The Interview That Became a Date

Inside VamFem.com An Interview with Adrienne Duvall, the Vampire Who Built It I had expected a programmer. That was my first mistake. Perhaps not literally a programmer in a black T-shirt surrounded by glowing monitors, because even before arriving I understood that the founder of VamFem.com was supposedly a vampire, but I had nevertheless constructed some reassuring picture in my head of a clever, eccentric, mildly intimidating woman who had spent too much time studying security protocols and too little time thinking about anything as ordinary as lipstick. Instead, when the private elevator opened onto the penthouse lounge and Adrienne Duvall rose from a chair beside the windows, every prepared question I had spent the previous three days arranging into careful sequence disappeared from my mind. She was stunning. Not pretty. Not glamorous. Not beautiful in the flattering language magazines use because they need an adjective beneath a photograph. Stunning in the literal sense of the word. She appeared to be in her early thirties, tall and impossibly composed, with long dark hair falling over one shoulder, pale skin that seemed almost luminous beneath the warm hotel lighting, and a face so perfectly balanced that my first irrational thought was that nobody should be allowed to look like that while also possessing immortality. She wore a simple black dress. No theatrical cloak. No jeweled choker. No gothic costume. Nothing that said vampire except perhaps the confidence with which she crossed the room toward me, as though the room, the hotel and possibly the city had already agreed to behave themselves in her presence. “Ms. Hale?” I realized I had been staring. “Yes.” Brilliant opening. I stood too quickly, caught my notebook against the edge of the table and nearly dropped it. Adrienne caught it before it hit the floor. “Careful.” Her fingers touched mine. That was worse. “Thank you.” “You're welcome.” She smiled. That was much worse. My name is Natalie Hale , I write features for Perspective Magazine , and I would like the record to show that I am normally capable of interviewing attractive women without forgetting my occupation. Adrienne Duvall was apparently the exception. We sat opposite one another, and I placed my notebook, recorder and tablet between us in the careful arrangement of someone trying to rebuild a professional identity from office supplies. Adrienne watched me do it. “You expected somebody different.” I looked up. “What makes you say that?” “You looked disappointed when the elevator opened.” “I did not look disappointed.” “No. That isn't quite the right word.” She tilted her head. “Alarmed.” “I wasn't alarmed.” “Overwhelmed?” I laughed because I had no better defense. “That sounds dangerously close to interviewing me.” “I founded a dating service. Reading women is occupationally useful.” “Vampire dating service.” “Application service.” “That distinction is important to you.” “Very.” I clicked on my recorder. “Then let's begin there.” Adrienne crossed one leg over the other. I immediately looked down at my notes. The interview lasted less than thirty seconds before I lost my place for the first time. “So VamFem.com is not a dating site.” “No.” “But vampires meet women through it.” “Yes.” “And sometimes date them.” “Yes.” “Yet you object to the phrase dating site.” “Because human dating sites allow both parties to search for one another. VamFem does not.” “Women apply.” “Vampires choose.” The line sounded different when she said it. I had seen it on the website. I had seen it quoted in articles, copied into social posts and printed beneath some rather ridiculous illustrations in Vampire Dating Magazine , a publication whose sudden popularity had become almost as strange as VamFem itself. I had been sent by Perspective Magazine to find out what was actually behind the phenomenon, not to repeat the breathless stories already filling Vampire Dating Magazine . “You know there's an entire magazine now devoted to this?” “Several.” “Vampire Dating Magazine.” “Yes.” “You read it?” “Occasionally.” “And?” Adrienne smiled. “Occasionally entertaining.” “I think that's generous.” “I am trying to be diplomatic.” “They make every encounter sound transformational. Woman goes to dinner with a vampire, woman spends the night, woman wakes up questioning every decision she's made since high school.” “It sells magazines.” “Exactly.” I found myself relaxing slightly. This was territory I understood. Sensationalism. Publishing. Human exaggeration. I even laughed. “Honestly, some of those stories are absurd. One evening with a beautiful woman cannot possibly be that life-changing.” Adrienne looked at me. I stopped laughing. It was not anything she did deliberately. That was the humiliating part. She simply looked at me. I felt heat climb into my face. “Well,” I added, suddenly fascinated by my notes, “unless the writer had a very uneventful life beforehand.” Adrienne said nothing. I risked another glance. She was still watching me. “You disagree?” “I think you're trying very hard to believe that.” My pen slipped between my fingers. “I'm interviewing you, not volunteering.” “Of course.” There was the smallest movement at the corner of her mouth. I hated how much I noticed it. The human side of VamFem.com is almost deliberately boring. That was one of the first things Adrienne