“Because Daryl is the worst friend, and you’re the best friend?”
Her laugh tells me to give it up, and I groan.
“You have big plans?” With completely unmasked sarcasm, she adds, “It’s not like I expected you to have a date or something, but you know, one can hope.”
I sit up and point dramatically at Daryl. “I was supposed to go to a party with that one.”
“It’s true,” she says guiltily, “but I forgot and promised Uncle Elias I’d go through his accounts.”
Amelia points a mom finger at her. “You are not having something else done to your face.”
Daryl immediately waves this off. We rarely comment on anything Daryl has done—she’s a grown-up, and as perfect as we think she already is, she’s doing it because she wants to and, well, it’s really none of our business. Still, even I’ll admit she’s been a bit . . . overzealous lately.
“Just a little light dusting.” Daryl gives a prim flourish of her hands and then turns back to me. “Speaking of, I need to get going.”
“I guess I’ll head out, too. No sense prolonging the inevitable.” I move to slip some work files into my bag, but then I remember what I’d been reading. “Hey, real quick: did either of you see the article about Brad in Variety?” I lower my voice and look out into the empty office. “Wait, is he still here?”
Amelia peeks out and down the hall toward the office of Brad Kingman—vice president of Price & Dickle, head of Features, and asshole extraordinaire—and returns, shaking her head. “Just us and Dudley, I think.”
I point to my computer screen, and the two of them huddle behind me, reading. “It wasn’t about him, exactly.” I point to the article in question. “Just a mention of how he was seen having dinner with Gabe Vestes.” Gabe is an A-list movie star who’s signed with our rival agency, CT Management. And, funny thing: everyone knows Brad and Gabe hate each other, although no one really knows why.
Daryl straightens, unimpressed. “That’s it? I thought this was going to be something tawdry and scandalous.”
I give her a little growl and look back down at the article. I’m not reassured by her certainty that this is meaningless; suspicion itches at me.
“Maybe they patched whatever up?” Amelia offers.
I hum, unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s a thing that happens to Brad unless there’s money involved.”
“You go ahead and think on that, Nancy Drew,” Amelia says, “but Jay is waiting, so I gotta jet.” She turns to leave but stops just shy of the door. “And before I forget, a memo ran by my desk today—it’ll probably hit your box this week, Evie—Brad is postponing your department’s annual retreat, so you can take it off your calendar for now.”
“Postponing? Did it say why?” My spidey senses are heightened now. Brad has held our Features department retreat in Big Bear the same week every November for as long as anyone can remember.
“Didn’t say,” Amelia tells us. “All I know is that it’s been delayed indefinitely and I’m sure I won’t hear you complain about skipping an entire weekend in the woods with that guy.”
? ? ?
When you’re my age and living alone in an apartment with a common entrance, endless hallways, and tiny buzzers on the doors, you forget that creeping hopelessness you get walking up to a real house. A house with a porch, and a Craftsman door, and a knocker that tells you a little something about the people inside.
An iron dragon.
A brass rose.
Maybe a copper gargoyle.
I stare at the perfectly tarnished cherub on Steph and Mike’s front door and scowl, suddenly feeling a lot less satisfied with my life than I did only a few hours ago. They’re six years younger than I am and they’re already knocker people. Front door people. Homeowners.
I can’t commit to the yearly plan for Netflix and don’t even own the car I just parked two blocks down the crowded street. I am a terrible adult.
I glance at my black robe, at the burgundy-and-yellow tie, at the wand in my hand, and wonder why I ever agreed to this. I’m thirty-three years old and at a costume party dressed as a teenage Hermione Granger.
Jesus, Evie.
Damn you, Daryl.
And it takes some bravery, let me tell you, to come here alone, dressed like a teenage Hogwarts character. There’s this instinctive panic, that Bridget Jones tarts-and-vicars-induced anxiety that the door will open and everyone will stare at me with jaws agape and Steph will whisper in empathetic mortification, Didn’t you get the email saying we weren’t doing costumes?
At least with Daryl at my side that outcome would be funny, and we could drink and tease each other about how we ended up here on a Friday night. But alone? Not so much. Here’s to hoping the Come As You Are theme held, because a girl who needs a time turner to get everything done each day is a perfect alter ego for a single woman working in Hollywood.
I lift the knocker with some effort—using both hands. It’s surprisingly heavy.
When I let it go again, it doesn’t make the soft, deep knock I imagine, and instead strikes with a deafening metallic crack against the wood. The sound reverberates in the tiny brick courtyard and for a single, terrifying heartbeat the giant cherub wings wobble on their hinges as if they might crash to the ground.
Jumping back, I notice the perfectly normal doorbell on the outside wall: clean, obvious, and to all appearances, completely functional.
So . . . not a knocker then.
The door flies open, letting out a roar of laughter that, from the way everyone is staring at me, seems to be directed at the racket I’ve just caused. Steph steps forward, bringing a waft of her Prada perfume with her. With a graceful, manicured hand, she stills what is obviously, in hindsight, a metal door decoration.
“Evie’s here!” She pulls me into a hug. “You’re here!”
I like Steph. We used to work together at the Alterman Agency when I was a young, shiny new agent and she was an intern. She’s still there, a full agent now, and to this day she holds the honor of being the colleague—past or present—whom I least frequently wanted to strangle. She’s warm, she’s accomplished . . . but once I step inside, I’m reminded again that she is frantically trying to cling to her teenage aesthetic even though she’s neck-deep in her twenties. Case in point: her costume. I’m pretty sure she’s dressed as “Wrecking Ball”–era Miley Cyrus in a cropped white tank and a white bikini bottom with boots. Also? I spy a table in the corner with an artful arrangement of Red Bull cans and a selection of fancy vodkas.
Ushering me in, she says—too loudly—“That thing is just decorative, you goose! You scared everyone! And oh my God! Hermione! You look amazing. You are so great for coming alone. My brave little Evie!”
Brave?
The sound you heard? The one that sounded a little like tires screeching? That was my confidence, coming to a standstill just inside the door.
I look around at an assortment of expectant faces wearing polite smiles, waiting for introductions.