A Date You Can't Refuse Read Online Free PDF Page B

stylist. It all begins with visual presentation, yes?”
    “What begins with visual presentation?”
    “Life. I am the genius of the dress, the suit, the hair, the walk, the shoes, naturally the shoes, the visage—you have a dermatologist or surgeon that you work with?”
    “Uh, no.”
    “I bring you to mine.”
    My hand found its way to my face. “What? What do I need a dermatologist or surgeon for?”
    Donatella reached out and touched my fingers. “Do not clog the pores, please. Perhaps Botox. There is no time for anything else, to be realistic.”
    Thank God. And if there were time? A nose job? Chin reconstruction? The only kind of cosmetic surgery that appealed to me was abreast reduction, but I doubted that's what Donatella had in mind. Simon wouldn't be wild about it either.
    “You have circles.” She frowned. “Under the eyes. How much water do you drink?”
    I shrugged. “It varies. On a hot day I'd say about—”
    She held up a hand. “Already I do not like this answer. You must hydrate with consciousness. I do not ask you to carry a bottle; water bottles as accessory bore me. I am not from California.”
    “I had guessed that.”
    “But five liters each day minimum. On this I am insistent.”
    “Five liters.” I was vague on what that was in terms of ounces or quarts, but it sounded like a lot. “Does iced tea count?”
    “No. Water. With gas, if you must, but no sweeteners, no caffeine. No and no.”
    “Gas maybe, sweeteners no.” I nodded. That didn't seem too much to ask.
    A woman entered the closet. She was shaped like a dumpling, attired in what could only be called a housedress. Where did one shop for housedresses in this day and age? And why hadn't Donatella worked on this woman's visual presentation? The woman set her tray on an antique end table and held up two bottles. “Gas?” she asked. “Or no gas?”
    “Gas,” I said. Live a little.
    She poured water from a Pellegrino bottle into a goblet that matched Donatella's. “Lime or no lime?” she asked.
    “Lime,” I said.
    She set the goblet on the tray and painstakingly peeled a lime, breathing audibly. Her hands were rough and calloused. I bet she didn't use rubber gloves while scrubbing.
    Donatella, meanwhile, had returned to her computer, her fingers clicking away at eighty words per minute, minimum.
“Grusha, abbiamo minestrone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Va bene.”
    Grusha looked toward me. “Is she staying?”
    “For lunch? Of course. She is on the team now.” Donatella turned tome. “Wollie, this is Grusha. Tell her your food preferences and allergies, so we do not poison you.”
    “Hello, Grusha,” I said. “I'm easy. No allergies, and I eat pretty much anything. Except beets. And I don't like sauerkraut. Or anything pickled. Oh, and liver. Not crazy about sausage either, for that matter. I had an unpleasant sausage experience once. I saw someone make it.”
    Grusha shook her head, perhaps not wanting such intimate bio graphical details on a first meeting. Or maybe beets and liver and sauerkraut were staple items for her, boiling away in a pot at this very moment. After a small “hmmph,” she left.
    I remembered that I was here in an information-gathering capacity. “Donatella,” I said. “Yuri wasn't specific about my duties as part of the, uh, team. I'm curious to know—”
    “Yuri will do orientation, but in the nutshell, you are accountable for whereabouts.”
    “Whose?”
    “The male clients. I, the stylist, am accountable for the look. Everyone's look, even Yuri. Some are harder to work with than others. Some are stubborn. You will not be stubborn.” She pressed a button on a wall-mounted keypad. “Parashie. We haven't all day.”
    Parashie's disembodied voice responded. “I only can find the wool pants and the Rykiel and Ungaro jackets.”
    “Yes? What is the problem?”
    “You mean you want those?”
    “Yes, of course. What else?”
    “But they're Chai's.”
    “Yes. Bring them,