“San Francisco Fashion Week is not small-town shit.”
“Emerson?” A head popped out from the door behind Emerson, and Emerson bristled.
“What do you need, Nicolette?” she asked from between gritted teeth.
Nicolette blushed a fierce red and glanced quickly at me and then directly to the stained carpet at her feet. But in that fleeting glance, I noticed that Nicolette shared Emerson’s unfortunately beady eyes and sharp, defined cheekbones, though she had clearly gotten the luxe end of the stick when it came to hair. Hers was cut in a cheeky bob and glistened a pretty blond. “I have all the garments steamed if you want to take a look.”
“Hi,” I said casually, “who are you?”
“She’s my sister,” Emerson snapped. “And Nicolette, even you can’t mess up steam. There are a few more things in the bathroom, though.”
“Sisters?” I said. “How very Little House on the Prairie.”
Even with her face turned toward the floor, I could see Nicolette’s cheeks push up into a smile. “I’m Nina, by the way.” I pushed out a hand and Nicolette shook; the female equivalent of crossing enemy lines. I could practically see the steam shooting from Emerson’s ears and it gave me a happy.
“Your sister was telling me all about her cute little fashion line.”
“Cute? Apparently you forgot who spanked who in Seattle?”
“It’s whom. Who spanked whom. And of course I didn’t forget. I generally find it hard to forget when someone steals my designs,” I said.
“Steals? I prefer to call it ‘borrowed inspiration.’”
“I prefer to call it a death wish.”
“Um,” Nicolette said, her voice soft as she addressed the floor. “Isn’t there a third person in the competition?”
Emerson rested her fists on her love handles and threw back her head, looking like a stupid statue of some sort of conqueror. “There is a third person, but he’s hardly part of the competition.”
“He?” I hated being caught unawares, but I hadn’t read my welcome packet (hello? I’m in New York. Is someone seriously expecting me to read?) and didn’t know who was behind door number three.
Emerson jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the hallway. “Reg.”
“Reginald Fairfield?” I gaped.
Reginald Fairfield was the Queen Elizabeth of the up-and-coming fashion world: regal, benign, and basically a figurehead who kept plaid walking shorts and seersucker fabrics alive and kicking. Every one of his lines was crisp and came in shades of Martha’s-Vineyard-slash-old money, and the rumor around town was the man himself had never actually wielded a pair of scissors—he left the dirty work to his “traveling companion,” an exceptionally well-tanned young gentleman with a heavy accent and a resumé that I am completely sure contained the words “cabana boy.”
“They moved in about a week early.”
I nodded. “I suppose it would take some time for Reginald to unpack his marble busts and Felipe’s Speedos.”
Nicolette sniggered behind her hand and Emerson went from remotely tolerable back to grade-A horrible. “Didn’t you have some fabric to steam?”
Nicolette scampered away like a sad little pup and Emerson turned her eyes—and her stench—back to me.
“Look LaShay, you and I both know that this competition boils down to only two people: you and me.”
I pursed my lips. “So you admit I’m competition.”
Emerson just rolled her eyes and continued. “Your designs may have impressed a few lesser judges and”—she made air quotes—“spanked mine, but this time, make no mistake. I. Will. Bury. You.”
I cocked an eyebrow, not the least bit bothered by Emerson’s attempt at threatening me. “Don’t you mean your designs will bury mine?”
She smiled this time, poking the edge of her tongue out to moisten her bottom lip as she shrugged. “Semantics.”
I stood in the hallway, staring, as she slammed the door.
It was the next morning and being a vampire with no need of sleep, I spent the midnight hours checking out the town, frowning at the all beautiful clothes locked behind plate glass and CLOSED signs, and ultimately decimating two more blood bags than I needed to while watching Susan Lucci hock obscene-looking Pilates equipment and god-awful jewelry. When the sun finally began to peek through my drawn blinds, I gathered up my wares—rolls of gorgeous, plush fabric that was hand-sewn decades before the word vintage was coined (one of the huge benefits of having a shopping habit that spanned centuries rather than seasons), spun gold thread, bugle beads, and my absolute favorite, number-one must have: a good pair of scissors. I rolled the pair I had across my palm, enjoying their heft, the Swarovski-crusted handle, the ultrasharp blades, and the swirled-letter engraving there: Not friend, sister. Love always, Sophie.
