11
The car arrives bright, and early the following day, 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 loves all things black. I have since learned the guard that day was Arrick Carrero’s bodyguard; apparently, Jake doesn’t seem to require such things.
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 ensure I got them. I don’t celebrate my birthday, and Sarah knows not even to mention it when it comes around, so I was surprised by my mother’s gifts as she doesn’t usually 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 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 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 frontman for their high-end grooming products and aftershaves, which means a never-ending media interest. The boy is basically a supermodel 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, adding 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 schoolmistress,’” Margo replies. The two women giggle somewhat surprisingly, killing the whole aura of mature professionals. “We work in a very high-profile business that requires 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, soggy, 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 way, and I notice the lines around her eyes hint at her age.
Margo encourages her. She’s gushing all over me.
“Emma, I merely meant that you 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 have a natural beauty that you shouldn’t hide. It doesn’t make you look incapable.”
“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.
Taking my hair down is like undressing me.
“Yeah, just don’t do the hair twirling and lip pouting,” Donna agrees, nodding and studying me with a finger on her chin. “You’re a woman-child; it’s surprising.” She laughs genuinely, but it only chafes at my already frayed temper.
I don’t need the hair twirling pointed out. Thanks very much. I know how bloody stupid it is!
Inside the depths of my head, teen Emma scurries to hide from my glaring wrath.
“Oh, to be that young and beautiful again!” Donna sighs, but Margo throws her a shocked look exclaiming that she’s gorgeous, and they go off on a tangent about how fabulous each other is. It’s like I’m in The Twilight Zone. I find it tiresome.
“Okay, I’ll start on your wardrobe, darling. Margo has given me a list of the events you need to attend and some work basics. I’ll be back by the end of the day.” She waves her hands in excitement.
“We shall trust your judgment, Donna,” Margo gushes, and we watch as she sweeps out in a flurry of red chiffon and a clip-clop of heels, the cyclone that is Donna Moore. The energy in the room calms, and I almost sag with relief.
“Is this necessary?” I get off the stool, relieved at being released after feeling like a full-size Barbie doll.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Jake’s image is important; the Carrero name evokes luxury and wealth. If you attend events with him, you need to represent the same image, my dear.” She smiles at me with a note of sympathy. “Jake knows asking his staff to spend thousands of their hard-earned pay on an image is ridiculous, so just enjoy the perk.” She tries to appease my doubts as I try to calm my internal bristle and the urge to refuse.
“I don’t like other people choosing what I wear.” I like to be in control of every detail of my life. It’s how I function, how I keep calm.
“Hush now. Donna is the one who helped me discover my inner goddess and made me look like this.” Margo twirls like a teenage girl. Today she’s wearing a fitted black suit with a molded, knee-length skirt, a low-buttoned jacket over a silky, silver camisole top, and high black stilettos. Her blonde hair is in a flawless French twist. She looks amazing.
“Really?” I am slightly appeased. She’s the picture of sophistication and control that I aspire to achieve; maybe Donna won’t be so bad after all.
“Oh yes. I was hopeless with my style when I started here. Fifteen years on, and here I am.” She beams at me.
“Fifteen years?” The shock is evident in my tone. That would mean she worked here before Jake was old enough to help run the empire. He would have been thirteen!
“Yes, I used to be Carrero Senior’s assistant.” She’s now straightening up the papers on my desk left askew by Donna.
“What’s he like?” I’ve always been intrigued by the older man and meeting him last year quelled none of the interest. He seemed to be a force to be reckoned with, terrifying and cold.
“Like someone, you never want to meet willingly,” says a deep, familiar, smooth voice, unexpected and close. I jump and spin around to see Jake casually striding in the door. The flutters in my stomach come back in full force, reminding me I’m still standing in the middle of the room. I move to my desk and sit down, nerves instantly returning.
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