Hex and the Single Girl (8 page)

Victor seemed puzzled. And then recognition kicked in. “Marcie?” he asked. “Wow! I hardly recognized you. Hey, Emma—I mean,
Emeril
—this is Marcie Skimmer. The model.”

The same model who’d posed as a cow, a parade float and a whale for Daphne’s SlimBurn ad campaign. The model

who had, allegedly, been living in a sanitarium for the past several months. Wherever she’d been, Marcie had lost a ton of weight. She looked beautiful. She also looked exactly like the strawberry Pop Tart who’d been with William Dearborn at Ciao Roma the other night. In fact, Marcie
was
the Pop Tart.

“Emeril?” prompted Victor. To Marcie: “He’s very shy.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Emma with a deep voice.

Marcie glanced at her (him), barely acknowledging that she (he) existed, and turned back to Victor, the natty photographer, a man who might serve her some purpose. She said, “What a surprise to see you here.”

“I’ve got friends in Haiku places,” he said.

Marcie laughed harder than the joke called for. Emma wondered if she were drunk, stoned, or just demented. For her part, Emma was relieved to stand there and listen, not to have to talk.

Victor said gently, “I’m glad that you’re feeling better.”

Marcie smiled, showing her famous white teeth. “Despite what you must have heard, I did not try to eat myself to death, and I was never in a detox hospital in the Adirondacks. I
was
at a private spa in the Catskills for a few months.

All part of the SlimBurn campaign. Taking the pills, dieting, exercising. I lost fifty pounds.” The slenderized mannequin did a graceful twirl.

Fifty pounds in three months? Was that possible? Emma had been trying to lose ten pounds for fifteen years.

“Wait until you see my new SlimBurn ad,” said Marcie. “It’s absolutely mind-blowing.”

Emma cringed. She hated that phrase, hated the memories it dredged up even more. On reflex, she reached for her forehead and massaged.

Victor saw her react. He knew how she was at parties. He put his arm around her (him), not caring how it might have looked to Marcie or anyone. Emma smiled at him gratefully. Someone came out of the crowd and embraced Marcie.

She was dragged away, waving over her shoulder at Victor. Emma was glad she was gone. Victor whispered, “Are you okay?”

Emma said, “Holding firm. Thanks to you.”

He lowered his arm. “Hard to believe that Dearborn could mistake you for Marcie. She’s six inches taller than you.

And, forgive me, slimmer.”

She (he) had to agree. “It does stretch the boundaries of comprehension. I think it was an honest mistake at first, but then we were into it and forgot about who we thought each other was supposed to be.”

The pulsing techno music stopped. Emma felt instant relief about that.

A man walked onto the bandstand. He wore his signature Beatles style suit with a skinny tie. William Dearborn smiled at the crowd with honest pleasure at its size and applause.

Victor was clapping and hooting like a fifteen-year-old at a Green Day concert. Emma was silent, still as a statue. Her internal reaction to seeing Dearborn, however, was as chaotic and jubilant as the crowd’s. She felt herself pulled toward him, as if he were the magnet and she a helpless sliver of steel.

“I want to thank you for coming out,” he said once he’d quieted the room. His British accent sparkled like champagne in a glass. “Thanks to the management of Haiku for having us. Thanks to Crusher Advertising for organizing the event.” He gestured toward the wings of the stage. Emma spotted Daphne, her arms crossed, eyes pinned on William.

He continued. “ArtSpeak has been in development for over a year. But it’s been a dream of mine for a decade. I’d rather show you what it can do than tell you.” Dearborn nodded at Daphne, who pushed a button on a hand-held

remote. The curtains behind the stage parted, revealing a wall of computer monitors—a dozen flat-panel screens, in two rows of six. The screens were blank. Also, on stage, there was a table with an Apple computer on it, the monitor huge. A murmur rose from the crowd. Emma smelled the odor of anticipation—like acidic red wine—around her.

Dearborn said, “We all talk to our computers. But it’s usually to curse at them when something goes wrong.” The crowd laughed dutifully. “ArtSpeak lets you talk to your computer to coax something beautiful out of it.

“I want to explain a few things before I start,” he continued. “The software responds to individual voice commands.

