Audrey climbs unto the folding stool and takes the dust bag down from the shelf. She draws the silken cord, pulls out her Louis Vuitton tote, removes the wadded up tissue inside and does a cursory inspection. Satisfied, she drops in the matching wallet and cosmetic bag.
None of these items are real. They’re Night Market knockoffs but, still, convincing enough to the untrained eye.
Audrey’s eye is trained. She sees the inconsistencies, the wrong zipper, the imperfect stitching, the pattern mismatch at the seams. A real Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag would be thoughtfully crafted of fine materials. It would weigh heavy with history and quality cow leather. And, soon, she’ll have enough saved to buy a real one.
Audrey is a receptionist at Ortolan, a fashion and lifestyle magazine with a long pedigree. Each day, Evelyn Lewis, Editor-in-Chief, walks past Audrey in her Channel tweed suit and her Hermès silk blouse, carrying her Neverfull in one hand and her Birkin in the other. She gives Audrey a little nod as she passes and Audrey nods back.
They’ve never spoken, which isn’t a surprise. Evelyn’s mother, Maude Lewis, hadn’t said a word to her either although, after Mrs. Lewis died, Audrey was tasked with ordering the bouquets for the funeral, which is a huge responsibility. Bigger, almost, than the casket when you think about it because, after the casket is entombed, the floral arrangements will adorn the sepulchre. It’s the last thing the mourners will remember.
Before Evelyn was boss, it was Maude, and before that, Evelyn’s grandfather, Chester Lewis. Audrey worked for Maude (not Chester! For God’s sake, she’s not that old!) in the mail room before working her way up to reception. Chester built the business from nothing if the placard in the foyer is to be believed and now the Lewis family owns half of the business district. Imagine that.
Audrey does imagine that. She imagines it while she stands in front of the full-length mirror tacked to the back of her closet door. She hangs the tote on her left shoulder and tilts her head. She snaps a quick picture, the tote obscured just enough behind her hip to complete the illusion, and posts the picture online even though her only real follower is Gloria, and Gloria was with her when she bought the bag.
She’s been saving money every month since she started working at Ortolan. It’s been, what? Twenty years, give or take? A ten here, a twenty there. It adds up, though not as fast as she thought it would. It’s always a step ahead and two steps back. It’s hard times for print media, she’s told, and her hours are cut. No raise and her rent goes up. No raise and her cat gets diabetes and now she injects him twice a day at a hundred bucks a vial.
Still, she has, in her savings account, two thousand, two hundred and twenty-six dollars and thirty-seven cents. If nothing goes wrong, she’ll have the Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag—the real one—by Christmas.
It’s around twenty-six hundred dollars, plus tax, Canadian, for a Louis Vuitton Neverfull MM bag made of monogrammed leather with a cherry interior. You used to be able to buy a car for that, and not that long ago. Now it’s a month’s rent and going up each year.
But, she can’t complain. She’s got a roof over her head. (That’s more than many!) She lives close enough to the line and can do without a car. But the bag? The bag is a career necessity.
All of the higher ups have designer bags. Evelyn, of course, but the others too. Even the head of the mailroom has a low end Burberry bag which isn’t a Louis Vuitton bag but it’s not nothing either. Burberry is a perfectly respectable brand. It has history. Gravitas.
Audrey lives in an apartment that she shares with Gloria even though it’s technically only a one bedroom. They’d put up a sheet across half of the living room to make a second bedroom. They have no friends over, no parties, so what do they need a living room for anyway?
She slips into her heels and does one final turn in front of the mirror before heading out the door. Not bad.
It’s a long ride into the office. She always gets to the bus stop early, just in case. If she misses, she’ll have to wait another half hour and then she’ll be late. She’s never been late and doesn’t intend to start now. The bench is taken up by a big man in joggers who spreads himself across the whole thing so that no one else can sit down, and he scowls if anyone catches his eye so that no one will ask him to move. He could have a knife. Or a gun. Or use his fists. She’s seen it happen before; a man punching a woman in the head as she got on the bus and everyone kept their heads down so they wouldn’t be next. Even her, she’s ashamed to say, head down, staring at the scuffs on her toes, concentrating on her feet.
When the bus comes, she crams in. She’s pretty sure someone is touching her bum, but she can’t turn to see who it is and, even if she could, what would she do about it? Nothing. That’s what. She can’t reach the bar, so she spreads her legs a little to steady herself. She hopes that the bum toucher doesn’t take it as an invitation and, after a while, she thinks that maybe she’s wrong. Maybe it’s just a bag or an umbrella handle. Halfway to the subway station, her jaw starts to relax, and she watches the storefronts go by through a bit of window.
The bus lurches to a stop and Audrey nearly falls over. In a rom-com, the hand of a dashing love interest would reach over and steady her. But the only hand that reaches out is the maybe hand/maybe umbrella handle on her bum, so she rights herself and steps off of the bus.
