course.”
I received a FedEx the next day at the office marked OVERNIGHT DELIVERY / PERSONAL . I opened it to find a color printout of Beyoncé with three Benjamin Moore paint swatches clipped to it. Madison’s note:
Three copies of Benjamin Moore Greenfield Pumpkin, HC-40—I mean, Beyoncé. A swatch for your desk. A swatch to tape to the coffee machine. And the last for Sally, for when she tells you that you’ve given her Eva Longoria.
I tucked the swatches into my desk and smiled at my best friend’s generosity, laughing more at the ever apropos Beyoncé lyrics now in my head: Smack that, clap, clap, clap, like you don’t care. (I know you care.)
Date night with David quickly approached and Carly offered to do my makeup for the big night out. I wore a blue cotton dress with thin gold pinstripes and a belt, and she had planned on doing something fun with my eyes.
“Can you please not do the same eyes as you do on your dead clients?” I asked as she waved her mascara wand. It still freaked me out that Carly practiced her skills on the dearly departed, but I understood her need to make more money, since the girls hadn’t received a raise or bonus in three years.
“My favorite corpse look is with Strawberry blush and Lipstick Sixty-Four. Such a great color,” she whispered so the clients in the studio wouldn’t hear.
“Does Sally know that you use her makeup at your other job? Actually, does Sally even know that you have another job?”
“Absolutely not,” Carly shot back with a concerned look in her eyes. “You won’t tell her, right?”
“Of course I won’t! I just think it’s hilarious.”
The thought of having multiple jobs again made me shudder.
But I did wonder what Sally’s reaction would be if she knew how many different types of people were wearing her makeup. Not tested on animals—just dead people.
Feeling sparkly eyed and taller than my five foot two with my shoulders effortlessly lifted, I knew I projected confidence when I left work and walked over to the Polo Bar to meet David. He was waiting outside when I arrived and was taller and better looking than in his photos. Way to go, Ira: lower the expectations so they can be exceeded.
He greeted me warmly but told me there was a glitch in his plan. The Polo Bar was so new, it hadn’t yet opened, which he hadn’t realized. I could hear Keira’s voice in my head:
“Did he really think you’d be able to walk in on a whim to the newest, hottest place in town?”
“Not a problem,” I assured him, ignoring my alter ego. “We can always find another place around here.”
After learning about each other’s food likes and dislikes—David not liking Indian or Thai and me being open to pretty much anything—David recommended that we head to one of his family’s favorite sushi joints, only a few blocks away.
“Hey, let me switch places with you so your shoes don’t get caught in the grate,” he offered as we reached Sixth Avenue.
“A gentleman,” I said.
“But of course. It’s how I was raised.”
I smiled.
“And do you know who should go first through a revolving door?” he asked.
I indulged him. “Who?”
“I should, so that you don’t have to do the pushing.”
The hostess walked us to our table when we arrived at the restaurant (not through a revolving door), and as I put my things down on the chair next to me, I noticed that David was no longer behind me. He was talking with an older couple at the front of the restaurant.
I wasn’t sure whether I should wait at our table or walk over to him, but he caught my eye and motioned for me to join him.
“Alison, meet Jane and John Morgan, my parents.”
Was this a joke Keira had set up?
Or did David know that his parents were at this restaurant when he suggested it? I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ira, Keira, and Patti jumped out from behind the sushi bar, throwing edamame in the air like confetti and yelling, “Surprise!”
“It’s so nice to meet
I received a FedEx the next day at the office marked OVERNIGHT DELIVERY / PERSONAL . I opened it to find a color printout of Beyoncé with three Benjamin Moore paint swatches clipped to it. Madison’s note:
Three copies of Benjamin Moore Greenfield Pumpkin, HC-40—I mean, Beyoncé. A swatch for your desk. A swatch to tape to the coffee machine. And the last for Sally, for when she tells you that you’ve given her Eva Longoria.
I tucked the swatches into my desk and smiled at my best friend’s generosity, laughing more at the ever apropos Beyoncé lyrics now in my head: Smack that, clap, clap, clap, like you don’t care. (I know you care.)
Date night with David quickly approached and Carly offered to do my makeup for the big night out. I wore a blue cotton dress with thin gold pinstripes and a belt, and she had planned on doing something fun with my eyes.
“Can you please not do the same eyes as you do on your dead clients?” I asked as she waved her mascara wand. It still freaked me out that Carly practiced her skills on the dearly departed, but I understood her need to make more money, since the girls hadn’t received a raise or bonus in three years.
“My favorite corpse look is with Strawberry blush and Lipstick Sixty-Four. Such a great color,” she whispered so the clients in the studio wouldn’t hear.
“Does Sally know that you use her makeup at your other job? Actually, does Sally even know that you have another job?”
“Absolutely not,” Carly shot back with a concerned look in her eyes. “You won’t tell her, right?”
“Of course I won’t! I just think it’s hilarious.”
The thought of having multiple jobs again made me shudder.
But I did wonder what Sally’s reaction would be if she knew how many different types of people were wearing her makeup. Not tested on animals—just dead people.
Feeling sparkly eyed and taller than my five foot two with my shoulders effortlessly lifted, I knew I projected confidence when I left work and walked over to the Polo Bar to meet David. He was waiting outside when I arrived and was taller and better looking than in his photos. Way to go, Ira: lower the expectations so they can be exceeded.
He greeted me warmly but told me there was a glitch in his plan. The Polo Bar was so new, it hadn’t yet opened, which he hadn’t realized. I could hear Keira’s voice in my head:
“Did he really think you’d be able to walk in on a whim to the newest, hottest place in town?”
“Not a problem,” I assured him, ignoring my alter ego. “We can always find another place around here.”
After learning about each other’s food likes and dislikes—David not liking Indian or Thai and me being open to pretty much anything—David recommended that we head to one of his family’s favorite sushi joints, only a few blocks away.
“Hey, let me switch places with you so your shoes don’t get caught in the grate,” he offered as we reached Sixth Avenue.
“A gentleman,” I said.
“But of course. It’s how I was raised.”
I smiled.
“And do you know who should go first through a revolving door?” he asked.
I indulged him. “Who?”
“I should, so that you don’t have to do the pushing.”
The hostess walked us to our table when we arrived at the restaurant (not through a revolving door), and as I put my things down on the chair next to me, I noticed that David was no longer behind me. He was talking with an older couple at the front of the restaurant.
I wasn’t sure whether I should wait at our table or walk over to him, but he caught my eye and motioned for me to join him.
“Alison, meet Jane and John Morgan, my parents.”
Was this a joke Keira had set up?
Or did David know that his parents were at this restaurant when he suggested it? I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ira, Keira, and Patti jumped out from behind the sushi bar, throwing edamame in the air like confetti and yelling, “Surprise!”
“It’s so nice to meet
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