The user installs his or her vocal tones into the computer by reciting the alphabet. ArtSpeak can retain three users’

tones per package, in English, German, Japanese, and French.” He sat at a chair in front of the Apple. “I’m going to paint now by using voice commands. I chose an image that’s been stuck in my mind. Here goes.”

He took hold of the computer microphone. The lights were lowered. The Apple monitor flickered to life. The wall of screens behind him remained black. The only sound in the room was Dearborn’s voice.

“Caucasian female head. Oval. Cheekbones wide, wide. Wide. Half narrow. Chin round, round, half sharp. Half

sharp.”

It went on like this for a minute or two, William speaking into the computer microphone in this rarified code language.

The audience watched the monitor as a face took shape. Emma was not impressed. It was the head of a woman, her features rudimentary, with shape but not dimension. The crowd shuffled impatiently, and Emma was worried for

William that his program would be a flop.

“I’m going to add color now,” he said. “Color wheel engage. Hair brown, red, half red. Highlight, gold. Gold, half gold. Eyes orange. Red. Zero red. Orange. Brown. Half brown.” The portrait was getting more interesting, but it still didn’t amount to much. “So that’s what you get in five minutes,” he said. “To make a more complex work of art, on canvas or on screen, it takes time. I spent a couple of hours last night on a detailed portrait of her, which I’ll show you now. No one has seen this yet except me.”

He clicked the mouse, and a full-color portrait appeared on screen. The crowd gasped collectively. The portrait was beautiful, detailed, with vibrant color and dimension.

Victor put his hand on the back of Emma’s neck and squeezed hard.

Dearborn said, “She’s a stunner. This is what she’d look like on the wall of the Post Office.” He clicked the mouse and one of the twelve monitors behind him flickered, showing the same woman as if she’d been drawn by a police sketch artist. “And here’s what Picasso would have made of her.” Another click, another monitor, this time, the cubist rendering.

“Lichtenstein,” said Dearborn, with a click. Another monitor showed her as a comic book illustration.

“Serat.” A pointillist portrait.

“Manet.” Impressionist.

“In the movie
Tron.
” A 3-D graphic.

“A character on
The Simpsons.
” Google-eyed.

Dearborn continued on until all the monitors were glowing. “This is how I like to see a woman,” he said. “From twelve different perspectives.”

Each and every one looked exactly like Emma.

If she’d wanted a still image of her face to self-serve into William’s head, now she had a dozen to choose from. But she wouldn’t need them. As he said, they were stuck in his mind already.

She whispered to Vic, “Thank
God
I’m wearing a beard.”

He said, “That must have been some kiss.”

On stage, William waited for a reaction. For all his confidence, he seemed a little worried.

But then the awe broke open and the audience erupted. People started leaping onto the stage to congratulate him.

Someone handed William a bottle of champagne and he sprayed the crowd with it. The techno music began throbbing again, ear-bleedingly loud. And through all this mayhem, Emma could feel a pinprick in the center of her forehead, as if someone were jabbing at her. Rubbing the spot, she scanned the crowd. Up on stage, a pair of hazel eyes bore a hole into Emma’s brow.

Victor noticed too. “I take it Daphne is not aware that you and William have met.”

Emma said, “She’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“I think she knows,” he said, gesturing to the portraits before them. “Whether she needs to or not.”

Chapter 10

E
mma couldn’t help staring at the portraits, especially the original, in Dearborn’s own style. Emma always had to brace herself when confronting her likeness—the wild hair, the odd eyes, how much she resembled her mother.

Studying the portraits, though, she felt a strange, homey happiness. In them, Emma saw herself as art—sublime and beautiful. Which was, apparently, how Dearborn saw her.

But, she reminded herself, the image wasn’t
really
Emma. It was idealized, a fantasy. The cold reality: William had remembered her face, but he hadn’t captured her soul on screen. He’d painted his invention of it. She was as plastic a model to him as Marcie was to Daphne. Just a surface, nothing underneath. Despite the intensity of the kiss, and both of their apparent lingering fascination with it, she and William were complete strangers to each other. Worse than that, she thought. He was a target. “It’s just a job,” she said aloud.

Victor said, “If you’re going to hit Dearborn, you’d better hurry up. He’s being eaten alive.”

“Let’s get a bite,” she said.

