* * *





Once upon a time, she thought, surveying the scene below her from the foot of the marble stairs, Cinderella was a receptionist. The banister was cold and wide beneath her fingers, silky to the touch. The women looked like the jewels they wore, hard and bright and utterly arresting, sipping champagne and stepping sharply through the sea of people. The men they’d brought were dapper and groomed. Tuxedoes and clean angles served as a backdrop to flirty layers of expensive fabric, to gorgeous flower arrangements and sultry vapors of alcohol she could almost taste. The crowd joined and parted endlessly, a sort of human kaleidoscope. The thought made her smile.

“Darling, you do realize the point of this elaborate fête is for us to mingle with New York’s finest?” Clipped British tones snapped her out of her reverie, and Pamela Beesly turned to look at the bored expression on the speaker’s face.

“I can’t breathe down there.” She gestured gracefully at the people below. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a tortured artist, dearest. What would it do to my reputation if I were to go down and actually make myself agreeable?” He smirked, baring his teeth slightly and adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves.

“Jeremy, if you think that for one minute I’m going to believe that you’re not loving the limelight, then you’ve got another thing coming.” She laughed at him openly now, running her hands down the crushed emerald moiré of her gown.

“You’re no fun,” he retorted, now fiddling with the lapels of his stylish tuxedo.

Pam shrugged. “You’re awfully fidgety tonight,” she commented, ignoring his last remark.

“And you’ve got your head in the clouds, so I say we’re a well-matched pair,” he shot back.

She sighed and glanced back down at her hands, wishing she’d opted for more comfortable footwear. She had on a pair of killer heels with a price tag that made her shudder, but they were hidden from sight beneath the long folds of her gown. “I know, I’m sorry. This is all just a lot to be taking in. I never…” she faltered for a second, hugging herself tightly. “I feel like I’ve lived two different lives. Frankly, it’s a little surreal.”

Jeremy reached out and patted her shoulder before letting his hand come to rest at the small of her back. “Come now, love. You’ve put a great deal of hard work into this. We’ve put a great deal of work into this and I’ll be damned if we’re not going to sit back and enjoy the spoils while we can.”

Pam smiled up at him tightly, not quite able to muster up a full grin. The nervousness she stamped down earlier had returned with a vengeance, taking residence in the pit of her stomach and sending out tremors through the rest of her body. There was a terrible taste in the back of her mouth, acidic and sour. She hadn’t felt this way since she’d first left Scranton, more alone and more frightened than she had thought possible. Cinderella’s come a long way, she thought wryly. She had said goodbye to a dead town and a dying love. She’d wrenched herself away from everything she’d known, picked up a fairy godmother (or two), and fought hard to paint herself a new life. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and nodded quickly at her companion. “Let’s get this over with?” Pam tilted her head towards the clamoring throng waiting downstairs and threaded her arm through his.

“Good girl.” He flashed her a cocky grin and they began a slow descent down the sweeping staircase. Pam took her hand off the banister and lifted up the hem of her gown, wary of stepping on the edges as they made their way. A steady stream of chatter echoed throughout the hall, distorting the words into a strange symphony of indistinct voices. Guests were still filing through the doors, and she scanned the new arrivals as they joined the party. Greta Marset had just walked in with her husband Paul, and behind them Pam could make out Lila Davies, resplendent in a navy chiffon affair that no one else could possibly pull off with such aplomb.

Pam had begun turning to Jeremy, meaning to point out their editor when she caught sight of a tall man entering the crowded hall. She stopped without warning. She held her body perfectly still, barely acknowledging Jeremy’s expression of annoyance at her sudden halt in movement. Her fingertips felt curiously frozen, and a small, detached part of her marveled at the hold he still had on her. Blood was pounding in her ears, and she thought briefly, madly, that she would sell her soul for just a moment of silence to hear herself think.

After five years of forgetting, Prince Charming had returned.





* * *

* * *








Three weeks after he’d both woken and destroyed her with a kiss, Pam started having vague, misshapen nightmares that she could never remember afterwards. She would wake up in the middle of the night, sheets tangled maddeningly around her limbs and a weight on her chest. Every part of her body screamed at her, aching and awkward, until she was desperate for relief.

He was long gone, escaping whatever spell (or curse) she had unknowingly cast, and his empty desk bruised her in ways she couldn’t explain.

Three straight nights she woke up suffocating, and she was too afraid to try and fall back asleep. The kiss had served its purpose; she was awake, wide awake now.

She crept out of bed on the morning of the third day, feeling haggard and worn and ghostly. She was stirring sugar into her tea, watching the spoon circle round and round, and it was then that the first clear thought she’d had in years broke on her like a freezing wave. She couldn’t stay. She was scared, so scared of leaving, but she was even more afraid of what it would mean not to.

In the end, it was saying goodbye to Roy that hurt worst of all. They both cried, and Pam thought they had never loved or hated each other more than when he held her one last time.

She chose Philadelphia. In part because she was still a little too timid to brave New York, and also because after calling in favors and reaching out to friends she hadn’t spoken to in years, she found an acquaintance that needed a roommate downtown. Tara was neat and sensible, no-nonsense in a way that relieved Pam immensely.

And just like that, for the first time in her life, she stopped thinking. Or at least, she stopped dwelling and simply did. She had no one to answer to, no one to worry about. She was uprooted and no one was calling her back, not even the man she quietly, irrationally kept hoping would show up at her door.

