Chapter 11
During my lunch break, I sat down at my desk and opened the book Barbara had given me. The title page read Obscuris Vera Involvens. “In darkness lies truth.” I knew some Latin from my mother forcing it down my throat growing up, as well as Italian, Portuguese, and French. Life is nothing without knowledge of romance, Roberta. I could still hear her voice ringing in my head. But she was always more interested in the romance languages than what actually went on between lovers.
The first page was handwritten in perfect calligraphy: “ According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”
“Slacking, darling?”
I looked up to see the striking face of Wolfgang Lutz, my boss. I closed the book and gave him my full attention. “Just taking a small lunch break,” I said. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“Bobbie,” he said, “I want you to go try on that red Reem Acra dress in the studio.”
I looked at him stupidly. Did he get hit on the head and confuse me with one of the models or something?
“Long sleeves? Lace?” He said, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Yes, I know the one. . .”
“If it fits, it’s yours.” He threw a large, fat envelope down on my desk. “And could you be a dream and look these papers over for me? Tell me if those horrid people have any sort of a leg to stand on.”
“What is this?” I slid the papers out of the envelope, fanned them out a little. “But these are all concerning Jack’s clients, not mine.”
“I realize that, but I want you to look over the paperwork and tell me what you think. Jack’s been super busy, and—” he cast a lingering glance over my neat desk and my book, as if to imply that I wasn’t busy, or at least not busy enough, “—and you have such a head for contracts. I always know I can count on you.”
The flattery found its mark. Wolfe knew what energized me, and he played right to it. After all, that was his genius and explained why he ran one of the top modeling agencies in the world.
“Okay. So you want me to look over the papers and. . . give you a report?”
“Yes! A report. Perfect.”
“By when? When do you need it?”
“Well, it won’t do me any good if it’s not done immediately,” he said. “And Bobbie. . . don’t tell Jack, or anyone else, that I asked you to do this.”
I bit my lower lip and frowned. “But if—”
“Bobbie,” he said, interrupting me. “Go try on that dress. Now.” He actually snapped his fingers at me.
I made my way down the cold white hallway towards the studio, opening the heavy steel door. There, on a rack with a couple of other pieces, hung a beautiful lace dress in my own trademark red. I wanted to touch it, and yet I was afraid I’d spoil it somehow. Forgetting for a moment my wariness about this whole deal of Wolfe’s, I carefully took the dress off the hanger and walked towards the dressing room.
I stopped in my tracks when I heard crying from the bathroom lounge. I opened the door and saw Lilly sitting on the love seat with her hands over her face, tissues scattered everywhere as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Lilly, are you okay?” I’d never seen her like this. She was always so perky, almost like a golden retriever.
She collected herself quickly, sitting up straight, attempting to fix her crazed hair.
“Peachy!” She forced a smile. Her mascara formed dark rings under her eyes.
“What’s going on?” I asked, concerned, sitting down beside her.
“I’m okay.” She leaned over and hugged me. Even in grief she invaded my personal space. Watch the dress!
“My boyfriend cheated on me!” she sobbed.
I awkwardly patted her back, attempting to console her. For a moment it occurred to me to tell her we were in the same boat, but something held me back. I wanted to think of myself as somehow different than Lilly. She’s pathetic, I thought. Me, I’m—what? Also pathetic. “Lilly, how old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she whimpered.
“That’s right, you’re nineteen. By the time I was your age, I had blown through dozens of boys, and may I emphasize boys, not men.”
“Of course you did. You’re beautiful, and I know I’m ugly and awkward.” She sobbed harder.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not ugly or awkward. You are beautiful, creative, and one of the most original girls I’ve ever known.”
“Really?” She looked at me hopefully.
“Guys your age are young, immature, and have absolutely no idea who they are yet. It doesn’t help that women are surpassing them in everything. I think there’s even a study that says our brains are more developed than theirs at that age. A boy who cheats is a boy who is lost and doesn’t know what he wants. Try to understand, it’s not about you. You don’t need a guy to make you feel special. That’s your job.”
I felt guilty, giving her advice that I couldn’t follow myself. Then again, talking to a nineteen-year-old did put things in perspective. I had lived more life, dated more men, traveled more places. All that experience had to count towards something, right?
“Yeah, you’re absolutely right,” she said, sucking up her snot. “But it just hurts so bad.” She threw her head onto my shoulder, wiping her tears away. “And I just feel like, if only I was more. . .”
“If you were more. . . what? Beautiful? Talented? Witty?” She certainly couldn’t hope to be any thinner, I thought.
“Yes, all those things. And some other stuff too.”
“Okay, so what if you were all that. Then what?”
“He’d be knocking at my door, wanting me back, and I could feel whole again.” She started sobbing even louder. Oh the drama...
