eyelids feel too heavy to keep open, so I copy and paste my mission statement into an email, choose all of my work contacts, and save it as a draft.
Then, I close my eyes and sink into a heavy wine-and-good-works contented sleep.
Chapter 7
One Painful Aha
My phone is ringing, but I am buried beneath a mountain of discarded gowns, shoes, and handbags and can’t reach it. I writhe around, struggling to extricate my arm from the smooth leather straps of a Diorific bag, but my Blackberry keeps ringing, ringing, ringing. When I am finally able to pull my arm free, I reach for my phone, my fingertips barely making contact with the slender plastic device. I jab the answer button and say hello. It’s Anna Wintour calling. Vogue wants me to be on the cover of their annual tribute to Leaders of Fashion for my resounding success in rebranding L’Heure as the designer with heart. “Thank you,” Anna says, “for giving us a new reason to say, ‘J’adore L’Heure.’”
The mournful opening guitar plucks of Lana Del Rey’s “Blue Jeans,’ followed by Lana singing about her blue jeans and white T-shirt-wearing James Dean-like lover, play over and over, blaring out of my Blackberry, until I blink heavy lids and squint at the ceiling.
Foutre! My hair aches. Literally aches. I drank way too much wine. Years ago in France, someone who drank too much eau de vie and woke up hungover would have said he suffered from a mal aux cheveux , literally a hair-ache. Today, the phrase isn’t used by anyone under fifty. I don’t know why, because it works. I close my eyes and clutch my head. It really works.
Lana is still singing, her desolate voice echoing in my empty apartment, making me sincerely regret choosing her song as my ringtone. I have always loved Lana Del Rey. Now, caught in the brutal clutches of a hangover, suffering from the worst kind of mal aux cheveux , I hate Lana Del Rey.
Keeping my eyes closed, I reach for the ends of my pillow and press them against my ears. Lana will not be so easily silenced, though. She keeps on singing, a muffled, melancholy moaning. I am just about to get out of bed and search for my Blackberry when Lana stops singing.
I let go of the pillow, roll over, pull the covers over my head, and am almost asleep when Lana starts again. I throw back the covers and do the blind’s man shuffle into the living room, eyes closed, arms outstretched, until I locate my Blackberry. I crack one eye open, jab the answer button, and switch it to speakerphone.
“Hello?”
I close my eyes.
“Mademoiselle Moreau?”
Oh, no. God, no.
“ Bonjour , Mademoiselle Salupo.” I really hate that Nicola insists on using French forms of address when she’s not even fluent in the language. “ Comment ça va? ”
Nicola doesn’t answer. I wait several seconds.
“Hello?”
Squinting, I look at my Blackberry. The screen is black. I jab the power button, but the screen stays black. My battery is dead.
I grab my phone, blind man shuffle back to my bedroom, plug it in, and fall back into bed, pulling the covers over my head.
When I finally drag myself out of bed and take a shower, the sun is low in the sky and my aching hair aches a little less. I dry off, slather my skin with Panier des Sens , an organic olive oil-based body butter I order from Provence, and slip on a robe.
I have cleaned up the evidence of my Pinot pity party and am arranging a handful of multigrain crackers and some apple slices on a plate when my Blackberry begins chirping. I carry the plate back into my bedroom, deposit it on my nightstand, and curl up on my bed.
That’s when I suddenly remember Nicola’s phone call.
Merde! Merde!
I grab my Blackberry from the nightstand. I have thirty-four new text messages and—wait a minute, that can’t be right—ninety-seven new emails. I hope there hasn’t been some kind of emergency at the store.
Text from Nicola Salupo:
I need you to return the keys to the store, your laptop, and
Then, I close my eyes and sink into a heavy wine-and-good-works contented sleep.
Chapter 7
One Painful Aha
My phone is ringing, but I am buried beneath a mountain of discarded gowns, shoes, and handbags and can’t reach it. I writhe around, struggling to extricate my arm from the smooth leather straps of a Diorific bag, but my Blackberry keeps ringing, ringing, ringing. When I am finally able to pull my arm free, I reach for my phone, my fingertips barely making contact with the slender plastic device. I jab the answer button and say hello. It’s Anna Wintour calling. Vogue wants me to be on the cover of their annual tribute to Leaders of Fashion for my resounding success in rebranding L’Heure as the designer with heart. “Thank you,” Anna says, “for giving us a new reason to say, ‘J’adore L’Heure.’”
The mournful opening guitar plucks of Lana Del Rey’s “Blue Jeans,’ followed by Lana singing about her blue jeans and white T-shirt-wearing James Dean-like lover, play over and over, blaring out of my Blackberry, until I blink heavy lids and squint at the ceiling.
Foutre! My hair aches. Literally aches. I drank way too much wine. Years ago in France, someone who drank too much eau de vie and woke up hungover would have said he suffered from a mal aux cheveux , literally a hair-ache. Today, the phrase isn’t used by anyone under fifty. I don’t know why, because it works. I close my eyes and clutch my head. It really works.
Lana is still singing, her desolate voice echoing in my empty apartment, making me sincerely regret choosing her song as my ringtone. I have always loved Lana Del Rey. Now, caught in the brutal clutches of a hangover, suffering from the worst kind of mal aux cheveux , I hate Lana Del Rey.
Keeping my eyes closed, I reach for the ends of my pillow and press them against my ears. Lana will not be so easily silenced, though. She keeps on singing, a muffled, melancholy moaning. I am just about to get out of bed and search for my Blackberry when Lana stops singing.
I let go of the pillow, roll over, pull the covers over my head, and am almost asleep when Lana starts again. I throw back the covers and do the blind’s man shuffle into the living room, eyes closed, arms outstretched, until I locate my Blackberry. I crack one eye open, jab the answer button, and switch it to speakerphone.
“Hello?”
I close my eyes.
“Mademoiselle Moreau?”
Oh, no. God, no.
“ Bonjour , Mademoiselle Salupo.” I really hate that Nicola insists on using French forms of address when she’s not even fluent in the language. “ Comment ça va? ”
Nicola doesn’t answer. I wait several seconds.
“Hello?”
Squinting, I look at my Blackberry. The screen is black. I jab the power button, but the screen stays black. My battery is dead.
I grab my phone, blind man shuffle back to my bedroom, plug it in, and fall back into bed, pulling the covers over my head.
When I finally drag myself out of bed and take a shower, the sun is low in the sky and my aching hair aches a little less. I dry off, slather my skin with Panier des Sens , an organic olive oil-based body butter I order from Provence, and slip on a robe.
I have cleaned up the evidence of my Pinot pity party and am arranging a handful of multigrain crackers and some apple slices on a plate when my Blackberry begins chirping. I carry the plate back into my bedroom, deposit it on my nightstand, and curl up on my bed.
That’s when I suddenly remember Nicola’s phone call.
Merde! Merde!
I grab my Blackberry from the nightstand. I have thirty-four new text messages and—wait a minute, that can’t be right—ninety-seven new emails. I hope there hasn’t been some kind of emergency at the store.
Text from Nicola Salupo:
I need you to return the keys to the store, your laptop, and
Similar Books
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery)
Laurien Berenson
Common Ground
J. Anthony Lukas
Grave Possession (Wraith 3)
Angel Lawson
Runt
Marion Dane Bauer
The API of the Gods
Matthew Schmidt
Dreamland
Sarah Dessen
Long Shot
Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler
When One Door Opens
JD Ruskin
The Unseen
Zilpha Keatley Snyder
