Page 18 of Vows in Sin
A sick feeling roils in the pit of my stomach. The same one I get each time I think of anything to do with my last job, my stupid mistake, and the end of my career as we know it. So, about a thousand times a day.
I double-click onResumé of the Marketing Queen of Manhattan.“That’ll need to be renamed…”
After changing the file name to,Doomed to Fail,I glance over the document. Whoops! The PalmVolt campaign is one of my notable achievements. “Ouch.”
Cue the cursor. I press the delete button, holding it down until everything related to PalmVolt and Magda’s name has disappeared.Poof! I lean back in my chair, staring at the updated file on my screen.
If only those horrible memories could be erased so easily.
Resumé done. Now what? My fingers tap the keys.
Google him. Google him. Google him.
Stop.
As a rule, Bachmans aren’t allowed social media accounts, so I have no way of seeing what Dame’s up to. Not that I wonder so much anymore. The man with the paddle-like hand has taken over residence in my mind.
But Reign is too old and grumpy to be on the internet, even if he could set up a profile. And Bachmans lose their old names, and delete their previous lives when they join the prestigious mafia.
Giving up on the job hunt, I close the laptop. Go back to my nest of pillows and blankets. “Let’s see what the housewives are up to.” I watch a few episodes.
The thudding returns. Three distinct knocks directly overhead. The TV isn’t loud. What could Miss Fifi want? She lives alone. Sometimes she gets confused.
I’d best check on her.
Slipping into some hard-soled house shoes, I take the stairs to make up for the couch surfing. No one is allowed to paint their front door, yet Fifi’s bright red paint with brass hardware has been grandfathered into the building rules.
She hates our standard black ones. Says they’re boring.
I give the door a few hearty knocks. “Fifi?”
I hear shuffling, the click of her three deadbolts, and the door flings open with the dramatic flair one demands of a Broadway star. “Seraphina!” she cries. “How is my favorite neighbor?”
Today, she wears a thick red robe with a feathery collar, rings of pearls around her neck, and green galoshes. Seeing me eye her shoes, she explains. “It might rain later.”
“It does look gloomy out there,” I agree, knowing she rarely leaves her apartment.
Now, it’s her turn to give me a quizzical look. “My God!” She gasps. “What. Are. You. Wearing?”
I’ve been living in Cleo’s gray sweatsuit. I shrug. “It’s comfy.”
“Suit yourself. We’re dining in tonight. I’ll accept it.” She breezes away, robes swaying, leaving me to see myself in.
“Dining?” I follow her through the door, closing it behind me.
“I sent the secret code!”
“Secret code?” I’m really lost.
“Three thuds of my cane means Chinese takeout!”
“Oh,” I laugh. “I’d forgotten.”
She tsks me with a dramatic sigh. “And people say I’m confused.”
Her apartment is larger than mine and on the opposite end of the hall. Her small round dining table sits by a bank of windows overlooking a small park. She’s laid a tablecloth and linen napkins for tonight.
Our favorites, Kung Pao Chicken and spring rolls, wait for us. Our deal is she orders takeaway enough for two, and if I’m in, I come up and eat with her; if not, she saves me half for later.