Back to square one. A strange part of me wanted to hunt down the jerk who broke this innocent bird-like girl’s heart. Seeing Lilly set back by one of life’s commonplace tragedies was heart-wrenching. She had done nothing to deserve this pain. But I guess a few bumps and bruises along the journey toward the pursuit of love only makes you smarter in the long run. And why should Lilly be deprived of such a valuable experience?
“Lilly, you can choose to wallow in self-pity, or you can ditch that insecure little boy who needs to have more than one girl holding him up because he can’t support himself on his own. I think you should go home, get a bottle of wine or some ice cream, and be with your friends.”
“Okay,” she said compliantly. She fell into my arms with a big, awkwardly warm hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Only, I try not to overindulge in alcohol or food.”
“Fine,” I said with a laugh. “You’re ahead of the game with that one! I think friends are the key component, anyway.”
Her face crumpled up again. “But he was my very best friend!” she wailed.
Lilly finally calmed down enough to go back to work. After picking up the wet tissues and washing my hands, I kicked off my shoes, undressed and slipped into the red lace Reem Acra. As I pulled the zipper up and buttoned the three small buttons, I turned to face the mirror, and. . . I smiled . . . broadly. I held my hair up, then let it down, held it up, and let it down. Half up, half down, curled. . . yes. I slipped on the heels I wore to the office, even though they didn’t match the dress. My legs looked pretty good, I thought. Dance classes with Ella must be paying off.
As I walked into the empty studio to look at myself in the larger mirrors, my phone buzzed.
“Hey, Meryl.”
“So, I need a favor! Will you please, please come to the Arts Convention with me on Saturday?”
“I thought you had a date???
?
“My date, well. . . it’s not happening.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll tell you about it later. So, can you go?”
“Let’s get this straight,” I joked. “You want me to get all glammed up to see Chicago’s hottest artists with my best friend? I can think of nothing worse. But if you insist, I will go. You owe me one,” I teased melodramatically.
“I love you. You know Ivy’s PR firm is putting on the event, so she’ll be there too. Maybe she can sneak Ella in. Girls’ night! Oh, stupid question, but do you have a dress?”
“Yes,” I said, checking myself in the big studio mirrors. “I believe I do.”
“Great. I don’t, so I’m going shopping tomorrow after work. You wanna meet me? Help me find something amazing?”
“Shopping? It’s what I do best.”
Behind me the studio door swung open, startling me. I lost my balance. Oliver quickly stepped up and steadied me.
“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here!” he said. His hands were firm, and they lingered on my arms just a moment longer than necessary.
“Meryl, I’ll call you back, okay? Bye.” I hung up. “Hey, Olly!”
“Sorry to startle you.”
“Don’t be, really.”
“What are you doing?”
I stood tall and presented my dress. “Wolfe gave it to me.”
“Wolfe gave it to you?” he asked incredulously.
“Yep. It was a bribe.”
“A bribe? For what?”
“Can’t tell you. It’s secret legal business. So, do you like it?”
“Yeah, looks great,” he said expressionlessly. Not exactly the response I was looking for. “Well, I was just looking for Lilly,” he said. “I thought I saw her come in here.”
“Looking for Lilly, huh?” I questioned. “Oh, that’s right, she kind of likes you, doesn’t she?”
“She’s got some prints of mine, I hope. Have you seen her?”
“I have. But I don’t know where she went.”
“Well—” He hesitated, looked me up and down. “Where’s my camera when I need it?” he murmured staring at me. “I guess...I’ll see you later, Bobbie.” He turned to go.
“Wait, Olly,” I stopped him. “Before you go, will you unzip my dress for me?” I turned around.
“Sure,” he said cautiously. I heard him blow into his hands and rub them together. “Sorry, my hands are--”
“You’re fine,” I said. He stepped in closer. I felt his hand on the top of my spine, fingers fumbling with the buttons, hands not cold at all. When the three little top buttons were undone, he slowly unzipped the dress.
“There, yup--uh--anything else?”
Was he nervous? How incredibly adorable, I thought, laughing inside. “No, that’s all,” I said. “Thank you.” In the mirror I could see him hurrying towards the door with his hands shoved into his pockets. “Bye. . .”
“I’ll see ya, Bobbie,” he called with a wave, as something fell from his pocket—a pen. But he was already gone.
I slipped off the dress, hung it back on the rack, and got dressed in my work clothes. On my way out of the studio I picked up Oliver’s pen, which was one of those personalized ones. I did a double take. The white on black cursive script read: Oliver Prince Gallery of Arts and Design.
But Oliver doesn’t have a gallery, I thought. I mean, he’d often talked about putting something together, but I didn’t think he’d actually got that far on it. . . Or had I been too self-absorbed to notice?
I stuck the pen behind my ear and hustled to my office, breezing past the secretaries, hoping they wouldn’t try to stop me in hopes of delegating their duties. It was bad enough that my boss did that to me all the time.
I made it through the gauntlet unscathed, and was just about to shut my door.
