colored floor-length jersey had always given her the creeps and she’d only worn it once. She had felt naked, and couldn’t take all the double takes all night long that told her that everyone else thought that she was naked, too. That gold brocade circle skirt with the crinoline had gone very nicely with the one hundred per cent silk tank top — except for the fact that one hundred per cent silk wrinkled like a tissue at the wearer’s first breath. Unlike those Connecticut girls that made up Wilson’s social circle, girls who were bred knowing how to avoid wrinkling fine fabrics through the kind of controlled breathing that rivaled that of Indian yogis, Annabelle routinely had the thing in such a state that she felt like she had wrapped herself in a raisin.

Ah, the cherry red scrap of satin that had cost her a kidney and her spleen. Despite the fact that she gotten it cut-rate at Filene’s Basement, it was still designer, still unbelievably expensive — and unbelievably short. That had been interesting, and in fact had inspired the best sex of their relationship, the kind of impatient, heightened, sweaty, demanding, up-against-the-wall sex that Annabelle found she really
really
liked. Wilson had apologized for a week, and now Annabelle wondered, for the first time,
what
had she been thinking?

What red-blooded American male would
apologize
for participating in mind-blowing, exciting, spontaneous, fun sex? He had even sent flowers. What a … jerk.

“That’s a good sign,” said Annabelle to the inflammatory little dress. “We’ll keep you in reserve when a likely suspect shows himself.” A flash of curly hair, green eyes, and shoulders hugged by pristine white cotton flitted through her brain, but she refused to let it linger.

Ugh. That hideous, stuffy, depressing trouser suit. As gray as a pigeon in Grand Central Station, and not half as attractive. Double-breasted and pin-striped, the trousers didn’t fit her properly and made the womanly swell of her belly appear gargantuan. The jacket was tailored in such a way as to stick straight back out behind her, over the curve of her rump, so that the overall impression was that of a stuffy, puffy, female impersonator.

No up-against-the-wall sex after that event. What a disaster. It had been one of (not that she knew it at the time) their last outings, an afternoon wedding that Wilson had assured her would be businesslike and efficient.
Imagine my dismay
, Annabelle thought, blushing scarlet even at the memory,
when it became apparent that the thing was full-out black tie — perhaps if I’d known the party was in the Empire Room, I’d have made another choice?

The Empire Room was the kind of place that would inspire one to commit hari-kari were one dressed incorrectly. She’d been as incorrectly dressed as she’d ever been in her life, and did Wilson care? Nope! Just told her she’d looked fine, avoiding eye contact, wearing the strained, bored look that he’d been sporting for the last few weeks. She slinked off to the bathroom to take off her top — no, really, it had been a great idea, she was wearing a lacy camisole over her Wonderbra and with the jacket buttoned up, she looked like she was working a pin-striped sexy vibe … until she’d returned, and was faced with the redhead.

The sleek, petite, and sparkling redhead who was hanging on to Wilson’s arm. Her auburn French twist crowned a heart-shaped face that appeared as innocent as the dew, until the eyes revealed a shrewd and calculating gleam. A thigh-skimming, slim column of ice blue silk draped her slight form, and she barely topped Wilson’s shoulder — much less Annabelle’s.

Who was this bitch?

The bitch was Winifred Barnes, Wilson’s childhood friend. Their family’s acres had corresponded, and as Winnie’s tinkling little laugh attended to Wilson’s reminiscence of summers spent in the saddle, her eyes flicked up and down Annabelle’s ensemble, and her face set in an almost imperceptible mask of mocking disdain.

Annabelle perceived it, attempted three times to get Wilson — whom Winnie teasingly called ‘Willie’ and made him blush — to join her at the buffet, the bar, anywhere that wasn’t Winnie’s side … and having turned to snatch yet another glass of bubbly off a passing tray, she found herself on her own. Just like that. Within in seconds, she was standing, like an ungainly pin-striped lamppost, in one of the most romantic rooms on the planet, planted like a pole on the edges of what was quite obviously the hoitiest, toitiest New York/New England society wedding in decades. She had watched Winnie lead Wilson around by the arm, watched the little bitch allow everyone to think that she and he were together — but no one in the room, not even the friends of Wilson’s that she’d met before and knew her as his partner, looked surprised to see the two of them working the crowd.

And she’d run. She hadn’t made a scene, she hadn’t tried to work the room herself, she’d turned tail and fled.

Annabelle balled up the suit and threw it onto the floor. Time to get together a bag for the Salvation Army. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the foot of the bed. Why hadn’t she seen that? No — she’d seen it, but it had obviously been too much for her. Winnie and Willie. Ugh!

