Page 6 of The Fallen Man

She had barely entered the corridor and was still tying on her apron when she looked up to find a red-headed man coming toward her with wide eyes.

“Help,” he said, grimacing and holding out his lapel. His suit was at least ten grand, and unless she was blind, custom-tailored.

“Of course,” said Caitlin. “What can I do?”

“Apparently, I am not qualified for shrimp cocktail. I threw it on my suit, and I can’t get into the men’s room.”

“Shoot,” said Caitlin, “the door sticks sometimes. I’ll send Vince around in a minute, but come with me.”

She led him back to the bar area across the hall from the Deveraux party. She grabbed a clean rag and jammed it between his shirt and the coat.

“Give me a second, and I’ll get some seltzer water. Just don’t touch it.”

His shoulders went down a fraction, but she thought he still seemed freaked. It was a great suit, but he was so tense he was practically vibrating.

“Thank you,” he said fervently.

She grabbed another rag and a bottle of seltzer and then went to work on the suit, dabbing cautiously so as not to fuzz the fabric. “I’m going to use a tiny bit of soap,” she said. “Just to ensure we get any fish oils out.”

He nodded, and she went into her bag under the bar for a hand soap that she kept for this kind of emergency. She worked a bit more and then stood back. She had created a cocktail sauce-free zone, but it was quite wet.

“Give me a sec,” she said and returned to her bag. She came back with her flat iron.

“Uh…” he said nervously.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I do this all the time. I even know which setting to use for silk.”

“VAR Events said they were a full-service event management firm. I did not think they meant this.”

Caitlin chuckled as she plugged in her flat iron. “I’m also a fitmodel.”

“Those are the ones that stand around and have clothes pinned on them?” he asked as if dredging up all his model facts from a database. Caitlin laughed as she tested the heat of the iron with her finger.

“Yes, effectively. It means that our proportions are suited to the designer. But bouncing between jobs means living out of a purse sometimes, and that means I now know how to do stain removal, iron a shirt, or in this case, a lapel, and fix a fallen hem. All on the subway, in under five minutes.”

“I bow before a true New Yorker,” he said, flashing a smile that lit up his face and made him look charming. She pressed his lapel dry and stepped back. He nervously checked the jacket in the mirror behind the bar.

“OK,” said the redhead, turning back to her. “I can’t see anything. Can you see anything?”

“I can’t tell at all,” she said honestly.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “I honestly don’t know why I’m panicking. She’s not going to care. I could wear my birthday suit, and she wouldn’t mind a bit. Well, she might about that. But my point is that she doesn’t care about clothes. I’m the one that’s freaking out. I just want it to be perfect. And you don’t care about this, but I can’t stop talking.”

Caitlin laughed. “It’s a big night?”

“It’s our anniversary, and I’m proposing.”

“Aw,” said Caitlin. “Then truly, even if I could see something, which I can’t, you’re right, she wouldn’t care a bit. Are you doing a big thing over at the party?” she asked, waving toward the Deveraux shindig. Guys in expensive suits always liked to do things in public so everyone would know how cool they were.

“Oh, fuck no,” he said vehemently, and Caitlin couldn’t keep a surprised laugh from escaping. “No, Olivia would hate that. I’d hate that. Plus, we’d be in costume, and then my cousinwould probably want to take like a billion pictures, and then the pictures would all be in costume for the rest of eternity on the family wall.”

“You’re in costume?” asked Caitlin, looking the suit over in case she was missing something.

“Ah,” he said, patting his pockets. He took out a name tag and clipped it to his lapel. “I have horns somewhere too.” Caitlin read the tag, let out another surprised giggle, and covered her mouth with her hand.

Hellfire Industries. Hello! My name is: Satan.

“Well, sure,” said Caitlin. “Satan is obviously a ginger.”