Vienna (9 page)

Hargrave held his arms wide in defeat as Justine left the room. Then he turned to Vienna. “I'm very busy. Is there anything I can get you?”

“A computer and Internet access, if that's okay.”

Hargrave got her set up on a laptop and then was on the phone, handling ten conversations at once.

Jordan Farquar's homepage was full of ads for gold coins and homeopathy. A menu on the left side included a button for past columns. It was labeled: “From Where I Stand.” Vienna clicked on that.

Three years of articles streamed by, every one starting with “From where I stand.” Vienna initially thought the phrase was clever, but as the hour passed she saw it as a cheap gimmick. She didn't understand much of what she had read, but she knew that Jorden Farquar was a snake who only appeared to swallow the fallen.

That was okay, because Vienna had a plan. Something she never would have dared before the afternoon's detours.

 

7

The street fronting the Radisson was closed. Blue police lights swirling off the city's glass canyons. So often the final spotlights of celebrity.

Vienna had insisted on coming, her face clouding over when Justine objected. She'd spent an hour making certain her hair looked as good as it did when she'd left Chat Rouge. Her impulsive twirling of her bangs had played havoc with the salon's high-end sculpting gel. Justine raided her own travel kit and chose a darker base for Vienna's face, explaining that the lights would make her look pale. Then she helped Vienna put it on, as the girl had no clue.

A final wardrobe check and out into the surreal fireworks of camera flashes. Vienna put her hand low over her eyes. A murmur spread through the mob. There she is. That's the girl with Justine Am. Are they holding hands? Will they kiss? Is she really a retard?

Justine saw Jordan Farquar front and center and knew there was no chance of a happy ending. She was caught in the most hackneyed ritual of the biz. Break the rules; flame out at spin control. Pull a decade-long vanishing act and spend your declining years hawking off-brand eyeliner.

She stepped to the podium set on the hotel's landing, Vienna trailing in her wake. After the flashes died out, she saw several fans waving signs promising to stand by her. Sweet, but useless. A gaggle of society reporters with sleep-deprived eyes crowded closer. The curious and the bored come to see the show. Along with the sleazy photographer from Vienna's gelato shop, the tattoo on his forearm looking schoolyard cheap. Too much gel in his long hair; brown strings pooling on his shoulders.

Justine expected to be hit with his greasy smile, but he was looking away, taking pictures of the crowd. His finger danced on the shutter as he rotated the camera over his head. He wasn't taking background photos. He was making certain he marked everyone there. What the hell?

He turned to her. His lips were tight and his fingers fidgeted over the camera. He looked her in the eye and mouthed a phrase. “They are here,” he moved his lips slowly, making certain she understood. “They are here.”

Some ploy to cadge an exclusive? But he didn't look like he was scheming. Swollen eyes and washed-out expression.

“Justine?” Vienna whispered. “You're supposed to say something.”

The opening lines James had so carefully crafted evaporated. Justine stammered the first thing that came to mind. “I understand some of you have questions.”

Embarrassed laughter stirred the crowd. Where was the payoff? Where was the tirade about invasion of privacy? Where was the righteous anger at the press? Confused whispering rose from the ranks. Justine waited for silence. “Who's first?” Someone near the back of the crowd shouted derisively. Expense accounts were looking way out of line.

Jordan Farquar, thin as a bedroom lie, took charge. His anachronistic cherry-red notepad at the ready. He wore his trademark black T-shirt over those hideous mauve Slapdash jeans. The belt was exotic leather—komodo or some such. On anyone else it would have been absurd, on Farquar it was an open threat. A wakening northern breeze could not budge his perfect blond hair. The air smelled of cold rain.

Jordan flashed his wisest grin, gathering respectful silence. “The question foremost in our minds, darling, is how the lesbian experience is suiting you so soon after your boyfriend's murder.” The skeletal hand holding the pad carved small circles through the air, already bored with whatever bullshit might be forthcoming.

