Chapter IV Human Resources
Chapter IV
Human Resources
C lark was standing inside a high-ceilinged office buttressed by marble pillars, wood panels, and floor-to-ceiling windows with the blinds drawn. To the left was a cognac leather bachelor-pad couch, and two matching armchairs. As he scanned the shadowed room through a cigarette haze, Clark’s eyes came to rest on a handsome wooden desk, flanked by a marble fireplace left cold, in front of which Lorena sat under an acid-green lamp, looking right at him.
“So,” she said, her voice a gravelly English soprano, “you’re the new guy.” With all the lamps on and the dramatic lighting, he thought she looked like a detective straight out of a film noir movie.
Clark replied, “Guilty as charged.”
Lorena sniggered, staring at him as he stood by the door. Clark couldn’t tell whether she was amused or put off. She popped a cigarette in between her teeth, produced a silver lighter, and fired it up. After a deep, deep drag, and with the cigarette still hanging on her lips, she muttered, “Have a seat.” She motioned to the chair in front of her desk.
“Thank you,” he said, doing as told.
“You don’t mind, right, darling?” she asked, puffing smoke into the air above her. Clark’s eyes watered and he was already green at the gills.
“Please,” he said.
Whether Lorena was younger or older than Charisma, Clark couldn’t say. Lorena had intense green eyes like her sister and daughter, but dark auburn-brown hair that spilled over one shoulder in waves, voluptuous and thick. She wore a plunging neckline that exposed a sun-drenched chest, and her curves fit snugly into a fitted black dress. On her desk was an empty coffee mug with plum lipstick prints on the rim, and a picture of her and her daughter, which she moved to the side.
Lorena leaned back in her chair and popped off her pumps with a couple of thuds. She propped up her feet. Her pantyhose, Clark mused, made her small feet look toeless and clubbed. Lorena was pretty, he decided, if a little sordid. In a way, she reminded him of some of the crass northeastern women he had grown up around, except with Lorena, he had no idea what to expect. He smiled politely, hoping to deflect that he was a touch scared of her.
An echo came to him then, of Miss Honey’s voice, saying, “Don’t show fear, baby...”
Easier said than done . . .
“Tsk tsk. She hasn’t been feeding you, has she...?” Lorena stated, her eyes surveying him up and down.
“Who, me? Oh, I’m fine.” His stomach growled loudly again, giving him away. “Really!” he said. Instantly, Clark succumbed to nerves: he didn’t want to cause any more trouble, lest he be on the receiving end of more of Monica’s perverse demands.
Lorena uttered a wheezy cackle. “You’re cute,” she said, “but you’re a bad liar.” She took a drag and slowly blew it out.
There was another knock on the door. “Come in,” Lorena barked again.
It was Carolina who opened the door. “Hello,” she chimed, rolling in a cart carrying two large trays and drinks. “Here is your comida, ma’am.”
Lorena slammed her fist on the desk and snapped, “I told you never to call me that!”
Both Carolina and Clark froze in place. Seeing this, Lorena broke into a sheepish laugh, and with a cloying smile, said, “‘Ma’am’ is for my mother, Mrs. Saintly.” She added, “Please, be a dear and set it down over there.”
Carolina did as instructed. “Okay, Miss Lorena.”
Yeesh . . . This one, he decided, was not to be crossed.
“You,” she said, pointing at Clark and then to the couch. “Come. What we don’t need is yet another one of Monica’s juniors landing in the bloody ICU.” They moved left to the couches, where Clark took the armchair and Lorena lounged on the sofa, stretching her toes like a contented housecat. “Eat,” she commanded. This was not a request.