She hardly gave herself time to eat, let alone sleep, and it made her a little anxious to realize how much older she felt than she really was. She took two jobs to support herself and to pay for tuition and books and art supplies that ran out so fast she wanted to cry. She waitressed nights, in a local bar that was dingy and comfortable, and where the regulars were an assortment of blue collar family men who liked making the pretty new girl smile.

The second job – the gallery job – was a gift. Her neighbor Mr. Redbanks was a genial older gentleman who longed to retire somewhere warm but couldn’t stand being too far away from his grandchildren. She visited him sometimes, often with a treat for Ernie, his lazy border collie. They would sit together quietly, munching on cookies she’d baked or fresh fruit she’d bring over, content to mourn their small losses in companionable quiet. Mr. Redbanks had lost his wife two years ago; they had been together for fifty. He talked to Pam about her sometimes, about what a staid, funny couple they made, both shy and reserved.

“I finally got the nerve to walk her home from church one day, and before we knew it I was walking her to our own little house.” Pam loved the inevitability of their courtship, its plainness like whorled wood. She pictured long skirts and sweet, almost-smiles, and maybe linked hands and wildflowers.

He was her second friend in Philadelphia. He called a ‘sensible young woman’, and liked her drawings and her small gifts and her company. He was especially pleased with a watercolor she’d done of his newest grandchild, a baby girl with big, black eyes and a puckered mouth. “This is very fine,” he had said to her smiling, and two weeks later he had it framed and hanging on the living room wall. She blushed and thanked him, turning her attention to Ernie until the heat had left her cheeks.

A few days later, Mr. Redbanks handed Pam a business card. She looked up at him questioningly.

“My niece Mabel, she owns a small gallery in town. Business is good, and she’s looking for help. I told her you might be interested.”

And so she had left early the next morning, venturing to the address printed neatly in crisp, raised font. Wonders looked tiny from the outside, wedged between a salon and flashy boutique that made her grin and think of Kelly. She thought about them sometimes, Kelly and Michael and Dwight and even Angela, and wondered if they ever thought about her. She had drawn them each a small portrait on Dunder-Mifflin’s best cardstock and written a note on the back; she gave it to them on her last day, right before her going-away party ended. They had all hugged her tightly, and Phyllis and Michael had cried. Later she took Michael aside and gave him another portrait.

“What -?”

“For Jim.” she cut him off softly, her voice trembling just a little. “If he ever…if you ever, I don’t know.”

For once Michael said nothing, only nodded and turned over the portrait to the note on the back. On the others she had written happy goodbyes and recalled good memories of the last few years. On Jim’s she merely written: You deserve better.

Michael hugged her again, and she was glad that her last memory of her wayward boss was this sad, gentle moment. Pam waited until she got to her car before she began to cry, because she hadn’t told anyone where she was going, because she was leaving behind people who knew her, and because unexpectedly beautiful things had happened to her in that ugly building.

She shook herself out of her reverie and turned her attention back to the waiting gallery, hesitating only another moment before pushing through the glass door. It was as small as it looked, a single square room, though Pam caught sight of a door behind the reception desk that promised more. She stepped further inside, and soft chimes echoed through the hall. Each wall had a different surface; the far wall was pure white, the right was dull metal, behind her was jet black, and the left was a smooth, paneled wood that begged to touched. Every surface was crammed with artwork, overwhelming and raw.

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

Pam spun around at the voice. A woman emerged from the back door with a sheaf of paper resting gingerly on her bent arm. She was tall, and a little angular, with a curtain of iron gray hair that fell in a slant across her cheek. Her suit was impeccable, her hands immaculately manicured, and her black heels in excellent taste, but there were deep laugh lines in the corners of her eyes that softened her sharp demeanor. “Mabel Redbanks,” she said, extending her hand. She had a voice like ivory, rich and low, and Pam found herself slightly dazed as she reached for the older woman’s handshake.

“You don’t look like a Mabel,” she blurted out, and then gasped when she realized she had said it out loud. “Sorry,” she said softly, feeling the heat rush to her face.

Mabel only laughed (God, that voice) and waved it off. “I’m so glad you think so. I’ve spent my entire life pretending I was named Estella.”

Pam smiled shyly in response. “I’m sorry, you must be wondering what I’m doing here. My name is Pamela, Pamela Beesly? Your uncle gave me your card and…” she trailed off, lifting a hand self-consciously to tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

“Yes, yes of course. Uncle Martin told me all about you. And he showed me that exquisite little portrait you drew of Deirdre. I take it you haven’t had much formal training?” She paused for a moment when Pam ducked her head in acknowledgment. “Oh you mustn’t be embarrassed my dear, there’s nothing wrong with that. You are taking lessons, though?” Mabel peered down at her almost sternly, and Pam felt a sudden wave of relief that she had an acceptable answer.

“Just classes at the community college for now, but it’s still been pretty useful.”

“Excellent. Can you answer phones?”

Pam raised her hand to her mouth quickly, but couldn’t keep the laugh from escaping. “Ms. Redbanks, you have no idea.”

The woman raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Please, do call me Mabel. I think we are going to get along quite well.”

Working at Wonders was an education in and of itself. Mabel prided herself on a keen eye for innovative new artwork, and Pam became an eager pupil. She learned to tell good from mediocre, and honed her sense for color and line. And she began to extend herself past still lifes, feeding on the creativity that surrounded her on all four walls.