No worse than expected. Justine readied the scripted denial. She didn't get her mouth open before Vienna insistently pushed her aside. There would be no stopping her without a scene. The girl adjusted her glasses and calmly faced another wave of flashbulbs.

Oh yeah. This was going to be good.

I should have put her in tails after all.
That would have given them something to talk about. Maybe a black choker.

Vienna's voice was quiet as always. Even with the mics, the crowd strained to hear.

“You are Jordan Farquar?”

Jordan offered a mock bow. Only unimportant people didn't know him.

“I read your articles this afternoon.”

“A valuable use of time, I think.”

A ripple of laughter stirred the mob.

“The world's shortest oxymoron,” Vienna said.

“Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘I think.' In your case, the world's shortest oxymoron.”

Justine felt gravity quadruple. She looked at Vienna. The girl's face was polished marble behind the glasses. Her lips moved to text that likely floated in her vision like a heads-up display. The spinning wooziness in Justine's stomach spread to her head.

Jordan licked his lips. “I—”

Vienna cut him down. “Thank you for inquiring as to the particulars of Justine Am's sex life, even though the vicarious overtones suggest you need psychological help. I did sleep with Justine last night. Which is to say we slept in the same bed. I was scared and I didn't want to be alone.” Justine saw expected tears slip down Vienna's cheeks. “I would have given more because I was confused and tired and she is beautiful. But she did not take advantage of me.”

Dead silence. Not even the whispered click of cameras. Justine felt like a busker posing as a statue.
Look, mommy! It's Marie Antoinette!

Farquar yipped his famous laugh.

The executioner's blade whistling through the October sky.

“I'm sure that's true, dear, but—”

Vienna's words cast a spell through the darkening twilight. The voice of an injured lady, demanding to be heard in its hush. “As you have asked a personal question, it is only fair that I ask one. How is it you sleep at night? Other than alone.”

Justine remembered the jab from one of Jordan's first columns. A clever enough tactic, but Justine knew the edge tapering Vienna's voice was fiercely contained panic. Could she maintain control long enough to spring her useless traps?

Jordan's smile was intact, but Justine saw telltale hardness along his jaw. He opened his mouth, dramatically waiting for Vienna to cut him off. She only looked at him and again he appeared foolish. “May I speak without being interrupted?”

“Of course, Lewis. That is your real name, yeah? Don't you think Jordan is a bit affected for a man in your position? I mean, you lot really aren't journalists, are you?”

There was no mistaking the reaction this time. Jordan hated his real name and he despised anyone who questioned the validity of his profession. Score one for Research Girl. Jordan unplugged his smile. “It's hardly as pretentious as Vienna.”

The crowd buzzed. Jordan never got suckered into trading quips. There might be a story after all.

Vienna sniffled at her tears. “Do you realize that hyenas are more closely related to cats than dogs? Isn't that odd?”

“What?”

“Many cultures thought they were hermaphrodites,” Vienna said. “I mention that because you seem interested in sex and maybe you could use that in the future. Though I suspect you already know about hyenas.”

Justine felt Vienna shaking. Too many people, too much anger, too many cameras. It needed to end.

“If we could return to the subject at hand,” Jordan said, “I was merely going to point out, no offense intended, that as a woman with a past of mental illness, you're not who we came to see, honey. You need to let Justine speak at her own press conference.”

Vienna flinched. Her hand moved toward her mouth. She froze and slowly lowered it.
Good girl.

But the spell was broken. Justine sidestepped, set on scooting Vienna aside and giving Jordan all the headlines he could handle. She put a hand to Vienna, but the girl may as well have been cast from lead.

Vienna's voice went flat, as if dredging up one of her history lessons. “Your problem is that balmy people do crazy things and there is nothing you can do about it. And no, I'm not going to let Justine speak. Do you know why?”

“I'm sure we would all like to know, honey,” Jordan answered, his tight smirk once again locked in place. He had his angle.

