Chapter 16

The car arrives bright and early next morning, a black four by four, a typical Carrero choice, and the driver is dressed in a black suit similar to the security man who had been in Jake’s office. Their appearance makes me roll my eyes; the guy just loves all things black. I have since learned the guard that day was Arrick Carrero’s personal bodyguard; Jake doesn’t seem to require such things apparently.

I’m dressed in cream slacks and a dusky pink, silk blouse, presents from my mother for my birthday next week; she mailed them early to be sure I got them. I don’t celebrate my birthday, and Sarah knows not to even mention it when it comes around, so I was surprised by my mother’s gifts as she doesn’t normally bother, but for some reason, she did this time. I felt too guilty not to wear them.

They’re not as crisp and tailored as my usual attire but still passable, and I feel obliged to put them on at least once as I know how expensive they must have been. I hate that she felt the need to buy me things like this. Motherly guilt of some sort, no doubt. It’s her style, not mine, but she has tried.

My mother is an eternal hippy; romantic frivolity is more her forte and part of her appeal to men. Even in her forties, she’s still attractive and men find her desirable, although the less I think about my mother’s taste in men the better. I shake away that memory, pushing down the revulsion in my stomach.

The car drops me at the now familiar office building. The day is gray and wet this morning, and there’s a cold nippiness to the air. New York is coming up for a season change.

I run through the necessary security passes before I’m on the sixty-fifth floor; the building is eerily quiet due to the early hour. Shivering, I pull my wool coat further around my shoulders to try to warm up even though the building has state-of-the-art temperature control.

Margo greets me at the office door along with a blonde woman clad in expensive clothes and an air of seductiveness. Tall, graceful, and dressed all in red, Margo introduces her as Donna Moore, the personal shopper, and informs me I’m to be measured. Mr. Carrero insists that his closest staff receive this perk as his public image often sees him on red carpets and at the center of media interest. He expects anyone who might accompany him to be appropriately dressed, always.

His father cashed in on his son’s natural sex appeal from an early age using him as the front man for their range of high-end grooming products and aftershaves, which means a never-ending media interest. The boy is basically a super model for his own company. Still New York’s poster boy even now, he can’t seem to move without a camera flash or adoring fan appearing from nowhere.

I stand on a stool feeling hugely uncomfortable at her invasive measuring as she flits around me with a tape and questions me on things I wear, colors I like, and such. She pulls out her cell and snaps a few pictures of me from all angles. Unhappy with the images, she fusses at me to untie my hair. I hold my impatience and irritation in check and follow her instructions. I’ll never get it back in its sleek style without a lot of effort.

There goes another day of enduring it around my face and having everyone croon about it. Just great!

“For my file, darling, so I remember your beautiful coloring and bone structure, and how you look with your masses of soft hair.” She smiles at me, eyes dazzling like a kid at Christmas. I’ve no idea why that’s a necessity at all.

“I love your hair down,” Margo chimes in with a soft tone, eyeing me over with a smile. “It makes a world of difference, Emma, really. It softens your whole face.” She regards me with a warm expression and keen eye which adds another layer of ‘uncomfortable’ to my mood.

“You don’t think it’s unprofessional?” I question, smarting. I want them both to back off and stop scrutinizing me; it’s making me nervy.

“Nowhere in the office uniform manual does it say ‘have your hair tied up like a school mistress’,” Margo replies. The two women giggle rather surprisingly, killing the whole aura of mature professionals. “We work in a very high-profile business that requires a certain attention to image,” she continues. The heat in my cheeks rises with irritation at the giggling and the fuss over my hair.

“Emma, darling, do you realize how gorgeous those waves are? You’ve such a lovely color of hair, like pale autumn leaves,” Donna chirps over-enthusiastically.

I lock eyes on her blankly, trying not to dredge up images of moldy, sodden, black and brown splodged leaves on the New York sidewalks last fall, also ignoring how uncomfortable I am with looking ‘softer’.

“She’s right, Emma. I think you look so much more natural and pretty like this. I think Jake agreed yesterday,” Margo says with a twinkle in her eye and a hint of a mischievous smile lurking.

“Did he now?” I scowl, sarcasm light, meeting with amused looks as I ignore the warm sensation deep in the pit of my stomach.

“Oh, I adore your pout! You’re adorable,” Donna gushes, and I sigh, realizing arguing is a lost cause. Donna is grinning at me in a mother hen kind of a way, and I notice the lines around her eyes that give away a hint to her age.

Margo just encourages her. “Emma, I merely meant that you do look a little severe and uptight when your hair is back. I know that’s ironic considering how I wear my hair, but you’re young and pretty. You’ve a natural beauty that you shouldn’t hide. It doesn’t make you look incapable.” She’s gushing all over me.

“I look like a child like this,” I say. My temper is fraying as I’m only too aware of how young having my hair loose makes me look.

“Well, doing that, you do!” Margo flicks a lock of hair from my fingers, and I realize I’ve been tugging at it under the scrutiny of two overbearing women. I flush, annoyed and slightly embarrassed at being caught unawares.

Crap. Anxiety! It’s them, making me feel pressured, putting me on a stand and fluffing around me, knocking me off kilter.