Girl Before a Mirror by Liza Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

man looking over at her—he has a dish towel slung over one of his broad shoulders, wears worn-in jeans and an old T-shirt, and is elbow-deep in soapy water. The kids sit around the dining room table with textbooks and school supplies strewn about, and dinner is bubbling on the stovetop. She looks happy.
    And in beautiful clean writing, Sasha has written “Just Be” along the top of the picture. The Lumineux logo is on the bottom—nondescript and tasteful.
    â€œWow,” I say.
    â€œRight?” Sasha says, beaming.
    â€œIt’s perfect.”
    â€œLumineux Shower Gel. Just Be,” Sasha says again.
    â€œThat’s it.”

3
    We haven’t slept. Sasha and I board the Metroliner that will take us into Manhattan for the big pitch at the Quincy Pharmaceutical headquarters—the very high-rise I vowed to return to several months prior. For the last twelve hours, I’ve subsisted on nothing but romance novels—flushed cheeks be damned—black tea, and these terrible green juices I’m trying to work into my diet. As we settle into our seats, I realize I’ve fallen into an alternate world where gauzy curtains and hot Sahara nights have become the norm. Is that businessman’s shirt going to be ripped from his body, only to hang on his biceps in tatters? Is the man with the bicycle going to growl my name as we reach the apex of our passion as one? I’ve gone from teenage prude to an adult who can talk and talk about romance novels . . . without actually letting them affect me in any way, of course. I’ve sped right past flushing cheeks all the way to dissecting overt sexuality as if it were a splayed-out frog smelling of formaldehyde. Regardless, I have at least two and a half hours on this train before the biggest pitch of mycareer. Sasha and I hunker down and use the time to prep and perfect our pitch. We both know the stakes couldn’t be higher—or at least one of us does.
    When we arrive in Manhattan, my first hurdle quickly becomes how not to walk into Quincy headquarters looking like a pit-stained wretch who likes getting her hair licked by a cat. We duck into the elaborate, art deco bathroom in the lobby of the Quincy building in Midtown to collect ourselves. It’s hard not to compare myself to Sasha as I stand next to her at the mirror, reapplying lipstick and trying to make something of my hair. Pushing six-foot, she’s all legs, she has black pin-curly hair, and she actually knows how to put on eye makeup. But then I remember what it was like to actually be in my early twenties and all that envy disappears. The tiny apartments, the paralyzingly low self-esteem, the terrible jobs with a parade of incompetent bosses—wait, that actually doesn’t feel as far away as I smugly thought. What I do know is that in my twenties I thought happiness was always out there—that job, that man, that body. After my year on Time-Out, I now know that happiness is within—or at least I know it just enough to be pissed off that it’s not, despite what I do for a living, something I can buy.
    â€œYou ready?” I ask, looking at Sasha in the mirror of the bathroom.
    â€œI feel like I’m going to throw up,” Sasha says.
    â€œWe’ll be fine,” I say.
    â€œThis is my first pitch,” Sasha says, unable to look at me.
    â€œI know,” I say.
    â€œLast week I was freelancing whatever art work I could find and paying the bills by working as the coat check girl at a club Chu—Mr. Holloway, I mean—a club Mr. Holloway frequented,”she says, bending over the sink. I am quiet. “He caught me doodling once. Said his family owned an ad agency and that they were hiring.” She tugs a paper towel from the machine and dries her hands. “Looking back, of course, I should have known. He switched the meeting at the last minute to a dinner.” She doesn’t look at me. “I didn’t know until