Summer passed, and she settled into new habits like a second skin. She thought about reaching out to him sometimes, in the small hours when she could catch her breath. She thought she might call him when the radio played a song that twisted her insides just so. And once she was caught in the rain, but the sun was still shining and she could still see the blue sky; it was the loveliest thing she had ever seen and it made her want to drive to wherever he was and just breathe the same air for a moment. But the strange new pieces of her life didn’t seem to have room for him.






* * *

* * *






“What on earth is wrong with you?” Jeremy hissed at her, visibly alarmed. She wanted to turn towards him, to look at him, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man who had just walked in. He was too far for her to distinguish his features clearly, but it hardly mattered. She knew him, knew those straight, broad shoulders and the clean set of his jaw. She knew the way he walked, the way he self-consciously pulled himself up to his full height, the way he almost put his hands in his pockets.

“Do you see that tall man right behind Lila, the one shaking hands with the woman in the lavender dress?” she asked Jeremy at last, still unable to turn away from the sight. Beside her, Jeremy sucked in a noisy breath, and exhaled it quickly.

“Is that -?”

“That’s Jim Halpert,” and it was as though saying his name broke the queer hold his startling presence had on her. Tension still had her body in a painful vise, but she managed to collect herself enough to stop staring and turn back to Jeremy, whose wince made her realize how fiercely she had been clenching his arm. She loosened her hold slightly. “We have to go. I have to go. Tell them I got sick. Or kidnapped.” Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, pleasant and almost conversational, except that she wasn’t smiling, and an unfamiliar hysteria had begun to bubble up deep beneath her calm exterior. Jeremy said nothing, mouth still slightly open and brows knit. “Jeremy.” she repeated. “I have to go -”

“No.” He interrupted her forcefully, grabbing her arms and swiveling her so that she faced him properly. He began speaking in a terse whisper that managed to cut through the panic that was clouding her brain. “You know just as well as I do how bloody important tonight is. We don’t get a second chance, love, so I need you to remember that this is not Pamela Beesly’s night.” Pam started, eyes widening. “We are here tonight as artists, and we are here on behalf of our art. Now I swear to you,” he continued in a softened tone, “when this is all over, we will sit down and sort out this mess, but for now I need to you to compose yourself and focus on the actual reason we’re here.”

“But what if he sees me? Thank God he’s not looking this way. Why is he even here? God, Jeremy, what do I do?”

“Nothing. You are clearly in no condition to be seeking him out. You are going to hold my hand, and we are going to find you a glass of wine. I’ll speak to Greta and see if she can’t keep him as far away from you as possible.”

“And if…?” she trailed off, not daring to finish her question.

“You will greet him cordially. A ballroom is no place for a fucking heart to heart.”

“So ‘hello, I think I’m still madly in love with you’ is out of the question?” she shot back wryly, and Jeremy grinned in response.

“Thank goodness. If you’re back to being a smart aleck then I can stop worrying. But one last thing,” he said carefully, tightening his grip on her arms and waiting for her to meet his eyes. “It’s been a long time, love. He might not be the same man you’ve been carrying around inside you. People change. You’ve changed, too. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

A cold wash of dread swept down to her toes, and Pam cursed the perverse twist of fate that had brought about the convergence of her past and her future. “Yes,” she choked out, and gave him a swift grimace before raising her head high. He watched her carefully as they stepped down together, her confident poise belied only by the shaking of her hand in the crook of his arm.

“Cheers, Morrie,” he said quietly, and they reached the last step unnoticed.




* * *

* * *


By May she had trouble remembering her Scranton zip code, and Pam felt like she had slipped into someone else’s life. She never knew weeks could rush by so fast, and the contentment of each full, unwasted day seeped through her until being happy and productive finally ceased to surprise her.

She began to collect friends, women with whom she could talk about shoes and clothes and art and books. Smart women who drank wine and watched bad movies together and taught her to be comfortable in her own skin. She and Tara entertained weekly in their tiny, shared apartment, cooking and laughing together on the nights Pam was off from work.

“It’s so weird,” she confided to Mabel one day when they were looking over purchases in the back room of the gallery. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so busy in my life, but I don’t really feel stressed or anything, you know?” Mabel looked up from where she reclined elegantly behind her glass and metal desk, its clean, modern lines and spare black accents contrasting starkly with the mess of art and color around them. She quirked an eyebrow and turned up a corner of her mouth, returning her attention to the forms in her hand for a brief instant.

“Well, of course Pam. For once you’re enjoying what you do. One can’t help but feel energized when you’re working hard because you want to.”

The phone rang, shrill and unnaturally loud in the echoing room, and Pam reached over to answer it. “Wonders, this is Pam.”

“May I speak to Ms. Mabel?” The voice on the other line was grizzled and deep, with the lightest trace of a Southern drawl. Either Georgia or Texas, she couldn’t decide.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Will you tell her it’s Paul Marset?”

“Of course, hold on just one second.” She covered the mouth piece and turned to Mabel. “Do you want to talk to a Paul Marset?”

Mabel’s eyes lit up instantly and she reached for the phone. She spoke animatedly for a few minutes, finally ending with a “Tell Greta I’ll call her next week,” before saying goodbye.

“Who was that?” Pam asked curiously.

