I
Betty touched her sweaty neck, fingers passing over a limp strand of hair, unintentionally rolling it along―the way a bathing suit rolls when you try to take it off with your skin still wet from swimming. She'd worn her hair up to look professional, and also because she'd read that people behaved more sympathetically towards those who somehow mirrored their own appearance; there was nothing like hunting a serial killer to inspire an interest in psychology. The reason for the escaped hair was that this wasn't Betty's regular spiral-ponytailed updo, but the more sophisticated, vaguely European styling of one Penelope Blossom, and frankly, Betty hadn't left herself enough time to get it right before she'd had to head over for her interview. Meeting, technically, but seeing as she was hoping to finagle a job out of it, Betty chose to see it as an interview. Her hair also would've stood a better chance at arriving intact had Betty not walked to her destination in the heat. And yet it had been her only option because she didn't have a ride. Because she hadn't asked for one. Because she didn't want anyone to know where she was going. Taking her hand from her neck, Betty abandoned the stray lock to its swoon.
It was still May, but already hot (evidenced by her hair, her sweat, her almost total-brain longing for a vanilla milkshake from Pop's). Despite there being weeks of school still to go―sticky days of wilting handouts and forearms smacking against condensation-coated faux-wood desks―many of her classmates had already secured summer jobs. Good old-fashioned traditional parents called it the kids' good old-fashioned traditional sense of responsibility. A skittish post-traumatic few called it the lingering, malevolent influence of evil that had endowed the younger generation with a need for stability and preparedness which the previous one had not felt so urgently. Betty called it simple economic stagnation; the Twilight Drive-In had never been replaced, forcing Riverdale's teens to flock further afield for entertainment, adding the price of gas to the price of a movie ticket.
As much as any of them acted like they were above the others in class, at cheerleading practice, or on the football field, they weren't proud people by nature, enabling them to comfortably settle into the 'I'll take whatever I can get' summer job mentality. Archie and Jughead would be going back to work for Fred. Veronica was working on securing some kind of business co-op that she'd promised to explain in more detail once she'd bullied into submission whoever it was that needed bullying. The rest of Betty's friends and acquaintances would become the familiar faces behind the counter at the grocery store checkout and atop the diminutive lifeguard tower at the public pool, parcelled out and playing at adulthood. The fact that they were all so grown up, and had done the growing together, made her proud to know them. Maybe, had she recently been involved in fewer alarming incidents, she would've been able to join them, but the truth was that nothing as tedious as a fast food fryer or as safe as a day camp counsellor was really Betty's speed anymore. Spitting, sizzling oil and screaming, sunburnt children didn't align with her new standards for risk and difficulty.
Where Alice thought she was today, Betty wasn't sure. If she managed to get what she was coming for, she'd need to tell her mother something. Something that sounded harmless and reasonable. Betty pondered as she walked, turning off the sidewalk―ill-kept so far from the nearest cookie cutter crescent―onto a long gravel driveway. Her hot, tormented feet struggled against the hold of her leather sandals, so like the grip of a straining human hand. Maybe she'd say she'd gotten a job as an online tutor? That way, she could plausibly slip out for each shift and take her laptop, perhaps a book or two, on the premise that she could tutor from anywhere. But would her mother look her up online? Hmm. Betty could claim the sessions were anonymous, some kind of precaution the online academy had implemented to minimize harassing behaviour from disgruntled students. Alice wouldn't like the idea of her daughter not receiving the maximum possible credit for something she was doing, but the cyber-safety aspect would definitely get her approval. That might work. It would still be a lie, but a lie that allowed for elements of truth: the pay would be reliable and the labour absolutely, unquestionably anonymous.
Betty took a breath through her mouth, lungs impatient for the sweltering air's meager offering of oxygen, and stared up at the stately residence before her. It was smaller than Thistlehouse, which had in turn been smaller than Thornhill, yet Penelope Blossom's chosen dwellings all shared an arcane, impenetrable feeling―something more profound, earthier than an aura―like the seat of a banished queen who'd committed a wrong still in the process of fading into legend. Betty thought Cheryl would've called it 'je ne sais quoi.' Betty called it the perfect place to establish her newest secret. She patted her hair with all the cautious horror of putting one's hand into a dark corner sure to contain a cobweb. Then, she knocked on the door.