Carolina lifted the lids off the trays, revealing two fine cuts of filet mignon, with garlic mashed potatoes, peas, and a side salad each. It smelled so decadent, Clark’s stomach let out yet another unruly grumble. He barely uttered a “thank you” before digging in and taking a bite so delicious, it almost seemed to melt in his mouth. It was so delicious, in fact, he almost melted himself, into that leather armchair. Clark could not remember his last big, warm meal. Between the slices of buttered toast he hurriedly scarfed on his way out the door in those early mornings, or the pizza rolls he nuked in the microwave at night, he realized that he had been absolutely famished to the point of exhaustion. Lorena watched with amusement as Clark could not help but follow bite after bite almost without stopping to chew. He reminded himself to slow down, so as not to appear too needy.
“The closed mouth does not get fed, darling. Do not be shy to ask for what you need,” Lorena said. Clark seriously doubted whether that power had been within his grasp all along. Who was he, a junior, to ask for the bare minimum with a boss like Monica?
Carolina poured a glass of top-shelf vodka and soda over ice, with a single lime wedge on the rim and another squeezed in. Lorena mimed with her lips and her bejeweled finger “one more” to Carolina, who procured another glass for Clark. Clark dared not turn down free food and alcohol on the job, let alone something offered by a woman like Lorena, and so he obliged. Lorena lifted her glass in a small gesture of cheers. Clark did the same, and they both sipped. It was strong. Clark grimaced: too strong. He let out a sputter and pulled at the tie around his neck.
“Tut tut, darling. Maybe it’ll put some hair on your chest, ay?” She let out a small cackle. Clark laughed nervously back.
Lorena waited until Carolina closed the door behind her, and for Clark to be well on his way through his plate, before digging in herself. “I am just positively famished ,” she said, eyeing him while slicing her knife back and forth on her steak. “Traveling, am I right?” She chortled. “I’m sure I need no introduction: my name is Lorena. I am booker for the Coven, manager of the assistants, and Charisma’s sister. Consider me HR...and your boss. Everything under this roof goes through me. I am the direct report for you and the girls. Is that understood?”
“Got it,” Clark said. “I mean, yes. Understood.” He was careful to not say the M-word.
“Excellent,” Lorena said. “I know Monica has kept you busy these past couple of weeks. Usually, we interview our juniors a little more... thoroughly. But, given the short notice and the need for the position to be filled, not to mention that we were abroad for the month, I am sure you understand why I have brought you in myself. What you are doing here is a very integral part of our operations.”
Clark paused to wipe his lips. Is it...? What have I accomplished that could be so important...? He decided, “Thank you for having me,” would be safe enough to say.
Lorena spoke slower this time: “Tell me, Clark. You are clearly not a woman. You are not a witch. You were not born into the witching community. How then, my darling, did you happen upon Monica and our open position, and infiltrate our midsts?”
Infiltrate, Clark thought. A choice word... Clark explained how Patricia had caught wind of the position and arranged for an in-person with him and Monica. One thing led to another and the next thing he knew, he had found himself the new junior. He had spent the last couple of weeks running errands around the city and getting things in order for the arrival of Charisma and company, which was how he had ended up sitting in front of her then.
“I see,” Lorena said. She took a drag and observed him through slanted, smoky eyes. “And, tell me, what is a boy— a man —like you hoping to gain by being here, in a place such as this?” The ice in her glass clinked as she raised it to her lips, watching him from over the rim.
“To gain by being here?” Clark parroted.
“Everyone wants something,” Lorena said, eyeing him curiously. “What is it that you want?”
“Well...” Clark began, taking a moment to chew, think, and swallow. What do I want by being here...? Pay, but I dunno if I can say that yet...Opportunity, but I definitely won’t say that either, at least not yet...So what do I want...? “I was in school part-time, and now I’m not. I was working full-time, but now I, um, work on weekends, so I have the availability to commit to here...”
The way she was studying him, scanning him, there was something behind that smirk that Clark couldn’t place. Was she not so convinced? Lorena pursed her lips and took a sip.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, what I want by being here,” Clark said, “is to do something that matters. I’m looking for a career. I know I could be great given the chance. If I could just be more involved, have the experience of—”
“‘Experience’?” Lorena interjected, setting her glass down. “My darling, what kind of ‘experience’ were you hoping to gain, exactly?”
