The Manolo Matrix (4 page)

We were in the basement Beauty Level at Bergdorf’s, checking out the various samples and trying to decide which counter had the best free gift with purchase. Of course, we’d arrived fully loaded, Mel and

I having polished off two martinis each before we’d headed out, armed with credit cards.

I’d called Brian from the street, and he’d agreed to join us. He’s always adored Mel and hadn’t seen her since she’d defected from Manhattan to the hurly-burly of Washington. (His words, not mine.) More

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important, he’d agreed to join us because Fifi was in a snit, and Brian wanted to get out of his apartment.

Fifi’s a lot of fun. But, as Brian will be the first to say, he’s best enjoyed in small doses.

He met us in front of Givenchy at 63rd and Madison, where Mel bought two dresses, a pair of shoes, a skirt, and a pair of sunglasses. I’d drooled so much that Mel offered to take pity on me and purchase the haute couture item of my choosing, but I’m lousy at taking charity. That’s one of the reasons I’m making a go of it in New York on my own, with no help from my parents.

(Or, very little help. I’m more than willing to accept pricey Christmas and birthday gifts.) My parents may have bucks, but my dad’s stock options can’t buy me a starring role in a musical.

And even if he could write a check and get me on

Broadway, I’d turn it down. I want to do it myself. And I will. It’s just taking me a while.

Once Brian joined the party, we’d traipsed to Bergdorf’s and headed straight down to the makeup. I

never buy makeup without having Brian around. The man can be a pushy little queen, but he’s got more taste in his little finger than most of the women I know. (Case in point: You know those women with pale foundation topped by two inch slashes of cream rouge on their cheeks?

Brian once started a petition that would have them all charged with some sort of anti-beautification misdemeanor. It didn’t pass, but his heart was in the right place.) We’d been discussing the pros and cons of crème versus powder eyeshadow when I’d noticed the blonde. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but there was just something about the way she was watching me from across the room. And when I caught her gaze, she didn’t look away. Just kept her eyes locked on mine.

I was starting to get creeped out enough to leave when she broke eye contact and turned her back to me, apparently fascinated with the display of oil-free moisturizers. She wore a D&G

camisole and tight

Diesel jeans that looked like she’d purchased them five minutes before. She had the grace and bearing of a model, tall and thin and totally perfect. But that wasn’t what I noticed about her
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(there are a lot of model types in New York, and they often cluster in the Bergdorf basement).

No, it was the tattoo on her left shoulder blade that really caught my eye. A tropical bird, resplendent in a rainbow of colors, his tail feathers trailing down her back and head turned so that one eye seemed to be keeping a lookout.

I stared longer than I should have, something about the woman oddly fascinating to me. But then she turned and aimed a slow smile in my direction, before dividing her attention between me and a display of lipstick samples.

Busted.

I snagged Brian’s sleeve, earning a contemptuous look before I explained the sitch in hushed tones.

After reasonably pointing out that he couldn’t analyze the situation without looking at the girl, he managed to shift around until he found a position from which he could take a look at her without being too obvious.

He watched her watching me for a full minute, then turned back to me with a shrug. “So she’s checking you out. She probably thinks you’re hot.” He lifted a brow. “Or are you interested, too?”

“No!” I’ve had my share of girl-crushes, but never like that. I’m totally and completely open-minded when it comes to other people. But as for me, sharing of bodily fluids is strictly limited to the male of the species. Just call it one of my quirks. “Do you really think that’s it?” I whispered.

“Probably. Why?”

I shook my head, something about the woman making me nervous. I guess it was her eyes.

Piercing blue

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and very intense. If this woman was on the prowl, I felt sorry for all the lesbians in the neighborhood.

One glance, and I could tell this was a take-no-prisoners kind of lover.

“What’s up?” Mel had been testing lipsticks on the back of her hand, and now she joined us, rubbing a tissue over skin that looked like it had been decorated with war paint.