“That was – no, wait. Let me show you.” Mabel laid a few papers to rest on a wire tray next to the fax machine and reached to the drawer on her left. By the time Pam had obediently rolled over a black cushioned chair, the older woman had pulled out a thick, royal blue book with spiky gilt lettering. Pam let out a small “oh” when she caught sight of the cover, a rich, magnificent rendering of what appeared to Greek gods. The attention to detail was stunning, but what struck her the most was the warm, pulsing energy of the scene. The colors seemed to spill over, and the juxtaposition of sharp linework and the piece’s hazy, dreamlike quality made it surreal and achingly beautiful. She reached for the book, and was surprised anew when she flipped through.

“It’s a comic book?” she asked incredulously.

“The correct term is ‘graphic novel’, but I suppose it is essentially that.”

“But this is amazing,” Pam breathed out, turning pages to reveal haunting black-and-white panels interspersed with gorgeous pages done in full color.

“That is the work of the man you just spoke to. He and Dylan Engdahl have been collaborating on a series of graphic novels called The Pantheon. They’re sort of dark, adult treatments of popular mythology.”

“This one’s Greek?” Pam asked, running her finger admiringly across the glossy cover.

“Yes, it was their first. They’ve done an African saga and an Indian one as well, and I believe they have a Japanese-themed edition coming out in a few months. They’ve got a terrific audience in Europe, though they’re still a bit underground here in the States. The writing is fantastic, too, very clever and imaginative.”

“We work with him? How come I haven’t seen any of his stuff before now?”

“Hmm?” Mabel was distracted a moment by an incoming fax. “Oh, Paul’s pieces were some of the first I sold here. His mother went to school with my sister, and I took a very smart chance on him, if I do say so myself. He’s a bit caught up with all of this comic book nonsense at the moment, but he sends me actual paintings every now and then. We haven’t had any since April of last year, right before you started working here.”

“So he’s sending some stuff over?”

“Yes,” she answered happily. “He and his wife are in London now, but his partner will be coming to New York sometime in the next month, and he’s going to swing by and bring us some of Paul’s new work. I’ll need your help redoing the displays.” Mabel had her hands clasped together in anticipation, and Pam couldn’t help but feel excited as well.

“Do you think I could borrow this? His work is just…I can’t even find the words, it’s so pretty. Seeing this just makes me wonder why I bother,” she said a little wistfully.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Ms. Beesly,” Mabel admonished her firmly. “You’re not there yet, but you’ve got plenty of talent. You’ll have your breakthrough one of these days.”

Pam only snorted in disbelief, but she kept a tight hold on the book.

Two weeks later, Tara came home from work to find her roommate utterly engrossed in her reading.

“Pam, please don’t tell me you’re still reading that comic book.” Pam looked up, startled, before her face smoothed into a broad smile.

“Graphic novel, Tara.”

“I think you mean comic book.”

Pam chuckled and set the book down. “No, I mean graphic novel, and it’s the next in the series. I finished the first one a couple days ago and I’m totally hooked. I mean, at first it was the artwork, it’s just so detailed and amazing, but then the writing is so good, too! I mean, I’m not the smartest person in the world, but it’s just really well-written. I’ve never read anything so interesting on so many levels.”

“Huh.” Tara looked down at it appraisingly. “Maybe I’ll borrow it to read during staff meetings. Or to procrastinate when I don’t want to grade homework. Most boring part of teaching, hands down.”

“Eh, it’s better than waitressing. At least -, oh shit!” Pam leapt to her feet and ran for her room. “I’m late for my shift!” Tara only laughed and watched her race out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, Pam was in her uniform and pulling into her spot. The Friday night crowd at The Blue Marlin wasn’t particularly rowdy, but she already knew she’d be on her feet all night. She tried not to run through the back entrance, nodding at Lou, the owner and head cook, as she deposited her things and tied her apron around her waist. Lou was pretty laidback, and the rest of the staff was easygoing and friendly as well. The hours fit in well with her classes and her job at the gallery, and the tips were good.

“Heya, Pam.”

“Hey, Maggie,” Pam greeted the cheerful blonde as she rushed by with a tray of empty plates. “Rough crowd tonight?”

“Not too bad,” she replied, considering. “Watch out, though, Holly just seated a grumpy-looking guy at one your tables.” Pam scanned her corner until she noticed a thin, glowering gentleman near the back whose straight black hair had just begun to show a little gray.

“Snazzy dresser,” she commented, and the man indeed looked much too well dressed for the homey little tavern.

“Maybe he’ll tip good.” Maggie shrugged and pushed through the kitchen doors, and Pam took a deep breath and made her way over to her first customer of the night.

“Welcome to The Blue Marlin. My name is Pam and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you something to drink?” Up close, the man looked much younger than she had assumed, though she would still peg him as being a few years older than herself. He had a beautiful, aquiline face and the sharpest cheekbones she had ever seen on a man. And he was wearing a horrible scowl that nearly wilted the smile she had started with.

“Your name is Pam?”

Pam raised an eyebrow, taken aback by both his strong British accent and the disdainful way he pronounced her name. “Yes,” she said cautiously. “Short for Pamela.”

“It’s a lost cause no matter what you do with it, but have you ever considered going by Pamela instead? ‘Pam’ is just so…frumpy.”

Pam stared down at her customer for a full minute, trying to figure out if he was pulling her leg. He looked perfectly seriously. “Uh, yeah,” she said finally, at a complete loss for words.

“Do you have any other names?” he asked, peering up at her owlishly. Pam raised her eyebrows incredulously. “Like a middle name. What’s your middle name?”