wanted to establish. A woman creates a profile. She uploads a photograph. She writes a short introduction. She answers several questions about herself, her interests and what she hopes to experience if selected. Then she waits. There are no rows of vampire portraits. No swiping. No search function. No messages from strangers. No popularity counter. No public comments. No indication whether anyone has viewed her. The applicant sees only one profile. Her own. “That is the part I cannot understand,” I said. “You are asking women to volunteer information into a system while showing them practically nothing.” “Yes.” “They cannot see the vampires.” “No.” “They cannot see the other women.” “No.” “They cannot see who looked at them.” “No.” “How many times they were considered?” “No.” “Whether somebody nearly selected them?” “No.” “Nothing?” “They see themselves.” “That is bizarre.” “It is simple.” “It is incredibly one-sided.” “Yes.” I stopped. “You don't even pretend otherwise?” “Why would I?” “Because usually companies try to make their users feel empowered.” “Our applicants are empowered.” “How?” “They can leave whenever they want. They can decline every invitation. They can delete their visible profile. They can make themselves unavailable. They can refuse a woman at any point.” “But the vampires know everything.” “Yes.” There was something about the calmness of that answer that made me sit straighter. “What exactly does everything mean?” Adrienne's gaze moved briefly toward my tablet. “Everything.” “That's not an answer.” “It is a complete answer.” “Humor me.” She did. “If an applicant changes her profile photograph, we see the new photograph and the old photograph.” “Even if she deleted it?” “Yes.” “If she rewrites her introduction?” “We retain every version.” “Deletes a sentence?” “We see the sentence.” “Adds it again?” “We see that too.” “Logs in?” “Yes.” “Checks repeatedly?” “Yes.” “Looks at her profile at three in the morning?” “Yes.” My voice had become quieter. “Messages?” “Every message sent through VamFem.” “Deleted messages?” “Yes.” “Drafts?” “If they are saved to the system.” “Selections?” “Yes.” “Declines?” “Yes.” “Previous invitations?” “Yes.” “Everything.” “Everything.” I stared at her. “That would terrify most women.” “It does not appear to stop them.” And that was true. No matter how skeptical I had been before arriving, the numbers were difficult to dismiss. Women were signing up. Thousands upon thousands of them. Some out of curiosity. Some because they genuinely believed. Some because a friend claimed she knew somebody who had been chosen. Some because they had read the stories. Some because they wanted the stories to be true. And some, apparently, because the idea of being looked at by women they could not see was not frightening at all. It was exciting. I shook my head. “I still don't understand it.” “You've said that several times.” “Because I don't. It's make-believe.” Adrienne lifted one eyebrow. “Is it?” I gestured toward her. “You know what I mean. Not you. Obviously.” “Obviously.” “I mean the fantasy surrounding it. The idea that women are sitting at home thinking some impossibly beautiful vampire is examining their photographs and deciding whether they're worth an evening.” Adrienne said nothing. “So many of these women have never met a vampire.” “No.” “They don't know what any of this is actually like.” “No.” “They read those ridiculous accounts in Vampire Dating Magazine and imagine candlelight and penthouses and some mysterious woman changing their lives overnight.” “Yes.” “And then they sign up.” “Yes.” “Why?” Adrienne studied me for a moment. “Why did you?” The room became very quiet. I actually smiled at first because I thought I had misheard her. “I'm sorry?” “Why did you sign up?” My pen stopped against the paper. “I didn't.” Adrienne did not answer. My stomach dropped. “I mean—I visited the site.” “Yes.” “For research.” “Yes.” “I created an account because I needed to understand the interface.” “Yes.” I stared at her. “That isn't the same thing.” “No?” “No.” Adrienne reached for her glass. “You created your account eleven days ago.” I could hear my own heartbeat. “You know that?” “Yes.” “You know which account is mine?” “Yes.” “How?” “You entered your name.” “I could have used any name.” “You did not.” “This is extremely inappropriate.” “Why?” “Because you searched for me.” “No.” That stopped me. Adrienne placed her glass down. “You came into my system.” I swallowed. She continued almost gently. “You uploaded your professional photograph at 8:17 that evening.” I did not move. “Forty-three minutes later you replaced it.” My face was burning. Adrienne's voice remained calm. “The second photograph was taken in softer light. Your hair was down. You were smiling.” “That was still research.” “Of course.” “I deleted it.” “I know.” My fingers tightened around the pen. “The next morning you uploaded the professional photograph again.” I wanted the chair to swallow me. “Then Saturday night you replaced it with another photograph.” “Stop.” Adrienne stopped. For perhaps three seconds. Then I made the mistake of looking at her again. Her expression was not cruel. That somehow made it more unbearable. “How much can you see?” “You already asked me that.” “Everything.” “Yes.” I stared at my notebook. “Did you read what I wrote?” “Yes.” “All of it?” “Yes.” “I changed it.” “Several times.” I