Chapter 8

I’m tired after my workout, meal, and hot bath yet I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ve never been a
good sleeper, not since childhood, as far as I can remember anyway. I have vivid dreams that make no
sense, full of darkness and anxiety that leave me ravaged upon awakening. Working out before bed
helps but doesn’t eradicate them and I’ve learned to live on the erratic, fretful sleep I do get. I still wish I
could sleep like a normal person but I know that I may never lose the night terrors; my mind just can’t
let go of the past no matter how hard I try to move on.

My cell vibrates, I jump with a small surprise noting it’s a text from Margo. I’ve been waiting for my job
to infringe on me outside of regular working hours; I know they’ve been going easy on me so early into
the promotion. I wonder if this is the start of full on PA mode.

Emma. I need you in an hour early tomorrow, you’ll be paid overtime. There will be a car for you, so
you won’t be late. You’re meeting Donna Moore. x

That’s fine, Margo. Thank you. I reply instantly, uneasily.

This side of the job is new to me; Working early/late and specific outfits— the executives I handled on
the lower floors weren’t as important, I suppose. I’m aware that working directly for a Carrero is a whole
different ball game and in a way, I’m eager to start properly. I need a new challenge as things on the
tenth floor had become stale and predictable.

* * *

The car arrives bright and early next morning, a black four by four; a typical Carrero choice and the
driver is dressed in a black suit similar to the security who had been in Jake’s office. Their appearance
makes me roll my eyes; aware the guy just loves all things black. I have since learned the guard that
day was Arrick Carrero’s personal bodyguard; Jake doesn’t seem to require such things apparently.



Dressed in cream slacks and a dusky pink, silk blouse; a present from my mother for my birthday which
isn’t until next week, but she mailed them early to be sure I got them. I don’t celebrate my birthday and
Sarah knows not to even mention it when it comes around. I was surprised by my mother’s gift as she
doesn’t normally bother, but for some reason, she did this time. I felt too guilty not to wear them.

They’re not as crisp and tailored as my usual attire but still passable and I’m obliged to put them on at
least once as I know how expensive they must have been. I hate that she felt the need to buy me
things like this. Motherly guilt of some sort no doubt. It’s her style, not mine, but she has tried.

My mother is an eternal hippy; romantic frivolity is more her forte and part of her appeal to men. Even
in her forties, she’s still attractive and men find her desirable although the less I think about my
mother’s taste in men the better. I shake away that memory, pushing down the revulsion in my
stomach.

The car drops me at the familiar building; it’s gray and wet this morning and there’s a cold nippiness to
the air. New York is coming up for a season change.

I run through the necessary security passes before I’m on the sixty-fifth floor; the building is eerily quiet
due to the early hour. Shivering, I pull my wool coat further around my shoulders to try to warm up
although the building has state-of-the-art temperature control.

Margo greets me at the office door with a blonde woman clad in expensive clothes and an air of
seductiveness. Tall graceful and dressed all in red, Margo introduces her as Donna Moore the personal
shopper and informs me I’m to be measured. Mr. Carrero insists that his closest staff receive this perk
as his public image often sees him on red carpets and at the center of media interest. He expects
anyone who might accompany him to be appropriately dressed, always.

His father cashed in on his son’s natural sex appeal from an early age using him as the front man for
their range of high-end grooming products and aftershaves, which means a never-ending media



interest. The boy is basically a super model for his own company. Still New York’s poster boy, even
now, he can’t seem to move without a camera flash or adoring fan appearing from nowhere.

I stand on a stool feeling hugely uncomfortable at her invasive measuring as she flits around me with a
tape and questions me on things I wear, colors I like, and such. She pulls out her cell and snaps a few
pictures of me from all angles. Unhappy with the images, she fusses at me to untie my hair. I hold my
patience and irritation in check and follow her instructions. I’ll never get it back in its sleek style without
a lot of effort.

There goes another day enduring it around my face and having everyone croon about it. Just great!

“For my file, darling … So I remember your beautiful coloring and bone structure, and how you look
with your masses of soft hair.” She smiles at me, eyes dazzling like a kid at Christmas. I’ve no idea why
that’s a necessity at all.

“I love your hair down.” Margo smiles at me, eyeing me up and swooping in with a soft tone.

“It makes a world of difference, Emma, really, it softens your whole face.” She regards me with a warm
expression and keen eye which adds another layer of uncomfortable to my mood.

“You don’t think it’s unprofessional?” I smart. I want them both to back off and stop scrutinizing me,
making me nervy.

“Nowhere in the office uniform manual does it say—have your hair tied up like a school mistress.” The
two women giggle rather surprisingly, killing the whole aura of mature professionals.

“We work in a very high-profile business that requires a certain attention to image.” The heat in my
cheeks rises with irritation, at the giggling, and the fuss over my hair.



“Emma, darling, do you realize how gorgeous those waves are? You’ve such a lovely color of hair, like
pale autumn leaves.” Donna chirps over enthusiastically.

I lock eyes on her blankly, trying not to dredge up images of moldy sodden black and brown splodged
leaves on the New York paving stones last fall. Ignoring how uncomfortable I am looking “softer”.

“She’s right, Emma. I think you look so much more natural and pretty like this. I think Jake agreed
yesterday.” Margo says a twinkle in her eye. A hint of a mischievous smile lurking.

“Did he now?” I scowl, sarcasm light, meeting with amused looks. Ignoring the warm sensation deep in
the pit of my stomach.

“Oh, I adore your pout … You’re adorable,” Donna gushes and I sigh, realizing arguing is a lost cause.
Donna is grinning at me in a mother hen kind of a way and it’s the first time I notice the lines around her
eyes, giving away a slight hint to her age. Margo is just encouraging it.

“Emma, I merely meant that you do seem a little severe and uptight when your hair’s back. I know
that’s ironic, considering how I look, but you’re young and pretty. You’ve a natural beauty that you
shouldn’t hide. It doesn’t make you look incapable.” She’s gushing all over me.

“I look like a child like this.” My temper is fraying, only too aware how young having my hair loose
makes me look.

“Well, doing that, you do!” Margo yanks my hair from my fingers and I flush, realizing I have been
tugging at a strand under the scrutiny of two overbearing women. Annoyed and slightly embarrassed at
being caught unawares.

Crap … This is them … Anxiety! Making me feel pressured, putting me on a stand and fluffing around
me, knocking me off kilter.



Taking my hair down is like undressing me.

“Yeah, just don’t do the hair twirling and lip pouting.” Donna nods in agreement, studying me with a
finger on her chin.

“You’re a woman child … It’s surprising.” She laughs genuinely, but it only chafes my already frayed
temper.

I don’t need the hair twirling pointed out, thanks very much. I know how bloody stupid it is!

Teen Emma scurries to hide from my glaring wrath inside the depth of my head.

“Oh, to be that young and beautiful again!” Donna sighs, but Margo throws her a shocked look
exclaiming that she’s gorgeous and they go off on a tangent of how fabulous each other are. I find it
tiresome. It’s like I’m in the twilight zone.

“Okay, I’ll start on your wardrobe darling. Margo has given me a list of the events you need to attend,
and some work basics. I’ll be back by the end of the day.” She waves her hands in excitement.

“We shall trust your judgment, Donna,” Margo gushes and we watch as she sweeps out in a flurry of
red chiffon and a clip clop of heels. The cyclone that is Donna Moore. The energy in the room calms
and I almost sag with relief.


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