Brian gave her the Cliffs Notes version of my dilemma, and Mel turned to inspect the woman, whose back was now to us. After a second, Mel shrugged. “I can’t get a good look, but if she’s giving you the creeps, let’s get out of here.”

Since I thought that idea was just nifty, I led the way, with Mel and Brian following. We circled around, then headed up the escalator to the main level. Along the way, we passed the dozens of Swarovski crystals suspended from the ceiling and twinkling in the store’s lighting scheme. That piece is the epitome of Bergdorf’s, all class and light and elegance. It’s supposed to be the northern lights or something, but to me, it’s just fabulous whatever it is.

I turned back once, ostensibly to give one last glance to the crystal sculpture, but really to see if Bird Girl was following. Since I didn’t see her, I led my troops up the escalator, which opened right in front of one little corner of heaven—the Manolo Blahnik shoe display.

I glanced around again, and was pleased to see that my new best friend was still nowhere to be found.

Probably testing lip gloss a few floors down. I took five steps forward and paused right in front of the center display. Then I just stood there for a bit and drooled.

I’ve had a thing for Manolo shoes ever since a friend gave me a print of one of his sketches (“him” being

Manolo Blahnik, not my friend). The sketch was of this totally off-the-wall shoe that he designed for

Madonna. I hung it on my bathroom wall, along with some others I managed to snag on eBay.

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Once I had a sketch, I had to own a shoe, too, and let me tell you, if the goal of a fine shoe is to make a woman’s foot look sexy and her leg look stunning, then these shoes do the job in spades.

I own three pairs, but only one was bought new. (I got a hundred-dollar tip one night and decided that was a sign.

Two days and half my savings account later, and the shoes were mine.) The other two were also eBay finds, and amazing bargains at that. All told, I’ve spent over a grand on those three pairs of shoes. But they were worth every penny, because I wasn’t just buying shoes; I was buying a life change. They’re the best things that ever happened to my legs. Really. Tons better than Pilates or kick-boxing. (Slight exaggeration, but I’m trying to make a point.) And I really do get more attention from the male of the species when I’m wearing them. Trust me. I’ve kept a log.

I’ve been a Manolo fiend since long before Carrie Bradshaw sang their praises onSex and the City. I

haven’t, however, bought a new pair in over eight months. Finances too tight, and I can’t justify asking my mom and dad for money to buy shoes. And although I love each and every shoe in my current footwear collection, the truth is, it’s hopelessly out of season. And even though I’d never completely abandon the precious pairs I’d stored lovingly in my closet, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I was sorely tempted to break out my credit card. Especially for the little aquamarine kitten-heeled thong decorated with flowers on each leather strap.

“Go ahead,” a little devil whispered in my ear. “You know you want to.”

I turned to scowl at the devil—her name was Mel. “Ido want to. But I don’t want to turn to a life of crime, and that’s what I’d have to do in order to pay the bill.” For the record, Bergdorf’s isn’t exactly a discount venue for Manolo’s. And as much as I wished it wasn’t, $495 was a little rich for my blood. (Of

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course, I could be lusting after the $2500 pair of alligator pumps. By comparison, the sandals were practically a steal!)

“You could work a double shift for a couple of weeks and eat at the restaurant. Make extra money, save on food.”

This time, I scowled at Brian. “If I work doubles, I won’t have time to audition.”

“True,” he conceded. “So don’t work extra shifts. Just put it on your Visa and deal with it later.

Consider it an installment plan investment.”

“AT&T stock is an investment,” I countered, channeling my father. “And you’re a terrible influence.”

“If you really want them, I could spot you for them,” Mel said.

I licked my lips, sorely tempted. Why not? Mel had started out just as broke as me. But now she could probably buy and sell Mr. Blahnik if she wanted to. (Okay, maybe not. But she could certainly buy out his warehouse.) Buyingme a single pair of pumps really wouldn’t be any big deal.

I nearly said yes—I really did—but I couldn’t quite get the word out. I wanted the shoes—a lot more than I’d wanted the Givenchy fix she’d offered up an hour earlier—but I didn’t want the charity. If Mel just happened to wrap up a pair of Manolos for me at Christmas, well, then I’d be rude to complain. But right now, in the middle of March, I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes.