Clark knew then that he had said something wrong. “Um, well, all I’m doing is running errands and letters. If I could just do something more...” But what could he say? Be given more responsibility, this early on? She gave him the side-eye, and Clark knew he was in trouble.
“My dear boy, don’t you realize,” Lorena said, “a million girls would kill to be in your shoes? A million witches , in fact. The experience to be gained is in working for Charisma, period. You of all people should be so lucky to work for us. Anything more is, well, up to you.”
Clark took a sip and wished it were water. The question he had been burning to know suddenly rose up to his lips, and he asked it almost automatically: “Are you all...actual, real witches?”
After a moment’s pause, Lorena finally answered. “Oh yes. As real as any other.” Her face broke into a guileful smile.
Clark gulped, his throat gone dry.
These people are so self-important, it’s nuts...And they actually think they’re witches... “How does one become a witch? Were you taught?”
Slowly, Lorena’s smile fell. Clark watched as she put out her cigarette. “My naive boy,” Lorena said, “a queen is not made. She is born. One does not become a witch: one simply is . The very essence of her nature is her homecoming; the prowess she reveals, the Gifts she possesses, the innate Potential her inheritance handed down from generation to generation. A witch might acquire a skillset, sure, a trick or two, under the appropriate guidance. But to a witch, the Art lives in her heart, simply because it is her preordained destiny. What is it that you think we do here, exactly? This isn’t ’ogwarts, darling! ” She laughed, a gravelly chortle, and popped a piece of steak crudely into her gaping mouth. If he were honest, the way Lorena loudly chewed with her mouth open made Clark a little sick.
Wouldn’t that be nice... Clark thought to himself. “Sorry, I uh...some of this is still new to me,” he said. He wished he hadn’t. This whole thing is a sham...
Lorena asked, dangerous and low, “Do you think what we do here is some kind of a joke...?”
“Oh . . . no,” Clark said quietly, “of course not.”
Without removing her eyes from him, Lorena produced a fresh cigarette, popped it onto her lips, and inhaled through her open lighter. She took a big, long pull, and exhaled its smoke towards Clark, whose eyes watered and nose burned. He dared not cough to give her a rise.
“Indeed,” Lorena said. “Allow me to inform you: witchcraft is a women’s realm and a women’s sport. And quite frankly, sweetie darling , the position of junior assistant is traditionally given to a woman. Always has been. Always will be. And yet, here you are. Here you are, when the truth is, you should be grateful to work for Charisma, and by extension, me. A good assistant never forgets their place, and a good assistant never asks for more. More is a gift one is bestowed when one is deserving of such an honor.”
Clark tried his best not to reveal his dismay, and his fear. I’m getting the feeling I might have to Charlotte my way into Judaism ...
“So, be that as it may,” Lorena went on, shifting on the couch, “why should we—that is, I—keep you here, when a million other girls would absolutely kill to be in your...shoes, for nothing in return, absolutely nothing at all?” At this, Lorena looked down at his crossed ankles and on to those well-worn high-tops, which squeaked back as if in indignation. Clark chewed her question over.
Why should they keep me...? What do I want, and why should I stay...? And how many times has she used the word “darling” already . . . ? They could find any girl for the job...So why me...? By then his plate had been finished; he had just a few peas left and a couple of sprigs of arugula, so he put down his cutlery so as not to look completely starved. Clark watched Lorena push her plate to the side too, her half-eaten steak sitting in a pool of its own red runoff. He almost wanted to ask if he could finish it.
“I think I could be of, uh, of use to you, if I stay,” he said carefully. “I can lift boxes. I’m quick on foot—” Clark made sure to hide his shoes under the table and out of sight. “I already know the job. I just met the girls. You wouldn’t have to interview or train anyone else. I would really like to be here. To stay.” “A year here could open many doors”—change my life even...Be brave and get through this in one piece, Clark...
“ Maybe some...testosterone would be good for you ladies,” he added with diffidence, puffing up his chest, however unimposing it may have been. At this, Lorena laughed, a small, shrill cackle, and Clark, in turn, erupted in a small, warm sweat.
