Interrobang
by
Owlcroft
"Well, I'm off. Don't forget," said Lydia, as she bent to kiss her husband good-bye, "that I'll be late tonight. Anything quick and easy for dinner will be fine."
Beetlejuice looked up from his scribbled chemical formulae to receive the kiss. "Hmm? Late? Oh, that's right." He grinned at her and pulled her back down for an encore. "It's the big interview this afternoon. Now, remember," he said sententiously, "don't say anything I wouldn't say. On the other hand, I'll say pretty much anything." The grin grew a bit wider.
Lydia laughed down at him. "As long as I don't say 'booga-booga', I should be fine."
ooooo
Alex Hansen, of Fashion Today – well-dressed as would be expected, but unexpectedly youthful-looking – was punctual, arriving just before 5 PM and Lydia was there to greet him. After she showed off the Brooklyn workshop and he met some of the employees, she escorted him upstairs one flight to her office and they settled on opposite sides of her desk for the interview. At twenty-five, with a new design contract from a globally-known couturier, Lydia felt at ease and comfortable. Until the usual questions of childhood, education and training, and background had been answered.
The reporter then took things in a different direction. "So, now tell me. Who in your family had the ties to the fashion world? Who got you your first chance, your first big break?"
"Nobody," was the answer with a surprised look. "I took the comprehensive course offered by the Northeast Design Academy and then used my savings and a loan from my father to open a small shop. We had success with that and then began to sell some of my designs to larger companies and even marketed some patented materials. After a couple of years, I had to ramp up production so I set up this workshop to handle that," she waved her hands around her office.
"Hmm," Hansen said noncommittally. "So your family was happy with your career choice? They didn't have any issues with you going into business on your own? No family drama about it? And you've managed to do all this on your own?"
Lydia shook her head emphatically. "Oh, no. My husband helped from the beginning. Not just supporting my ideas and working in the shop, either. He's a wonderful chemist and created some of our most popular materials and ideas. Like our reversible thread, and the adjustable hemlines. And, of course, our Brillance d'Étoile." She leaned back with a pleased smile.
"Ah, of course, with the help of your husband. And I do want to talk about him a great deal, but later on. Much later on." He looked down at his notebook and pursed his lips. "You've been hailed as being the 'breath of fresh air' the industry has needed, a different perspective on design and materials. Do you feel that's true? Did you always think of yourself as a fashion insurrectionist?"
Lydia looked at him questioningly. "I think . . . I'd rather be call inspirational than an insurrectionist. Every designer wants to do something all their own, to . . . to kind of expand the parameters of fashion." She felt rather proud of that statement and added, "As an example, I'm quite proud of the success of the so-called seagull neckline."
"Hmm. And what do you call that neckline?" Hansen was scribbling as quickly as he could but he still shot a glance at her when he said that. A glance that said he appreciated what he was seeing.
Lydia started to feel slightly uncomfortable and looked back at him with her head tilted slightly. "It's a bat in flight and it's an extremely popular design with many of my customers."
"But you don't market it that way. Why not call it a bat wing neckline? Did your design team feel it would be off-putting?"
"I don't have a design team; I am the sole designer for Scarab House, as well as the owner. There are no financial backers, no corporate agendas." She sat up straighter and folded her hands over one another on the desk. "There is no board of directors, only me. And my husband." And then regretted she'd mentioned him again.
"Ah," said Hansen, "let's skip ahead to that area, then, just for a bit. Your husband's name, according to the Design Directory is Bietel Joos and that's all I can find about him. Can you tell me more? His age, his background, his experience in design, where he got his degree in chemistry? Any little details at all – favorite vacation spot, favorite book or movie, what are his outside interests, how the two of you met; and I'll need photos of him, or of both of you together. Oh, and any kids, if you have them? How many, by the way? Or if not, are you planning any?"
"My private life is just that – private, and I intend to keep it that way," she said with a touch of frost in her voice.
"Oh, no." Hansen chuckled and leaned back in his chair comfortably. "That's not the way this works. In fact, you've made me definitely curious now. I'll need to know a lot more about you, and your private life." He closed his notebook and smirked at her. "This is just a first interview, you know. I'll need to spend a lot more time with you to present a . . . well-rounded portrait of you."
Lydia sat frozen, irate, confused as his eyes roamed insultingly over her blouse.
"In fact, I suggest we adjourn to a nice little bar somewhere and relax a bit while I find out more about you. I always like to take an in-depth approach with female designers, to get to know my subject in every way, inside and out." His smirk had grown and was nearly a leer.
"I, uh . . . I've stayed late to oblige you, Mr. Hansen, but I'm sure my husband is waiting for me downstairs, so . . . I think we'll have to wrap things up right now."
Fashion Today's well-known interviewer chuckled softly. "Oh, I don't know nearly as much about you as I need to, as I will. But if you're running late, why don't we just meet again tomorrow after hours and make a night of it?"
Lydia leaned over and bent down to take her purse out of the lower drawer of her desk and whispered her husband's name three times rapidly.
A knock sounded on her office door the next instant and a blond head poked around it to ask, "Didn't you say to come get you at six?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered fervently. "Gosh, is it six already? Mr. Hansen, I really have to go now but I'll give you a call tomorrow about meeting again, okay? So nice of you to make time to talk to me and I'm looking forward to the article. Thank you so much." She'd ushered everyone out and down the stairs by then and over to the exit.
