Play Dates by Leslie Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

circus was one of the funnest times I ever had with Daddy and Mommy. Here is a picture that I drew of all of us with the elephant man and Lizzie and my pink cotton candy. We are all smiling, even Lizzie.

    Chapter 3
    OCT OBER
    My kid sister has become an inspiration. Her search for a fun yet flexible job has been like a kick in the butt to get my own life in order. Time for me to enter the twenty-first century. They didn’t start up the computer science classes at Thackeray until the year after I graduated, so I never learned that stuff in school. I’m one of those techno-challenged people with a fear of heavy machinery (which is why I don’t drive a car), and a severe distrust of things that can think faster than I can. I do own a computer, at least. Typing I can do, e-mail I have mastered, as Claire would say, “to procrastinatory perfection.” And I now prefer it to just about every other means of communication, but for the most part, “software” remains a mystery. It sounds more like the kind of stuff you’d find at a Macy’s semi-annual white sale. Software. Fluffy towels, thirsty terry bathrobes, and sheets with a 400-plus thread count.
    I’m a self-taught kind of gal. That’s how I became a professional makeup artist. I liked to play with eye shadow. I hung out at a lot of clubs in my not-so-misspent youth. Over time I formed a network of social connections that led to a lucky break that

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    Leslie Carroll
    turned into a tidy living. No complaints there. But I’m thinking down the road of marketing my own line of cosmetics, although at this stage in the game, or maybe because I always tend to think visually, I mostly dream of the packaging. It’s a play on words of my name. Mia ♥ more makeup. Or maybe I should move the heart. Mi ♥ amore . Happy Chef would swear to the fact that I can spend days just trying to figure out which graphic looks better. I guess it depends on whether I want to look self-aggrandizing—or Italian.
    I could ask Claire for help, but she’s so swamped with Zoë and stuff that she doesn’t have a minute. So, I’ve started to teach myself Excel, to learn how to make spreadsheets and other things that left-brain types are good at.
    Speaking of Italian, I just met a guy on a shoot for a repeat client. I do the makeup for the runway, trunk shows, and print ads for a hot designer named Lucky Sixpence. He—or she—is English, maybe Scottish, I’m never quite sure. Nor am I sure about Lucky Sixpence’s gender. For those who remember the eighties, fondly or otherwise, Boy George is the closest I can come to explaining Lucky Sixpence. Lucky struck it rich creating affordable versions of the latest trends for the calorically challenged, which is about ninety-seven percent of the female population. You have a poochy tummy but want to wear a rhinestone-studded belly tee; your ass—as my Gran used to say—is “six axe handles across”
    but you crave a pair of low-rise boot-leg distressed snakeskin jeans; you want to dress like Courtney or Britney, Lucky’s your man—or woman. Lucky prefers to be referred to as “she.”
    When I first met Luca and he pointed to his chest to introduce himself, I thought he was saying “Lucky” in his sexy Italian accent. But he calls the designer Cara Fortuna —“Lucky Dear”—so the confusion about the name thing was quickly cleared up. I liked his deep-set, sad eyes and three day stubble, the way his hips swayed in opposition to the movement of the spare camera dangling from his neck and the fact that I didn’t understand a PLAY DATES
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    damn thing he said (except “boo-dee-fool, bebe, boo-dee-fool”), but it sounded great. Like he was making love nonstop.
    He called me Cara Mia and I couldn’t resist him, though I admit it didn’t occur to me to try. Luca was the opposite of Hal: Euro-trashy and verbal (though unintelligible). An injection of Italian culture was just what the doctor prescribed. And I’m a big fan of