Darcy found herself poised between worry for Imogen and a sense of betrayal that she still wasn’t here.
“I admire your monklike simplicity,” Johari was saying. “A room for sleeping, one for books and clothes, one for food, and the biggest one for writing.”
“Are you going to keep it like this?” Oscar asked. “Au naturel?”
“You mean empty?” Darcy shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not exactly a design choice. More of a money thing.”
“Ah, yes,” Oscar said. “I was a rent slave before I moved out to Hoboken. Had the best view of the Chrysler Building, but I had to suck my sheets for food.”
“Enough about your personal life, Oscar.” Johari patted his shoulder and asked Darcy, “How’s your writing adjusting to a new space?”
“I haven’t really tried yet.” Nan’s editorial letter still hadn’t arrived, making revisions impossible to begin, and the thought of starting on Untitled Patel without guidance was too terrifying. “Should I be worried?”
“Writing fairies can get grumpy in a new house,” Johari said. “Like cats. Mine pissed on the pillows every night for a week after I moved up to New York.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Your writing fairies pissed on your pillows?”
Johari ignored him. “I’d be worried about those mirrors. I couldn’t write a single word if I had to watch myself at it.”
Darcy turned to the mirrored wall and regarded the three of them. Oscar and Johari both towered over her, making Darcy in her blue sundress look very young.
“Those are left over from when it was a dance studio. But if I take them down, it’ll be nothing but white.”
“Like every other apartment in New York,” Johari said sadly.
“I know!” Darcy said. Back in Philly, the rooms of her parents’ house each had a signature color—pale yellow for the kitchen, forest green in the dining area, and dark purple for Nisha’s bedroom walls, a leftover from her twelve-year-old goth phase. “What is it with all the white up here?”
“It’s gallery space,” Oscar said. “Neutral background for all the artists at work.”
“Pfft,” Johari said. “It’s boring.”
“I was in the hardware store yesterday,” Darcy said. “And they had a whole section of white paints. But instead of ‘white,’ they all had names like Linen, Chalk, and Washed Rice.”
Oscar laughed. “My walls are Dover, I think.”
“Picket Fence,” Johari admitted.
“Maybe I’ll keep the mirrors,” Darcy said.
“Good heavens! Are we all staring at ourselves?” It was Kiralee Taylor, whom Darcy hadn’t seen come in. Other people were working the intercom now, and even giving tours of the apartment to new arrivals. Moxie was making drinks, and Rhea collecting money for more beer and ice. The party had found its own momentum, its own heartbeat.
“Thanks for coming, Kiralee,” Darcy said. They kissed each other’s cheeks, like old friends.
“Lovely apartment. And what a handy wall of mirrors!”
“Dancers left it here,” Darcy said. “Johari thinks my reflection will keep me from writing.”
“One’s own face is rarely as distracting as the internet,” Kiralee said. “And you seem the industrious sort.”
Darcy smiled at the compliment, but a tremor of nerves passed through her. Imogen had forwarded the first draft of Afterworlds to Kiralee two weeks ago. Enough time for her to have read it by now.
Darcy searched for some clue in the older woman’s expression as to whether she had loved or hated it, or even started it at all. Was “industrious” some sort of damning faint praise?
“That said, I spent all day worrying about my face.” Kiralee turned to the mirrors to adjust her tie, a pulvinate double Windsor. “Bloody photo shoot this afternoon.”
“Ah, I hate authors’ photos,” Johari said. “I don’t see why my looks are relevant to the story!”
“Indeed.” Kiralee checked out her profile in the mirror. “I liked my old photo, but it’s getting a bit long in the tooth. Or, rather, I am.”
“And you are touching your face in it,” Oscar said.
Kiralee punched him, and Darcy looked at them questioningly.
“Beware, my dear.” Johari’s arm encircled Darcy. “When you get your author’s photo taken, be sure not to touch your face.”
“Why would I do that?”
“It’s a mystery, but quite common. You must have seen this one.” Oscar struck a brooding pose, his fist beneath his chin. “For the author whose brain is too heavy to stay up on its own.”
“Friend of mine got stuck with one of these for a whole trilogy.” Johari stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “Like he was coming up with amazing ideas right in front of the photographer!”
“Yikes.” Darcy turned to Kiralee. “You did that?”
“No, I went for the dreaded temple massage. It was a long time ago, and I had no wise elders to save me.”
Darcy tried to recall the back of Bunyip. “But I totally had a crush on that picture. You look so smart in it.”
“I look like a TV psychic.”
Darcy glanced across the room at Nan and Rhea. “Paradox won’t make me get an author’s photo, will they? I mean, lots of books don’t have them.”
“Pretty young thing like you?” Johari shook her head. “I should think it’s unavoidable.”
Darcy stared at herself in the mirror again, a familiar vulnerable feeling descending on her. Not only would her words be duplicated thousands of times for everyone to weigh and judge, but also her face.
She could see why it would be tempting to sneak a hand into the frame, just for a bit of protection.
Her phone pinged, and Darcy glanced down at it—Imogen.
“Pardon me, guys.” She spun away and crossed to an empty corner, raising the phone to her ear. “Where the hell are you, Gen?”
“I’m on your roof.”
“What? Why?”
“Someone buzzed me in, and I need to talk to you alone for a second. Come up.”
“Um, my party . . . ,” Darcy began, but as her eyes swept across the room, she saw Johari drawing Kiralee to the window, pointing out something below. Rhea was helping Moxie mix drinks, and Oscar was making faces in the mirror at Max.