It gave me a little pang when I ran my fingers over the words. Sophie Lawson is my San Francisco roommate and though so fashion-challenged it’s terminal, she means the world to me. In my afterlife I tried hard to never let anything get to me, never let anything attach, but Sophie did both of those things. Besides, her constant bad body luck (the dead were constantly dropping out of the woodwork when she was around) kept me really entertained.
Good entertainment means a lot when you’ve been around for every movie from The Horse in Motion to Spiderman (all iterations).
My hand was hovering over the phone when I heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of someone beating the walls in the hallway, then a low, enraged voice echoing through the hundred-year-old architecture.
“I’m know you’re in there! Get out here!”
I poked my head out into the hallway and groaned when I saw that the burly, angry voice was coming from Emerson, and the thunk-thunk-thunking from her clodhopper shoe as she kicked my next-door neighbor’s door.
“What the hell is your problem, Emerson? You’re going to wake up the entire borough!”
Emerson turned to me, nostrils flaring, eyes spitting fire. “It’s Reginald Fairfield. I know he’s in there,” she said, turning her back to the still-closed door. “I know you’re in there!” She gave the door another wallop—this time with her fisted hand—then a few more swift kicks before I grabbed her around the waist, yanking her back.
“Why are you beating on his door like a maniac?”
“A maniac? A maniac?” She wriggled out of my bear hold. “You were probably in on it! You probably let him into my apartment!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Reginald stole my fabric. The whole bolt! All of it!” She was flailing but hitting nothing, and sweat beaded on her upper lip and at her hairline, matting down her blunt-cut bangs. “He’s a cheat! And now he’s hiding out. He won’t even open the door, the coward.” She launched herself at the door. “You’re a coward, Reginald!”
“Dios mio! Ladies, ladies, what is going on here?”
We both blinked at Felipe, Reginald’s paramour, as he stood in the hallway, tanned legs exposed in his plaid walking shorts, muscles flexed as he carried two stuffed grocery bags against his chest.
A new rage roiled through Emerson’s body, the heat coming off her in waves. I held my nose and wrapped an arm around her before she lunged at Felipe.
“Nice to see you again, Felipe,” I said, doing my best to secure Emerson but avoid her stink. “Emerson is under the impression that Reginald stole some fabric from her.”
“It’s not an impression!” Emerson screeched.
Felipe just shook his head and clucked his tongue, unaffected. “My Reginald would do nothing of the sort,” he said in his heavily accented English. “Besides,” he continued, his dark eyes taking in Emerson and her cardboard-colored dress, “Reggie would not use your fabrics. They are so . . .” He let the word trail off, the disgust on his face finishing his sentence.
“He didn’t steal it to use it, he stole it to fuck me up!”
“How do you know that Reginald was the one who stole your fabric?” I asked Emerson.
She gritted her teeth and spat through them. “He came over last night. Both of them did. We had a glass of wine, and Reginald was touching the fabric, admiring it.”
“He was just trying to be nice,” Felipe clarified, shifting his shopping bags.
“I got sleepy. They must have drugged me. I fell asleep—probably didn’t even lock the door after they left. And when I woke up—gone! The whole bolt. And now the damn coward won’t even open up the door and confront me.”
“Pshhh!” Felipe let out a dismissing puff of air. “Reggie is just a hard sleeper.” He handed me a bag and plugged his key into the lock. “Reggie,” he sang as we trailed behind.
I heard the bag clatter to the hardwood floor first, a jar of marinated mushrooms shattering, the oil oozing toward my shoes. Then I heard Felipe, heard the air squeeze out of his lungs. I didn’t have to see his face to know that it was twisted in horror, and as pearl white as mine.
