Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian Page 7

  CHAPTER 13

  “Is this the Delivery Desk?”

  “Yes,” Regina said, looking up from her pile of requisition slips. It was a busy day for the Delivery Desk. Fridays always were. It was the last day of normal library hours for the week, and also, Regina assumed, most people didn’t want to work all weekend.

  The young woman standing in front of her had a shaved head, piercings up her entire left ear, and a full sleeve of tattoos. She also had a messenger bag strapped across her torso and a garment bag draped over one arm.

  “I have a package for”—the young woman pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket; she wore fingerless leather gloves on her hands—“Regina Finch.”

  “That’s me,” Regina said. By this time, Alex had noticed the messenger pixie and hovered nearby, clearly trying to find a way to insert himself into the conversation.

  The young woman handed over the garment bag.

  Regina felt her face turn scarlet. Her clothes from last night.

  “Um, thanks . . .” she mumbled, quickly pulling the garment bag behind her desk.

  “Hold on a sec—there’s more,” said the young woman, snapping her gum. She rummaged through her bag and handed Regina a sealed gold envelope. “Sign here.” She presented Regina with a clipboard and pen. Regina signed her name.

  The young woman stuffed the clipboard in her bag and sauntered off.

  “She was hot,” said Alex. “Why didn’t you stall a little?”

  “Stall for what?”

  “I was working on my opening,” he said.

  Regina rolled her eyes. “Work faster next time.”

  “What is that stuff?” he asked.

  An elderly woman approached the desk and handed Regina a handful of requisition slips. Regina passed them to Alex, effectively dispatching him.

  She waited for the woman to go back to her table, and for Alex to disappear to fetch the books, before unzipping the black garment bag. Sure enough, inside she found the clothes she had left at the Four Seasons. Just when last night started to feel like something she had imagined, the sight of the skirt and blouse she had shed like an old skin reappeared like a glass slipper, proving that it all really had happened.

  She shoved the clothes under her desk, opened the gold envelope, and pulled out a stiff black card with gold lettering.

  Please join us for the opening night reception for the exhibition Beginnings, featuring photography by Luc Carle, Joanna Lunde, and Sebastian Barnes.

  The Manning-Deere Gallery, 42 Greene Street, 6 p.m.

  The invitation was dated for that night. All she could think was that Sebastian wanted to see her again.

  The thought of actually going made her nervous, but she knew that if she didn’t push herself out of her comfort zone, she would spend the rest of her New York life hiding in her tiny bedroom while everyone else had a life.

  “Regina, why didn’t you answer the desk phone? I’ve been calling for five minutes.”

  Regina looked up to see Sloan hovering at the desk. “I’m sorry—I didn’t hear it ring.”

  “What is that?” Sloan asked, looking at the invitation in her hand.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know. I found it on my desk.”

  Sloan took it from her hands and a small smile spread across her face. “It must have been misdelivered,” she said, tucking it under her arm. She looked at Regina as if seeing her for the first time.

  •

  Regina walked into her apartment, struggling with an armful of books she still had to read by fiction award nominees.

  She closed the front door with her foot and was startled by strange sounds emanating from Carly’s bedroom. Great, Regina thought. The last thing I need is to hear Carly having sex all night.

  But when she walked to the kitchen, she realized that the sounds she heard were not, for once, the moans and groans of passion.

  Carly was sobbing.

  Regina dropped her bags in her bedroom and went back through the living room to stand outside of Carly’s door. She knocked lightly.

  “Carly? Are you okay?”

  No response, except for the escalation of sobs.

  “Carly, may I come in?”

  She waited a few seconds, then heard the sound of shuffling around.

  Carly opened the door, her face puffy and red and streaked with tears.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” Regina asked.

  “Rob broke up with me,” Carly said, and this triggered a fresh wave of sobs.

  “Who’s Rob?” Regina asked. This seemed like an innocuous question, yet somehow it just made Carly cry harder.

  “My boyfriend,” Carly said.

  “What about Derek?”

  “Derek? Derek is just, you know, a placeholder until Rob was ready to commit. Really, Regina—you didn’t think I was serious about Derek, did you?”

  It sure sounded serious those times I was woken up in the middle of the night, Regina thought.

  “I’m telling you, Regina—the pain is almost physical. I feel like I’m going to die,” Carly said dramatically. “I am in love with him. In love. Have you ever been in love?”

  Regina shook her head no.

  “Well, you’re lucky. I wouldn’t wish this hell on my worst enemy.” And then, to Regina’s utter surprise, Carly threw herself in Regina’s arms. Her thin frame shook with sobs.

  “It’ll be okay,” Regina said, patting her head.

  And then her thoughts slipped back to the invitation to the photography exhibit. She felt selfish thinking about it when Carly was so upset, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what to make of the invitation, and Sloan’s insistence that it had been misdelivered. All day, she’d been looking forward to hashing it out with Carly. But she would have to forget it for now. Her imagined drama was less important than her roommate’s very real heartbreak.