closed my eyes. “Oh God.” “You originally wrote that you were joining entirely for journalistic research.” “Yes.” “You removed that sentence.” I opened my eyes. “I decided it sounded insulting.” “You replaced it with: ‘Curious, skeptical, probably more nervous than I should admit.’” I wanted to disappear. Adrienne continued. “Then you removed ‘skeptical.’” I dropped the pen. It bounced once against the carpet. Neither of us reached for it. “You can actually see all of that.” “Yes.” “The deleted photograph too.” “Yes.” “And you saw me checking.” “Yes.” “How many times?” “Natalie.” “How many?” Adrienne hesitated just long enough to make it worse. “Thirty-seven.” “No.” “Yes.” “I was preparing for the interview.” “You checked four times yesterday after midnight.” “That could still be preparation.” “Twice this morning before you left your hotel.” I covered my face for a moment. “This is humiliating.” “It shouldn't be.” “I am sitting here lecturing you about women falling for vampire fantasies while apparently behaving like one of them.” “You are one of them.” I looked at her. “I haven't been selected.” “No.” “That proves my point.” “Does it?” “Yes.” My voice cracked slightly, and that infuriated me. “This is what I mean. Women sign up, they imagine something extraordinary will happen, they read stories about women being swept into these impossible evenings, and most of them have absolutely no idea what they're asking for. I don't have any idea what I'm asking for.” Adrienne was silent. I laughed, but there was no humor left in it. “If somebody actually chose me, I wouldn't know what to do.” “You would have a choice.” “Accept or decline.” “Yes.” “That is not the part I mean.” I looked at her again, and that was a mistake because the impossible beauty of her face suddenly made everything far too real. “What happens after that?” “That depends on the women.” “I mean what does it feel like?” Adrienne's expression softened. I hated that too. “I don't know.” “You run the site.” “I know what happens. I do not know what it would feel like for you.” I looked down. “I would probably panic.” “Probably.” “I would want time.” “That is reasonable.” “I would need to prepare.” “For what?” “For meeting her.” “Why?” I almost laughed. “Look at you.” Adrienne said nothing. “If the women choosing us look anything like you, I would need a week.” “You would not.” “I absolutely would.” “For what?” “I don't know. Hair. Clothes. Makeup. Something. Anything.” The words were coming too quickly now. “I would not want the first time a vampire saw me in person to be while I'm wearing the same blouse I wore through airport security and shoes I've been walking around in all day. I would want to look like the photograph. Better than the photograph. I would want—” I stopped. My eyes suddenly burned. That horrified me. Adrienne noticed immediately. “Natalie.” “This is ridiculous.” “No.” “I am interviewing you and now I'm practically crying because of a hypothetical date.” I wiped angrily beneath one eye. “This is exactly why those magazine stories annoy me. They make women sound irrational.” “You are not irrational.” “I am sitting across from a vampire telling her I need better shoes before another vampire might possibly ask me to dinner.” Adrienne smiled slightly. “That is surprisingly rational.” My notebook chimed. I froze. The sound had come from the tablet beneath it. Not my phone. The VamFem page was open in the browser. The screen had changed. I knew the words before I read them. I had seen screenshots. I had interviewed women about seeing them. I had written them in my notes. None of that prepared me for seeing them on my own account. YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN. My breath caught. There was a photograph beneath the words. Adrienne. Not a publicity photograph. Not the polished portrait from the article announcing VamFem's expansion. Adrienne as she appeared now. Dark hair. Black dress. The same impossible eyes looking at me from the screen. I looked up. Then back down. Then up again. “No.” Adrienne's smile deepened. Below her photograph was the invitation. Adrienne Duvall Tonight Private Penthouse Lounge 8:00 PM I looked at the clock. 7:30. I stared at her. “This starts in thirty minutes.” “Yes.” “Here?” “Yes.” “With you?” “Yes.” I looked down again. At the bottom of the screen were two buttons. ACCEPT DECLINE “Oh my God.” Adrienne said nothing. “You did this.” “Yes.” “When?” “About fifteen seconds ago.” “You chose me during the interview?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I wanted to.” That answer destroyed what remained of my composure. I pushed back slightly from the table. “No, no, no, this isn't how I imagined it.” Adrienne leaned forward. “Natalie.” “I would have prepared.” “You prepared for three days.” “For the interview!” “You changed your photograph three times.” “That is different.” “You rewrote your introduction.” “That is different too.” “I disagree.” “I look terrible.” “You do not.” “I've been sitting here sweating through an interview because you look like—” I stopped. “Like what?” “Like that.” Adrienne actually laughed. I wanted to cry harder. “I wanted to look beautiful.” “You do.” “No, I wanted to know. I wanted to have time. I wanted to go back upstairs, shower, change everything, do my hair properly, find the dress I brought just in case—” Adrienne's eyebrow rose. I stopped. “You