“Morgan,” she said flatly, and the man seemed to be lost in thought.

“That’s much better, but it could still use a little work. How about Morrie?”

“I’d really prefer Pam, sir.”

“No,” he shook his head a little belligerently. “I really don’t think you do.”

Pam’s eyes widened, and then quickly decided to play along. She wasn’t going to make any of the girls suffer on her account - this guy was clearly crazy. She threw her hands up. “You know what? Fine. Call me Morrie. Call me Ishmael. Just tell me what you want to drink.”

He straightened up slightly at the sharpness in voice, appraising her with a surprising alertness. “I’m trying to decide,” he replied, almost sulkily, “whether to let myself get absolutely, mind-numbingly smashed or to call it quits.”

“You’re not exactly in the right place for that kind of drinking, sir.”

“Jeremy.” He shuddered a little before continuing. “Please call me Jeremy. ‘Sir’ is for Cambridge wankers and dirty politicians. And my father,” he added thoughtfully.

“Whatever you say, sir,” she cheered inwardly as Jeremy winced. Served him right for saddling her with unwanted nicknames. “I mean, Stan over there,” she jerked a thumb at the big, hunkering bartender, “can get you as drunk as you want as fast as you want to, but you have to ask yourself a couple questions first. One – do you have someone to make sure you get home safely? Restaurant policy tries to minimize chances of you getting killed after you walk out the door.”

“No,” he answered slowly. “I did have someone, but she’s the reason I’m trying to drink myself into oblivion. Not to mention drowning in cheap clichés.”

Pam put a hand on one hip and cocked her head lightly, drawn in despite herself. He was so very still, except for his hands moving, waving, fluttering like paper fans.

“Second question,” she continued. “Is it worth it?”

“What?”

“Is it worth it?” she repeated patiently. “Is it worth the massive hangover you’re going to have tomorrow morning, not to mention the realization that getting drunk didn’t make any of it go away?”

He grimaced, showing teeth that were severely white against his swarthy skin. “She’s worth a fucking lobotomy. But I’ll settle for this.”

There was a flash of pain across his face, a tightening of his jaw that Pam identified with immediately and that pushed words out of her mouth she hadn’t expected. “Can you wait a couple hours?”

Jeremy only tilted his head up, confused.

“I get off my shift at one. There’s this hole in the wall downtown that I like to go to when I want to get very, very drunk. And I’ll make sure you don’t end up facedown in a gutter.”

“You’re not hitting on me,” he stated.

“God, no,” she protested emphatically.

“No need to be so disgusted by the thought. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re being so nice to me.”

“Because I’ve got someone who makes me feel the same way.”

Jeremy sighed and let his shoulders sag down, running his hands through hair that refused to look disheveled. “One o’clock, then, Morrie?”

“Pam.”

He ignored her and continued, “I’ll be here. In the meantime, I’ll take the beef stew and a pint of Guinness.”

Pam sighed and gave up, and then grinned anyway. “Coming right up.”


* * *

* * *



The first ten minutes of navigating the floor were absolute torture, but Jeremy did an excellent job of steering them towards groups of people who required her to say very little. She made inane small talk with a junior editor and her boyfriend, sipping every so often from a flute of champagne as she pretended to understand what they were saying. A hand grasped her elbow, and she nodded at the pair before Jeremy fluidly brought her aside.

“I’ve just spoken to Greta and Paul. Paul will be escorting you about, and Greta and I will do our best to make sure your Mr. Halpert is occupied. With any luck, you’ll never be face to face with him.”

“But what is he doing here?” she wailed, dreading the answer. Jeremy looked a tad uneasy and ran his fingers through his hair before answering.

“Halpert works for the company handling the American promotions for the book.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned.

“From all accounts he’s just joined the campaign - he was on leave for awhile or something - but there’s a good chance he hasn’t connected the dots yet.”

“He’s not stupid, Jeremy,” she retorted.

“I didn’t say he was. But if you think about there’s really no reason for the PR firm to know who you really are.”

“That’s right. You’re right,” she said slowly. “But he’s going to find out. In front of everyone,” she whispered, stricken.

Jeremy nodded grimly. “Yes. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do on that score. Unless you want to find him and let him to know beforehand?” She shuddered in response. “That’s what I thought. There’s nothing you can do now. Walk around with Paul and the both of you come meet me up in front. We’ve only got a half an hour before we’re introduced, so we’ll just lie low till then, do you hear me?” Pam nodded, marveling at the fact that she had been anticipating this night for weeks. “Ah, here’s Paul,” Jeremy said brightly, and Pam turned to smile at their close friend.

“Doing alright, kid?” Paul asked kindly, engulfing her in his giant embrace.

“Could be better,” she replied offhandedly, doing her best to mask her anxiety.

“Well, I know there’s a whole lot of craziness going on right now, but I just want you to know that we’re awful proud of you, Greta and I. Though I’m sure she’ll tell you herself when she sees you.”

“What about me? Aren’t you proud of me?” Jeremy asked in mock indignation, and Pam shook her head laughing.

“I’m proud of Pam for putting up with you, you idiot,” Paul teased, and Jeremy huffed before being called away by an acquaintance. He rolled his eyes imperceptibly and allowed himself to led off, calling back over his shoulder, “Only two glasses of champagne for you, young lady. And for heaven’s sake, mingle a little. We’ve got a bloody book to sell.”