They pushed toward the stage, penetrating the buffer zone around William three layers deep. The inner circle proved impossible to crack, even for Marcie Skimmer, coming up alongside Emma (Emeril), elbowing her (him) in the jaw to press her way forward, nearly dislodging the beard (which would have been disastrous). With one hand on her facial piece, Emma plowed forward in Marcie’s wake and managed to get almost within arm’s reach of William.

Luckily, Dearborn had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing two forearms’ worth of exposed skin. He was flanked by Daphne and Tweedy, the gatekeeper. Marcie fought her way to the front and kissed Dearborn on the lips. Cameras flashed. Emma took another elbow in the face from a guy in a khaki suit.

“Mr. Dearborn? Over here, sir,” said the guy, shoving and pushing. “Mr. Dearborn. I’m a big fan. One minute of your time. Sir! Sir!” And then the khaki suitor was pushed back. Emma got a right shock when she saw his face before he disappeared into the throng.

Hoffman Centry, as she lived and breathed through a tuft of synthetic hair.

Tweedy shouted to Dearborn, “Dave Kushner from the
Times
business section on your left.”

Marcie shouted, “Liam! Kiss me again for the paparazzi!”

Dearborn ignored the model and started talking to the reporter. Marcie pouted. Daphne had spotted Emma and was imploring her, mouthing, “Go!” Locked in a current of people, Emma found herself pushed behind Dearborn, still two layers of people away. If she could stick her arm through a gap and just graze her fingertips against his arm…she pushed…inches away, closer, closer…

A surge backward. She saw Daphne to the right looking anxious. She also spotted Victor nearby but then lost sight of him. If only she had Daphne or Marcie’s height. She could reach over the bodies. But if Emma was lacking in stature, she made up for it with perseverance.

Despite the noise, Emma could hear Dearborn’s conversation. “Who’s the girl?” the
Times
man asked the artist.

“What girl? You mean her?” Dearborn gestured at Marcie.

“The girl in the portraits,” said the reporter. “If I’m going to reprint some of the images in the paper, I’ll need a release.”

“No need,” said Dearborn. “She doesn’t exist. She’s made up, a fantasy. Like a fairy or a mermaid. Or a witch.”

Emma gasped when he said “witch.” She couldn’t help it. The reporter’s eyes turned toward the sound. He made eye contact with her before turning back to Dearborn. He said, “A witch, you say? Her face appeared like magic?”

“Gads, don’t write that,” said Dearborn. “She’s totally imaginary. Have you ever seen eyes that color in your life?”

Emma was right behind William now. One touch was all she needed. Two seconds to implant Daphne in his mind. She lifted her hand, an inch away from his elbow.

The reporter said, “Actually, I have seen eyes like that before. Right behind you. That short guy with the beard.”

“Where?” demanded Dearborn. The reporter pointed at Emma just as she touched Dearborn’s elbow. But he moved,

spinning around and ensnared her wrist. Instantly, on contact with his skin, her own ignited under his hand, and a sudden heat rolled upward from her wrist to her shoulder and into her chest. Her cheeks under the fake beard felt hot, sticky, and itchy.

“William? Are you okay? You’re sweating,” asked Tweedy, studying his face.

Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, his eyes fixed on Emma, his mouth open to take quick breaths.

Daphne moved into Emma’s line of sight. She mouthed, “Do it! Do it!”

But Emma couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t dare close her eyes. She felt trapped and anxious, vulnerable, exposed. She had to get out of there. A flash of panic and adrenaline took over. She tugged free and spun backwards, letting herself be swallowed by the crowd.

Her size was an advantage now. She scurried like a mouse through holes in the crunch of bodies, and all she could think was “Get out!”

She heard Dearborn yell, “Stop that man!”

Victor’s voice rang out: “He went that way!”

Her friend was, no doubt, pointing in the opposite direction of where she actually was. Emma tried to calm herself. She slowed down. Running would only draw more attention. She walked at a rapid but normal pace at the periphery of the crowd. She was almost safe. Only a few more yards. She prayed no one saw her, or noticed that she was in costume.

As she passed the sushi table, the human platter stared at her and said, “Hey! Wait just one minute. The message is for you.”

The Good Witch said, “Excuse me?”

The girl said, “The writing on the wall.”

Emma glanced up at the characters. “What does it say?”

“It says, ’From my perspective, I see that you’re either a eunuch or a transvestite’.”