The click of some high heels simply sounds expensive. Hearing this sort of tapping approach from the other side of the door, Betty straightened her spine. It felt a little cooler anyway, that shallow stream of sweat down the center of her back distanced from the fabric of her shirt and searching for a breeze. The lady of the house herself opened the door.
"Ah," she said without evident enthusiasm, "Betty."
"Hi, Mrs. Blossom."
She wasn't sure whether she should put her hand out to shake, oscillating between this being a business meeting and the fact that theirs was not a recent acquaintance―that they were, in fact, family. Penelope settled it herself, keeping one hand gripping the door while the other brushed the empty air inside the hall, gesturing Betty in.
"Your house is…" Betty's attention was drawn away as her blinking eyes adjusted to the much gloomier interior and she noticed heavy, jewel-toned still lifes, an imposing wooden staircase. "… beautiful."
"Yes," Penelope agreed, leading Betty into the front sitting room, "Thicket Hall suits my tastes for now. Not that I've had much choice after my wayward daughter forced me out of my two previous homes."
Betty kept her mouth shut. Siding with Cheryl, as she privately wanted to do, wouldn't help her working relationship with Penelope. They sat in statement antique chairs, angled towards one another. Penelope crossed her ankles demurely.
"There was character in the bones of this place," the woman continued, unprompted. Betty wondered how much conversation she was regularly a part of. No matter how lovely, this building still represented banishment, not choice, as she'd mentioned. "But I've had much of it restored to ensure the comfort of myself and my… guests," Penelope fumbled. Betty assumed it wasn't so easy to gloss over the way she earned her income when she was seated next to the daughter of a former client.
Perhaps to cover her awkward moment, the hostess poured each of them a cup of tea. The guest sweetened hers with sugar cubes that sparkled like diamonds in the room's yellow light, artificial illumination refracting off warm wood furnishings.
"The artwork is especially striking," Betty offered, stirring her cup with a miniature spoon. Penelope's eyes followed hers to a painting of swollen golden pears on the opposite wall. She smiled coyly.
"I'm glad you appreciate it. I find the subtlest symbolism can be so powerful."
Betty looked at her quizzically. Penelope nodded at the painting.
"Look again. The curve of the subject matter…" her hands stroked the air illustratively, "… the appearance of perfect ripeness… the inherent association between a fruit's skin and a woman's flesh…" Betty found herself blushing. "This house… these rooms are the inside of a music box. The rich velvet curtains parting to display an art form more passionate than opera or ballet."
The nervous sip Betty took of her tea burned her tongue. Penelope stared at her like she could see straight through to her bones, making Betty feel studied, like the painting.
"I must again express my astonishment at hearing from you, Betty. Your call was unexpected, and I am not often surprised." She cocked an eyebrow.
"I was serious on the phone," Betty insisted, settling her cup back in its saucer and folding her hands in her lap.
"I wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't believe that," Penelope responded primly. "From what I've seen of you firsthand and the jealousy-inspired stories Cheryl has regaled me with in the past, I think you are a young woman to be taken very seriously indeed." This seemed to be praise, but Betty didn't feel right to smile. Getting along with this woman would not entail becoming friends. "It so happens that there is a way we might be able to do something for each other, as you suggested."
Penelope gave Betty another assessing glance, so she nodded.
"Please, go on."
Taking a swallow from her own teacup, Penelope kept Betty anxious, pausing several long moments before speaking.
"I'm having no trouble negotiating the needs of my older clientele." The woman gave her a look that said we both know what I'm talking about. "However, after you contacted me, I realized how lucrative it could be to provide a little something for a younger demographic."
Betty shifted in her chair, hot skin not exactly agreeing with the rich material of the seat's upholstery.
"My talking about money doesn't bother you, does it?" Penelope asked, obviously trying to account for Betty's movement.
"Not if it doesn't bother you," she assured her.
"Good, because we'll need to converse bluntly about far more sensitive topics than that."
"Of course," Betty allowed, rotating her cup in its saucer and reaching for its delicate handle.
"Your own experience involves webcamming, correct?"