“Diva,” Paul snorted, and Pam grinned in agreement. Together they socialized their way through the crowd, Paul using his height to keep Jim in sight. Pam caught brief glimpses of him through the crowd, the broad expanse of his back, a hand raised in a casual gesture, and each time it was as though a tiny star was exploding down her spine. It was impossible, simply impossible that she could still be so sensitive to the sight of him after all this time. She kept repeating Jeremy’s warning like a mantra in her head, trying to convince herself that they were worlds apart now, that it was inconceivable that they should still share any sort of bond after all that had happened and had not happened between them.

“Hey, Benny, come say ‘hello’ – Pam’s here!” Pam swirled around to catch a huge smile before being wrapped in a hug.

“Sonia, Ben, you have no idea how glad I am to see you,” she cried happily.

“Can she quote you on that?” quipped Ben with a smirk, frowning only a little when Sonia punched him in the arm.

“Shut up, Benny. Pam loves us, don’t you, Pam? Oh, should I be calling you Estella while we’re here?” Sonia bounced on the balls of her feet, and if Pam didn’t know better, she would have suspected a heavy caffeine intake. She knew for a fact, however, that Sonia Kanth never touched the stuff. Benny often said that Sonia was born with rocket fuel instead of blood and privately, Pam agreed. She had met Sonia and Benny a year ago when they interviewed her about the London release of City Sylphs. They worked for Tunnel Vision, an underground art and literature magazine for which Sonia was a reporter and Benny a photographer.

Pam hated interviews as a rule. They made her think of Scranton and the fact that she still wasn’t any good at coming up with interesting responses. She usually let Jeremy handle any press that come their way, and he was more than willing to oblige. On the occasions that Pam’s presence was asked for, they went in together, and the press was usually too pleased about a joint interview to complain. So when the request came for Pam, and Pam alone, neither of them knew quite how to handle it. They were in London at the time, and no one had heard of the small, offbeat American publication that wanted the interview.

“But why don’t they want me?” Jeremy pouted, clearly miffed by what he saw as rejection. “Why do they only want her? I’m much better-looking.” He jutted his thumb out towards the couch where Pam was sprawled out, still dripping from having come in from the rain. She stuck her tongue out in response.

Dena, Jeremy’s long-suffering secretary, ignored his theatrics. “They want to focus on the artwork, Jeremy. Since Ms. Beesly, who is both prettier and sweeter than you will ever be,” she paused to acknowledge Pam’s triumphant smile and Jeremy’s glower, “is the artist in your operation, they’ll be interviewing her.”

“As much as I hate to agree with Jeremy, Dena, I really don’t think I should go in there alone. I mean, I’ve been thumbing through a couple issues and these people are really, really cool. And I’m kind of…boring.”

“Nonsense!” cried Jeremy immediately, plopping down on the couch beside her. “You know what, this is my fault. I never should have let you get away with hiding for so long. You are going to do this interview and you’ll be marvelous.” Pam gave him a blank stare. “No, Morrie, I mean it. Just remember, they’re not talking to dinky Pam Beesly from the States, they’re talking to Estella Morgan, artiste du jour.”

Despite Jeremy’s constant reassurance up until the day of the interview, Pam still found herself dreading it. She was downright frightened, in fact, up until a tiny, ponytailed Indian girl zoomed in and hugged her.

“You!” she yelled out, with the biggest smile Pam had ever seen on a person so small. “Ms. Morgan, do you have any idea how am-a-a-a-a-zing you are?”

And with that, Pam’s nervousness flew out the window. Sonia, who seemed to be her new life’s answer to Kelly, was sharp, hilarious, and unassuming. By the end of the interview, Sonia had discarded ‘Estella’ in favor of ‘Pam’, and had confessed that she, too, was using a pseudonym. “No one, and I mean no one can spell Kanthaswamy,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “No one can pronounce it either.”

She had met Benny during that interview as well, a wiry, awkward kid about Sonia’s age who, as Pam would find out, would take some of the best pictures of herself that she had ever seen. He had a knack for using creative settings and unconventional lighting, the result being a series of pictures in which Pam looked fresh and vibrant and downright quirky. She looked like Estella Morgan, edgy, up-and-coming graphic novel artist, the alter-ego she was slowly allowing to absorb mousy Pam Beesly.

Seeing the pair of them here at the release dissipated the tension that had been building behind her forehead, and she felt herself beginning to breathe easier. “Nah,” she finally answered after leaning over to hug Benny, too, “You just keep calling me Pam. We’ll see how many people we can confuse.”

“Awesome,” Sonia squealed, putting out her hand for a high five. Her red spangled cocktail dress was paired with leather stiletto-heeled boots and her customary ponytail, putting her somewhat at odds with the general décor of the room. Benny looked a bit less out of place in a tuxedo, though the arms were a mite short. They chatted for while about Ben’s new internship and Sonia’s indecision over grad school, and it wasn’t until they left (“Gotta get a few more interviews in, kids. Knock ‘em dead up there, Pam.”) that she realized how well they had kept her panic at bay. Now with them gone, the faint murmur of anxiety grew stronger, and Paul patted her shoulder as if he knew what she was thinking.

After what seemed like an eternity, Pam realized it was time to make her way to the front. She tugged at Paul’s sleeve to get his attention. “Paul, we’d better go find our seats. Jeremy’s probably waiting for me near the stage.” He checked his watch and nodded. People were milling about, slowly breaking off from smaller groups and making their away over to the precise arrangement of chairs in front of the raised marble platform.