  And then Carly said, “Don’t blow this thing with Sebastian.”

  Regina looked at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Because I messed up, and I’m trying to save you from feeling the way I feel right now. Has he called you?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. The no-sex thing is not attractive, Regina. You should probably get on it.”

  Regina ignored that, and said, “He invited me to one of his photography exhibits.”

  Carly perked up. “When is it?”

  “Um, it’s tonight. But I’m actually not completely sure he meant to invite me.”

  Regina told Carly about Sloan’s comment. Carly rolled her eyes.

  “She sounds like a bitch. And who cares if the invite was delivered to the wrong place. You’re in the big leagues now, Regina. Just go for it. What’s that expression? It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

  Regina was not convinced. Even if he had meant the invitation for her, she realized she was setting herself up to look like a fool. She had a schoolgirl crush on a man who was way out of her league. Maybe he found her amusing; maybe there was a lull in his social calendar so he passed the time by turning the newest girl off the bus into his pet project. That was the only way to explain the crazy things he’d said to her about her wearing only high heels, or his wanting to photograph her. The reason none of it made sense was because it wasn’t for real. It was best to just forget about it . . . and him.

  “I don’t know. I’m not going,” said Regina.

  “The hell you’re not. No reason both of us should sit around here in misery.” She blew her nose loudly. “Besides, helping you get dressed gives me something useful to do.”

  “I don’t need help getting dressed.”

  “Regina, now you sound like a crazy person. Go open my closet.”

  •

  Regina noticed him as soon as she walked into the
brightly lit, white-walled gallery on Greene Street.

  Sebastian was surrounded by people in the center of the room. He was dressed with his usual casual elegance, his shirt opened at the throat, his broad shoulders straight, his glossy dark head a few inches higher than anyone else’s nearby. Somehow he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. Her stomach jumped, and it was all she could do to maintain her composure.

  She didn’t want to interrupt him and decided she would just make her way around the room looking at photographs. But Sebastian was already breaking away from the group and making his way toward her. As he focused on her, so did most of the eyes in the room.

  “I’m glad you were able to make it,” he said, smiling at her.

  So the invitation had been for her after all. The realization made her feel giddy. She knew she should say something breezy like, I wouldn’t miss it, or something nonchalant like, I was in the neighborhood anyway. But all she could do was smile shyly, and this seemed to suit him just fine. Then she realized the one thing she should say, something she was genuinely thinking.

  “Congratulations. I don’t know that much about photography, but I’m sure this is a big deal.”

  He laughed, but not unkindly. “I’d say it’s a small-to-medium deal. But let’s just say I’m working my way up the ladder.”

  And then a familiar blond form slipped through the crowd like mercury, appearing next to them out of nowhere. Sloan’s platinum hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she was dressed in a black pencil skirt and sleeveless top that showed off her tan, toned arms.

  “What a surprise to see you here, Regina,” Sloan said. Her tone was airy, but anyone who saw the look she flashed would have understood why Regina flinched. Mercifully, Sloan immediately turned her attention to Sebastian. “So you finally got the showing you wanted.” Sloan lifted her champagne glass in a small toast.

  Her statement indicated a familiarity between the two that Regina found surprising.

  “Not exactly what I wanted, but a step in the right direction,” Sebastian said. His tone was more polite than friendly. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”

  And this was more an order than a request.

  If Sloan felt slighted, she recovered quickly. “Of course—you’re working. Go . . . circulate. I’ll check out the competition,” she said with a wink.

  Sebastian guided Regina through the cluster of people blocking them in on all sides. She resisted the urge to glance back at Sloan, knowing enough by now to understand that she would pay somehow for Sebastian’s slight. She felt out of her depth and wished Carly had agreed to come with her.

  Following Sebastian to the back of the room, Regina noticed one of the walls had his name stenciled in large black letters.

  “Is that your work?” she asked, stopping.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I want to see it,” she said, walking toward the photographs. He seemed impatient, and this surprised her. “Isn’t this why you invited me here? To see your photographs?”

  “I invited you here because I wanted to see you.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned to the wall of prints. They were all black and white, and she realized they were all of the same woman, a face so famous that even Regina recognized her: the Dutch fashion model Astrid Lindall.

  “These are incredible,” Regina said. “What magazine did you take these for?”

  “They’re my personal photos,” he said. “They were never printed in a magazine.”

  Regina felt an unpleasant jolt of jealousy . . . and insecurity. Had he dated Astrid Lindall? And if so, how could he now be interested in her?

  “They’re really . . . beautiful. Are they your favorite shots?” she asked.

  He gave a small laugh. “No, why?”

  “Well, because you picked these for the exhibit.”

  “I didn’t pick them—it’s what the gallery asked for. I took them very early in my career. That’s partly how I got them into this show. All the photographs here tonight are from the beginning of the photographers’ careers. Do you know Luc Carle’s work? If you do, you’ll be surprised by his early subject matter.”