brought a dress.” “For dinner.” “You said this was only research.” “I hate you.” “No, you don't.” That was unfortunately true. I looked at the screen again. “My hands are shaking.” “I can see.” “I don't know what happens now.” “Nothing happens unless you press ACCEPT.” “And if I do?” “The interview ends.” I swallowed. “And the date begins.” “Yes.” “Thirty minutes from now?” “Yes.” “Right here.” “Yes.” I looked at her. “I don't know if I can do this.” Adrienne's voice changed then, becoming softer than it had been during the entire interview. “You do not owe me an acceptance.” I stared at her. “You do not owe VamFem an acceptance. You do not owe your readers an acceptance. You do not owe yourself one because you created a profile. If you want to decline, decline.” My finger hovered near the tablet. “And if I accept?” “Then you have thirty minutes.” “To do what?” “Whatever makes you feel ready.” “I need three hours.” “You don't.” “I need at least two.” “Natalie.” “What?” “Look at me.” I did. That took effort. “You have been sitting across from the woman who selected you for nearly an hour.” I said nothing. “I already know what you look like.” My eyes burned again. “I know what you look like nervous. I know what you look like laughing. I know what you look like when you forget your next question because you're staring at me.” “Oh God.” “I know what you look like when you're embarrassed.” “Please stop helping.” She smiled. “And I chose you anyway.” That silenced me. “No,” Adrienne corrected quietly. “Not anyway.” She let the words settle. “I chose you because I wanted the woman sitting across from me.” I looked at the two buttons again. My finger was still trembling. “I really did bring a dress.” “I know.” I looked up sharply. Adrienne laughed. “That part I did not know.” Despite everything, I laughed too. Then I wiped beneath my eyes again, drew in a breath and looked at the photograph on the screen. Adrienne. Thirty minutes. Right here. “You'll give me half an hour?” “You have exactly half an hour.” “And I can go upstairs?” “Yes.” “And change?” “Yes.” “And come back?” “If you choose to.” I looked at her. “Will you still be here?” Adrienne's expression softened. “Yes.” That was what did it. Not the photograph. Not the website. Not the stories. Not even the impossible vampire sitting across from me. That answer. I touched the screen. ACCEPT. The button vanished. For perhaps two seconds I felt nothing except the extraordinary relief of having finally made the decision, and then a small silver clock appeared beneath Adrienne's photograph. 29:57 29:56 29:55 I stared at it. “What is that?” Adrienne lifted her glass. “Your date begins at eight.” “I know that.” “Twenty-nine minutes and fifty seconds from now.” “You're counting it?” “The website is.” “Why?” “Because you accepted an invitation for eight o'clock.” I looked at the clock on the wall, then at the little counter, then toward the private elevator behind Adrienne, and a logistical horror that had somehow escaped me until that moment arrived all at once. “My room isn't up here.” “I know.” “I'm downstairs.” “Yes.” “Not downstairs downstairs. I'm on fourteen.” “Yes.” “How do you know that?” “You told the concierge when you arrived.” “Of course I did.” I stood so abruptly that my knee hit the table. Adrienne reached out and steadied my water before I knocked it over. “My room is on fourteen, but I can't use this elevator.” “No.” “I have to take this one down to the lobby.” “Yes.” “Walk across the lobby.” “Yes.” “Take the regular elevator back up.” “Yes.” I stared at her. “That takes ten minutes.” “Possibly.” “And then I have to come back.” “That would be advisable.” I grabbed my notebook and tablet. “Twenty minutes.” Adrienne glanced at the screen. “Twenty-eight.” “That's worse.” “Natalie.” “What?” “You do not have to do anything elaborate.” I looked at her black dress, her immaculate hair, her perfect face, the effortless elegance of a woman who looked as though she had been preparing for this exact evening since sometime around the reign of Louis XIV. “That is very easy for you to say.” “I dressed for an interview.” “You dress for an interview like that?” “Yes.” “I hate vampires.” “No, you don't.” “I am reconsidering.” Adrienne smiled. I shoved my recorder into my bag. “I don't even have my dress.” Her expression changed slightly. “I thought you said you brought one.” “I brought one to Las Vegas. I didn't bring it to the interview. Why would I bring a dress to interview the founder of VamFem.com ?” “Because apparently some part of you hoped the founder might choose you.” I stopped. “You are enjoying this.” “A little.” “Adrienne.” “Twenty-seven minutes.” “Oh my God.” I practically ran toward the elevator. “Natalie.” I turned. Adrienne was standing exactly where I had left her, completely composed. “You don't need to impress the woman who already selected you.” That should have helped. Instead, I looked at her again and nearly lost another thirty seconds. “I'll be back.” “I know.” The elevator doors closed. 