That Magic Mischief (7 page)

“Younger is key, I think. She has all sorts of issues around younger men that won’t let her take it so seriously. Seriously would be bad at the moment. I need to get some display cases built in, the carpenter is a hottie, maybe I’ll make her come over to the shop and then I’ll throw her at him.”

“Excellent. I cannot believe I’ve only just thought of this.” Lorna’s eyes, framed by her lemon yellow shades, narrowed in thought. “We’ve got a pack of interns, one or two of them are sensitive college boy types. Yummy, should one’s taste run to graduates. Any one of them would do. They always give parties — I’ll get invited to one.”

They looked at each other satisfied. Job well done, plan of action agreed, everything under control. Annabelle would be fine. Annabelle would find her way through this. Annabelle —

Was running flat out toward them. Her hair flew straight out, up, and back from her head, her cheeks were flushed with exertion. As she waved at them wildly, both Maria Grazia and Lorna thought, “She’s lost her mind.”

Annabelle grabbed each of them by the arm to stop her momentum, and bent over double, panting. She tried to speak and catch her breath at the same time, which oddly enough didn’t work, as she began to explain herself.

“Ohmigod ohmigod sorry late missed lunch sorry sorry shop tarot shop mind reader psychic vision thing?” Annabelle gasped. “Smoke candles blew out I don’t know I don’t know time warp or something shop gone two hours disappeared ran up here all the way freaked out hazelnut!”

The youthful buzz of Matrix PR, Lorna’s employer for the last four years, rocked down the elevator shaft, three floors away. Once the elevator arrived at the forty-second floor, it wasn’t hard to see why. A bank of thirty-five television sets welcomed visitors, each proudly displaying a sexy, modish show reel of the concern’s hottest properties. That none of the screens were synchronized, and therefore none of the soundtracks were running in tandem, bothered no one but the luckless receptionists; the cacophony represented the cutting edge of the agency’s values, and Lorna welcomed the familiar din as she and Maria Grazia tried to surreptitiously frog-march Annabelle onto the premises.

They moved as calmly as possible across the open plan office, Lorna’s eyes taking in everything via peripheral vision, making sure she knew who was doing what where, and whether or not any of her colleagues had spotted her and her friends. Lorna steered Annabelle and Maria Grazia toward her modified cube; in an effort to reflect Lorna’s seniority in the agency, the powers-that-were had enclosed the space with semi-frosted glass. It was better than nothing, with “nothing” generally being the order of the day in a company in which those powers behaved as though their employees should be paying
them
for the privilege of working there.

God forbid they should actually come across with a proper office
, Lorna thought bitterly, not for the first time. Proper office or not, Lorna prayed to make it in there unchallenged. She was positive that Annabelle was radiating insanity vibes and wanted her behind closed doors — well, door —
now
.

They cruised past Lorna’s assistant Zoe, an overly serious twenty-year-old sporting a severe crop of hair colored an improbable shade of red and heavy horn-rimmed glasses. She had opened her mouth to speak, but obeyed Lorna’s raised hand and shut her mouth again.

“No calls — none,” Lorna ordered, as Zoe quickly opened the door and leaped aside. “No tea, no coffee. We are not to be disturbed.”

As she and Maria Grazia led Annabelle into Lorna’s office, Zoe jumped into the doorway and blurted, “Vera Wang called and said that the shantung strapless was unavailable for the MOMA opening because someone from
Revenge
requested it.”

Lorna’s brows rose and knitted simultaneously. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered as she firmly ushered her assistant away.

Lorna sagged ever so slightly against the door, and watched as Maria Grazia sat Annabelle down on the miniature leather couch. She strode to her desk, a small but perfectly formed Phillipe Starck knock-off, and sat. She immediately clicked into her email, and proceeded to winnow.

“I need a minute to go through these. Anna, can you put the oddness on hold?”

“I’m not odd.” Annabelle jumped off the couch and went to lean against the single window. “By the way, the feng shui of this entire floor is a disaster.”

Lorna looked at Maria Grazia. Maria Grazia looked at Lorna. Neither of them knew where to start. Annabelle sank onto the floor between the desk and the couch, her right hand in her right pocket. She seemed lost in thought, or as Maria Grazia thought, just lost. She started stroking her friend’s hair, both as a soothing gesture and a means of making her look less crazy.

“Hey, Belle? Take some of those deep breaths you’re always recommending, okay? So, what’s up?”

Lorna set aside her wireless mouse. “Now, Annabelle — ”

“Sorry about lunch.” Annabelle looked up at Lorna. “Sorry.”