Betty breathed in sharply, leg muscles tensing for fight or flight. When she looked over, Penelope's gaze was waiting to be caught. Inches below those cryptic eyes, her red mouth twitched up at the corners.
"How did you know that?" It wasn't easy to keep from sounding demanding. Betty had shared this secret with no one.
"I'm a Blossom, Miss Cooper. By blood, by marriage, it doesn't matter." She shrugged narrow shoulders. "We always do our research before expanding our enterprise. Anyway, what I have in mind for you is not so very different from your current pursuits."
Heart shuddering like an earthquake's tremor, Betty joined Penelope in abandoning the tea tray and winding their way upstairs. All the while, the mistress of Thicket Hall spiraled closer to the graphic truths Betty both yearned and feared to discuss. She would come to work for Penelope. Yes. Not in the maple syrup business, but in the sideline the woman's late husband would never have approved of (which said a lot, Betty thought, considering he'd committed filicide). Yes. She would be paid discretely, in cash, and their contract would be purely verbal, to eliminate the hazard of a paper trail. Yes. They would keep silent about today's meeting, the previous phone call, and all future interactions. Both would firmly deny anything beyond a passing acquaintanceship if questioned. This was of the utmost importance, as what Betty would be doing―what Penelope would be paying her to do―was incontestably illegal. Yes, yes, and yes.
Penelope opened a bedroom door to show Betty her room. They stared into it from the hall. Already, it felt so clandestine to Betty.
"I'll hire someone to install a sliding brass window in the door," her employer explained, tracing the grain with a finger of her gloved hand. "Your clients will all have paid in advance and will have control of opening and closing the window themselves. As you will always be facing away for reasons of anonymity, you will never rise to open the hatch yourself."
"Right," Betty agreed, tingling with the thrill that she was actually going through with her plan. Who or what was guiding her? Mrs. Blossom? The Cooper 'darkness'? Some twisted version of teenage rebellion that had taken a wrong turn in the pitch black of her subconscious?
"Essentially," Penelope abridged, crossing her arms, "it's a peep show. A little out of fashion, perhaps, but in this house, I embrace the glories of history." She eyed Betty. "I won't ask you what your own reasons are."
Betty held her stare, likewise uninterested in how Penelope Blossom got started in her current employment and determined not to seem any more inviting of questions than Thicket Hall's owner. Each time she entered this house in future, she would be donning a persona. Playing a part. Leaving the specifics of her identity up to her observers. Better to start now.
It felt like a natural place to conclude their meeting (interview), and the pair shook hands.
"I'll be putting out some feelers, sourcing clients for you with the utmost prudence, then I'll call and let you know when you'll be expected." The way Penelope spoke, she might have been finalizing a business proposition of perfect legality. Betty doubted she'd done much of that in her adult life. "In the meantime," her new employer added, skimming Betty's possibly pink shoulders with her eyes, "try not to get sunburnt. Your skin is art now, Elizabeth."
"I understand."
"You may see yourself out."
Betty halted, half-turned away.
"You're not coming down to finish your tea?"
"I have… an appointment." Penelope smiled that coy smile once more, gaze shifting sideways, deeper into the hallway filled with closed doors. Oh, Betty thought, trying to stop her eyes from widening like a cartoon character's. "Prominent businessman. Gives him an unspeakable thrill to be kept waiting. They all have their little quirks. You'll see."
Was that a warning or a promise, Betty wondered, damp palm dragging along the thick wooden banister as she descended. The messenger bag she'd carried because buying a briefcase felt a little too Working Girl was next to the chair she'd sat in, clunking when she picked it up. Though she hadn't exactly known the position she'd be applying for, Betty had had an idea that it wouldn't require a resume, so instead of a sheaf of papers, she'd used other items to pad the bag (and thereby her alibi) before she'd left her house. One of these was a bottle of 75SPF sunscreen and she squirted some into her palm, viscous and coconut-y, then stowed the bottle and opened the front door one-handed. The air was as hot as it had been when she'd gone in, maybe hotter, so Betty loitered on the step and smacked the sunscreen into place. She leaned down to rub her greasy palms on her thighs, then cupped one hand over her eyes, squinting up towards the sky. Never, Betty recalled being taught as a child, stare directly at the sun.
To be continued...
