Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

 

CHAPTER 1

Sofi

Iam a butterfly. Beautiful and delicate. My colorful gossamer wings flutter, soaring over a field of orange poppies. I swoop down to suck their nectar, moving from one to another, pollinating the flowers. My life has meaning. I am hope for the flowers. Their sustenance. Without me, they won’t grow. I’m free and I can fly. Rise above all the negativity in the world. All the horrors. With my beauty and powers, I can give hope to those who need it. Open new doors. Fulfill dreams and desires.

As I’m about to take flight again, a familiar chime cuts into my sweet reverie, hurling me out of it. My cell phone. It rings and rings. Cracking one eye half open, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Eight a.m. I pull the duvet over my head and silently curse. Who would be calling me this early on a Monday morning—the one day I don’t have to work and can sleep in? Deny me the bliss of rising above my humdrum life.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The ringing stops, but before sleep can reclaim me, it starts up again. My eyes still closed, I lower the cover to just below my chin and extend an arm, fumbling for my phone that’s next to the clock. I swipe to answer and put the phone to my ear.

“Ms. Lockhart?”

My eyes snap open. The clipped female voice sounds ominous.

“Yes,” I say, alarm surging inside me. Oh God! Something’s happened to my parents! Grogginess going by the wayside, I bolt upright.

“I have a call for you from Mr. Fenton Albright. Please hold.”

Fenton Albright? The billionaire father of my best friend Harper. Has something happened to her?

A beat of silence and then a familiar upper-crust voice resonates in my ear.

“Hello, Sofi,” he drawls, sounding much like Thurston Howell III, that stuffy millionaire from the sixties show, Gilligan’s Island. “Forgive me for calling you so early in the morning, but I have a bit of a dire situation. An emergency.”

“Is Harper okay?” Worry trickles through my system.

“Yes, she’s fine. Absolutely fine.”

I let out a sigh of relief. While she’s a royal pain in the butt, I would be devastated if something happened to my bestie. She’d give the shirt off her back for me, though she could easily replace it with a better and more expensive one. Her father continues.

“You see, she was supposed to interview the fashion designer Roman Hurst . . . ”

Other than her upcoming wedding, that’s all she’s talked about for the past month. Roman Hurst is the reclusive couture designer, the eponymous genius behind the House of Hurst, whom no one has ever interviewed or seen. My fashion blogger friend managed to nab the first interview he’s ever granted. Ms. Persistence begged and she begged. Finally, she wore him down and he agreed. It’s the piece that will put her on the map. Catapult her to stardom. How on earth could she blow it?

“ . . . but unfortunately my daughter is rather indisposed.”

His cryptic speak is grating on me. “What exactly do you mean?”

Another brief pause.

“Well, if you honestly need to know, she spent the night with her fiancé, Derek, at his parents’ estate in Greenwich.”

And partied or screwed until the wee hours of the morning.

“And missed the morning train. The interview is scheduled for nine a.m. and the next train into the city is not until nine-thirty.”

I don’t have to do the math. No way in hell will she make it.

“So, she asked that you fill in for her.”

Me? Why me? Okay, I wrote plenty of her essays in college (which Harper paid me for), but I’m no journalist. Both of us went to Parsons, her a Fashion Journalism major, me a Fine Arts major. We were roommates.

“You need to pretend you’re my daughter.”

“But I look nothing like Harper!” Harper is tall, stylish, and perfectly groomed. She is rich and looks rich with her weekly blowouts, perfectly manicured nails, and extravagant designer wardrobe. I’m petite, disheveled, and more times than not, look like something the cat brought in. In college, when we were roommates, most of our classmates perceived us as “the odd couple.”

I need time to mull over this preposterous proposition. “Um, Mr. Albright, could you please hold on for a minute? Something’s burning in the kitchen.”

My shoe box-sized Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment doesn’t even have a real kitchen. A kitchenette if you want to call it that, that’s barely big enough for one person. Despite the ridiculously high rent, I chose to live by myself after Harper and I graduated instead of taking her up on her offer to share her luxury two-bedroom Upper East Side apartment for free. “Free” meant being her maid and cleaning up after her. No, thank you. I had enough of that in college.

“Please don’t keep me waiting long,” says Harper’s father, irritation creeping into his voice. “I have a business to run.”

Please don’t keep me waiting. How many times have I heard Harper say this to me when she’s always the one who’s late? Rich people are so entitled. Bristling, I set my phone down on the bed.