“I got over it,” she replied lightly, and leaned forward in what she thought was a firm, yet non-confrontational manner.

Maria Grazia continued to stroke Annabelle’s hair. “Honey, I don’t think we really understood what … delayed you. You were pretty upset and we didn’t really make out what you were trying to tell us.”

Annabelle took a deep breath. “I mailed my manuscript off from the post office on Eighth. It’s got good vibes in there, and I feel like it’s safer, like it’ll get where it’s supposed to go.” Lorna rolled her eyes discreetly as Annabelle plowed on. “I started walking, and I saw this shop, a new age-y kind of place. I’d never seen it before, so I went in.” She took a sip of water, and said, almost dreamily, “Can I have some tea? She gave me tea.”

“She?” Maria Grazia prodded gently when Annabelle didn’t continue.

“The woman. Irish, I think, she sounded Irish, she gave me tea, and she had this deck of cards on a table, and there were like pictures of my life on them or something — ” Lorna’s eyes clashed with Maria Grazia’s, who made a
shut up
face at her. “Then we sat down and she started channeling or something and all the candles went out and there was this huge cloud of smoke from the incense and it felt like we were floating and, and, and then it was over and this … this nut hit me on the head.”

Annabelle took her hand out of her pocket and held out the hazelnut. Maria Grazia and Lorna both leaned forward. They all looked at it in silence.

It lay there.

“Good
Lord
,” huffed Lorna.

“It’s a hazelnut,” said Annabelle.

“Uh huh,” said Maria Grazia calmly, while wondering if anybody she knew had a shrink who would do a drive-by.

“This nut hit you on the head,” said Lorna.

“Yes.” Annabelle nodded avidly.

“From out of nowhere.”

“Yes.”

“And this … woman. She wasn’t surprised or shocked or anything.”

“She said, ‘Well, there you are.’”

“Did she say what it was, or maybe what she thought you should do with it, or if it was a … special hazelnut?” Maria Grazia applauded herself silently on her aplomb, as years of dealing with loony relatives paid off at that very moment.

“I’d say any hazelnut that dropped out of thin air had to be pretty ‘special’.” Lorna’s voice dripped with frosty sarcasm. “I’d say that any kind of Celtic medium or whatever that could conjure up a magical nut has to be rather
bloody
talented — ”

“Could you maybe
not
be such a snot for a second?” Annabelle snapped, and Lorna gaped. Not like Anna to snap. Not like Anna at all. “I know you don’t believe in my spiritual pursuits and that you think I’m a wacko, but quite frankly, I don’t believe in any of
this
— “ She waved her arms around, her gestures taking in Lorna’s office, Zoe, and the whole of Matrix PR. “
I
don’t think that that any of this matters, but you’re my friend, so I go with it. I would appreciate the same suspension of disbelief from you at this time.”

Lorna was aghast. “You believe in magical nuts and you don’t believe in
public relations
?”

“Girls! Please! Let’s keep to one thought at a time,” Maria Grazie begged. “Belle, honey, do you really think that this is a magical hazelnut?”

Annabelle narrowed her eyes at MG, who held up her hands, palms out, in a pacifying manner. She shot her eyes at Lorna, who sat frozen, disbelieving, at her desk.

“I left the shop, got my breath back. Then I wanted to ask about those cards, the ones I saw on the table, but when I turned back, it was gone.”

“The table?” Maria Grazia was feeling hopelessly confused.

“The shop!” Annabelle shouted. Lorna’s face was so blank as if it had been shot full of Botox.

“Gone! Dusty windows, the doorknob came off in my hand, all the books and statues and candles — gone! I banged on the door, on the window — and it — the hazelnut — laughed at me. I had it in my hand and it shook and rolled around like it was laughing at me.” Annabelle poked at the nut. It wobbled a bit at the prodding, but otherwise remained still and dumb.

“Sweetie … you have to admit that this is all a teeny bit out there,” said Maria Grazia, softly.

“I guess.” She glared at the nut, and poked it again.

MG grasped at another straw. “Maybe we could go on the web and do a bit of research?”

“Maybe she could chop it up and make a batch of magical snickerdoodles. Maybe she can put under her mattress and in the morning find out if she’s a princess. Maybe she could take it out to the Sheep Meadow and plant it — ”

“Hey!” Annabelle’s face cleared of its dismay and her eyes lit up. She scrambled to her feet, and slipped the nut back into her pocket. She started to say something — stopped — started again — whispered “Bye!” and charged out of Lorna’s office so suddenly that Zoe leaped straight out of her seat and fell on top of her desk.