“I asked him, and he said no, he wasn’t seeing anybody — or did he? I asked him, I know I did, I definitely remember asking … ” She stuck her head out of the bedroom. “Hey.” The plant barely twitched its bloom at her. “Come on, no hard feelings. Listen, I know you weren’t here or anything, but I can’t remember if Wilson answered me when I asked him if he had met someone else, and I thought maybe — ” But the plant was sulking, and turned its stalk on her.

“Fine.” A burst of energy, part humiliation, part fury, surged through Annabelle’s veins, and she thought fleetingly of donning the red dress and the devil take the hindmost. She briskly shoved dresses down the closet rail and stopped dead at the Armani.

The Armani. It looked like a scrap of polyester nothing on its hanger, but Annabelle knew from experience that it fit like a dream, and was a cunning blend of natural fibers that resisted unsightly wrinkling. Floor length, scoop-necked, short-sleeved, and body con, it was slinky and sexy without being smutty and slutty. If there was any magic in the world, it was in this dress, a dress that managed to be provocative and dignified at the same time.

Wilson hated that dress. It had made her the center of attention at the Amagansett Yacht Club, and had left him sulking in its understated, sensuous dust.

It would do just fine.

Hmmm … and as Wilson had never liked it when she wore red lipstick, or when she applied mascara to both her top and bottom lashes, she chose her Chanel Premiere Rouge and laid on the Maybelline. A deft application of eyeliner to her inner lids was a nod to her adolescent past, and she had to admit, it did the job: the thin line of black lent a mysterious air to her normally wide and guilelessly dark blue peepers.

A liberal spritz of smoky, sexy
Addict
by Dior added to the femme fatale aura, and gave Annabelle a huge boost in the esteem department, whether she was really trying for a fatality or not.

She came up short when it came to footwear. Damn. A girl just never got over being the tallest in the eighth grade class. Deep in her heart, Annabelle knew that a nice, narrow, three-inch heel was what was required to do the outfit justice, but she simply didn’t own any. Again, an annoying image of wide, white clad shoulders and a six-foot-one, six-foot-two frame sprang to mind, but she drove it out and stepped into nondescript but functional black flats.

A small but deceptively voluminous little black evening bag was commandeered to hold her cell phone, lipstick, ATM card, cash, keys and smokes. She was ready.

She walked out into the low light of the living room, and paused. It had been, literally, years since she’d gone out on her own, gone out socially without a man by her side. Her stomach did a little nervous flip, and she had to sit for a second at the ‘dining room’ table. She knew better, knew that being with someone who lied to her, and who didn’t tell her the proper dress code, and dumped her in the middle of the day, wasn’t a worthy companion in life. Such a person was not someone who had what she was looking for.

What was she looking for? She rose and stood before her altar, and by extension, her mystery monster plant. She wanted someone who … thought she was funny, and who thought she was smart, and listened to everything she said, and paid her compliments, and made sure she was never alone at a party … and was taller than she was.

Oh, damn it. Not more tears.
She checked herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the outside of her bathroom door. No damage. Wished she could say the same for her
heart
, and then rolled her eyes at her own melodrama. Grabbing up the short black leather biker jacket that took the overly sophisticated edge off the Miracle Dress, she slung her bag diagonally across her body for safety’s sake, and started unlocking the many locks of her door.

Behind her back, the plant snapped to attention, and as Annabelle cautiously peered around the edge of the doorway — no Nosy Ned lurking on the stair — it shot out a sparkling, iridescent cloud that wrapped itself around Annabelle from head to toe.

Annabelle sneezed, checked herself once more in the mirror, and left the apartment.

As the locks shot into place from the other side, the plant bobbed its head, and giggled.

• • •

“No hard feelings?” Lorna appraised herself in one of the elevator’s mirrors. She wiggled her skirt up a little higher —
as if it were possible
, thought Annabelle.

Annabelle leaned against the opposite wall. “Nope. Funny — my words exactly to my mystery monster plant. I did a ritual last night and made its branches disappear. I think it’s mad at me.”

Lorna chose to ignore this obvious and pathetic attempt to try her patience, and glanced at Annabelle’s ensemble. “The dress?”

“Armani.” Sometimes talking to Lorna felt like speaking in tongues, but she always got a little thrill when she could play along. “Wilson hated it.”

“I approve on all fronts.”

“So, are you trying to set me up with somebody?” Annabelle fussed with her hair, and scowled at her reflection in the elevator door.