Free Hex and the Single Girl by Valerie Frankel Page B

“I take it Daphne is not aware that you and William have met.”
    Emma said, “She’s on a need-to-know basis.”
    “I think she knows,” he said, gesturing to the portraits before them. “Whether she needs to or not.”
    Chapter 10
    E mma couldn’t help staring at the portraits, especially the original, in Dearborn’s own style. Emma always had to brace herself when confronting her likeness—the wild hair, the odd eyes, how much she resembled her mother.
    Studying the portraits, though, she felt a strange, homey happiness. In them, Emma saw herself as art—sublime and beautiful. Which was, apparently, how Dearborn saw her.
    But, she reminded herself, the image wasn’t really Emma. It was idealized, a fantasy. The cold reality: William had remembered her face, but he hadn’t captured her soul on screen. He’d painted his invention of it. She was as plastic a model to him as Marcie was to Daphne. Just a surface, nothing underneath. Despite the intensity of the kiss, and both of their apparent lingering fascination with it, she and William were complete strangers to each other. Worse than that, she thought. He was a target. “It’s just a job,” she said aloud.
    Victor said, “If you’re going to hit Dearborn, you’d better hurry up. He’s being eaten alive.”
    “Let’s get a bite,” she said.
    They pushed toward the stage, penetrating the buffer zone around William three layers deep. The inner circle proved impossible to crack, even for Marcie Skimmer, coming up alongside Emma (Emeril), elbowing her (him) in the jaw to press her way forward, nearly dislodging the beard (which would have been disastrous). With one hand on her facial piece, Emma plowed forward in Marcie’s wake and managed to get almost within arm’s reach of William.
    Luckily, Dearborn had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing two forearms’ worth of exposed skin. He was flanked by Daphne and Tweedy, the gatekeeper. Marcie fought her way to the front and kissed Dearborn on the lips. Cameras flashed. Emma took another elbow in the face from a guy in a khaki suit.
    “Mr. Dearborn? Over here, sir,” said the guy, shoving and pushing. “Mr. Dearborn. I’m a big fan. One minute of your time. Sir! Sir!” And then the khaki suitor was pushed back. Emma got a right shock when she saw his face before he disappeared into the throng.
    Hoffman Centry, as she lived and breathed through a tuft of synthetic hair.
    Tweedy shouted to Dearborn, “Dave Kushner from the Times business section on your left.”
    Marcie shouted, “Liam! Kiss me again for the paparazzi!”
    Dearborn ignored the model and started talking to the reporter. Marcie pouted. Daphne had spotted Emma and was imploring her, mouthing, “Go!” Locked in a current of people, Emma found herself pushed behind Dearborn, still two layers of people away. If she could stick her arm through a gap and just graze her fingertips against his arm…she pushed…inches away, closer, closer…
    A surge backward. She saw Daphne to the right looking anxious. She also spotted Victor nearby but then lost sight of him. If only she had Daphne or Marcie’s height. She could reach over the bodies. But if Emma was lacking in stature, she made up for it with perseverance.
    Despite the noise, Emma could hear Dearborn’s conversation. “Who’s the girl?” the Times man asked the artist.
    “What girl? You mean her?” Dearborn gestured at Marcie.
    “The girl in the portraits,” said the reporter. “If I’m going to reprint some of the images in the paper, I’ll need a release.”
    “No need,” said Dearborn. “She doesn’t exist. She’s made up, a fantasy. Like a fairy or a mermaid. Or a witch.”
    Emma gasped when he said “witch.” She couldn’t help it. The reporter’s eyes turned toward the sound. He made eye contact with her before turning back to Dearborn. He said, “A witch, you say? Her face appeared like magic?”
    “Gads, don’t write that,” said