“Do you see Jeremy?” Paul asked, and Pam craned her neck, searching through the thick cluster of people until she caught sight of Jeremy’s thin shoulders.

“There he is,” she said with relief, tugging on Paul’s arm. “I see Greta with him, too.” They pushed and prodded their way through the slow-moving crowd, finally making it near enough to make out the voices of their party.

“Lovely,” came the perpetually-hoarse voice of their editor, Lila, over the conversation of nearly everyone around her. Pam wondered if Lila ever realized how loud she actually was. “I’m so glad the two of you could meet.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” they heard Jeremy say smoothly, and they exchanged glances at his velvety charm.

“I wonder who he’s trying to impress,” Pam whispered, giggling.

Paul muttered, “I can’t see with all these people in the way,” and they waited impatiently for the knot directly in front of them to clear.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go find Morrie. I promised I’d collect her from the atrium right before we started.” They heard Jeremy’s voice again, this time sounding slightly strained. Pam paused.

“That’s not what he told me,” she hissed to Paul, and they looked at each other for a long moment before they realized what was happening. Pam’s heart starting sinking and her palms grew clammy. Don’t let it be him, don’t let it be him, she prayed anxiously. She twirled around, frantic, as she searched for a possible escape. Around them, people were taking their seats; if they left now, they’d be seen for sure. Paul had apparently come to the same conclusion, and he looked down at her helplessly. She bit her lip. Perhaps if they edged away slowly…but then she heard his voice, and it was as though her heart were shattering all over into a thousand slivers, and her feet were stuck in cement.

“Morrie?” he asked, a note of confusion in his voice.

“Ms. Morgan, if you will,” Jeremy explained brusquely, and Pam could picture Lila’s frown at his rudeness.

“There’s no need for you to leave, Jeremy. I’m sure Pam will get here shortly. Isn’t Paul with her, Greta?”

“I’m sorry,” came his voice again. “Pam?” Closing her eyes, Pam couldn’t help but savor the sound of her name again on his lips. Had she imagined the small crack in his voice as he said it? She had given up on the hope of ever hearing it again, and as awkward and horrible as the night was promising to be, for a brief second it was worth it.

“Oh, how stupid of me,” Lila said. “I always forgot not everyone knows. Jeremy and Pam have worked together for ages and ages, and they both publish under their nom de plumes. Estella Morgan is actually Pamela Beesly among friends. I just can’t wait to introduce you, she’s such a sweetheart.”

The blood rushed through Pam’s ears, she couldn’t hear his reply. He’ll think it’s someone else. He probably doesn’t even remember me. She felt sick. Paul was frozen beside her as well, but she grabbed his arm and set off in the opposite direction, hoping to God they wouldn’t be spotted.

“Ah ha! There they are!” No such luck.

“Pam! Paul! Over here! You’re headed the wrong way!” Pam realized they had no choice but to turn around. She scrunched her shoulders discreetly, trying desperately to relax. Be calm. Be cordial. Hesitantly she turned around. Lila was looking at them expectantly, while Greta’s expression was guarded and anxious. Jeremy looked apologetic and more than a little a tense. Finally, she forced herself to look up higher, into the hard hazel eyes of Jim Halpert. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly aware of every nerve ending in her body. Her throat was dry and her legs were shaking, and she wondered if she was going to faint. She had never fainted before, but she thought that maybe now would probably be a good time to start. One thing was clear though - she had been a perfect fool to think she could ever forget him.

* * *

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“So are you really just a waitress?” Jeremy asked, chin propped on one hand and legs folded up in the too-small passenger’s seat.

Pam shrugged. “I’m a lot of things. Waitress is one of them.”

“Oh good Lord, you’re not an actress, are you? Because you really don’t seem the type.”

She raised an eyebrow and snorted. “No. Definitely not.” Barret’s came into view, and she flicked her right turn signal on.

“I don’t think you’re a writer,” he tugged at the sleeves of his blazer, brow furrowed. “Starving artist, then?”

“The waitressing keeps me from starving, but yeah, I’m working on this artist thing.” Somehow, saying it aloud to this virtual stranger was easier than she expected. There was no need to be self-conscious or explain further. She was trying to be an artist, simple as that. “What about you?”

“I’m a writer,” he said.

Pam perked up. “Are you any good? What do you write?”

“Tolerable, and probably nothing you’ve heard of. I’ll show you sometime if you ever show me your work.”

“Perhaps,” she said evasively, turning her attention to parking.

Six beers later (three and three-quarters for him, two and a fourth for her) they were sprawled out a table in the corner of the dim little bar, laughing like old war buddies. They had tacitly agreed to put off any talk of heartache till later; it had been a good night so far.

Jeremy was an excellent conversationalist who turned out to share Pam’s love of the absurd, albeit with a much more acerbic, almost cutting wit. Even more surprising was Pam’s own willingness to talk and her ability to hold her own end of the conversation so well. She found herself sharing stories about work, her opinions on impressionism, her (disastrous) attempts to cook Thai food, and felt like a different person. Perhaps it was Jeremy, and his perverse way of poking, prodding, teasing – anything but agreeing with anything she said. There was something exciting, though not a little alarming, about having to defend all her choices, even down to her pick of beer. Perhaps it was all the living she’d done in the past year, how much more doing than thinking.