“Yes, that’s true,” she said, “I do wish sometimes that we had a... man around here.” Her body undulated with the punctuation of every word, and she bit her lip as her eyes trailed him up and down. “Ideally one who is, oh, I don’t know, easy on the eyes, muscular, a skilled masseuse, and completely mute. ” At this, Clark’s mouth, which had been held agape in suspense, snapped to a close seemingly against his own volition. Lorena threw her head back, cackled again, and took a swig. Clark meant to laugh but grimaced and let out a half-hearted hahaha instead as he rubbed his jaw.
Lorena got up off the sofa and, still barefoot, slowly slinked towards Clark until she sat on the arm of his chair, only inches away from him. She was sitting so close, in fact, that Clark could smell the lady perfume radiating off her body, and the vodka on ice and cigarettes cold on her breath. “But,” she said, crinkling her nose and looking straight into Clark’s eyes, “wouldn’t that be nice.”
The hair on Clark’s arms stood up on end as he found himself, yet again, with the acute feeling that his thoughts were being listened to. Lorena smiled that smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Clark reached up to scratch the middle of his forehead.
“If it is experience that you seek, that much is up to you.” She sighed and stood up to face him, this time with one hand on each arm of the chair. Lorena leaned in with her hair cascading over her chest, heaving forward, and her voice dangerously low. “You have to prove yourself worthy to us, not the other way around. Certainly, you know too much by now, too much to replace on such short notice...for the time being. That said, a keen insight as to who we are and how we work is crucial for the job, which you seem to be rather slow on. Consider yourself lucky that you are here—on a mere technicality .”
“But, what do you mean?” Clark asked. “What do they do, the assistants? How does it all work? How can I prove myself if I, to your point, don’t know how things...” He waved his hands around. “Work around here.” Clark was in over his head, like he was careening straight for a collision. His brain was mush from the vodka, flowing right through him.
“What we do,’” Lorena said, rising as tall as she could above him, “is sell witchcraft. Think of it as life insurance policies, or, say, financial advising—but for your karma, your career, your love life—whatever. Whatever our clients want: status, riches, power. Like Charisma always says, ‘Give a woman a little Charisma, and she can conquer the world.’ Charisma need only say the magic word and guide them to their ultimate desires...for a price. Her success rate is unmatched. Her word is the only word that matters. And when Charisma cannot be in two or three places at once, the assistants are called upon in her stead.”
“Oh, okay...” Clark said. “Whatever the clients want? Can you really do that?”
Lorena scoffed. “Witches don’t just wiggle our noses or wave around a magic wand, boy . Witchcraft is more than, oh, I dunno, turning cards for pennies like some commoner in a street side shop!” Lorena was so crazed Clark could see the whites of her eyes. “That’s why we are paid the big bucks.”
“The ‘big bucks’ . . . ?”
“Oh yes...royally. Clients will pay big money for raw talent. The assistants have their own VIP clients around the world as well as handling Charisma’s, and in turn, have large fanbases themselves, who worship the ground they walk on. Haven’t you seen their socials? I think Alicia is at, what is it now, twenty-five million followers?”
If she thinks you know too much, Clark, you have leverage... he thought to himself. With some trepidation, Clark asked, “Can juniors be paid?”
Lorena stared back blankly and took a drag. “Only the assistants are paid here, boy.”
Dare he press on? Be brave, Clark... he thought again. Lorena was a hungry jaguar pacing her prey, one that could pounce at any given moment. He spoke carefully. “Then, how does one become an assistant?”
A devilish smile slowly broke onto Lorena’s face. She took another swig of her drink before speaking. “We do not proselytize. Assistants come to us. First, hopeful candidates must bring something to the table, like a proposal, an offering of sorts—a sacrifice , if you will. But that alone is not enough. What are their talents? Whom have they assisted? Who are their clients? Can they work with the Coven in tandem? Even then, there is no guarantee one can be initiated into our ranks. Here, we are a family.”
