You Before Anyone Else Read Online Free PDF

to the hair station and spot Eliza right away. He’s quite a character. Exactly the type you don’t want to combine with a hangover.
    â€œOh my God, honey! Look what the cat dragged in.”
    Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry I’m late…and sorry my hair is…well, like this.”
    Despite the “look what the cat dragged in” comment and the wrinkled nose, I get a kind reply. “I’ll have my manservant start you up, and you’ll be in tiptop shape in no time.”
    â€œHe’s your assistant, not your manservant. Be nice,” I tell him, attempting to be cool and relaxed like an edgier model would probably be after arriving late.
    Eliza’s assistant gives me a smile. “He’s just mad at me because I’m younger than him.”
    â€œThey’re breeding assistants snarkier and snarkier with every passing day. So where were you last night? Avenue, 1 Oak, or Marquee? Why didn’t you invite little old me? Not cool enough?”
    I’m saved from answering when Alan comes over and talks to Eliza in hushed tones, gesturing to his watch. Eventually, he scurries away to set.
    â€œSomeone’s got their britches in a tizzy. Okay, manservant, we need to get her done ten minutes ago, so double-time, chop, chop. Hair needs to stand up like a candle. And get makeup in here too. Tell her breakfast is over.”
    Now my curiosity is kicking in. “What’s the concept?”
    â€œDidn’t you see the set, darling?”
    I shake my head. When would I have had time to look around?
    â€œIt’s a birthday cake, and you’re going to be the decadent gothic ornament.”
    I suppress a sigh. I’d been hoping for something outside of the sweet label—which would rule out posing on top of frosting and cake—though I don’t know why I thought it would actually happen, considering how my castings have gone lately. But Marc Jacobs is all about being ahead of the trends, so I thought maybe…
    Doesn’t matter right now. I need to focus and be glad I have a job today.
    I walk over to the anxiety-ridden stylist’s station. Emmy has five different dresses steamed and ready to go. I’m not so disappointed in the concept that I can’t take a second to swoon over the bold graphics mixed with the gothic nineteen twenties styling. It’s a beautiful collection. And it’s Marc Jacobs. Not exactly shabby.
    I dress quickly, being careful not to mess up the big fancy bow in my hair and all the confetti. Alonzo, the Italian photographer, seems to have no issue with the late start of everything. Still, I apologize.
    â€œIt’s no problem, bella. I get to enjoy my espresso and make sure the light is perfect for you, so you look like an angel.”
    Would he still call me that if he knew about my night?
    I blush again, taking my place on top of the huge white cake, using the prop stylist’s hand to get up there. No doubt it was good for me to go out and be spontaneous, but this morning-after stuff is embarrassing.
    The prop stylist gives me the lowdown on the set and where I can step and where I can’t.
    â€œJust be careful of the gumdrops—they’re hollow. You could get your leg stuck, and the undercarriage is all plywood.”
    I avoid thinking about legs getting stuck and switch up my pose. But my mind is racing with thoughts of hangovers and last night’s hookup. The hookup who failed to exit the apartment prior to the morning like he should have. I’m pretty sure I flunked one-night stand 101.
    I don’t make it five minutes without the photographer calling out for Emmy.
    â€œWe need her to look more…what do you Americans say? Bad to the bone? Maybe she needs a necklace or a bag?” He turns to me. “And Finley, could you give me more anger, more aggressive facial expressions?”
    Here we go again. Too sweet.
    â€œToo angry,” Alonso says, reacting to my mood