25 MINUTES The private elevator seemed to descend at approximately the speed of continental drift. I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall and immediately regretted doing so. My makeup had survived the interview, technically, but only if the standard for survival was that some of it remained attached to my face, my hair had gone flat on one side from nervous fingers repeatedly pushing it behind my ear, and there was a faint crease in my blouse where my shoulder bag had rested during the flight that afternoon. I looked like a journalist who had traveled. Adrienne looked like the reason journalism had been invented. “Twenty-five minutes,” I whispered. The elevator opened. I hurried across the lobby, dodging a family dragging three enormous suitcases, two women in sequined cocktail dresses and a man holding a frozen drink the approximate size of a fire extinguisher. The regular elevators were at the opposite end of the casino entrance. Of course they were. I pushed the button. Nothing. Pushed it again. A couple beside me looked at the illuminated button and then at me. “Yes,” I muttered. “I know.” An elevator arrived. Twenty-four people got out. Nine of us got in. We stopped at floors four, seven, eight, nine, eleven and twelve. I contemplated murder. 19 MINUTES I reached my room with nineteen minutes and twelve seconds remaining. The door did not open. I tried the key again. Red light. “No.” Again. Red. “Please.” Again. Green. I fell through the doorway. The dress was hanging in the closet. Dark blue. Simple. Elegant. The dress I had packed because there had been the vague possibility of a dinner with sources after the interview, which had been the official explanation I gave myself when I put it into the suitcase. I pulled it out. Wrinkled. Not badly. Badly enough. I checked the clock. Eighteen minutes. “Fine.” Shoes. Where were the shoes? Suitcase. Under the bed. I dragged it out, opened it, found one shoe and then somehow could not find the other one despite the fact that shoes generally traveled in pairs. “This isn't happening.” I dumped half the suitcase onto the floor. Underwear. Notebook chargers. A curling iron. Two shirts. The second shoe. I stared at it. “Shower.” Seventeen minutes. I tore off my clothes and ran into the bathroom. 14 MINUTES There are showers designed for relaxation. This was not one of them. This was a military operation conducted by a woman who had spent the previous hour perspiring gently in terror while interviewing the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. I washed my face. Washed my hair. Immediately realized washing my hair had been a catastrophic mistake. “No, no, no.” The hotel dryer. I jumped out, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around myself and attacked my hair with the dryer. Nothing. The dryer produced the approximate force and temperature of a sleepy hamster breathing. “Twelve minutes.” Makeup. Forget hair. Makeup. I opened my cosmetic bag. Primer. Foundation. Mascara. Something rolled off the counter. I bent down. Dropped the towel. Swore. Picked up the mascara. Looked in the mirror. My face was pink from the shower. My hair was dripping down my shoulders. Eleven minutes. “I can do this.” I could not do this. I applied foundation too quickly, wiped half of it off, tried again, started one eye, decided the other eye looked better without it, removed both, attempted mascara and poked myself. “Ow!” My eye watered. Mascara streaked. Ten minutes. I washed it away. That removed more foundation. “Wonderful.” The dress. Forget perfect makeup. Dress first. I ran into the bedroom, still wearing nothing but the hotel robe I had thrown on after abandoning the towel, grabbed the dress and tried to step into it. My wet leg caught the lining. I nearly fell into the chair. Nine minutes. I pulled it back off. Hair first. No. Shoes? No. Underwear. Obviously underwear. I looked around the room. My entire suitcase was now spread across the carpet as though federal agents had searched it. Eight minutes. I sat on the edge of the bed. For perhaps five seconds. Then ten. Then I looked at the timer on my phone. 7:52 I started crying. Not dramatically. Not beautifully. Just suddenly, helplessly, ridiculously crying in a hotel robe with wet hair stuck to my neck and one eye slightly red from mascara. “I can't.” The woman who had signed up for VamFem.com had imagined this moment. Of course she had. She had imagined opening a hotel-room door looking extraordinary. She had imagined a vampire waiting at a restaurant. She had imagined candlelight. She had imagined walking toward some beautiful stranger and watching recognition appear in the woman's face. She had absolutely not imagined arriving in a bathrobe looking like she had escaped a plumbing emergency. Seven minutes. I looked at the dress. Wrinkled. My hair. Wet. My face. Half finished. The shoes. One lying beside the suitcase and the other beneath the desk. There was no time. And suddenly I understood something worse. If I stayed here trying to make myself beautiful, I was going to be late. Adrienne had chosen me. Adrienne was waiting. And I was going to make her wait because I was frightened she might see what I actually looked like. I wiped my face. “Fine.” I tied the hotel robe tightly. Looked down. Bare legs. Fluffy white hotel slippers. “Oh, wonderful.” Six minutes. I grabbed my tablet. Ran for the door. The door closed behind me. I reached the elevators. Then I realized my hands were empty. No purse. No room key. No phone. I stared at the closed hotel-room door twenty feet away. Five minutes. “No.” Going back meant finding the key. The key was in the purse. The purse was inside the locked room. I actually laughed. It was not