“Oh, I see,” Clark said. “And, forgive me, are you...a part of ‘the Coven’ too?”
“Of course,” she said, folding one arm over the other and taking a puff of her cigarette. Clark was deeply bothered by her smoking, and having to endure his first meal under her scrutinous sparring. He was thirsty, the middle of his forehead was prickling something fierce, and he desperately wanted to leave.
Clark asked, “What was yours?”
“My what?’ Lorena asked, taken aback.
“Your sacrifice.”
“My...sacrifice?” she asked distantly, trailing off and looking to the left of him. Scenes seemingly unbelonging to Clark flickered across his mind’s eye one by one, like scenes on a film reel, a daydream he couldn’t help but be carried away by:
A small girl with brown hair bounded up a beach on an early morning. She reproached, “Sissy!” to a copper-haired young girl, who turned to look at her. Behind them, just over the dune, civilians and news cameras approached a row of whales, sharks, and dolphins. These animals lay beached, dry, and dead under the morning sun, as far as the eye could carry.
Like a flick of the remote on a television set, the daydream shifted and changed: young girls in a schoolyard taunted, “Witch! Witch! Witch!” They threw rocks and trash at a young Lorena and that same copper-haired girl, who looked back at them in seething indignation.
Another flicker: on that same cobblestone yard, covered in snow, one of those taunting schoolgirls lay writhing and screaming, crying out in agony as if being electrocuted by some invisible force. There was a circle of girls backing away as Lorena pushed and shoved through the crowd. In the center, the copper-haired girl stood over the writhing girl on the ground, with those dangerous, menacing green eyes. Lorena grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.
Then, a more mature Lorena had been cornered by a sharp-eyed, traditional-looking woman. The woman’s tight, red lips moved, saying she must give up her life “in the service of a higher good.” The words “why can’t you be more like your sister” seemed to ring in Clark’s ears, and somehow, Clark knew that Lorena called this woman Mama. Those high, arched eyebrows and hollow eyes gave him a case of déjà vu, as they turned to look at none other than Charisma herself, standing by her side.
“Never mind that,” Lorena said, coming to. She put out her finished cigarette. When Clark snapped back too, his body had run cold and there was an unusual taste in his mouth: one of foreboding entrapment and blackmail, mingled with the metallic taste of blood. What he had just come to understand, or see in the eye of his mind, he wasn’t so sure. Was Lorena bullied into the family business? Or did he come to imagine it all?
Lorena leaned down and in close to Clark once more, but this time, Clark’s heart began to race as she smoothed his tie, and traced it with a single finger. “Charisma hates men in ties. So stuffy...”
He almost lost the will to speak.
Be brave...Don’t panic... “Right,” he said nervously, sinking in his chair under her. “No ties, got it. Thank you, ma’— Lorena. Um, but, while I greatly appreciate the experience of being here, I really do—”
“‘But’? What’s the matter, boy?” she barked, raising an eyebrow. “And here I thought you wanted to work for us.”
Clark flushed red. “Yes—no! I do! What I mean to say is, I’d really like to continue working here, and, um, I know the juniors before had town cars, which might’ve helped them get things done more efficiently—more quickly, I should say—and, um, well, it’s just that, with the errands, things add up, and...being paid would help tremendously. If I could even have—”
“How much?” Lorena snapped flatly. Surprised that she entertained the thought at all, Clark uttered the first hourly figure that came to mind, the same as at the coffee shop. Lorena grunted. He regretted it instantly and wished he had asked for more.
“Those were their own cars,” she said. “No one asked those girls to take cars.” She raised herself up tall as she could be and looked down on Clark from the tip of her pointy nose. “Something does not come from nothing. If that’s what you want—to be more involved, to be paid—I’ll make sure you get put to good use. I don’t want to hear any complaining, nor any complaints. Got that? No drama whatsoever. Zilch. Not a word. No one likes a drama queen. If you do well and stay out of the way, well, we’ll see. But I make no promises. Know this: under this roof, we all answer to Charisma, even me. No one is above her. You are replaceable. We all are. Is that understood?”