"We'd give you a lift, but we're going to a friend's place for dinner," smiled Beetlejuice with a suspicious glint in his eyes. "Subway?" At Hansen's nod, he pointed to the right and nodded. "Just a block down and you'll see it. 'Bye!" As he took his wife's arm and led her in the opposite direction, he muttered, "Is everything okay?
"I'm fine, really," she muttered back. "Let's just get home."
"Well, I hate to mention it, but that guy's following us, all tippy-toe."
Lydia's quick pace broke its rhythm just briefly, then increased a little. "Can you do something – just to give us enough time to get home?"
Hansen, behind them sneaking soft-footedly from shadow to shadow, was abruptly stopped in his tracks by a huge rat that ran out of the alley he was passing. The rat, chittering viciously, rose to its haunches, growled at the astonished man, then said in a high-pitched squeak, "Booga-booga!" The rat then snarled at Hansen before fleeing back into the alley.
The incredulous reporter stared after it for several seconds before resuming his now fruitless tracking. Beetlejuice had taken his wife home just as the rat spoke.
ooooo
"Oh, Beej, I need a hug." She stepped into his embrace and pushed her head under his chin. "I'd been looking forward to this so much. Well, you know how I've talked about it for weeks now. It wasn't just the publicity, it was kind of . . . I don't know, a validation of my work. And then that creep showed up."
"A creep, huh?" Beetlejuice had been quiet until then. Now his eyes squinted in suspicion and he tightened his arm around his wife's shoulders.
"A total creep! He didn't ask very much about my designs, or where I get my ideas, or what's my favorite. He didn't ask about the contract with Poulette or our sales to other designers. He just kept asking me things about my personal life – like my childhood, or if I had any conflict with my parents or trouble breaking into the fashion world because I'm female or . . . basically, he just wanted anything he could make sound really dramatic! Not facts or interesting sidelights on the business, but things he could present in a way that made them more . . . sensational than they actually were."
He patted her back gently, never loosening his embrace.
"It wasn't a conversation at all. It was almost . . . it was almost like an attack. He was so intense, so concentrated. He talked so fast and sometimes he didn't even give me a chance to finish what I was saying. It was all extremely uncomfortable and then he insisted he needed all kinds of personal information, like your name and background and where we went on vacations, and if we had kids and if not, when. Beej, at one point, I thought about excusing myself to go to the bathroom so I could Call you, but I thought he might listen at the door. He's that kind of person!"
Beetlejuice shook his head and asked, "Wasn't Mason there? In the superintendent's apartment across the hall? You could've gone and gotten him."
"No, he asked if he could go out to do some shopping since I was staying late. And I didn't think this stupid interview would be a problem." She sighed heavily. "Boy, was I wrong."
He took an arm away from her to tilt her face to his. "You feeling any better now? 'Cause there's something I have to go take care of." His expression told her exactly what that was and she quickly burrowed back against him.
"I'll take care of it," she murmured into his shirt. "It's my business and my stupid interview, so it's my problem. Beej, honest, I have to do this. It would make me feel better if I . . . sorted out that creep."
He scowled but nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, I know," he told her slowly. "But we'll talk about it first, okay? Make sure we nail the bâtard."
"You know I love it when you swear in French," said Lydia, starting to recover. "Say some more."
Beetlejuice raised his brows, then grinned. "Connard," he said, making it a growl. "Qu'il pourisse, qu'il enfle et se partage en deux."
Lydia grinned back at him. "And that goes double for me." She pulled away from him and took his hands in hers. "Thank you for coming to get me. And for figuring things out so fast."
He shrugged then, the grin disappearing. "When you Called, I could tell you were . . . upset about something. I was afraid it was me. That you couldn't tell him about me or where we live and all that stuff and it was a problem."
She pulled his head down for a kiss. "You are never a problem. You are always the answer."
ooooo
Late in the morning of the next day, Scarab House and four other major design firms pulled their advertising from Fashion Today. There were three more withdrawals that afternoon. Every time a reason was given, it was connected with Scarab House and Lydia Deetz's experience during an interview.
Two more days went by, with Alec Hansen becoming more and more impatient that Lydia wouldn't take his phone calls. Then, his managing editor sent for him and told him to write a formal apology to the owner of Scarab House. And to make sure it was believable. Then Hansen was re-assigned by the magazine conglomerate to write articles for Cattle Ranchers Monthly.
ooooo
"Told you I could handle it," said Lydia smugly. "I was surprised, though, at how many other people had a bad experience with that toad."
"Hey, now!" Beetlejuice objected. "No need to go insulting toads! They're really good with a little barbecue sauce." As she laughed, he put an arm around her shoulders and peered into the pan to see what dinner was likely to be. "Mushrooms?"
"In sour cream, on spaghetti. One of your favorites as a kind of thank you." She craned her neck to kiss her husband's cheek. "Don't drool into the pan now. But, Beej, seriously." She put the spoon across the pan, lowered the heat a bit, then turned into Beetlejuice's arms and hugged him emphatically. "Thank you again, for the rescue and for letting me handle it."
He shrugged carefully, mindful of her embrace and the proximity of the pan of mushrooms. "No big deal. And I didn't let you handle it. I would've helped if you wanted, or if you'd let me. But you were right; it was your interview, your situation, and I knew you could do it." He stared into the distance and mused. "But it would've been more fun the way I would've taken care of that fils de pute. More fun and definitely a little messier."
Lydia grinned at him, kissed him again, then turned back to the stove. "Messier? By the time you were through with him, I think he would probably have been catatonic."
Beetlejuice assumed a mock disapproving expression. "Now you're picking on cats?!"
End Note – Translation: May he rot in hell until he swells and bursts in two.