“Because it’s a destination beach shoot and they look better in swim trunks.”
The laugh breaks free. “They’re afolk-rockduo. Why in the hell would they be posing for photos on a beach in swim trunks?”
She looks lost in a daydream. “They might live in California. This is my fantasy, and you’re ruining it. You’re fucking ruining it.”
The ridiculous conversation continues, and it’s a great distraction, which is probably all she was going for. So much so, that by the time she’s done, I’m more relaxed than I ever imagined I could be before this interview.
I’m watching the “Little Girl Gone” video and thinking about what Mabel said yesterday, with only minutes to spare before I need to log in to Zoom, when Lola returns. “You have to wear this.” She shoves her purple sweater at me.
“Lo, it’s already eighty degrees in here.” The morning sun is blasting through the front window and warming up the room like a greenhouse.
She shakes her head and pushes me toward the bathroom to change. “It’s my lucky sweater. Purple is associated with power, ambition, and wealth.”
“What color is associated with paying the rent, keeping the lights on, and food in the fridge? I think that’s more what I’m aiming for.”
When she meets me with a flat stare, I roll my eyes and pull the sweater on over the sleeveless top I’m already wearing because if I don’t, I’ll be late.
“And drink this.” She hands me a shot glass as I slide back into the chair in front of my laptop.
I sniff it and cringe. “Tequila? At seven in the morning? Are you fucking kidding me, Lo?”
“It’ll help take the edge off. It’s not like they can smell your breath.”
I shake my head and set it down. “Absolutely not.”
She picks it up and downs it.
When I raise my eyebrows, she says, “What? I’m an empath. This is hella stressful.”
I join the meeting two minutes early, but rather than waiting, I’m admitted by the host immediately. Which accelerates my anxiety. And my heart rate. This does not feel good.
My screen fills with a close-up of gleaming white teeth. The lips are moving, and by the time I connect my microphone, unmute my screen, and turn up the volume, I hear the voice midsentence. “—with me, we’ll only be a sec, Sophie.”
“Good morning,” I say and wait. I’m trying to smile, but I don’t know if the muscles in my face are cooperating. I probably look constipated.
Two seconds later, the teeth that could be a commercial for the stunning aftereffects of orthodontia zoom out to reveal a late-twenties man with flawless skin, full lips, long black eyelashes, and a perfect pompadour. He’s grinning at me. “Sophie!” he exclaims like we’re old friends.
“Nate?” I ask, but I know it’s him. I’m not sure if it’s his voice I recognize or the overall friendliness that oozes out of him.
He takes a seat, creating distance between himself and the screen, and waves.
My galloping heart rate slows to a steady trot, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Tan France?”
He clasps his hands, rests them under his chin, and tilts his head to the side to create a flattering pose. “I’ve heard that a time or twelve.” He flutters his lashes. “Say it again, I adore him.”
I can’t help the sincere smile that breaks free. “I love him too.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He looks to his right and says, “She’s hired, Omar,” before standing and shifting the screen toward another smiling face in profile.
“Thank you, Nate. I think I can take it from here,” the profile says.
“Don’t touch anything,” Nate’s fading voice says sternly.
Hands upraised obediently pair with a deep, resonant chuckle as Omar replies, “Yes, sir.”
When the door clicks shut, Omar turns to face the screen. “Good morning, Sophie. I’m Omar. It’s nice to meet you.”
I can see now why Nate said everyone loves Omar. Charismatic is the first word that comes to mind. Which should make this easier, but it doesn’t. He’s nice and that makes me not want to let him down. The people pleaser in me is amping up. Shit.
