Adulation (8 page)

I moaned. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice weak and scratchy.

He waved his hand as if to bat away my apology. “I’ll send Marcus over later with his kick-asshome remedy. One dose and not only will you be comatose for ten hours, but you’ll also wake up the nextday ready to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

Georgie wasn’t kidding. Not only was I able to return to work the next day, but I also caught up on theprevious day’s work, plus prepared the agenda for the team that would take my place for Friday (as partof my birthday surprise, Georgie had already prearranged the schedule with Angela so we’d both have Friday off).

We worked until five o’clock on Thursday, picked up Theo on the way to the Long Island Rail Road station in Huntington during rush hour, and arrived in Manhattan before eight o’clock. While mostcommuters passed the time either antisocially entranced in their electronic gadgetry or sleeping, the threeof us chattered nonstop. I hadn’t been to the city in almost a year and was giddy with anticipation.

Georgie, who was sure that the Mayan prophecy was correct and we were all going to eat it in 2012, had no qualms about maxing out his credit card for the ritzy Dream Hotel in Midtown, and as soonas we checked in and dropped our luggage, we immediately went out to eat. Despite Manhattan being thecity that never sleeps, we decided to make it an early night. Even though Marcus’s secret herbal remedyhad cured us, Theo insisted that the two sickies share one of the beds in our double room to save herimmune system, and we acquiesced with no complaints.

I woke up wide-eyed at six o’clock the next morning, knowing all too well that this was the day I

was going to get a glimpse of Danny Masters in the flesh. It was one thing to see him on TV talking to Diane Sawyer or Charlie Rose; it was something else to see him in three-dimensional form, breathing the same air. A reminder  that he was as human as the rest of us. Would he be able to see me in the audience?

Would he know I was there? Would he care?

No, I decided. No, he would not. But I wanted to look good for him anyway.

After breakfast we all went to our salon appointments at the hotel spa, Theo and Georgie alreadydressed to kill. Theo especially was runway ready, sporting a baby pink V-neck cashmere sweater, blackleggings, and boots that only accentuated her tall, sleek frame. Her mane of jet-black corkscrew tendrilsfell flawlessly just below her shoulders (enhancing her violet eyes). It wasn’t that Theo was drop-deadgorgeous by media standards; it’s that she knew how to dress as if she were. But Theo could wear amuumuu and I’d think she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her laugh and disposition made herso. I’ve often thought Sunny would’ve been a more suitable name for her than for me.

“Wow. I didn’t know there was a dress code for makeovers,” I said.

They exchanged glances. “So do you think now’s a good time to tell her?” said Georgie to Theo.

“Tell me what?”

Theo wore a guilty expression. “We only booked an appointment for you.”

I was slow on the uptake. “Why?”

“Because we don’t need makeovers; you do,” said Georgie, and before I could verbally expressmy hurt, he gently touched my arm. “Look, Sunrise. You know we love you to pieces, and we weren’tdoing it to be mean. But you pretty much said so yourself the other night  that you’re in a rut, and this is thefirst step to get you out of it.”

“We’ll be with you the whole time,” said Theo, as if I were a child at a dentist’s appointment.

“That’ll be fun,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Georgie. “I think it’s going to be tons of fun.”

His words weren’t completely out of his mouth when I was introduced to Luciano, the stylistassigned to me. He greeted me with a kiss on each cheek, as if we were old friends meeting for ourweekly lunch. His complexion was dark and velvety, and he wore his hair in a short style of thin, tightdreadlocks. One could see that underneath the tight, black T-shirt were quarter-bouncing abs—in fact, hecould easily quit his job in favor of a modeling gig.

“Call me Luc,” he said, and started running his fingers through my hair after I removed my ponytailand released my hair in a couple of quick shakes. “Spectacular. I’ve got clients that would make dealswith the devil for hair like yours.” His voice was bold and bassy, with a mix of dialects.

“Thanks,” I said, not expecting the compliment.

“It’s perfect. I mean,
 
perfect
. Not too thick, not too thin. Not too straight, not too stringy. Could bea little more hydrated, but we’ll fix that with product. What do you use at home?”

“Just shampoo and conditioner,” I said, embarrassed to reveal the brand name.

“She buys
 
over the counter
,” Georgie tattled, saying the last part just above a whisper and holdinga hand up  against his mouth to block others from reading his lips. Both he and Theo had followed us to Luc’s station rather than wait in reception. They weren’t kidding when they said they’d be with me thewhole time.

Luc made a face. “Seriously?” I tried to smile apologetically at him in the mirror. “Well. Thatends now. And we have
 
got
 
to cover all this gray,” he said before adding, “and
 
what
 
is with the

ponytail?”

“I work in a stockroom.”

Luc opened his mouth in exaggerated shock. “
 
What?
 
A hot chick like you?”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the women who sit in your chair.”

“Beautiful, if you saw some of the women who sat in my chair, you’d call me the Miracle Worker.

You
 
are not an ugly woman. You’ve just got a style that is doing nothing for you. It matches your job, notyour personality.”

“
Thank you
 
!” Georgie said emphatically, sitting in the stylist’s chair next to me and throwing uphis hands. “I’ve been telling her that for God knows how long.” I shot him a look; he was so loving this. So was Theo, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“So what brings you here today?” asked Luc.

“Well, I just turned forty, and I’m treating myself to a new look.”

