Page 77 of The Encore’s Crown

“It was full of beautiful hotels, ridiculous food, private clubs, temples, luxury. Obviously I missed the rain and concrete of Seattle terribly.”

Her mouth twitches. Denise has been placing me in temporary jobs for nearly two years and still fights every smile like it might damage her face.

“Are you certain you can spare us lowly beings your professional presence?”

“My bank balance doesn't care about my misery. Until posting my face online pays every bill I have, I’m back in the game.”

“You say that every time.”

“One day it’ll be true. Prepared and pretty, it's a devastating combination.”

That finally wins the smallest smile out of her. Denise knows I can sell, show up on time, charm difficult clients, and survive jobs other temps abandon after two shifts. She also knows I get bored easily, which is why she usually saves the public-facing placements for me.

She clicks into another listing. “I might have something that suits you. Lustre Beauty downtown.”

I sit up slightly. "Lustre? They rarely have openings. People retire at a place that high-end.”

“One of their senior artists had spinal surgery. They need coverage for three months.”

“Application and consultations?”

“Along with sales, stock, cleanup, shade matching, appointments. Weekends required.”

“Sounds perfect.”

It doesn’t. Nothing sounds perfect. Perfect is in another country, probably asleep or drunk or pretending he didn’t tear something out of me and leave me alone to patch the empty space. But Lustre will be busy. It has lights, music, expensive products, and strangers who need things from me. That might be close enough.

Denise studies me. “They’re particular about presentation,” she says. I blink slowly. Her eyes move over my hair, makeup, fitted black sweater, then back to my face. “Which shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I'll try my best.”

She sighs and reaches for the phone.

I have the job by five.

Lustre Beauty takes up half a city block downtown. The building is a monument to smoked glass, polished black floors, and enough strategic lighting to make everyone look recently resurrected. The displays glow beneath soft white shelves. Perfume hangs in the air with setting spray, powder, and the chemical sweetness of unopened products. It puts me at ease immediately.

The manager, Celeste, wears a headset and the expression of a woman who has been disappointed by every employee she has ever hired. She walks me through the store at a speed that suggests stopping is for the weak.

“Skincare is along the east wall. Fragrance in the back. Prestige color in the center. We don’t hover, but we don’t let clients wander unattended either. Shade matches need to be documented. Sanitation between every application. No personal products on the floor. We don’t take personal calls unless it’s an emergency.”

Within ten minutes, I know exactly who hates me.

It’s never difficult. There’s the girl at the Dior station who looks me up and down, then checks her own reflection. Another near fragrance watches Celeste compliment my base makeup and presses her lips together so tightly they disappear. I’ve never understood being jealous of someone’s face. It’s not like I built this thing myself. I didn’t choose the bone structure or the hair and my breasts aren't from a catalog. All I did was learn what to do with what I was given. Anyone with internet access and enough spite can master contour, don't blame me if you can't be bothered, Gertrude.

At least a few of the girls are nice. Melina works skincare and has perfect glassy skin that makes me distrust everything she says about stress. Janae is covered in tiny tattoos and knows more about lipstick undertones than most scientists know about their own research. Then there’s Suri, who clocks me within an hour. She watches me finish a shade match on a woman who swears she’s neutral despite being blatantly olive-toned, then waits until the client leaves.

“Impressively handled, newbie,” she says. “I swear I know you from somewhere.” She narrows her eyes. “Do you know Ryder?”

I keep my face smooth. Ryder. Seattle is an enormous city until someone mentions a man you once let kiss you, and then suddenly everyone lives in the same six rooms.

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “We go way back”

We'd moved in the same social circle for years while he begged for a chance to take me on a date. Cuffing season approached, so then we went sideways for a few weeks at Christmas until I realized his personality was mostly hair and access to guest lists. Suri’s entire face changes. That distant little glow. Recognition transforming into possibility.

She likes him.

Maybe she’s slept with him. Maybe she wants to, or she's built an entire imaginary relationship out of three conversations and the fact he once remembered her drink order.