Next is the subway. The platform is flooded with water and people. There are hundreds of people but just an inch or so of water, so the subway is still running. It’s a good thing she brought her flats and now she has an excuse to wear them, not just to protect her heels but because her feet are already killing her. She switches into them, balancing in a dry spot on one stockinged foot and then the other, wraps her heels in her polyester scarf, and shoves them into her bag.
The train squeaks to a stop and Audrey is pushed onto it. She stands facing the back wall without even a poster to look at, so she closes her eyes and thinks about the coffee shop. She’s only just found out about it. It’s called Buzz. It’s where everyone who’s anyone gets their coffee in the mornings. High end stuff that comes out of a rodent’s butt (It’s true!) She’d overheard a few of the executives talking about it on Friday and she’d thought, why not? She has as much right to a good cup of coffee as anyone else. Maybe she’ll make a connection while she’s waiting in line like they do in movies, a chance meeting that changes her life.
It would start with the weather or some other innocuous chatter and, sooner or later, it would come around to careers. These things always do. Do you work around here? they would ask.
Why, yes, Audrey would say. She’d nod down the street. I work at Ortolan. The magazine. The head office is in that tower there.
They’d shield their eyes like salutes, stare at the building, and Audrey would smile. She’s always been told she has a great smile, even as a kid. Even now that she’s…not old. Mature? Oh God. Definitely not that. Even now that she’s in her prime. Better. Even now that she’s in her prime, she’d smile at them and they’d smile back and tell her that they work in film or music or art.
They’d assume she’s an executive. Someone her age is, surely, an executive. She wouldn’t correct them. They’d take note of her Louis Vuitton bag and she’d turn slightly to obscure the view like she’s playing coy.
The train squeaks to a halt. All of the doors open, and Audrey is jolted awake. A wall of people squeeze into the car, racing each other for the odd empty seat. There is pushing and swearing and a few threats but nothing serious. She sucks in her stomach and slides out before the “bing” signals the closing of the doors.
When she emerges onto the street, there it is. Buzz. It’s alive with people. The Upper Crust. Jazz music plays over the outdoor speakers. Audrey doesn’t usually like jazz. She likes pop songs and soft rock, but she likes this jazz. It makes her feel sophisticated. She wonders if it makes everyone feel this way or just her. She queues up. She’s forgotten to change back into her heels, and she feels smaller than the rest of the people in line. She holds her tote low, near her feet, as camouflage.
The espresso machine chugs and hisses, bellowing out steam like an old locomotive. It’s made of polished brass with an ornate plate facing out that says “Made in Italy”.
“Cortado!” the barista shouts and a man in a Tom Ford shirt gets up and takes the cup. “Macchiato!”
Audrey shuffles forward with the line. She tries to look around without seeming like she’s looking around. The place is packed. Anyone she’d know from the mail room isn’t here. They get their coffee at the doughnut shop next to the office where they can get an extra-large drip and a doughnut for half the price of one of these coffees. For a moment, she considers turning back and joining them but then she sees Evelyn Lewis sitting at a table near the pick-up station and she stays put. Evelyn is sitting in the middle seat at one of those long tables you’re supposed to share with a bunch of strangers only she’s surrounded by her underlings. Audrey can tell that they’re Evelyn’s underlings because they sit on either side of her and lean in like Apostles.
Evelyn is laughing, her head thrown back, waving a hand like she’s brushing something away. Her lipstick is a classic matte red. Audrey wishes she could ask which brand it is. Would Evelyn notice if Audrey wore it to work? Probably not, and it’s hard to imagine that anyone in the office would make the connection. It’s the kind of detail only Audrey would notice.
Evelyn looks over at the lineup and Audrey catches her eye. Audrey smiles and nods and Evelyn smiles and nods back. Should she go over and say something? Why not? It’s a perfectly natural thing to do. Besides, now that Evelyn knows she’s here, it would be rude not to. She’ll compliment Evelyn’s outfit, of course. Then she’ll “notice” the lipstick which will give her an opening to ask where she got it. Audrey rubs her tummy.
Shuffle, shuffle.
She closes in on the cashier. There are three men in front of her. They’re talking loudly about some deal that went bust. It doesn’t seem to be any of their faults. They are the victims. One step ahead, two steps back, one of them says and the others nod. Another one says he’ll have to cancel his vacation plans and the others pat his shoulders.
The men order flat whites, a drink Audrey is only now learning about, so when it’s Audrey’s turn, she orders one as well. The men seem like they know what they’re doing when it comes to coffee despite the recent failed business venture.
“Eleven seventy-five,” the girl behind the register says.