a healthy laugh. “Perfect.” The elevator arrived. I stepped inside wearing the robe. 3 MINUTES There were six people in the elevator. Every one of them looked at me. I looked straight ahead. At floor nine, a man in his twenties entered with two friends. He looked at the robe, the wet hair, the slippers and my general expression of spiritual collapse. “Whoa,” he said. “Did he throw you out?” His friends laughed. I closed my eyes. One of the women already in the elevator gave him a look. “Leave her alone.” “I was joking.” The elevator reached the lobby. I practically ran out. Behind me I heard one of the men say, “That's a rough night.” It had not even started. Two minutes. The casino floor seemed twice as long as before. People turned. A woman in a silver cocktail dress looked at me and then looked away very quickly. A man at a slot machine laughed. Someone said something I didn't hear. I no longer cared. The private elevator was ahead. One minute. I reached it. Stopped. Looked at myself in the mirrored doors. Wet hair. No makeup worth mentioning. Hotel robe. Fluffy slippers. No purse. No phone. No key. No dignity. I started crying again. “I'm not doing this.” I turned. I could go to the front desk. Explain I had locked myself out. Get another key. Go upstairs. Forget the entire thing. Maybe delete my profile. Move to another country. The elevator chimed. I froze. The doors opened. Adrienne stood inside. And somehow she was even more beautiful than she had been during the interview. She had changed. Of course she had changed. The black interview dress was gone, replaced by a deep burgundy evening gown that followed the elegant line of her body, her dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders, subtle diamonds at her ears, heels beneath the hem, every detail immaculate without looking as though she had made any effort at all. For several seconds neither of us moved. Adrienne looked at me. At the wet hair. At the robe. At the slippers. At my empty hands. Her expression did not change. She simply extended one hand. “Good evening, Natalie.” I wanted the floor to open. “I can't.” “You're here.” “Look at me.” “I am.” “I look insane.” “No.” “I am wearing the hotel's bathrobe.” “I noticed.” “My hair is wet.” “Yes.” “I have no makeup.” “You have some.” “Not helping.” Her mouth moved slightly. “Sorry.” “I locked myself out of my room.” “That explains the lack of handbag.” “I forgot everything.” “You remembered yourself.” That did it. My face crumpled. “I wanted this to be perfect.” Adrienne stepped out of the elevator. “I know.” “I wanted you to see me and think you'd made the right choice.” “I already made the choice.” “No, you don't understand.” “I think I do.” “I wanted to look beautiful.” Adrienne opened her arms. That was all. No speech. No clever line. No joke about the robe. She simply opened her arms. I hesitated for perhaps half a second and then walked into them. It was not graceful. I practically collapsed against her. Adrienne wrapped both arms around me as I buried my face against the shoulder of an evening gown that probably cost more than my car. “I'm sorry.” “For what?” “This.” “What is this?” “I don't know.” I held her tighter. She held me tighter in return. Behind us the elevator doors remained open. Then Adrienne reached one hand toward the panel without releasing me. The doors closed. 8:02 PM “You're two minutes late,” Adrienne said. I lifted my head. My face was probably blotchy. “You're joking.” “Yes.” I laughed against her shoulder. “That's cruel.” “You needed to laugh.” “I look terrible.” “No.” “Please stop saying that.” “Then stop saying something untrue.” I looked at her. That was still difficult. “Why aren't you disappointed?” “Natalie, I watched you interview me for an hour.” “That was different.” “You were nervous, fascinated, skeptical, argumentative, funny, occasionally incoherent and at least six times forgot what you were saying while looking directly at me.” “Seven.” Adrienne smiled. “So you noticed.” “Unfortunately.” The elevator began to rise. I suddenly became aware that I was still holding her. I loosened my arms. Adrienne did not. “You can let go.” “I can.” She didn't. My heart performed something medically concerning. When the elevator opened, the lounge had changed. The interview table was gone. Or perhaps it had been moved. A smaller table now stood beside the windows, set for two with candles, flowers, crystal glasses and covered dishes, the city glowing far below. I stopped. “Oh.” Adrienne stepped beside me. “This is what I was trying to prepare for.” “No.” “Yes.” “You were trying to prepare yourself to be worthy of this.” I looked at her. “That sounds awful when you say it.” “Because it is unnecessary.” I looked down at my robe. “This is still ridiculous.” “Then we will make it less ridiculous.” Adrienne glanced down at my fluffy white hotel slippers. “I suppose these aren't what you had planned either.” “I had heels.” “Had?” “One was under the desk. The other was somewhere near the bathroom when I abandoned civilization.” Adrienne smiled. “Then I'm very glad you chose punctuality over footwear.” I looked down at myself. “You are taking this disturbingly well.” “Natalie, I chose you before the robe.” She paused. “The robe is merely a bonus.” Dinner saved me. That sounds strange considering I attended it in a hotel bathrobe with damp hair, but something about