Hair, I yanked the comb through it, Hmm, it needs washing tonight.
Skin, two moisturisers, one cherry-scented, to match my lip-stick.
Makeup, I swished the mascara over my black eyelashes, added a navy coloured liner and navy coloured shadow to complete the look, and then remembered to wipe concealer over the bags under my eyes.
There, I’m ready… Or as I ready as I’m ever gonna be. I doubt this work is going to be very productive.
“And this is a piece by Picasso; it’s on loan from the Louvre…”
“Ooh,” crooned the old American lady beside me. She was one of the art-loving customers here, retired and a tourist, travelling round all the fancy European countries. She wore a silk scarf tied around her neck, and her emerald glasses matched the flower print of her dress. She was obviously a fine critic and someone who I’d want to get on my side, if I was ever going to move up in the world of Art.
Unfortunately, that little point didn’t make me like her anymore. She was a pain, constantly talking about her successful life and asking me questions about each painting.
“Excuse me…” I mumbled, and walked over a colleague of mine, gesturing for him to continue with the customer.
So, I walked away and towards the entrance of the building. Exhausted, I closed my eyes for a second, but found myself colliding with someone else.
“Pardon…” I said automatically, before realising that it was the man (who had called himself Tony) from the night/morning before.
“It’s you,” he said, as shocked as I was.
I almost snarled, but remembered to keep my temper in time; Tony, after all, was a customer.
“Don’t you ever lay off?” I gabbled quickly in straight French.
“Pardon?” He blinked dumbly at me for a couple of seconds.
“Will you stop following me!” I said slowly, and in English this time.
“I’m not!” He frowned, “I’m site-seeing. It doesn’t help that you happen to be in the same place as me!”
“Whatever you say…” I mumbled, starting to turn away, “Enjoy the gallery…”
And so, I gestured all around
“Hey…I’m sorry. What have I done wrong?” Tony side-stepped and I found that he was blocking my escape path.
“It’s not… I mean… You-”
But, I stopped mid-sentence, as my gaze caught sight of the front glass double doors with all the art fanatics or creative tourists pouring slowly in. I watched as the men, women and children became slow-motion characters; my eyes were centred on one of them, and one only.
“Oh, zut alors! Quick, hide me!”
Because the man I had least wanted to see there had just walked through the front door. He was the cute and handsome Johnathon Carter, also known as the lover who rejected me.