Marianne Mancusi - A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest

Love Spell

Copyright 2007

Kat Jones is so dead!

Seriously, when I find that Park Avenue princess I 'm going to wring her Burberry-clad neck. The girl has been nothing but a pain in the ass since we ar ri ved at King Arthur ' s Renaissance Faire a few hours ago. Nonstop whining and complainin g w orse than Scarlett O ' Hara and Heather Locklear ' s character on Melrose Place put together. I mean, she even bitched out a poor old gypsy who was just trying to eke out a living by reading palms. And now I turn my back for one second and she's disappeared.

I'm Ch r issie Hayward, by the way, a simple fashion magazine photographer not normally given to violent tendencies. In fact, I've even been called a hippie by some. But hey, just because I prefer tofu to tuna and peaceful pontics to unjust occupation of third-world countries that pose absolutely no threat to the United States, that doesn't mean I'm some unwashed, patchouli-drenched flower child, does it?

But enough about me. Right now I need to find my slacker coworker. Last I saw her, she was watching the jousting match. I offered to get her some water since she said she had a headache. Now I realize that was most likely her ruse to get rid of me so she could take off early.

I push past the throngs of people, many dressed in authentic-looking medieval garb. I myself am wearing a capped-sleeved, royal blue velvet gown I made from a pattern I got off eBay. I know it's a little silly, but when in Rome, right? I certainly fit in here a lot better than Kat does, what with her couture clothing and stiletto heels. Who the hell wears stilettos to traipse through upstate New York mud?

When my La Style magazine editor boss first e-mailed me today's assignment, I was over the moon. After all, how many times does one have the opportunity to get paid to hang out at a medieval faire all day, taking photos? Then I read the RS. I 'd be working with her. La Style's resident fashionista and all-around shallow bitch. Sure enough, the second we got here, Kat started complaining. You'd have thought our editor asked her to go to the front lines of F a l lujah the way she's been moaning and groaning. I've tried to make the best of it, to ignore her and enjo y the faire, but let me tell you, that girl could put a damper on Pollyanna's day.

"Excuse me," I say, tapping a random knight in shini n g armor on the shoulder. He turns around and gives me a dazzling smile. Delicious. " I 'm looking for a girl. Blonde. About this ta l l ." I hold up a hand to illustrate approximate Kat hight. " Dressed in Arman i "

"Me too." He grins. "A l l my life, in fact. Be sure to introduce us when you find her."

I roll my eyes. "I'm serious."

He laughs, then shakes his head, black curls tossing from side to side. "Sorry. Haven't seen her." I try to ignore his thick Brooklyn accent, which seriously detracts from the medieval authenticity level of his costume, and concentrate on his tempting backside as he turns to walk away. Not that I should be looking at a knight in shining armor ' s backside; I am still technically married, though those ' t i l- death - do - us-part vows don't really mean anything to me anymore. After all, they certainly meant diddlysquat to Danny when he was off screwing that coffee house waitress after the poetry slam in the West Village last month.

I'll never forget the moment I caught the bastard, naked and writhing and spouting bad verse in the women's bathroom stall. It was like a cheesy Lifetime movie, except for the fact that in made-for-TV land, the husband's usually a successful businessman in corporate America. Someone with assets the jilted wife can acquire to get her revenge. Danny's assets consist of a beat-up Harley from the '60s and a signed, first - edition copy of his hero Jack K erouac ' s On the Road. You don't end up a rich divorcee on the Riviera from that.

Shaking unpleasant thoughts from my head, I squint and scan the crowd some more. Where could K at be? Maybe she went back to the car. I make my way to the front gates of the faire and into the parking lot, finding my old-school yellow Volkswagen Bug still parked where I left her.

"Have you seen the bitch, Rower?" I ask the car, patting her hood. Unfortunately, for all her cuteness, Flower is more the strong silent type; and if she's seen Kat she ' s not telling.

Suddenly, as if on cue, my camera bag bursts into song . After listening to a few polyphonic bars of the Jefferson Airplane ri ngtone, I reach in and pull out my phone.

"Hello?" I say, putting the receiver to my ear.

There's static on the other end of the line. Typical upstate New York reception. At least the residents babies won't die of cancer from living in close proximity to countless cell phone towers tike the rest of us probably will. I'm totally anti-cell phone and wouldn't even own one if work didn't require it.

" Hello?" I repeat, walking a few steps away from the car, seeking a better signal. " Can you hear me now?" I ask, unintentionally mimicking the Verizon commercial.

" Chrissie?" A tinny voice registers f rom deep within the static.

" Kat?" I pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. Ful l bars. That's weird. Must be on her end. I raise the antenna on the phone, just in case. "Is that you, Kat? Where are you?"

"I need your he l p." The crackling grows louder. Her voice sounds like it's a million miles away, even though I know she's probably somewhere within a block radius. The faire's just not that big.

"Um , okay, " I say, though I'm more than a bit wary of what she's going to ask me to do. Knowing her, she's probably having a broken heel c ri sis and wants m e to swing by the nearest Nei m an Marcus to grab her a replacement Manolo. "I can barely hear you.

" I know. Sorry. Evidently they're still working out the kinks in this time - cell continuum thing. Actually, it's pretty amazing they can do it at all. I mean, think of the practical applications! You could call your dead grandmother, for example. Though, of course, that might freak her out a little. I guess it'd only work if you had a dead grandmother that didn't have a we ak heart "

I pull the phone away from my ear again, staring at it in confusion. Is the static distorting her words so m uc h that I'm mishearing them?

" b ut I suppose you could always call your dead gran d mother and not tell her it's you, or pretend that its the you that existed when she was still aliv e What? " I hear muffled voices on the other end. "Oh, okay. Sorry. Chrissie, I've got to go in a sec. Sorry. Evidently these time-cell calls cost like a million dollars a minute. Literally. Stupid twenty-second cen tury inflation. And there's no nights and weekends pla n, either."