a red glove in his pocket.”
“Is that unusual?”
“A single glove, satin, and oh, by the way, he had two female sex slaves following him around the museum? Yeah, I’d say it was unusual.”
“At the museum!”
“He was the big-money donor who got a private tour. Anyway, he sort of flashed the glove and then handed me a business card. Next thing I know, I’m invited to a sex slave job interview.”
“What!” Her image jiggled as she grabbed her laptop like she was trying to grab on to me. “You’re not serious.”
“I don’t mean slaves like illegal trafficking, Becks. I mean, you know, doms and subs. There’s a club here in London and they train the subs to do stuff. The point is it must be the same secret society that James is in. And if he’s here in the UK, how much you want to bet he gets in touch with them?”
“Oh. Well, I can tell you one thing,” Becky said, typing some more as she talked to me. “Whoever mailed that envelope mailed it from York, England.”
“You can tell from the code?”
“Yep. Here. I’ll send you the link to the info site about it.”
I didn’t really need to see the page about the postal service, though. I was already doing a search on York. A tourist info site came up, and I clicked on one of the links there touting “Art in York.”
Jackpot. “York has glassmakers!”
Becky was apparently looking at a different website from me. “And a ton of chocolate shops. What is up with that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m more likely to find him through the glass artists, don’t you?”
“Of course! Looks like York is only two hours from you by train. I’ll send you a link to that, too.” She tapped on her keyboard. “So. You’ve got two solid leads now. The glass people in York and your kinky rich people’s club.”
“And Paulina and Michel,” I added. “They seem to think there’s a chance they’ll hear about his whereabouts at some point.”
“You’ll find him, Karina. I know you will.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Becks.” It was nice to hear her say it. But I wondered if he wanted to be found.
This Girl Is Made of Loneliness
T he next day I called the number Damon had given me. I was a bit surprised that a woman answered. I’d been expecting someone like Damon, I guess. She told me the earliest they could audition me would be the following week. When I asked what the audition would include, she told me that not knowing was all a part of the test. She did tell me the date and time, but said that the exact address wouldn’t come to me until an hour before so I would have time to get there. When I asked what I should wear, she laughed, called me a “dear thing,” and hung up.
Fine. In the meantime, Michel had just finished stripping the back hallway of the ArtiWorks and we started retiling the front entrance. I planned a trip to York for two weeks later, by which time I’d have collected enough of my pay from Martindale to have a little to spend on getting there and back.
I also started leading an afternoon group tour of the exhibition every day, filling in for one of the regular docents when she took her summer vacation. Many of the visitors seemed to think it was charming that they got an American art student to lead them around the museum. Tristan followed my tour a couple of times, but claimed he could never speak so knowledgeably and authoritatively about the subject. I knew from chatting with him over lunch that he knew plenty about the pre-Raphs, but he shrugged it off.
By the day of the “audition,” I had a blister on one hand and some scrapes and bruises on my arms from renovating, and I still hadn’t figured out what to wear. I took a hot shower and then sat on my bed, contemplating the clothes I had to choose from.
What would James have wanted? I thought suddenly. Thinking about him brought everything into focus. It was a job interview, right? I put on the outfit I wore to meet Martindale that first day,
“Is that unusual?”
“A single glove, satin, and oh, by the way, he had two female sex slaves following him around the museum? Yeah, I’d say it was unusual.”
“At the museum!”
“He was the big-money donor who got a private tour. Anyway, he sort of flashed the glove and then handed me a business card. Next thing I know, I’m invited to a sex slave job interview.”
“What!” Her image jiggled as she grabbed her laptop like she was trying to grab on to me. “You’re not serious.”
“I don’t mean slaves like illegal trafficking, Becks. I mean, you know, doms and subs. There’s a club here in London and they train the subs to do stuff. The point is it must be the same secret society that James is in. And if he’s here in the UK, how much you want to bet he gets in touch with them?”
“Oh. Well, I can tell you one thing,” Becky said, typing some more as she talked to me. “Whoever mailed that envelope mailed it from York, England.”
“You can tell from the code?”
“Yep. Here. I’ll send you the link to the info site about it.”
I didn’t really need to see the page about the postal service, though. I was already doing a search on York. A tourist info site came up, and I clicked on one of the links there touting “Art in York.”
Jackpot. “York has glassmakers!”
Becky was apparently looking at a different website from me. “And a ton of chocolate shops. What is up with that?”
“I don’t know, but I think I’m more likely to find him through the glass artists, don’t you?”
“Of course! Looks like York is only two hours from you by train. I’ll send you a link to that, too.” She tapped on her keyboard. “So. You’ve got two solid leads now. The glass people in York and your kinky rich people’s club.”
“And Paulina and Michel,” I added. “They seem to think there’s a chance they’ll hear about his whereabouts at some point.”
“You’ll find him, Karina. I know you will.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Becks.” It was nice to hear her say it. But I wondered if he wanted to be found.
This Girl Is Made of Loneliness
T he next day I called the number Damon had given me. I was a bit surprised that a woman answered. I’d been expecting someone like Damon, I guess. She told me the earliest they could audition me would be the following week. When I asked what the audition would include, she told me that not knowing was all a part of the test. She did tell me the date and time, but said that the exact address wouldn’t come to me until an hour before so I would have time to get there. When I asked what I should wear, she laughed, called me a “dear thing,” and hung up.
Fine. In the meantime, Michel had just finished stripping the back hallway of the ArtiWorks and we started retiling the front entrance. I planned a trip to York for two weeks later, by which time I’d have collected enough of my pay from Martindale to have a little to spend on getting there and back.
I also started leading an afternoon group tour of the exhibition every day, filling in for one of the regular docents when she took her summer vacation. Many of the visitors seemed to think it was charming that they got an American art student to lead them around the museum. Tristan followed my tour a couple of times, but claimed he could never speak so knowledgeably and authoritatively about the subject. I knew from chatting with him over lunch that he knew plenty about the pre-Raphs, but he shrugged it off.
By the day of the “audition,” I had a blister on one hand and some scrapes and bruises on my arms from renovating, and I still hadn’t figured out what to wear. I took a hot shower and then sat on my bed, contemplating the clothes I had to choose from.
What would James have wanted? I thought suddenly. Thinking about him brought everything into focus. It was a job interview, right? I put on the outfit I wore to meet Martindale that first day,
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