Fate and Ms. Fortune by Saralee Rosenberg Read Free Book Online

she’s so rich, she wore her clothes for a season, then gave them away), I killed with my comedy routine, and then got the number of a guy who could line up a meeting for me at Showtime.
    If only the God of Favors hadn’t decided I’d reached my quota. Sorry, Robyn. Four is the limit. Now we return to our regularly scheduled torture:
    My mother wanting out of her marriage, leaving behind a husband/heart patient who was unfamiliar with major appliances, let alone minor ones.
    My mother moving in with me and making me clean my room or be grounded.
    My mother insulting my boss by telling her she was a bigmouth anti-Semite with a dingy smile who would be lucky to have a Jewish dentist give her a much needed set of veneers.
    My job going from bad to worse now that Simon was siccing his spoiled brat stepdaughter on me. At least I couldn’t blame my mother for that one.
    Until we left the studio and I discovered that I most certainly could.
    We had just gotten to the car when she slid into the passenger seat and informed me that I should drive because lately her night vision was bad. Not that her day vision was so great either.
    “That Gretchen gal is one piece of work.” She kicked off her shoes and lit up.
    “Put that out. If I can’t breathe, I can’t drive.”
    “It’s my car.”
    “Yes, but it’s my life.”
    “I’ll keep the window open.”
    “Oh my God,” I groaned. “You’re the piece of work. You do realize that was my boss you were unloading on.”
    “Not for long.” She puffed away.
    I slammed on the brakes. “What did you say to her?”
    “Nothing. Why do you always accuse me like that?”
    “Thirty-three years of history.”
    “I just heard her talking, that’s all. She didn’t know I was waiting for you in her room.”
    “Okay, but how do you know she was talking about me?”
    “Are you Tweety Bird?”
    “What did she say?” I gulped.
    “Something about your contract expiring next month and she’s thinking of hiring someone new.”
    “Oh my God! She actually said she wasn’t renewing my contract? Did she say why? Who was she talking to?”
    “Some other gal I think. I tried to listen good, but lately I miss a word or two.”
    No, it’s called selective hearing and you’ve had it since I was born. I turned off the ignition and started to shake. Every weekday for six years, the first of my three alarm clocks went off at 3:15. And to this day I was still thrown by the darkness, the loud buzz, and the momentary lapse. “Fuck! What was that?”
    But had I ever complained? Constantly. Still, I wasn’t a fool. Working as Gretchen’s personal makeup artist had been my ticket to decent pay, perks, and premieres. It had also given me face time, literally, with the world’s biggest celebs and VIPs, most of whom were great. Save for the women who thought my blush brush was a wand, and the athletes who thought I got that close to their face because I wanted sex. Note to NBA stars. You ever stick your tongue in my ear again, you’ll see real balls bounce.
    And on what grounds could Gretchen fire me? I was the consummate professional. Talented. Respectful. Up-to-date on the latest antiaging techniques. Ready for the high-definition challenge. I played well with others. And most of all, I had never betrayed her confidence, though what I knew of her private affairs could earn me rent money for a year.
    But if what my mother had heard was true, the timing couldn’t be worse, as I had just renegotiated my debts with a credit counselor, and if I lost my main source of income, I’d have no choice but to declare bankruptcy. I’d have to live with my mother forever, and learn to play mah-jongg and listen to her bitch, and put up with her smoking and that awful hacker’s cough…
    “Now you know why I put insect repellent on that little pisher’s face.”
    “Wait. What? You knew what you were doing?”
    “Naturally.” She laughed. “She was buggin’ the hell out of me.”
    “Oh my God,