“Uh. No.”
I don’t think she buys it, her lips pursing skeptically, and for the barest, most deranged of seconds, I think of telling her.There’s this guy, I’d say.He’s a former client who picked up on a bad habit I’ve got. We don’t know each other all that well, Lachelle and me, but we’ve got a friendly rapport whenever we’re at the shop together. She’s fun and kind and as talented as anyone I know, and maybe—
“Good, you’re still here,” Cecelia says to me, breezing into the room and breaking the spell, her arms full of a stack of look-books, various paper and writing samples she’s constantly assembling and reassembling for clients who come in needing ideas. “I got a call about you yesterday.”
There’s a thud of nerves in my stomach. What if he changed his mind? What if he decided Cecelia—she is, after all, the owner of the shop those programs came out of—needed to know what I’d done? What if his agreement to meet me was his way of putting me off the scent of this, his eventual truth-telling to my former boss?
“Oh?” I manage to make that single syllable into three.
Cecelia gives me a curious look but keeps moving, setting the books onto one of the white shelves lining the walls back here, all of them tidily organized and gorgeously color-schemed, two of Cecelia’s many strengths. “Yes, a new client. She’sdesperateto hire you.”
My body sags in relief.It wasn’t him. Thank God, it wasn’t him.
Cecelia turns to me, the long curtain of her straight black hair—not even a whisper of gray in there, no matter that she’s nearing fifty—slipping over one shoulder, her hands going to her hips. “Desperate,” she repeats, her smile proud.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why people don’t use the web form I have set up on my site.” Even as I say it, I know this isn’treallywhat I’m apologizing for, since Cecelia’s never acted annoyed by the calls she sometimes still gets about me and my work. I’m apologizing for that thud of nerves. For the cause of that thud, and the trouble it could have caused her.
Cecelia lifts a hand from her waist, waves it dismissively. “It’s no problem. She said she’s cautious about e-mail.” She pauses, peeks out toward the front of the shop to make sure it’s still only the three of us here. “I think it’s someonefamous.”
“Don’t do it,” says Lachelle immediately, raising the glass to her eye again and squinting. “Three months ago, I did party invitations for one of the Real Housewives and it was a nightmare. Three redos from the time I started the job and I didn’t even see anyone get a drink thrown in their face. What a waste.”
“It’s not a Real Housewife,” says Cecelia, moving to peek over Lachelle’s shoulder. She hums approval at the practice Lachelle has already done. “I could tell.”
“She didn’t give you a name?” I don’t know why I’m even asking. New clients are not part of the plan, not until I make my deadline.
She looks over at me, shakes her head. “She left the name and number of her assistant. Said to call anytime.”
“Oooh, an assistant,” says Lachelle. “Yeah, definitely call her.”
“She seemed nice,” Cecelia says. “I don’t think she’d throw a drink in anyone’s face. She’d probably pay alot. If she’s some huge star, it could be a big deal for you.”
“Yeah, I’m—” I pause, make a show of gathering my things while I gather myself. I haven’t told Cecelia yet about what I’ve been working on, especially since—given my gummed-up creativity—it may not come to anything. “I’m probably too swamped right now,” I finish, and it’s about as convincing as my denial about not having a date. Lachelle gives me that same mouth-purse.
“You’re sure?”
I cross my bag over my body, smooth down the front of my dress. No patterns, in case they make the situation with Reid worse, who’ll probably be back to the debate team thing today. A short-sleeved T-shirt dress, an emerald green that Sibby always says looks nice with my light brown hair, a denim jacket over top. Probably I should’ve considered whether the various enamel pins and buttons I have decorating the front pockets will be a distraction. One of them saysKeep NYC Weird,which I’m guessing Reid won’t find hugely endearing given that New York’s weirdness has to be numbers one through one hundred on the “Reasons Why He Hates It” list.
When I look up again, Cecelia and Lachelle are both watching me, their expressions twinned in confusion, probably at my uncharacteristic quiet. They’re good friends, the two of them—about five or so years ago Lachelle took one of Cecelia’s calligraphy classes, and Lachelle was such a quick study that now they collaborate often. But they also hang out—they’re both married, both have kids, though Lachelle’s are younger than Cecelia’s teenagers. Together they have what I think of as the general magic of calligraphers—a smooth confidence, a steadiness, the same quality that allows them to set an ink-dipped nib to a page and create something beautiful. No stopping the stroke, no pauses to erase and try again.
I feel another gripping pain of loneliness, of longing. I came here this afternoon for company, for respite from theswoosh. But even small talk seems risky—I can’t really talk about Reid without explaining how I know him, which would be disastrous. I’m not confident enough at the moment to talk about my deadline, and I’m embarrassed to tell them about my block.
“I’mtotallysure,” I say lightly.
Cecelia shrugs, pulls out the chair that’s next to Lachelle. “I’ll hang on to it anyway. Just in case.”
“She’ll change her mind,” Lachelle says, looking up at me and smiling, giving me a teasing wink. “She’s distracted by this date she’s got.”
Cecelia pauses, mid-sit, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, a date? That’s nice!”
“That’s nice” is what married people always say when they find out you have a date. As though a good eighty-six percent of dates in this city don’t end with you considering a blood pact with yourself to give up men in general.
“It isnota date.” This is the most conviction I have put into any sentence since I’ve arrived here. Cecelia, sitting now, nudges Lachelle with her elbow, and they both smile at me. I roll my eyes genially, check my phone. I’ll still make it on time, but I don’t feel any less nervous than when I showed up here. “I’ll take the Tombow,” I tell Cecelia, dropping it in my bag. “Put it on my account?”
“Sure,” says Cecelia, but she’s distracted now, reaching for a fresh sheet of the paper Lachelle’s been using.
“I’ll see you guys,” I say, moving around the table.
“Meg.” Lachelle’s voice stops me as I’m about to cross into the front part of the shop. “Someone knows where you’re going, right?”
