Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DAPHNE
I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I can’t wait until I see Araminta. I’ve never been more desperate for a friend. As I walk to work Monday morning with a skip in my step, a weekend of great sex and love confessions behind me, I know a friend is exactly what I need. This isn’t the kind of thing I can discuss in a letter to Edwina or bottle up until we meet in person. No, I need to tell my annoying book sprite friend. Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before I blurt out Guess how many orgasms I had last night? to the next stranger who smiles at me.
If only I knew when or where I’d next see Ari. She didn’t show up at my apartment over the weekend, though I did spend half of it at Monty’s, and I don’t know where her new place is located.
I arrive to work in a love-addled daze, shocked when I find the editorial floor bustling with so much activity. It appears I’m the last assistant to arrive. Having a skip in one’s step must not equate to an increase in speed.
I pull open the drawer to extract my pen and ink pot, eager to get started like the rest of my colleagues. I bite back a yelp at the tiny body curled up on my stack of papers. The lights overhead illuminate her paper wings, and I realize I won’t have to wait long at all to see Araminta.
“No,” she says, wincing at the bright light, “just leave me in this dark hole to wither alone.”
I arch a brow. “Did you and David break up again?”
“God, no,” she says, pushing up to sit with lethargic moves. “We’ve been over for ages.”
I wouldn’t call last weekend ages ago, but to each their own. I’m still brimming with excitement over everything I want to tell her, but I doubt she’d give me the response I want if she’s in such a somber mood. Besides, I may have admitted I was looking forward to seeing Ari, but that doesn’t mean I have to act like it. “What’s got you crawling into dark holes to die?”
She flutters out of my drawer, allowing me to extract my writing supplies. There’s a missive on my desk, so I set it aside, organizing my blank sheets of paper, my pen and ink pot, and the queries I need to read today.
Ari plops herself on top of the missive, face down, wings splayed flat. Her voice comes out muffled as she says, “I got fired.”
“Fired? From your modeling gig? Which one?”
She lifts her head, her parchment lashes heavy over drooping eyes. “All of them.”
“What did you do?”
“It’s not what I did,” she says, tone defensive. “It’s Spears Marketing’s fault. That’s the company I work for. They’re in charge of the adverts for Harvey Blandwell’s Hemorrhoid Potion and Intrepid Contraceptive Tonic, among others. Apparently there was a little outrage over my kitten photograph.”
“I doubt it was the photograph so much as the text.”
“Either way, this is the end for me. All my dreams have crumbled, thanks to the Modesty Committee.” She says the last part in a deep and mocking voice.
“What’s the Modesty Committee?”
She gives me a perplexed look. “Didn’t you see them outside the building? They had signs and everything. Why do you think I’m incognito today?”
I tilt my head, racking my brain. “Come to think of it, there was a group of women outside the building today, holding up signs on wooden stakes.”
“Didn’t they yell at you when you walked into the lobby?”
I think back and recall that maybe they did. I wasn’t in the best state of mind to notice much of anything, what with me skipping, humming, and reliving the euphoria of my weekend. “I just smiled at them and came inside,” I say with a shrug.
Ari stands up at once. “You…smiled at them? But you never smile at strangers. You hardly look at them. Why would you smile at my archenemy? Not just mine but your own.” At my furrowed brow, she continues. “They don’t just have it out for Spears Marketing. They’re on a mission to outlaw so-called inappropriate media of every sort and have waged war against every publication in the city that features mature content. It rose to a peak this weekend, with them standing outside bookstores, libraries, and newsstands, shaming anyone who even thought of buying what the Committee considers filth. Didn’t you hear them shouting Keep smut out of our children’s hands and Bare chests belong in the bedroom ?”
My pulse kicks up. This can’t be good. I look around the editorial floor, at my colleagues scrambling from desk to desk or furiously writing. I was so caught up in my own happy bubble, I hadn’t sensed the tense mood until now.
“It’s all here,” Ari says, tapping her foot on the missive she’s standing on.
I pull it out from under her so fast, it sends her tumbling through the air. I scan the headline of the missive: Changes in Production Schedule Effective Immediately . It looks like a general notice sent to everyone at Fletcher-Wilson, which explains the mass panic. If we’re forced to make changes to our production schedule due to the current outrage from the Modesty Committee, it will affect everyone.
“Miss Daphne,” says a deep and stoic voice. I glance up to find Mr. Fletcher standing on the other side of my desk. “Please come to my office. I have unfortunate news.”