the sheer impossibility of recovering the elegant evening I had imagined finally made me stop trying. Adrienne did not care. Not visibly. Not secretly. Not in the way women sometimes insist they do not care while clearly cataloguing every flaw. She poured wine. She asked about my work. She listened. Really listened. And gradually the interviewer's instinct returned, except this time I was no longer interviewing her. I was talking. That was worse. “I hate my job.” Adrienne looked up. “You told me you loved journalism.” “I love journalism.” “Those are different statements.” “Yes.” I stared into my glass. “My editor is destroying it.” “How?” I hesitated. Adrienne waited. “He wants me to sleep with him.” Her expression became completely still. There was something far more frightening about Adrienne becoming still than angry. I continued quickly. “He hasn't said it exactly like that.” “What has he said?” “That promotions depend on trust.” Adrienne said nothing. “That I should stop being difficult.” Still nothing. “That I would be surprised how much easier my career could become if I were more cooperative.” “Natalie.” “And last week he told me there's an opening for senior features editor.” “The promotion you want.” “Yes.” “And?” I stared into my glass. “He told me that when I got back from Las Vegas, we should have a private dinner and discuss whether I was really serious about wanting the job.” Adrienne's eyes narrowed slightly. “A private dinner.” “His words.” “And you understood what he meant.” “Completely.” Adrienne placed her fork down. “What did you tell him?” “No.” “Good.” “He said there are other women who want the job.” “Meaning?” I laughed bitterly. “Meaning one of them might be more cooperative than I am.” Adrienne's face changed then, only slightly, but enough that I suddenly understood why people were afraid of vampires. “Did he put any of this in writing?” I looked at her. “Some of it.” “Keep everything.” “My current life is not exactly the glamorous thing Vampire Dating Magazine would have written for me.” “What else?” I looked at her. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” “My apartment lease is up next month.” “Continue.” “My mother thinks I'm wasting my life.” “Continue.” “I haven't had a real relationship in two years.” “Continue.” “I am thirty-one years old and somehow every decision I make feels temporary.” Adrienne said nothing. “And yesterday I cried in a taxi because the driver asked if I was visiting Las Vegas for fun.” That earned the smallest smile. “It wasn't funny.” “It is a little funny.” “I hate you again.” “No, you don't.” “No.” I looked around the table. “No, I really don't.” For a while we simply ate. And slowly, incredibly, the disaster stopped feeling like a disaster. The robe became funny. The slippers became funny. The wet hair dried. The nervousness remained, but it changed. It became anticipation. After dinner Adrienne stood and extended her hand. I looked at it. “What?” “Come with me.” My stomach tightened. “Where?” She glanced toward the hallway. I knew. “Oh.” “You can say no.” “I know.” “You can say not yet.” “I know.” “You can go downstairs.” “I don't have a room key.” Adrienne laughed. “Then I suppose we would have to solve that first.” I placed my hand in hers. “No.” “No?” “I mean—no, I don't want to go downstairs.” Her fingers closed around mine. We walked down the hallway. At the bedroom door I stopped. Adrienne turned. For perhaps ten seconds neither of us spoke. Then I whispered, “I'm scared.” “Of me?” “No.” “Of what?” I looked at her. “That Vampire Dating Magazine might not have exaggerated.” Adrienne smiled. She opened the door. I stepped inside. The last words heard from the hallway before the door closed were mine. “Oh my God.” Then, a moment later— “You are—” Adrienne laughed softly. “Still interviewing me?” “No.” A pause. “Good.” Another pause, quieter this time. “Then perhaps it is time to lose the robe.” I made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Adrienne.” “What?” “You cannot just say things like that.” “I believe I just did.” The door closed. THE MORNING AFTER I woke slowly, warm beneath unfamiliar sheets, with sunlight pressing softly through the curtains and a peculiar ache in my body that made me smile before I was fully awake. Then I remembered where I was. And who was beside me. And several other things. “Oh my God.” Adrienne stirred beside me. “Again?” I covered my face. “Please don't talk yet.” “That sounds ominous.” “It isn't ominous.” “Embarrassing?” “Yes.” “Interesting.” “No.” I peeked at her through my fingers. She was watching me with the faintest smile. That made everything come back faster. The robe slipping from my shoulders. Adrienne's hands settling at my waist. The way she had looked at me afterward, slowly and without embarrassment, as though nothing about me had disappointed her. The first kiss after the bedroom door closed. Then another. Then the moment I had laughed nervously and whispered that Vampire Dating Magazine had failed to mention how difficult it was to think properly when a vampire stood that close. Adrienne had answered something. I remembered that too. Then stop trying. My face burned. “Oh no.” Adrienne's smile widened. “What did you remember?” “Nothing.” “That is obviously untrue.” I rolled onto my side and pulled the sheet higher. “That is private.” “I was there.” “That makes it