Free Hex and the Single Girl by Valerie Frankel

is Marcie Skimmer. The model.”
    The same model who’d posed as a cow, a parade float and a whale for Daphne’s SlimBurn ad campaign. The model
    who had, allegedly, been living in a sanitarium for the past several months. Wherever she’d been, Marcie had lost a ton of weight. She looked beautiful. She also looked exactly like the strawberry Pop Tart who’d been with William Dearborn at Ciao Roma the other night. In fact, Marcie was the Pop Tart.
    “Emeril?” prompted Victor. To Marcie: “He’s very shy.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Emma with a deep voice.
    Marcie glanced at her (him), barely acknowledging that she (he) existed, and turned back to Victor, the natty photographer, a man who might serve her some purpose. She said, “What a surprise to see you here.”
    “I’ve got friends in Haiku places,” he said.
    Marcie laughed harder than the joke called for. Emma wondered if she were drunk, stoned, or just demented. For her part, Emma was relieved to stand there and listen, not to have to talk.
    Victor said gently, “I’m glad that you’re feeling better.”
    Marcie smiled, showing her famous white teeth. “Despite what you must have heard, I did not try to eat myself to death, and I was never in a detox hospital in the Adirondacks. I was at a private spa in the Catskills for a few months.
    All part of the SlimBurn campaign. Taking the pills, dieting, exercising. I lost fifty pounds.” The slenderized mannequin did a graceful twirl.
    Fifty pounds in three months? Was that possible? Emma had been trying to lose ten pounds for fifteen years.
    “Wait until you see my new SlimBurn ad,” said Marcie. “It’s absolutely mind-blowing.”
    Emma cringed. She hated that phrase, hated the memories it dredged up even more. On reflex, she reached for her forehead and massaged.
    Victor saw her react. He knew how she was at parties. He put his arm around her (him), not caring how it might have looked to Marcie or anyone. Emma smiled at him gratefully. Someone came out of the crowd and embraced Marcie.
    She was dragged away, waving over her shoulder at Victor. Emma was glad she was gone. Victor whispered, “Are you okay?”
    Emma said, “Holding firm. Thanks to you.”
    He lowered his arm. “Hard to believe that Dearborn could mistake you for Marcie. She’s six inches taller than you.
    And, forgive me, slimmer.”
    She (he) had to agree. “It does stretch the boundaries of comprehension. I think it was an honest mistake at first, but then we were into it and forgot about who we thought each other was supposed to be.”
    The pulsing techno music stopped. Emma felt instant relief about that.
    A man walked onto the bandstand. He wore his signature Beatles style suit with a skinny tie. William Dearborn smiled at the crowd with honest pleasure at its size and applause.
    Victor was clapping and hooting like a fifteen-year-old at a Green Day concert. Emma was silent, still as a statue. Her internal reaction to seeing Dearborn, however, was as chaotic and jubilant as the crowd’s. She felt herself pulled toward him, as if he were the magnet and she a helpless sliver of steel.
    “I want to thank you for coming out,” he said once he’d quieted the room. His British accent sparkled like champagne in a glass. “Thanks to the management of Haiku for having us. Thanks to Crusher Advertising for organizing the event.” He gestured toward the wings of the stage. Emma spotted Daphne, her arms crossed, eyes pinned on William.
    He continued. “ArtSpeak has been in development for over a year. But it’s been a dream of mine for a decade. I’d rather show you what it can do than tell you.” Dearborn nodded at Daphne, who pushed a button on a hand-held
    remote. The curtains behind the stage parted, revealing a wall of computer monitors—a dozen flat-panel screens, in two rows of six. The screens were blank. Also, on stage, there was a table with an Apple computer on it, the monitor huge. A murmur rose from the crowd.