“Do you want another?” she asked, watching Jeremy toy with his empty bottle after a particularly long lull in the conversation. He didn’t answer for awhile, simply looked down and kept spinning the pale green glass between his hands, and the easy mood of banter they had upheld throughout the night died away quietly. He answered finally, still deliberately not meeting her eyes.

“Once, many years ago, I fell in love with a very lovely girl. She was spirited and kind and monstrously clever, but we were both very young and very muddled.” He looked up at her then, jaw clenched and brows tight. Pam said nothing, and merely set her own bottle down on the damp wood. “She was about to start law school in London, and I was still chasing my writing career and trying to prove that it wasn’t just a pipe dream. I had been trying unsuccessfully for years when an opportunity arose that seemed like it would be my last chance. But it was in the states, and I had no idea how long I’d be stuck there.”

“She didn’t want to wait for you?”

“She did! That was the problem. I couldn’t let her do that. It was just the horrible uncertainty of it all. Odds were exceedingly high that I would come back to her, after Lord knows how many years, as an utter failure, and I just couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t come crawling back, expecting her to simply take care of me as usual. She would have been making a name for herself, and being brilliant and wonderful, and I would have had nothing to offer. I would have just been holding her back.”

“She would have been holding you back, too,” she blurted out. Jeremy looked at her quizzically, and she took a deep breath to explain. “You…wouldn’t have been free to just throw yourself into whatever crazy dream it was you were trying to fulfill. She would have always been there in the back of your mind, making every failure just a little worse because you would have been wanting to succeed as much for her as for yourself. And you wouldn’t have been able to change yourself, or take any sort of desperate chances, because that tie, those expectations, would have always been there.”

“Are we still talking about me?”

“Yes. Mostly. Sorry.” She sighed. “Continue.”

Jeremy scowled. “Not much else to say. I left, thought about calling for years but never did, and a mutual friend told me last week that she was getting married. Today.” He slumped down, putting his head in his hands. “You’d think…I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Only that I loved her very, very much, and I loathe the man who’s getting her instead.” Pam put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently, biting her lip in sympathy. “And me. I hate myself, too.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Me, too.” His eyes were bleary, but the set of his shoulders was still tense. “Your turn.”

“Well.” She stalled, taking a pull of beer before starting. “I guess- oh!” she cried suddenly. “You wanted to see my work, didn’t you? Come with me.” Without waiting for a reply she pushed her chair back and pulled Jeremy up with her, leading him to a shed a few yard behind the patio. It was covered in all manner of graffiti, and amidst the squalid hearts and phone numbers and profanities, there were several pieces of interesting artwork. Nearby were cans of spray paint arranged haphazardly. “Bill put those out one night just for fun, and it’s sort of a tradition to draw something whenever you come by. He paints over it every few months or so for a clean slate.” She leaned over and grabbed the blue, giving it a shake before finding herself a relatively clean portion of the unconventional canvas.

“Are you trying to distract me? Because I still insist upon knowing about the man who makes you drink. Or is it a woman?”

Pam laughed quietly. “It’s a man. And I’m showing you.” She aimed the can carefully, drawing out what appeared to be a man with a tie, floppy hair, and large feet. “This,” she narrated, “is a man I fell in love with. A tall, sweet, funny man who was also not my fiancé.” She kept drawing, this time a larger, scowling figure with boxes under an arm. She added an unequal sign between the two.

“My god, Morrie, I had no idea this was going to be such a sordid tale.”

She shrugged. “Nothing ever actually happened. He told me he loved me.” Here she paused and put a small heart in the hand of the first figure. “He told me he loved me and transferred to a new city. So I called off my wedding and left town to put even more distance between us.” Pam picked up the red paint and drew a vicious X through both figures. “Haven’t talked to him since.” She contemplated her work before stepping forward and drawing another small X across the heart in graffiti-Jim’s hand.

“That was quite possibly the most entertaining tale of heartbreak anyone’s ever told me. Do you always tell your stories this way?”

“Nah, I just wanted an excuse to do a little vandalism.”

“Understandable. You do have quite a knack for it, you know?”

“Vandalism?”

“No, stupid. Drawing. It’s whimsical and gritty all at the same time.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “It’s a cartoon,” she said flatly. “Done in spray paint. On the wall of a shed.”

“What kind of artist are you, woman? You’re supposed to be a creative soul, for god’s sake. What does it matter where and how you’ve done it as long as it’s got a good punch of emotion?”

“I guess.”

“I really would like to see more of your work. Maybe a portfolio of sorts? I might have a project or two you’d be interested in. No promises, though.”

“Uh, sure.” Pam couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“Don’t you have a business card or anything?”

“I think my number’s on this shed somewhere.”

“Morrie.”

“Stop calling me that,” she protested half-heartedly.

“Where can I reach you?”

“Fine,” she said, reaching into her purse. “This is the art gallery where I work during the day, it’ll be the best place to contact me.”

Jeremy reached for the card and spent a few minutes looking at it before bursting into laughter.

“What?” Pam asked, bewildered. Mabel had very elegant business cards, as a rule.

“You work for Mabel,” he forced out between laughs. Pam nodded, confused. “Mabel Redbanks.” She nodded again. “I take it you’ve been hanging up a bunch of Paul Marset’s work this week?”

“You’re not-”

“I work with him. Maybe you’d know me as Dylan Engdahl?”

Pam plunked down on the grass beside him, trying to deal with the sudden mix of apprehension and glee she was feeling, and the odd, portentous certainty that everything was going to change.

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