worse.” Another memory arrived. Me gripping her shoulders and saying her name far too loudly. Me telling her, at some point, that I had never understood how anyone could lose an entire evening to another person. Me understanding it approximately thirty seconds later. I buried my face in the pillow. Adrienne laughed. “Now what?” “I remembered something else.” “Would you like to share?” “Absolutely not.” She moved closer. “Was it the part where you said you would never make fun of Vampire Dating Magazine again?” I groaned into the pillow. “You heard that?” “You said it directly into my ear.” I turned scarlet. “I hate you.” “No, you don't.” “No.” I looked at her. Her hair was loose, her face softer in the morning light, and somehow the absence of the perfect dress and diamonds made her even more beautiful. “No,” I admitted, quieter now. “I really don't.” Adrienne brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “How do you feel?” I thought about it. My body ached pleasantly. My mind was still trying to assemble the previous night in the correct order. And beneath all of that was a calmness I had not felt in months. “I have never felt better.” Adrienne smiled. I stared at the ceiling. “That is incredibly irritating.” “Why?” “Because now I have to admit those women weren't lying.” “Some were probably exaggerating.” “Not enough.” I rolled toward her. Then reality arrived. Work. My editor. The article. The flight home. The meeting waiting for me when I got back. My missing phone. My locked hotel room. “Oh no.” Adrienne watched me. “What?” “I have to call my editor.” “No, you don't.” “I have to call my editor at nine-thirty.” “No, you don't.” I sat up. “Adrienne, I really do.” “You don't.” “My editor will fire me.” “No.” “You don't know him.” “I know enough.” I looked at her. There was something in her expression. “What did you do?” “I made several telephone calls.” I stared. “Adrienne.” “Your editor is no longer employed.” I blinked. “What?” “He resigned early this morning.” “He resigned?” “Yes.” “At seven in the morning?” “Approximately.” “Why?” Adrienne reached toward the bedside table and handed me my phone. “My phone.” “Your hotel opened your room for my assistant.” “You have an assistant?” “Several.” I unlocked the screen. Thirty-two notifications. Messages. Emails. Three missed calls. And at the top was an email from the publisher. I opened it. Read the first paragraph. Stopped. Read it again. Then looked at Adrienne. “No.” She smiled. I looked back at the email. The senior features editor position was open. My editor had resigned effective immediately following what the publisher described as serious concerns regarding professional conduct . Several employees had apparently come forward. And then came the final paragraph. The publisher wanted to speak with me about taking the position on an interim basis, effective immediately, with formal review for permanent promotion. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Adrienne waited. “You did this.” “I did not make him behave that way.” “You know what I mean.” “Yes.” “How?” “You told me what happened.” “That was private.” “And I asked whether there was evidence.” I remembered. Late dinner. My phone. The messages I had shown her. The ones I had kept because some instinct told me never to delete them. “You sent them?” “Not without permission.” I remembered something else. A question. Adrienne asking quietly, Would you like somebody to make this stop? Me saying yes. I had thought she meant comfort. Apparently vampires interpreted consent rather efficiently. “The other women?” “Once your publisher started asking questions, they spoke for themselves.” I stared at the email again. “He's really gone.” “Yes.” “And they want me for the promotion.” “Yes.” I looked at Adrienne. “My life changed overnight.” A slow smile appeared on her face. I groaned and fell backward into the pillows. “Don't you dare.” “I haven't said anything.” “You're thinking it.” “Possibly.” “One night with a vampire cannot possibly be life-changing.” Adrienne leaned over me. “Those were your words.” “I withdraw them.” “Professionally?” “Completely.” She kissed my forehead. I looked at the email once more, then at the beautiful vampire beside me, then toward the burgundy dress lying somewhere beyond the bedroom door and finally down at myself. A thought occurred to me. “My article.” “What about it?” “I can't publish the interview the way I planned.” “Why not?” “Because now I'm in it.” “You were always in it.” “No, I mean really in it.” Adrienne smiled. “Then write what happened.” “All of it?” “That decision belongs to you.” I thought about the women reading Vampire Dating Magazine. The women staring at their profiles at two in the morning. The women changing photographs and pretending they did not care. The women wondering whether anyone was watching. The women convinced that the stories had to be exaggerated. And the woman who had entered a private elevator in a hotel bathrobe because she had finally run out of time to pretend she wasn't one of them. I started laughing. Adrienne looked at me. “What?” “I know the title.” “Oh?” I reached for my phone. “ I Interviewed the Founder of VamFem.com . Then She Chose Me. ” Adrienne considered it. “A little sensational.” I stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me.” She laughed. And I finally understood why women kept signing up.