Harper’s pulled a lot of shit on me, but this one takes the cake. I’m tired of covering her ass and being at her beck and call. Last month, during my half-hour lunch break, I had to run to Bergdorf’s to buy her mother a last-minute birthday present because she was in the middle of a massage. And just before she went up to Connecticut, the Drama Queen called me with her latest emergency—a chipped fingernail—so I had to schlep up to her apartment—to fix it. Oh, and I had to stop off at an ATM to get her some cash since her gazillion dollar checking account was overdrawn. She promised to pay me back . . . like all the other times she’s promised . . .

I’ve got to wriggle my way out of this one. Myriad excuses swirl around in my head. Mr. Albright, I have a root canal scheduled at nine (I’ve never had a cavity in my life!) . . . . I’ve got to take my sick canary to the vet (I don’t have a bird!) . . . . I have to stay home because they’re delivering my big-screen TV sometime today (I don’t even have cable!). Finally, I decide on the truth. And pick up the phone.

“Mr. Albright, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can pull it off.”

“That is not what I want to hear.” I sense belligerence in his voice. “This interview is a matter of life or death so to speak. Our magazine, Fashionista, is on the verge of folding. This exclusive interview with Roman Hurst is our one saving grace. It will sell millions of copies.”

Harper’s father is the head of Albright Media. His Fortune 500 company publishes numerous magazines and owns television stations around the world. I can’t believe my bestie would blow this interview after she spent so much time trying to snag it.

And I can’t believe she got her father to call me. Why didn’t she call me herself? It’s not like my in-your-face friend to be chickenshit. It’s probably more like she’s shitfaced. Drank herself to oblivion. Lucky for her, she has Daddy wrapped around her little finger.

His voice softens. “And, of course, I will pay you . . . ”

Part of his negotiation tactic. Money buys everything.

“How much?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

Five hundred dollars.For someone like Harper’s father, that’s a drop in the bucket. But for someone like me, who can barely make ends meet and is facing eviction, it’s a small fortune.

“What about a thousand?” That would cover most of my rent.

“Six hundred dollars. And I’ll throw in an all-expense-paid dinner with my daughter. That’s as high as I’m going.”

Cheapskate! That’s how the rich get richer. I have no choice. I accept the deal. I need the money to pay my rent, and I haven’t had a good meal in ages.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.”

“What do I have to ask him?”

“I will have my secretary email you the questions shortly.”

Can’t Harper send them herself? Or is she too embarrassed? Or more likely, too smashed? Or too “busy” with Derek?

Thanking me, he hastily ends the call and moments later an email comes through with the interview questions, which I skim over, and Roman Hurst’s address. He lives on The Bowery. That’s three subway stops from my apartment. About ten minutes away on the express train. I glance at the time again on my phone. It’s already 8:20.

Despite having second thoughts, I jump out of bed and scurry to the bathroom where I pee, brush my teeth, and wash my face. There’s no time for a shower, not even a quick one. Which I suppose is okay since I took one last night. On a whim, I sniff my armpits. So far, so good. I roll on some deodorant.

Scuttering back to the one room I call my bedroom, living room, and home, I ponder what to wear. I don’t own any expensive designer clothing like Harper. Most of my limited wardrobe is vintage, the majority flea market and thrift store finds. Opening my armoire, I slide out a creaky drawer and grab one of my many butterfly-patterned tights, yank off a flouncy pink skirt from a hanger, and find my favorite hoodie, a J. Crew Monarch-orange one I scored for five dollars on Poshmark. I quickly put the ensemble together and complete it with my red Doc Martens, which I found at Goodwill. Shutting the mirrored door, I gather my pink-streaked honey-brown hair into a messy bun and secure it with a butterfly clip. Lucky for me, I have perfectly clear skin and don’t need makeup. I study my reflection and adjust the chain around my neck so that my lucky butterfly pendant is visible. I’m definitely going to need luck to pull this off. A lot of it.

I grab my phone and glance down at the time again. Eight thirty. I’m okay for time. While it can take hours for high-maintenance Harper to get ready, I pride myself on my speed and efficiency. I can even have a quick breakfast. Traipsing to the kitchen area, I snag a day-old donut from the counter and make myself some peppermint tea in the microwave to save time. The steaming hot beverage instills me with warmth and alertness. Taking my final sip, I grab my backpack that’s hanging on the doorknob, slip it over my shoulders, and jog down the three flights of stairs to my apartment after making sure to double lock the door.

One can never be too safe being a single woman in Manhattan.