“Good for you.”

“Plus we’re going to the premiere of
Exposed
 
tonight, and the cast is going to be there, along with Paul Wolf and Danny Masters,” added Theo.

“Paul Wolf I’ve heard of, but who’s Danny Masters?”

Once again the thought of a mere glimpse of Danny Masters made my spine tingle. “He wrote thescreenplay,” I said. “He also wrote
 
Winters in Hyannis
, the TV show,” I tacked on.

Luc seemed unimpressed, and I doubted whether he’d even heard of
 
Winters in Hyannis
 
, muchless seen it. Rather than recite the entire Danny Masters catalogue, as I would normally do, I offered adifferent piece of information.

“Shane Sands will also be there,” I said.

He perked up. “Well then, we’ve got to get you gorgeous for Shane tonight. What are youwearing?”

Before I could tell him about the Stella McCartney sweater Georgie, Marcus, and Theo bought me,they described it on my behalf. “We’re going shopping for the rest after this,” said Theo.

“Make sure you accessorize properly,” said Luc. “Sex is in the details. Now,” he said, running hisfingers through my hair yet again. “Let’s get to work. Do you trust me?”

I took a deep breath. “Go for it.”

Luc met my eyes in the mirror solemnly. “Good. ’Cause if you don’t trust me, there’s no point inmoving forward.”

Luc disappeared behind a wall and emerged ten minutes later carrying two small plastic mixingbowls, each holding a long-stemmed flat brush and full of goop, and a box of foil sheets. He divided myhair into sections with the end of a tail comb and clipped each off to the side. He then began partitioningthe top section into finely threaded slices with the stick end of the brush, and methodically laid each on asheet of foil, slathering it with the goop-saturated brush before folding the foil over it. The ritualcontinued with the other sections. When he finished, my head was covered with shingles of foils, and thatwas only the first step. All the while he grilled me with questions.

“So where do you live?” he asked.

“Out on the Island. Huntington Village.”

“You married? Divorced? Dating?”

I decided to keep my answers curt: “No to the first, yes to the second, and no to the third.”

“How long you been divorced?”

I counted backward in my head. “Seven years.” Luc whistled, the kind you do when someone hasjust told you something shocking or impressive, like “Americans consume one-point-two billion poundsof potato chips each year.” Something about that whistle unnerved me. Did it signify disbelief? That sevenyears was a long time to be divorced? That I was pathetic? Did he somehow know that I could count onone hand how many dates I’d been on in those seven years and come up a few fingers short?

“When was the last time you were on a date?”

Yes, apparently he did.

“Um...” I couldn’t even venture a guess.

“Sunny’s in a bit of a dating drought,” said Georgie. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Isn’t there a bottle of peroxide or something you could pour on his head?” I asked.

Luc smiled. “Peroxide is so eighties. So what do you do for fun?”

Again I needed a moment to consider my options, especially since the first thing that came to mind was an image of me in the Whitford’s stockroom, and although  I liked my job, I wouldn’t call it fun. “I watch movies, I read a lot. And I write too. Or at least I used to.”

“What do you write?”

“Novels.”

“That’s cool. Have you published any?”

“Not really,” I replied, feeling foolish.

“Sunny is a great writer,” said Theo. “She’ll be published by the year’s end, mark my words.”

This time Theo received the wrath of my glare, although how intimidating could it be when I had enough foil on my head to get better reception on someone’s radio?

“Don’t give me that look,” said Theo. “Hello, Forty for Forty?”

Damn my friends.

“What are they about?” asked Luc, seeming to ignore Theo.

“They’re mysteries,” I said, “all set on Long Island. One for each decade, starting with the fifties.”

“I can dig that. I’m not much of a reader, but I’d probably read something like a mystery if it wasn’t all Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie and that old stuff.”

“That old stuff is so good, though,” I protested. “But mine are more modern with a commercial appeal.”

It had been so long since I’d talked about my novels that I felt tears coming to my eyes; I missed them.

After the second process of color application, Luc escorted me to a row of hair dryers, where I saton the cushioned chair as he lowered the dome over me like the Cone of Silence, adjusted the setting andtimer, and left again, only to return moments later with a delicate china plate containing a blueberry sconeand a matching cup  of espresso for me. Nice. Theo and Georgie thumbed through hairstyle books,occasionally turning a page toward me and pointing to a model, as if they were reading a picture book tome, and dog-ear-flapping pages of cuts they deemed appropriate.

The shampoo was a welcome change following the drone of the dryer, which felt more like beingin a sensory deprivation tank. A young assistant dressed in black and wearing an apron washed out thecolor with a tea-tree-extract shampoo followed by a peppermint conditioner that actually gave me chills,it was so invigorating, and a scalp massage that nearly prompted me to ask her out for dinner afterward. She then directed me back to Luc, who double-checked his color work and complimented himself severaltimes. He then went to work on the haircut, his scissors as fine a tool as a sculptor’s chisel or a chef’sknife. He continued to ask more questions, and I couldn’t seem to get beyond a two-word answer.

“Sorry,” I finally said.

“For what?”

“It’s not a very interesting life.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, gorgeous.”

The hollow crater that my life had become was widening, as if I were seeing it on a screen, andthe camera was zooming farther out to show what it really looked like. The giddy anticipation I’d takenwith me on the train last night and awakened with this morning had washed down the drain along with theshampoo.