I giggle at the message machine, but my giggle turns into a frown when the next two messages are from Evonne and Ruth, both of whom claim they have the flu, and the final message is from Lin’s ten o’clock, more than a little miffed at having arrived on-time only to find the clinic locked.
I’m on the phone with Lin’s ten o’clock, sucking up and rescheduling, when she finally walks in. She gives me an embarrassed grimace as she listens to my conversation and lingers on the other side of the reception desk until I hang up.
“Sorry!” she says immediately. “What happened?”
“Evonne and Ruthie called in sick, so we’re on our own today.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Of all the days for me to run late!”
“It’s okay. I’ve rescheduled the Phillipses for tomorrow.” I grin at her. “So, late night?”
“Ooo, I don’t want to talk about it.” Lin rubs her temples. “I should know by now that two glasses of wine is my limit.”
“Tut, tut. If you’re nice to me, I’ll whip you up my Dala’s patented hangover remedy.”
“Oh, yes. Pretty please? I’ll be your devoted slave—”
I hold up a hand. “Never say that to a witch who doesn’t have a familiar. Something might be listening. Just take my one o’clock and we’ll call it even.”
“You got it.”
“You’ve got to man the phone while I cook, though.”
Lin looks at the phone the way she would a venomous snake. “Oh, you’re a mean witch. Mean, mean, mean.”
On cue, the phone rings and Lin grabs at it, wincing. I give her an Evonne-sized grin as I retreat to my office.
My twelve o’clock runs over and I race out of the clinic, painfully aware that I’m going to be late to meet Rowena. The rain hasn’t let up since yesterday, and it plasters my hair to my head as I dash to the T. The angel of transportation must be smiling on me, though, because the train gets me from Park Street to Copley in record time. So fast that I don’t even have time to repair my hair. I dash across Boylston and down Newbury Street, counting the numbers on brass plaques, until I come to three-sixteen, Rowena’s Closet.
I stand in front of the boutique for a moment, gaping up at it in surprise. The huge front window shows mannequins in delicate, lacy, racy, and heart-stoppingly expensive lingerie. A woman stands between the mannequins, looking out at the street. A Newbury Street woman. Slender, dressed in a chic little black dress, dark blonde hair expertly streaked and styled, understated make-up note perfect. She waves at me, and I realize that it’s Rowena.
I wave back half-heartedly.
She opens the front door and waves me inside. “Don’t stand there in the rain!”
I climb the short set of stairs into the boutique, feeling smaller and more bedraggled with each step.
Rowena steers me into the shop with a manicured hand. “Zee-Zee, don’t you own an umbrella?” She leans close to me. “Or a good water-repelling charm?”
I shake my head, and grimace when I spatter her. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I have a spare.” She waves her hand around the boutique. “Come in and have a look around. You’ve never been in, have you?”
“No.” Because we haven’t spoken in over five years. And because I don’t shop on Newbury Street. I can’t afford it, for one, and even if I could, I’d be too intimidated by the fancy shops and their fancier clientele.
“Well, have a look around, you goose.” She gives me a friendly elbow in the ribs. “Twenty-percent discount for old college pals.”
I still couldn’t afford anything in this shop. Not even a thong. And did she just call me ‘goose’?
“It’s gorgeous, Ro.” And I’m being completely honest. It looks more like an art gallery than a lingerie shop. “But do you mind if we go? I’ve got to be back for two and I’m running late.”
“Of course. Let me just grab my umbrella.”
She disappears between the racks of lacy, spangled and feathered underwear, leaving me stranded in their midst like a biker in a wine bar. Newbury Street women materialize everywhere. Behind the counter. Between the racks. Each one’s well-dressed enough to be a mannequin herself.
They look down their collective noses at me.
I turn, scuffing my Keds across the gleaming parquet floor, and drift towards the door. I feel the eyes following me, none of them friendly. Pulling my battered army-surplus jacket tight around me, I wish for a basilisk-repelling charm.
“Here we go,” Rowena says brightly. She takes my arm and steers me out the front door, snapping open a black umbrella over our heads. The edges of the umbrella shimmer slightly in my peripheral vision. A water-repelling charm. I sigh.
“I thought we’d grab lunch at Chanterelle,” she says. “It’s just down the block. Scrummy salads, and you’ll die for the coffee.”
Scrummy? Kill me now. I nod unenthusiastically and hope that my credit card isn’t maxxed.
We make our way down the block. The paving’s cracked underfoot and I watch my step. You’d think they could afford to fix the sidewalks in this part of town. Rowena’s absolutely sure of her footing, despite the uneven paving and her four-inch sling-backs. Maybe she has a charm for walking in ridiculously high heels.
She chatters as we walk. The weather. The upcoming mayoral election. I listen with half-an-ear. Make the requisite noises in the appropriate spots. But all the while, I’m wondering, what is Rowena doing running a chi-chi underwear boutique? She dressed well at college – when she bothered to dress, Ro always did prefer to cast skyclad – but she never showed any particular interest in fashion. Or retail.
Rowena steers me down a short flight of stairs – cracked concrete like the paving – and into the dark maw of a restaurant. When my eyes adjust, I see tables crammed into a long, narrow space. Tables filled with Newbury Street women, and circulating waiters squeezing between them with trays piled with leafy greens.
I’m so not having a salad.
Rowena gives her
