Read Online This Is How It Happened by Jo Barrett - Free Book Online
Authors: Jo Barrett
Tags: Humor, United States, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction
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got her arm in the air like she’s hailing a cab.
I turn around and go, “Ye-ss?”
“We just had a cancellation. We can take you now,” she says, breathlessly, her face cracking into a smile.
“I’d recommend our most popular treatment. The rainforest facial,” she says. I turn and walk with her back into the building.
“You’ve got a wonderful olive skin tone,” she says. She’s fawning over me now. Kissing my size 6 ass.
“I’m Italian,” I reply.
Cruella looks at me and flutters her eyelashes in a buttery sweet way. So I cut her a break. I reach the door and hold it open for her.
“After you,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I’m lying on my back in a soft, white terrycloth robe. The aesthetician is exfoliating my nose with a coarse scrubbing pad.
“So why is it called the rainforest facial? Does this mud actually come from the rainforest?” I ask, as she packs this funky-smelling green clay on my face.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But the product line was ‘inspired’ by the rainforest.”
“So none of this mud actually came from the rainforest?”
“That’s right. But it’s got rainforest names. Like this mask is called the Costa Rican Howler Monkey Mud Mask.”
“Huh. So where’s this stuff actually made?”
She looks at one of the bottles. “Looks like New Jersey,” she says.
“What a scam,” I say.
She plops two cucumbers on my eyelids. I guess to shut me up.
But, oh well. I pay twenty bucks more than a regular facial and get to enjoy the background sounds of howler monkeys and toucans. From the rainforest “inspired” CD.
All in all, it’s a pretty good hour. An indulgent hour, but I figure I owe myself. And afterward, as I’m milling around the relaxation room, I feel shiny and gleaming, but still an interloper among the glossy women breezing by.
Like a used car in a new-car lot.
Cruella sees me and claps her hands together once. “Well don’t you look refreshed,” she croons, handing me a small bottle of Evian.
She heads to the cash register and taps her long, blood-red talon fingernails on the countertop.
Yes, this woman is definitely channeling Sharon Stone. And not the young, sexy Sharon. The older, scary Sharon.
“So is this going to be cash or credit?” she asks.
“Credit,” I say. “Always credit.”
“Tell me about it, hon,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m a bank’s wet dream.”
And that’s when I decide I like this woman. I like her very much.
Chapter 16
In preparation for the big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, I arrange a meeting with my own boss, Henry Wrona. Henry is Polish and like a father to me. And for these two reasons, but especially the Polish-ness, I decide to tell him what’s what.
Henry says Polaks don’t like surprises. He’s big into what he calls the whole “respect” thing. So he’d be offended if he thought I was holding out on him.
Fair is fair. And I don’t want to leave Henry in the lurch. Plus, I’ve worked for him for fourteen years. His company, Capitol Marketing, is one of the most prestigious public relations firms in town. It’s a boutique firm, a small but venerable powerhouse, owned and operated by a firecracker of a man who’s “been in the biz forever,” as they say. Henry Wrona is a walking, talking institution.
And the best boss I could ever imagine.
But if Carlton and I get the seed money for Organics 4 Kids, I’ll have to quit. Which is unfortunate because I’m a rare breed of employee. I love my job.
I started working for Henry as an intern when I was still in high school. Then all through college and grad school. Part-time during the school year, and full-time in summer.
As corny as it sounds, business and marketing is in my blood. I love it.
Henry was a friend of my father back in the day. A long time ago. Before the car accident.
“Your father was a prince of a man,” Henry used to say, before I told him I didn’t like to be reminded of my
I turn around and go, “Ye-ss?”
“We just had a cancellation. We can take you now,” she says, breathlessly, her face cracking into a smile.
“I’d recommend our most popular treatment. The rainforest facial,” she says. I turn and walk with her back into the building.
“You’ve got a wonderful olive skin tone,” she says. She’s fawning over me now. Kissing my size 6 ass.
“I’m Italian,” I reply.
Cruella looks at me and flutters her eyelashes in a buttery sweet way. So I cut her a break. I reach the door and hold it open for her.
“After you,” I say.
Twenty minutes later, I’m lying on my back in a soft, white terrycloth robe. The aesthetician is exfoliating my nose with a coarse scrubbing pad.
“So why is it called the rainforest facial? Does this mud actually come from the rainforest?” I ask, as she packs this funky-smelling green clay on my face.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But the product line was ‘inspired’ by the rainforest.”
“So none of this mud actually came from the rainforest?”
“That’s right. But it’s got rainforest names. Like this mask is called the Costa Rican Howler Monkey Mud Mask.”
“Huh. So where’s this stuff actually made?”
She looks at one of the bottles. “Looks like New Jersey,” she says.
“What a scam,” I say.
She plops two cucumbers on my eyelids. I guess to shut me up.
But, oh well. I pay twenty bucks more than a regular facial and get to enjoy the background sounds of howler monkeys and toucans. From the rainforest “inspired” CD.
All in all, it’s a pretty good hour. An indulgent hour, but I figure I owe myself. And afterward, as I’m milling around the relaxation room, I feel shiny and gleaming, but still an interloper among the glossy women breezing by.
Like a used car in a new-car lot.
Cruella sees me and claps her hands together once. “Well don’t you look refreshed,” she croons, handing me a small bottle of Evian.
She heads to the cash register and taps her long, blood-red talon fingernails on the countertop.
Yes, this woman is definitely channeling Sharon Stone. And not the young, sexy Sharon. The older, scary Sharon.
“So is this going to be cash or credit?” she asks.
“Credit,” I say. “Always credit.”
“Tell me about it, hon,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m a bank’s wet dream.”
And that’s when I decide I like this woman. I like her very much.
Chapter 16
In preparation for the big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, I arrange a meeting with my own boss, Henry Wrona. Henry is Polish and like a father to me. And for these two reasons, but especially the Polish-ness, I decide to tell him what’s what.
Henry says Polaks don’t like surprises. He’s big into what he calls the whole “respect” thing. So he’d be offended if he thought I was holding out on him.
Fair is fair. And I don’t want to leave Henry in the lurch. Plus, I’ve worked for him for fourteen years. His company, Capitol Marketing, is one of the most prestigious public relations firms in town. It’s a boutique firm, a small but venerable powerhouse, owned and operated by a firecracker of a man who’s “been in the biz forever,” as they say. Henry Wrona is a walking, talking institution.
And the best boss I could ever imagine.
But if Carlton and I get the seed money for Organics 4 Kids, I’ll have to quit. Which is unfortunate because I’m a rare breed of employee. I love my job.
I started working for Henry as an intern when I was still in high school. Then all through college and grad school. Part-time during the school year, and full-time in summer.
As corny as it sounds, business and marketing is in my blood. I love it.
Henry was a friend of my father back in the day. A long time ago. Before the car accident.
“Your father was a prince of a man,” Henry used to say, before I told him I didn’t like to be reminded of my
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