I stared at the board, trying to see what he saw. Or rather, what he didn’t see.
“These women are perfect,” I said. “They’re aspirational. Isn’t that what sells cosmetics?”
Lucien turned to me, one eyebrow raised. “The perfection is the problem. It is too corporate. Too American. We sell dreams, yes, but dreams that women can see themselves in.” He tapped one of the images. “This woman—she is beautiful, but she is not real. She is a fantasy no one can touch.”
“So you want... what? Regular women?”
“I want real beauty. Real desire. Real women.” Lucien moved closer, his voice dropping. “I want a campaign that makes a woman look at our lipstick and think, ‘This will make me feel as powerful as I truly am,’ not ‘This will make me look like someone I can never be.’”
I nodded slowly, but inside I was completely lost.
Who was this “real woman” Lucien kept talking about? Every successful cosmetics campaign I’d ever seen featured models with perfect bone structure, flawless skin, bodies that had never carried children or aged past twenty-five.
And that’s what I was trying to portray in the test campaign. I had tried what worked in the cosmetics industry, but clearly, it was not working for my boss.
Lucien wasn’t happy.
And I was completely out of ideas.
A knock on the conference room door interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
“Come in,” Lucien called.
Simone entered, carrying a tray with coffee. She was dressed in another one of her skimpy outfits. A tight skirt that barely covered her thighs, a blouse unbuttoned just a touch too far.
“I thought you might need this,” she said, her voice dropping into that throaty register as she set a cup in front of us.
Lucien nodded, took his cup of coffee, and as he walked out of the room, he said- “I want a real woman, Mark. A real woman.”
Simone looked at me with a puzzled look as she handed me my cup. She moved, her overly sweet perfume overwhelming in the small space.
“You look very tired, Mark,” she said, her hand resting on my shoulder.
I was tired. Exhausted, actually. I’d barely slept since watching Amelia leave with Florin two nights ago. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that young, perfect bastard with his hand on my wife’s ass.
“I’m stressed about this campaign,” I said. Since Amelia was too busy these days I needed someone to talk to. Simone looked interested enough, so I continued. “Lucien has lost his mind over this ‘real woman’ concept. I don’t know what he wants.”
Simone listened, her face a mask of concern. Then she moved behind me and started massaging my shoulders.
It felt good. Not amazing, not the way Amelia’s hands felt when she worked the knots out of my neck after a long day. But nice enough.
“Why don’t we have lunch?” I suggested. “Get out of the office for a bit?”
Simone’s face lit up. “I would love that.”
The café was small and crowded, frequented by office workers on their lunch breaks. We’d gotten a table near the restroom. Hardlyromantic, with the constant traffic of people walking past, but then, romance with Simone was least of my concerns.
Instead, I was thinking about Amelia. I thought about all the romantic dates I used to take her on. Candlelit dinners and weekend brunches. And all the picnics in the park with the kids.
“So tell me more about Lucien’s vision,” Simone said, picking at her salad. “What exactly does he want?”
I took a bite of my sandwich and explained the whole “real beauty, real women” concept again. Simone nodded along, asking questions, seeming genuinely interested.
Then I noticed her phone light up on the table. She glanced at it quickly and started texting, her fingers flying across the screen.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“No one,” she said quickly, setting the phone down.
