Such masterpieces she owned: Gucci, Vuitton, Escada, Chanel, Armani, Lacroix, McQueen, McCartney. If she’d had a different aesthetic, she could have gone the Mainbocher and Givenchy route as well, but Audrey Hepburn had always given her heartburn.
And then there were the accessories. For fuck’s sake, she’d had Manolos before Carrie-goddamn-Bradshaw, and the soles on her stillies had been red for years before the plebs had found Louboutin.
And not just from walking through the blood she’d spilled.
Back to her wardrobe’s wonderfulness. Of course, part of the fun was the display, and all of the skirts and dresses and blouses and slacks were parceled out among countless hanging racks. There were sections for separates, and then outfit outposts organized by designer. A whole table for Birkins and a set of shelves full of Chanel. But the arrangements weren’t static. On a regular basis, she switched things up. Sometimes it was chronological order by era; sometimes it was chromatic. She’d tried once to do it by value, but that had been impossible to get right. The older stuff had price tags that were pennies on the dollar now, and rarity and history made some of what she had priceless.
Keep eating, she told herself. You’ve got to keep eating.
As she choked down the larger of the two pieces of meat, her eyes caressed the optical cacophony before her, the fine silks and sequins, the cashmere and fur, the handbags, shoes, and lingerie, all of it offering so many colors, so many textures, so many choices for individual expression. And the collection was such a source of satisfaction and happiness, each piece like a child adopted into a loving home. Whether she’d stolen it or paid the purchase price, taken it off a corpse or gotten it gift-wrapped to herself, her ownership was indisputable and immutable, and her beauty was always magnified a thousandfold by what she placed on her perfect body.
Her clothes were the halo that she, by her nature, would never possess metaphysically.
But fuck it, she could look good while she did evil.
And yet . . .
As her silverware clinked softly against her plate, there was such silence here, a reminder that what she adored might be grounding for her and an important source of hunt-and-peck, acquisitional excitement, yet in the end . . . these fashion masterpieces couldn’t touch her. Hold her. Laugh and cry with her.
She was alone in a crowded room.
Shoving her plate away, she sat back with her wine, swirling the yellow wash around the inside of the clear glass.
Chianti and fava beans, huh? she thought as she regarded the golden color. How common.
Then again, human organs were hardly a delicacy, were they. And worse, the shit was not working.
She wasn’t eating this for her health, for fuck’s sake.
Not her physical health, at any rate.
There just had to be a way to capture the love that was out there, the love she saw between others who were coupled up, the love that everyone else on the planet but she had managed to find. Just because she was a demon didn’t mean she had no emotions. No need to be cherished. No desire to be seen as valuable, distinctive . . . significant . . . by the one she found valuable, distinctive, and significant.
It was a natural instinct.
As well as one hell of a Dr. Phil show.
Devina, you know, I’ve been doing this close to forty years now, so I know what I’m talking about. How’s your life working for you?
“Not great, Phil,” she said aloud. “I just want what you and Robin have.”
Her mental Dr. Phil leaned forward in his suit and tie, his big gold watch winking from under his cuff, his bald head covered with makeup so it didn’t reflect the studio lights. If you look back on your previous relationships, how would you say your behavior was? Were you a good partner?
“Of course.”
Devina, we can’t change what we don’t acknowledge.
She thought about her one true love, Jim Heron. “I only tried to kill his girlfriend once.” As Phil gave her that look, she cursed. “Fine. A couple of times. But she was so fucking annoying, and I don’t know how in the fuck he picked her over me.”
Relationships are a two-way street. And it sounds like he was on a different road than yours.
“Well, then he needed to read his goddamn map right. Get back on course. Get with the program.”
Look, I may just be a country boy—
“Oh, will you drop the Southern poverty bullshit. You have a net worth of over four hundred million dollars. It’s time to give up the relatability-signaling of overalls you haven’t had on your fat ass for half a century.”
Imaginary Dr. Phil stared her straight in the eye. If you were in a relationship right now, would you contribute or contaminate?