Rowan was tall and chic with sculptured cheekbones and short platinum blonde hair that lay in exquisite waves on their forehead.
“Because, darling, you have to try to get some money out of this guy,” they said.
“Why doIhave to do it?” I protested, shoving my beat-up sneakers up on my battered old desk in the tiny office. “Why can’t you?You’rea model. You know how to talk to these privileged rich people.”
I put lunch (a gas station hot dog and a can of cheap beer) on the desk.
This interviewhadto go well. Because the Rescue Society was dangerously low on funds. I was having to dig into my own savings to keep our big cat rescue open, and the sanctuary for elderly dogs and cats was in desperate need of funds as well.
“But darling, you have thelookthese privileged rich guys want,” Rowan said cunningly.
My jaw dropped, a piece of hot dog falling out of my mouth and onto my raggedy jean shorts.
“Ido? You must be shitting me.”
“You can if you do what I say,” they retorted tartly.
Since the magazine office also shared space with an accounting firm and the local theater department wardrobe, Rowan moved to the shared closet and pulled out some outfits from a recent I Love Lucy theater production.
“With a few tucks in here and there, I could make this work,” Rowan said eagerly, kneeling beside me with pins in their mouth and scissors between their fingers. “You’ll look like a perfect little tradwife.”
Rowan was a magician with anything related to fashion, and had made their own clothes since high school, but I couldn’t see this plan working.
Reluctantly, I agreed to try on a navy dress with a big, old-fashioned Peter Pan collar.
“He’s not going to buy this!” I said, laughing. “I have a belly button ring and a tramp stamp. I do not look like anybody’s idea of a tradwife. I look like a broke-ass English major. Which I am.”
“Darling, men will buyanything,” Rowan laughed. “And you look divine. Think of the Rescue Society! We’re desperately in need of money. Take out that nose ring, though.”
“And you really think he’s more likely to give us funding?”
“I am absolutely convinced he will,” Rowan said firmly. “Don’t act like yourself.”
At this, we both laughed so hard tears streamed down our cheeks.
I agreed to the ruse.
What other choice did we have?
Rowan wiped off my usual makeup (slutty), and gave me an understated, subtle look, then completed the outfit with two little lacy gloves and tiny peep-toe heels.
“And, the piece-de-resistance,” they said, brandishing a plate of steaming hot cookies in front of him. “From the coffee shop downstairs.”
“What the fuck?” I cried. “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?”
“Tell him you baked them yourself,” Rowan laughed. “He’ll eat it thefuckup.”
Despite my misgivings, I made my way down to the Capitol Building for the interview and waited for what felt like forever in front of his greasy secretary. Finally, I was led down a long hall to the door of his office.
“Come in. You can have five minutes,” came a low, gravelly voice.
Asshole, I thought, but I followed his instructions and walked to the open chair, my eyes cast down demurely.
Governor Di Pietro sat at his desk, which was organized with mathematical precision, each stack of paper, each electronic device, at an exact forty-five degree angle from the other.
“Yes, sir,” I said, bringing out the plate of cookies and holding them in front of me.
Oh, this asshole was never going to agree to increase funding or give one fuck about animal rescue, so it didn’t matter that I was going to lay it on so thick it was obvious I was faking it.
