What Doesn't Kill You Read Online Free PDF Page B

had to hire people to help with bottling, consult with chemists. But my desk was near the window, next to hers, which was still the big old table. I even brought in my own plant—a philodendron in a plastic pot the size of a teacup. Not even I could kill that. Olivia brought me samples of whatever she was working on. When I suggested Apricot Sage, she gave it a try. It’s my favorite and it’s still a Markson & Daughter best seller. And when I received my associate’s degree in business administration, Olivia announced she was taking me to London.
    I didn’t even have a passport before then. Daddy didn’t believe it until I showed him the round-trip ticket with my name on it. My mother, always one to take lemons and make a sour puss, asked if I was sure I wouldn’t be the baby-sitter. I told her Olivia was going to deliver Hillary to her father for the summer, which had nothing to do with me, and kept right on trying to figure out what to pack in my borrowed American Tourister. England seemed formal, so I took clothes I would wear to church. Even got a new hairdo for the occasion—the infamous Jheri curl. I sort of wanted it to look like Olivia’s hair—and Chaka Khan’s. Nobody saw the resemblance.
    Anyway, I, who had never set foot in an airport, was served a four-course meal with cloth napkins in business class. I never thought about how much money Olivia had, but hippie girl was not hurting. We checked into a swanky two-bedroom suite in Mayfair. I mean, the place had gloved doormen and chauffeured Bentleys out front. Olivia looked way more polished than usual in a slim white pantsuit and matching black luggage. And I’m sure I looked like cousin Mabledene from Doozerville in my plaid polyester A-line dress and powder-blue suitcase. I promised myself that day I’d never go anywhere looking so homely again.
    We spent the afternoon riding double-decker buses past Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, which bored Princess Hillary. She’d seen it all before. I tried not to walk into bass ackwards traffic. And that night I met Eliot Markson.
    I wouldn’t have put the two of them together if there was nobody else to choose from. Olivia must have been part of some phase he grew out of, but it sure explained Hillary’s fondness for Fair Isles sweaters and tartan skirts. Eliot was pure Savile Row, and Hillary was Daddy’s girl. “He’s a bit of a prig,” Olivia had whispered on a trip to the ladies’ room after dinner. I had afew other choice names for him after I overheard him ask why she brought the nanny out to eat.
    Transfer complete, Olivia and I were on our own. It was a little odd at first, hearing her snore in the bedroom down the hall, figuring out who was going to be first in the marble bathroom. I mean, it wasn’t like we were running buddies or anything, but she kind of taught me things about the world outside of Brooklyn. But it was all so foreign, even the language, and they were speaking English. Once I relaxed I had a good time, and I think playing ’enry ’iggins took her mind off missing Hillary. We prowled the stalls at Portobello Market and she bought me antique garnet earrings. We sniffed and fingered our way through about a million plants at the Columbia Road flower market. In Harrods we fantasized about the day Markson & Daughter would have a counter there. And we took a train about half an hour outside of London to a town called Dorking, where Olivia got weepy walking by her beloved field of lavender. It was nice, but I think the tears were mostly because we were near that cottage she used to share with Eliot.
    Everywhere we went Olivia had me take notes, since this was a “business” trip, therefore tax deductible. She learned that strategy from Eliot, who was involved in his family’s wholesale jewelry business. Right. I never saw Olivia wear so much as a diamond chip. It would not be me.
    And as