They had their own cars... Clark felt particularly small and powerless in a workplace like this, negotiating with a woman like Lorena as she hovered over him. “Yes,” he replied. “Thank you,” he added.
“Good,” she said, standing up and leaning back. “Don’t let Charisma see you. At least not yet. We’ll have to break this to her gently.” Then, licentious Lorena took a long drag of her cigarette and blew it in his face. “You may go.”
Clark becoming better acquainted with the team seemed to give Monica license to kill, and she quickly made sure Clark understood exactly where his place was.
In preparation for their guests and star patron, she had him run down to the cleaners for a last-minute pickup of a heavy stack of dresses ( can’t they deliver...? Clark thought in protest). When he returned, Monica had him sweep up after the florist, who was busy refreshing the flowers all around the home ( what am I, housekeeping...? ). After that, she sent him on a coffee run for her and the girls ( how am I supposed to carry eight large caramel frappes, extra whip cream, caramel on top? ) When he arrived back, she gave him the lay of the land.
The penthouse was so big they might as well have been walking the entire city block. “The ‘basement’ wing is for the cooks’ kitchen, the entertainment center, the gym, and the employee entrance—that’s you. The north wing on Main is for business—us. The south wing is for entertainment and Charisma’s lavish parties; they really are quite extravagant. The one to plan them should be me, but that’s the second’s job...”
Is that jealousy I hear . . . ?
“On this floor are five balconies, a ballroom, and a garden and terrace to the east; the second, third, and fourth floors are Charisma’s private residences. The guest rooms are on two and the children’s wing is on three, while Charisma’s master suite overlooks the park to the north on four. Both residences have their own private entrances.
“There’s a sauna and pool below, and her dressing room above, all of which she lets us , her assistants, use. We get access to whatever fabulous dresses and clothes and gratis she has no need for, and we have major discounts on all of her collections.” At this, Monica eye-shamed the hell out of Clark’s clothes, slacks and a—thanks to Lorena—tieless pastel-blue button-down.
“What’s not needed or doesn’t fit here is relocated to storage not far away. Charisma is the owner of the world’s largest collection of haute couture.”
“I thought that was Celine,” Clark said.
“Wrong. It’s Charisma. Anyway, on the fifth floor is Charisma’s private practice space, the tower. You can see all of Manhattan from it. Up there, one feels like a queen atop her castle, sitting at the top of the world. You can almost see the planets in the daytime. It’s so magical it’s almost surreal...but juniors never get to see that. The main floor and employee quarters are the most that most juniors ever really get to see, if they’re lucky.”
Clark tried not to let his frustration at her taunting him show or get the best of him, but she was proving that to be exceedingly difficult.
“Now, open this box,” she said, pointing to a cardboard box in the basement-level pantry. It was full of merchandise, small white boxes containing Charisma, “the new Eau de Parfum by Charisma Saintly,” he could hear the marketing ads say in Charisma’s lisping English accent that had plagued his phone since the day he interviewed.
The next abuse Monica doled out was so unexpectedly dastardly and yet so pleasant, Clark thought she might be kidding: she ordered him to spray the entire main floor, boardroom to elevator, drapes to cushions, ceilings to rugs, in the fragrance.
“It smells like cat piss,” Monica smugly proclaimed. “No one on the team wears it but Charisma. No one likes it! Take one if you like, no one will miss it. Good luck!” She wore a look of smirking bemusement as she stepped away, like the evil stepsister that he never asked for.
Out of the box, the fragrance itself came in a heavy geometric glass in the shape of a diamond, “inspired by alchemists,” the copy on her website had claimed. The juice inside was a sheer, lethal-looking chartreuse (like her eyes... ). He turned the box over and read the fragrance notes:
DARLINGS, I have created a one-of-a-kind white-floral chypre perfume that IGNITES the GODDESS WITHIN. Featuring a MIND-ACTIVATING BLEND of SEX pHERomones?, and an 8-HOUR SILLAGE that PROJECTS A MAGNETIC AURA of FEMINOSITY, LOVE, and POWER. Its ADDICTIVE TRAIL will BEGUILE the senses, and leave them wanting more.
