“Yes,” I reply as I run toward my bedroom. “Can you grab me my concealer and lipstick? They’re in my purse.”
“Got it!” he calls after me.
Unlike most guys, Hugo knows what they are, having spent a lot of time with me while we were growing up. He often came by to get help with the English assignments my dad, who is a high school English teacher, gave him. Afterward, he’d hang out and see me play with makeup. In retrospect, he’s actually been a pretty accommodating cousin. None of my brothers wanted to be near me when I did gir
ly stuff.
I pull out all the curlers and finger-comb my hair. It looks good enough, bouncy and full around my head. After swiping my face with rosewater toner to get rid of excess oil, I apply some fast makeup.
Hugo comes over and places the concealer and lipstick on my vanity.
I flash him a smile. “Thanks.”
He says, “You’re welcome,” but seems distracted, kind of staring at the vanity. Maybe it’s my brushes. I bought seven more last time I went shopping. Maybe he’s wondering if he should get some for Samantha. A woman can never have enough makeup brushes.
“Sorry I can’t spend more time with you,” I say, dusting my cheeks with blush.
“No problemo. I understand.”
I give him a grateful smile. “Thanks. Next time, I’ll treat you to something nice.”
“It’s fine.”
“I insist.” I swivel around and bump into him. I look up. Is he going to leave, or…? “Is there something?” Maybe he really does want to buy brushes for Samantha and needs some help.
His face turns red. “No. Uh… Nothing. I…” He clears his throat.
I smirk. “What, did you grab a tampon in my purse before finding the concealer and lipstick?” He can get so uncomfortable about certain female products.
“No! That’s not… Anyway.” He clears his throat again. “I gotta go.”
“Okay. Bye!”
He shows himself out, and I change into a blue Dior dress and matching Gucci pumps. I drop the lipstick and concealer back into my Chanel bag, hoist it over my shoulder and leave.
For once, Sonia is early and waiting inside the Starbucks. She has a huge iced coffee…maybe a latte. This is her favorite place because it’s relatively uncrowded, so she can enjoy her java in peace. Her bleached hair is curled and loose around her plastic-surgery-sculpted face and she’s wearing a pair of giant sunglasses. She’s convinced people will recognize her otherwise and harass her. And by “people,” she means the inconsequential type who can’t give her the break she deserves. I do my best to resist the urge to point out that nobody cares enough to bother her. This is Hollywood. She just isn’t famous or important enough.
At least the pale peach Givenchy I picked out for her makes her look good, like she’s a normal human being and not a filler-stuffed snob. Man, I’m good at my job.
“Thank God you’re here,” she says. “You have to save me. I’m serious.”
“Okay, calm down. There’s still time before the gala,” I say, sitting down across from her. I don’t bother to get a drink. My job is to soothe her. I’ll drop a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar on my way out to make up for not ordering anything.
“Right,” Sonia says, staring over my shoulder with anxiety.
Is there a movie director behind me? A casting agent? Someone who will never hire her if she wears the same dress twice?
Not my circus, not my monkeys, I think with a mental shrug. My problem is her ruined dress.
“Your shoes are okay, right? Poochie didn’t try to eat them?” Poochie hasn’t been broken of that habit despite the fact that he’s two.
“No,” she says with a heaving sigh. “He’s a perfect dog.”
I nod because she’s right. It isn’t the dog’s fault that she left red wine near the dress. And it certainly isn’t his fault that his owner refused to train him any better.
“Jo.”
I tense at the smarmily smug voice coming from behind me. Shit. Aaron.