  Regina didn’t know anything about Luc Carle—she was totally ignorant when it came to photography. The only reason she even recognized Astrid Lindall is because her face had been ubiquitous when Regina was growing up.

  “Sebastian, bravo,” said a woman with short, white hair and oversize glasses with round, black frames. “What a magnificent series. You know, I’d long heard rumors of your Astrid photographs, but I thought it was just a myth . . . like Bigfoot.” The woman laughed.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, but didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was distracted.

  With his hand resting lightly on her back, he steered Regina to a quiet corner underneath a staircase.

  Regina noticed Sloan looking at them but pretending not to.

  “Why aren’t you wearing the shoes I gave you?” he asked.

  Regina looked at him in surprise. “It’s the middle of your photography show and you’re worried about what shoes I’m wearing?”

  “Clearly, I’m a visual person, Regina. I told you this sort of thing is important to me. Are you at least wearing the lingerie?”

  “Um, yes,” she lied.

  He scrutinized her face, and she laughed nervously.

  “Follow me.” He began walking up the narrow black stairs, and she trailed after him. The second floor was darker, and the walls were bare. Tables and chairs were pushed to one side of the room, and wide, flat cardboard boxes were propped against one wall.

  They were completely alone.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here,” she said.

  “I’m sure we’re not,” he said, giving her a devastating smile. “Now show me your underwear.”

  “I’m not going to show you my underwear!”

  “I knew you were lying to me.”

  Her face burned. “Fine. I was lying to you. But even if I wasn’t, I still wouldn’t show you my underwear. Honestly, you have got to be kidding.”

  “I couldn’t be more serious,” he said. And the way he looked at her made her heart skip a beat.

  He walked closer to her, until barely an inch separated his body from hers. At first, she was nervous that he would touch her. Then, when he didn’t, she was disappointed. A minute passed, and she looked at the floor. She felt his eyes on her, and she felt self-conscious.

  “Next time, do as I ask,” he whispered.

  And then he walked past her and down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 14

  As much as Regina had tried to resist the temptation to read while managing the Delivery Desk—she felt it was disrespectful to the people who needed her help—she was able to justify reading if it was for the Young Lions Fiction Award. That morning, the requisition slips had barely started piling up on her desk before she cracked open one of the novels on her list. It was a debut by a young British woman whose father had been a prizewinning novelist. Regina was absorbed in trying to discern the father’s stylistic influence when she heard Alex say, “Hello, again!” in an inappropriately booming voice.

  Startled, she realized he was talking not to her but to the tattooed messenger, who had returned.

  “Hey,” the young woman said, looking at Regina, not at him. “Sign here.” She handed over a pink-and-black shopping bag, which Regina quickly stuffed behind the desk. She scribbled her signature and practically held her breath waiting for the young woman to retreat.

  Regina glanced down at the shopping bag by her feet. An envelope was clipped to the black plastic handles. She pulled it off and opened it.

  Good morning, Regina.

  I was happy to see you at the gallery last night. I hope you enjoyed the show—and our conversation.

  This bri
ngs me to the shopping bag. Inside, you’ll find a pair of Louboutins, and some undergarments. Please change into both immediately.

  —S.

  Her hands trembled as she stuffed the note into her Old Navy bag.

  “So seriously, Finch—what gives?” Alex appeared behind her.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  The desk phone rang, and he mercifully retreated to answer it, leaving her alone with the bag. She peeked inside and found a flat black box wrapped with a gold ribbon. The box was embossed with gold lettering that read AGENT PROVOCATEUR: SOIRÉE.

  There was no way she could inconspicuously open it at her desk.

  “It’s for you,” Alex said, handing her the phone. She looked at him quizzically, and he shrugged.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Regina, it’s your mother.”

  She felt her stomach tighten. “Mom, I’m at work. Why are you calling me here?”

  “I wouldn’t have to call you if you thought to maybe check in with me occasionally. Do you think this adjustment is easy for me?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine. I’m getting used to being alone. I guess people can get used to anything.”

  Regina had hoped that her move to New York would push her mother finally to start living her own life—to stop using her widowhood and single motherhood as an excuse to avoid everything. But clearly, it had been naive to think so.

  “I really can’t talk now, Ma.”

  “What are we doing for your birthday?”

  “What?” Regina’s birthday was in two weeks. She had not given it much thought, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated her mother being part of the equation.

  “Fine, if you insist, I’ll come in. We’ll have dinner. Make a reservation for a place near the library. I want to see your office.”

  “Regina?”

  Regina looked up to see Sloan hovering above her.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Um . . . nothing,” Regina said. Then quietly, into the phone, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Was that a personal phone call?”

  “No,” she lied. She saw Sloan’s eyes move to the shopping bag. Regina kicked it under her desk.