My first signature fragrance MANIFESTS CHARISMA in the HEART AND MIND of every woman.
Made with love,
Charisma Saintly
xoxo
LIGHT top notes of mouth-watering Lady Apple and C?te d’Azur Citrus; night-blooming White Jasmine; and brave Borage, Bergamot, and Black Pepper;
HEART mid notes of English Gardenia and Tea Rose; feminine Lily of the Valley, Orange Flower, Geranium and Creamy Tuberose; sensual Frankincense and Violet; and charming New York Green Ivy and Magnolia;
SEX base notes of mesmeric Musk and Amber; earthy Oakmoss and Orris Root; Smoked Sage and Papyrus Parchment with precious White Woods; and naughty Tobacco, Iron, Leather, and Vanilla.
Always cruelty-free.
Clark stifled a laugh. The buzzwords . . . he thought. She’s either in on the joke or a total kook . . .
To Clark, the fragrance was...creamy...earthy...and kinda dirty—in a good way. It reminded him of strolling past Astoria rose gardens in the summertime, and walking department store counters with his mother as a child, the way he’d imagine a chain-smoking rich-girl debutante might smell after a night at her boyfriend’s. He actually sort of liked it and thought it kinda fun, so much so, in fact, that he snuck a spritz on his wrist. Joke’s on you, Monica...
That day, he sprayed through no less than four large bottles around the main floor alone. The ksk ksk ksk of that old-fashioned tasseled atomizer echoed in his head long after he was done. The fifth bottle was put away in his backpack. He would forever remember that long, long day whenever he’d catch a whiff of gardenia and cigarettes.
On his next lap and the task that followed—candle lighting—Clark was paranoid, and for good reason, that he and the penthouse would go up in flames from all the fragrance sprayed. He carried a stepladder with him, lighting candles up and down the main floor. As he lit the last of them, a frantic maid almost ran into his ladder and knocked him off the top. She only cried “Sorry!” as she dashed away.
It was after six by the time that was done. The sun was lower on the horizon and streamed in through the open windows. He so wanted to take a break. Clark was well dehydrated from that vodka soda, careening quickly towards depleted and hungry once more, and his throat was dry with essence de Charisma. The event planner had him hang balloons and streamers: so many, in fact, that by the time he returned to the living room, the penthouse had transformed, and there was some sort of a celebration underway. A couple of employees from Charisma’s namesake brand arranged goodie bags of her debut fragrance.
In the distance, he could distinctly hear Monica yelling at the maids, something about moving the trunks up to Charisma’s room and laying out her dress. Alicia barked back at Monica, asking why this and that were not already done. “What were you doing these last few weeks?” he heard her criticize. At least there’s some justice... he thought.
Afterward, Monica led him towards the front of the penthouse as he carried another large, rattling box. Her feet clacked away in the stilettos she never took off, despite all the walking. They stood in front of the coat closet: its doors lay flush with the mirrored wall in the foyer, gone unnoticed by Clark, who had sat on that velvet loveseat in front of it on his first day none the wiser.
“Leave it here for now,” Monica instructed him, throwing the door open. “We’ll return for it later.”
Clark peered inside that dusty, crimson-colored hotbox...and then it happened, all too suddenly:
The elevator doors opened to chattering and clacking, stilettoed footsteps, one pair in front, and many pairs after. Monica turned and gasped. Hastily, she shoved Clark into the closet and closed the door behind him, sending him flying into a rack of coats. With a click, the door locked—and effectively locked him in.
“Darlings.” He could hear an English accent in a lisping, mezzo alto, her voice somehow so resonant across the marble tile it seemed to travel from room to room. “I’m home.”
Charisma had arrived.