Lorna looked at Maria Grazia. “
Now
tell me that you’re not worried. Tell me that you’re not terribly concerned.”

“I am worried and terribly, terribly concerned.” Maria Grazia raked her hands through her hair.

“What’s she going to do?”

Maria Grazia looked at her balefully. “What you said, I guess.”

“Good
Lord
. This is
nonsense
.”

“What if it isn’t nonsense?” Maria Grazia curled up on the couch. She herself would have luxurious pillows scattered all over the thing; maybe she’d make some for Lorna tonight. “Maybe this did happen. Maybe she is magic and psychic and all that. I mean, look how good she is with the tarot, right? She is always right. Always.”

“A card is a card. A laughing, magical hazelnut is another thing altogether. Did you hear her …
yell
at me?”

Maria Grazia giggled. “I did, and I saw your face when she did. Priceless.”

“She’s losing it.”

“She’s still hurting. It’s only been a couple of weeks, a month, tops. Whatever gets her over the repulsive Wilson, I say bring it on.”

Lorna rose and moved to lean against the front of her desk. “You think she’s really going to plant the thing?”

“It’ll probably just rot away in the dirt.” Maria Grazia got up from the couch, and went over to give Lorna, who looked as if her feelings had been hurt, a little hug. Lorna hugged back, and looked at Maria Grazia in a fresh wave of incredulity.

“How can she say she doesn’t believe in
PR
?”

“Ooh, baby, baby, love me like it was yeeeesssssterdaaaaaaay — ”

Annabelle’s fist descended on her alarm clock. “Shut. Up,” she snarled, and rolled over.

Love. Ha. Pop songs. Ha
ha
. It was all a bunch of crap, a mountain of garbage. Love, friendship, divination, spells, dreams, ambition — bullshit. What was the point of it all, anyway, love and friendship especially. Half the time you got dumped by your lover, mocked by your friends, and rejected by stupid agents who didn’t realize that she, herself, Annabelle Walsh, had written the latest hot historical fictional novel that was even better than the ones about those stupid paintings.

Annabelle flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her hands fisted in the sheets, and she experimented with kicking her heels, tantrum-like. It felt good, so she did it again. And then again, harder, so her hips sprung up off the bed. This had definite possibilities, and she began kicking, steadily, harder,
bam bam bam
until the bed was a blur of bouncing sheets and blankets and limbs accompanied by a dangerous squeak of springs that threatened collapse until Annabelle, having broken a sweat, ended it all with a hearty, “Bleeearrghughaaaaaahhh!”

She rolled over yet again and curled up into a ball. Should have tried that in Lorna’s lame excuse for an office on her two-square feet of designer remnant carpet.
Some friend
, Annabelle thought sullenly. “Some stupid friend,” she said aloud, keeping herself company. And Maria Grazia. “Ha,” she said.
Talking to me like I was crazy or something
. Her
heart
was broken. “My heart is
broken
,” she reminded her pillow, “and they look at me like, oh, what’s your problem, get over it already, we all hated him anyway, so what are
you
so upset about, ‘Anna’ — or ‘Belle’ — or whatever you call me!

“My name is Annabelle. I hate those nicknames. I
hate
them. I
hated
that Wilson called me ‘Annie’. Like I was a stupid orphan in a stupid play!”

She sat up, propping her six pillows against the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. She kicked her sheets and blankets onto the floor, and pulled her ratty, over-sized nightshirt over her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clock tick over from 11:15 to11:16. She shifted the blinds a bit for the weather report. Sunny, sunny, sunny by the looks of it, not too windy, and the handful of pedestrians strolling up Union Street weren’t grimacing with cold — all the earmarks of a beautiful day.

Whoopie
.

Annabelle slumped back against the pillows and took stock. At least she seemed to have dried up. There had been no floods of tears for almost two whole days. The grumpiness and tantrum thing seemed like the heralds of a new phase. Maybe it was like those five stages of grief, surely Maria Grazia would know —
not
that she was ever going to call her again or anything. She certainly wasn’t going to continue to foster a friendship with someone who thought she was a raving lunatic. And that went double for Lorna, that stuck-up bitch, what did she know about heartbreak? — “Not like she
has
a heart.”
I need to stop talking to myself
, Annabelle thought,
at least out loud
. She pulled the already stretched-out collar of her nightshirt over her mouth.