“I’m just looking,” I said.

Mel and Brian exchanged a look.

“Really,” I insisted. “I’ve got my eye on an amazing pair on eBay. By this time next week, I’ll be the proud owner of a brand-new pair of Manolos. Just wait and see.” That was a big fat lie, but at least I

was keeping my pride.

Since I was still holding the shoe, I gave it one final stroke, then resisted the temptation to kiss it
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good-bye before putting it back on the display.

I was just about to move away when I heard the husky voice behind me. “Fabulous, isn’t it?”

I turned, then jumped a little when I found myself face to face with Bird Girl who, apparently, had moved from makeup to shoes the same as me. Close up, she was even more exquisite, and I felt like a total schlub, even though I’d been pretty proud of the outfit I’d pulled together under the influence of appletinis. Still, you couldn’t argue with the facts: I might have the clothes, but Bird Girl owned the attitude.

“Um,” I said, displaying my rapier wit. “It’s a really great shoe.”

Bird Girl held up a finger, immediately commanding the attention of a harried clerk. “I’ll take these,” she said. “Size nine.” No caveat for “if it fits.” No hesitation. Just “I’ll take these.”

I swear, I hated her. Even more when she smiled at me. An icy smile that gave me chills, and seemed to hold more malice than the snooty rich smile I’d come to expect whenever I decided to pose among the fabulously wealthy.

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Immediately, I turned away, irritated with myself for being jealous of her looks and her money, and telling myself that at least I had smaller feet. But despite that little bit of bling for my ego, I was still unable to stop the one word that flashed like neon in my head:bitch.

BIRDIE

Iwatch the girl for a few more minutes, but it’s not really necessary. I already know all that I need to know. She is weak, untrained, and certainly not up to the task before her.

Most important, she’s no match for me.

Jennifer is already dead, and she doesn’t even know it.

The sales girl returns on that happy thought, and I pay cash for the shoes, ignoring the look of surprise that flashes in the clerk’s eyes. In a world of credit and debit, currency is going out of style. There are those of us who utilize it exclusively, though. Hard cash is the currency of the hidden. And I have lived my entire life in the warm comfort of shadows.

The girl puts the shoebox into the shopping bag, and I take it, allowing myself to enjoy the purely feminine rush that comes from the purchase of footwear. I must admit that I am practically tingling with excitement. For years, I made no purchase that didn’t involve the bartered exchange of cigarettes or sex.

I open the box and enjoy a quick moment breathing in that new shoe scent. And then, without any further hesitation, I put them on and discover that, yes, they fit perfectly.

I step back, doing a small pirouette in front of a nearby mirror.

Brilliant.

I’m free, recently fucked, and I’m on the hunt.

Really, what more could a girl want?

The question is rhetorical, and I don’t ponder it. Fashion is all fine and dandy, but I have a schedule to meet.

I check my watch and see that it is almost four. My deadline approaches.

I extend my hand and examine the ring I wear, the one I retrieved that morning. I’d left my nighttime companion snoring softly in a drunken haze, then headed for the private PO box referenced in the message. The ring was inside, tucked in a padded envelope addressed to me.

With a thick band and cheap gemstones, the ring is wholly unremarkable. Tacky, even. And yet I’m wearing it as instructed.

Also as instructed, I turn my hand over, then run my thumbnail along the band until I find the tiny indention. I pry, using my nail as I might use a screwdriver on a battery casing.

With very little effort, the metal backing pops off, revealing a series of tiny needlepoints, a dozen
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in all. I

keep my hand open and stiff, close enough to my body that I don’t risk touching anyone else, yet far enough away that I don’t accidentally scrape myself. I don’t know exactly what the needles are coated

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with, but I know that if an antidote isn’t administered within a certain amount of time, the toxin is deadly.

Then I pause beside a Jimmy Choo display, letting my gaze scan the floor as I reacquire my quarry.