Audrey nods, slips her hand into her bag, and starts fishing for her wallet. The girl combs out her curly hair with her fingers, staring at the bag. At first, Audrey keeps it down by her side so as not to call attention but, eventually, she has to rest it on the counter to get a better look inside. The girl runs her eyes all over it, and Audrey can feel her face getting hotter and hotter as she pushes things around inside.
“Eleven seventy-five,” the girl repeats as though Audrey hadn’t heard her the first time. Audrey is sweating. Where is her wallet? The people behind her start sighing loudly, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, muttering under their breath.
“I put it in here just this morning,” Audrey whispers. “It has to be in here.” She smiles apologetically at the line which is growing by the minute. No one smiles back.
She starts taking things out: Her drugstore umbrella. Her heels wrapped up in the cheap scarf. Her hairbrush matted down with brown hair, silver roots gleaming in the pendent lights. She reaches into the little zipped compartment again and again, hoping her wallet will materialize. It doesn’t.
“Ma’am,” the girl behind the counter says, “would you mind stepping to the side until you find your wallet? I have to take these orders.”
The woman next in line slaps her bag onto the counter and nudges Audrey away with her hip. Audrey quickly collects her belongings and scoops them back into her tote. She keeps one hand in, stirring the contents of her bag while she composes herself.
“Flat white,” the barista calls.
Audrey turns toward the pick-up counter and sees Evelyn extending her hand to one of the three men ahead of her.
“Gavin, darling!” She purrs. “I knew that was you! How are you, Dear? And how are your parents doing? I haven’t seen them in ages.”
Kiss. Kiss.
“Flat white,” the barista repeats. The barista is looking right at Audrey and she wonders if she should take it but the girl behind the cash register is watching her through the corner of her eye, so she doesn’t.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers. The barista blinks and goes back to cleaning the steam wand for the next order.
“Is that a flat white?” Gavin rushes toward the pick-up counter.
Audrey picks up the warm cup and hands it to him. It feels heavy for something so small.
“They must still be making mine,” she says but Gavin doesn’t hear her over the espresso machine and the jazz.
He turns to Evelyn’s table and shouts, “It’s right here. I’ve got it.” He heads back to the table, taking his place on Evelyn’s right hand.
“Do you need something?” the barista asks. His voice is a long exhale.
Audrey looks around, and plucks a serviette from the dispenser on the counter. “Got it!” Her voice is half an octave higher than normal, but a far as the barista is concerned, this could just be her normal voice. She folds the napkin in half and in half again. Act natural. She wipes her eyes, then tucks the napkin into her tote. It’s nearly ten. (Can you believe it?) She’s going to be late for work. She rushes for the door.
On the street, the sun seems harsher than it did before the café. She puts her shoes back on to walk the three blocks to the office and tries to walk normally even though she feels blisters bubbling up on the back of her heels. She’ll be wearing flats for the rest of the week.
Then she steps in something slippery (FUCK!), but it’s not the dog do she expects. It’s a dead starling. She gasps and takes a step back nearly stepping on another. And another, and another. The more she backs up, the more she extends her gaze along the sidewalk, the road, and, finally, all around her. They’re everywhere.
She watches a city truck parked in the alley, taping off the walkway, a TTV truck setting up cameras. A pretty reporter laughs with her crew, her silk scarf blowing in the eddies between buildings.
“What happened,” she asks the universe. She feels dizzy. “What’s going on?”
“Whole flock of them birds flew into that building,” says a man sitting on a bench nearby. He’s dressed like maybe he lives on the bench. At his feet are several grocery store bags filled with who-knows-what.
She stares at him silently.
“I said they flew into that building.” He points skyward. Audrey doesn’t follow his gaze but she already knows he’s pointing to her building, to Ortolan. “The whole lot of ‘em. Just right into it. Broke their own necks, I guess.” He kicks at one lying by his feet.
“Just now?”
“Been here all morning,” he says. “Bout time the city showed up and did something about it. Gotta be hundreds of them. I don’t know. Maybe thousands.”
The bodies lie beneath the feet of the people lined up at the café, litter the bus stop where she’d gotten off not thirty minutes before. She sees them now, broken, bloodied, necks snapped. How had she missed them before?
“You okay?” The man says. “You gonna be sick or something? Here.” He pats the bench beside him. “Plenty of room.”
“Why didn’t I see them before?” Audrey stumbles on the sidewalk. She’s sure the ground has shifted. An earthquake maybe. She stares at the pavement expecting it to open up but it doesn’t.
She drops her bag at her feet and sits down on the bench and the man promptly nods off, his chin pushed down into his chest. Audrey tucks her feet under the bench and watches the people rush past like fallen feathers caught in a current. She should be getting up. She’s going to be late for work. For the first time, ever, she’s going to be late. She places a hand on her chest, takes a deep breath, and holds it for as long as she can…