“Oh, Roberta—”
“You rang?” I peeked my head out of my office.
“You’re behind on scheduling the Brazilians for the Centennial shoot...” British Alice smacked her gum.
Ah yes. The Centennial. The Centennial had been all the rage at Fordham Agency for at least the past month or more. To celebrate the 100th anniversary of Fordham Agency, we were pulling in models from all over the world for a big photo shoot before the holidays. Chicago was about to turn into a model mecca. The stress in the office was magnified because we had only a short window in which to conduct the shoots. LA’s Fashion Week started the day after our last day of shooting, which meant that all of our models needed to be there. Wolfe was running about the office like a madman.
“I’m on it!” I said to Alice, shutting my office door. I quickly sat down at my desk and typed into the Google search bar: Oliver Prince Gallery of Arts and Design.
The link for the site popped up, followed by links for Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn. I clicked on his site. Up came a sleek, simple yet stunning homepage of black and white photography, with Oliver’s name in classy cursive font at the top. What? How did I not know about this? He had never mentioned it. How oblivious was I to the fact that Oliver had been quietly building his empire while working here? I knew he did independent shoots, but there was always the risk of a conflict of interest here at Fordham. Maybe that’s why he’d been so low-key about it.
I clicked the “About” page, and up came Oliver’s photo. He was looking down, laughing, and I knew that smile so well. It was perfectly sincere. It made me smile, knowing the picture was a candid shot. Though he was at home behind the lens, he was terribly bashful in front of it. Next to his picture there was a short bio and a list of services offered: Photography, Design, Graphic Arts, Digital Marketing, Branding. Following that was an impressive array of credentials, recommendations, and endorsements; top designer brands Oliver had worked for; countries he’d worked in. The site was available in Italian, Portuguese, French, Spanish, Chinese, and a few other flags I didn’t recognize. What was he up to?
At the bottom of the page was an address, which I copied and pasted it into Google Maps. I was creeping hard. Google Maps led me to a warehouse in Wicker Park, with a link to “Look Inside.” I clicked, zoomed in. It was a gallery, clean and sleek with glass tables, Apple computers, hanging bulb lights; it looked fabulous. I couldn’t believe this. I wanted to run and find Oliver to hound him with questions. Then again, maybe I’d just wait and see how long it took him to tell me himself.
I finished my work as quickly as I could, scheduling models here, booking flights to Chicago O’Hare from Belo Horizonte, Sao Paolo, Rio, and Bahia in time for the Centennial shoot. Then I spent several hours working on the “secret” project Wolfe had given me. I felt pretty proud of myself, having zeroed in on a number of issues that might conceivably cause him problems, along with some possible solutions. I was just about ready to make a quick exit, when my phone buzzed and my stomach dropped. Charlie. He hadn’t called in days, and I was beginning to get used to it. I silenced the phone, my nerves tingling through every inch of my body. But I was just too curious. I gave in.
“Hello?”
“Ignoring me still?”
“I’ve been busy, Charlie.”
“I’ve been thinking about you a lot. And about us. What are you doing Saturday night?”
“I have plans, actually,” I stated boldly.
“I have a table at the Chicago Arts Convention. Go with me?”
No, no, no, this city is not big enough for the two of us. Why did he always have to come tearing into my world?
“Funny you should mention it. I’m already going with someone.” I left out that it was Meryl. I wanted him to be jealous. I wanted him to know he wasn’t my life--not anymore. “In fact, my roommate’s PR firm is putting on the event.”
/> “Then I’ll see you there,” he said and hung up.
I pranced into Wolfe’s office the next morning, very pleased with myself. I had stayed up half the night getting my special report organized for him. I had rewritten it several times, trying to put it in language that Wolfe would understand. It wasn’t that he was stupid, but he had a very short attention span.
He looked up at me without smiling when Alma, his secretary, showed me in.
“Bobbie,” he said. “I’m right in the middle of something. I hope whatever you’re bothering me about is important.”
I waited for Alma to shut the door. “I brought you the report,” I said.
He looked at me blankly.
“Regarding the papers you asked me to look at?” I prompted.
“Oh, yes, did you bring back that envelope I gave you?”
“Yes, it’s in here with my report.” I handed him the folder. “I read over all the papers, and I made detailed notes on—”
“So, this is everything I gave you, right?” Without even opening the folder, he pulled out the envelope and handed me back the report, the report I had spent hours compiling. “I don’t need that,” he said. “I talked to our attorneys, and they’re going to take care of everything. So, did you get those flights set up for the models?”
The blood rushed my head and pounded in my face. I wanted to scream. Was he kidding? Wolfe could pull some real crap. But I was shocked by this.
“Bobbie?” he asked impatiently. “Did you take care of the flights, or not?”
“Yes,” I replied sharply. “Not to worry. It’s all handled.”
“All right. So—anything else? No? You know what to do then?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes, I know exactly what to do.”