“Because you are a disagreeable child hoping to goad one of your betters into doing something stupid.” Vienna tilted her head, a gesture Justine was certain she had studied. “And I am not your honey, or your dear, or your darling. Not for all the money in the world.” She added one more line, in sterile perfection. “From where I stand, you are a miserable excuse for a man.”

Justine saw a victorious smile spread Farquar's hollow face. She knew, as Vienna could not, that Jordan had achieved everything he'd set out to. Justine would be roasted alive. Jordan won again. He always did.

Amazing that it had almost been worth it. This wisp of a girl had lashed out as so many people hungered to, but never could for fear of destroying their careers. Before Justine understood the impulse, she was laughing. Cameras snapped to life, catching her laughter as tears stained Vienna's face. Perfect symmetry. They had each cost the other her job.

Vienna spoke again. “Lewis has had his questions. Are there any others?” Doubtless there were, but no one could frame a single syllable before Vienna offered a timid smile, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Then we are finished. Good evening, yeah?” Even the slip into the strange syntax of backstreet English was perfect.

Vienna turned and was swept into the hotel's revolving door. There seemed nothing to do but follow. Justine took a last look at the crowd. The photographer from the gelato shop was gone. Near the back, she saw the scarred face of Lord Davy, his dark eyes radiating cold fury.

What the hell was he doing here? The door took her away.

Hargrave trailed behind, holding his anger until they reached Justine's suite. “I didn't sign on to watch you self-destruct.”

Justine let herself fall to the bed. “I suppose we'll drop a few accounts.”

“You're too optimistic. Simone from Carrie Limited called halfway through that debacle. They're claiming repudiatory breach of contract. Your two remaining TV spots have been canceled and they're considering filing for damages. By the time you wake tomorrow you will be out of work.”

“What would you suggest, James?”

“Step one is to get rid of her.” He pointed at Vienna.

She had never seen James so blatantly rude. “There's no reason to go down with the ship. Get out while the getting is good.”

“You can't just throw it all away.”

“A few days ago, I slept with a harmless girl on a bet. Her life will be a wreck for months to come. And then there's the creep I thought I loved, blown apart in my hotel room. I can't change that either. I'm tired, and I don't care what Jordan Farquar thinks. I'm going to bed. When I get up tomorrow, I'm getting my passport. I'm calling Adelina and booking the first flight back to Georgia. I need a break, a long one.”

Hargrave steepled his hands and washed his fingers down his face. “Justine, I play this game to win. I don't care how egotistical it sounds. I can't—”

Justine cut him off. “You don't have to explain. I would wish you good luck, but you're too good to need it.”

“Justine, we can still—”

“I'm tired of this, James.”

Hargrave shook his head. “Apparently so.” He turned away, closing the door behind him so softly that it didn't make a sound.

“What a day,” Justine said.

She closed her eyes and saw Lord Davy's fury.
They are here
. Her anger slipped into apprehension.
He was there for Vienna, not me.
Why? What was so important about her?

Her thoughts derailed again, piling up against the previous night's fears:
would she expect sex?
Only this time the question warped back on itself. It never had been a matter of what Vienna wanted, had it?
Is that why I'm so scared?

That whole karma thing again, and Justine figured it finally ran her over.

 

8

Justine's phone started with the Talking Heads song right after Justine disappeared into the shower. Vienna tried to ignore it, but the snippet of music just kept repeating. She hated that so she answered.

“Hello?”

A pause over the soft hiss of distance. “You must be Vienna.” A woman's voice.

“Yes?”

“I'm Abby Ingles—Heather's mother.”

Vienna knew exactly what to say. “Studying twentieth-century British literature is stupid.”

A laugh crossed the Atlantic. “You might be right.”

“Who did you learn about?”

“Mostly William Golding.”

“‘Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! Do him in!'” That was from
Lord of the Flies,
by William Golding, published by Faber and Faber, September 17, 1954. It was a story about how children are vicious brats. Who needed a book to know that?

“That's the one,” Dr. Ingles said.

“Okay.” Having proved her point, Vienna had nothing to add.