Page 72 of Rainstorm

And yet, I force myself to keep going, refusing to let this bring me down. I think about all the years we shared, the life we planned, and try to focus on the many good times we shared. Of course we used to fight like any normal couple, but we always found a way to make things right, to compromise and reach a peaceful agreement.

Then we would seal those agreements with kisses, with intimate caresses. And love. Always with love.

I keep asking myself, where did all of this go wrong? But I can never work out the answer.

Friday arrives, and everyone at work is in a good mood because we’re hosting a cocktail party this evening for a new brand we’ve just signed up, and all the models will be attending to show off and embellish the occasion.

“You’re coming aren’t you, Roselynn?” Oliver asks as he leans against the doorframe at the office. “It’ll do you good to get out, get dressed up, and meet some new people.”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” I reply, pasting a smile on my no doubt rather wan face, not wanting to seem unenthusiastic about supporting the agency.

But as I’m driving home later, I really wish I’d refused the invitation, not feeling in the mood for a party. But I know Oliver is right, I am in dire need of a change.

I roll down the window to get some fresh air and cool down my thoughts. I’m so pissed off. I want to cry. I want to punch Chase in the face and knock his teeth out for making me feel this way. That’s the least he deserves.

I’m surprised to find my anger energizes me, jolts me out of my funk, and makes me want to kick Chase’s sorry ass instead of moping around. I decide to go with the flow, and use this energy to make today the day Chase Holland regrets what’s he’s thrown away.

I’ve already taken the first steps in setting up my new life; I have a great new job and I’m actively looking for my own condo. The next logical step is to get myself a completely new image, reinvent myself, have a total makeover.

So I take the next exit on the freeway and head toward East Village, where fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in a chair in a trendy hair salon with Gloria, my enthusiastic stylist, about to take charge of my desperate situation.

“What did you have in mind today?” she asks my reflection as she stands behind my chair.

“I want a complete change, so surprise me.” I grin back at her in the mirror. “You’re the expert so I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Okay! Let’s have a look at you then.” She turns the chair and runs her fingers through my hair, sweeping it this way and that before she makes a start, while I try to ignore my nerves and hope I’m not going to regret giving her free rein. My hands are clammy and I swear a drop of cold sweat is running down my back. Dear Lord, what am I doing? No, I should be excited, this is exactly what I need. A whole new me.

It’s almost eight by the time Gloria finally removes the black cape and swings the chair around, allowing me to look at my reflection.

I blink.

And blink again.

I look at myself once again in the big mirror, feeling as if the woman reflected there can’t possibly be me.

She looks beautiful.

Gloria has cut my hair into an angled bob with some bangs to frame my eyes, and she’s also put in some highlights, which give my hair volume and shine.

It’s very different.

And I freaking love it.

This is exactly what I needed to become the new me, the woman I’m building back up from the foundation, to replace the broken down old version.

I almost have a heart attack when I’m presented with the bill for my new look, but what the hell.

It’s worth it.

I’m worth it.

And anyway, I can justify it on the grounds that my job at a modeling agency requires me to make the best of myself, to present a decent image, doesn’t it?

So there’s no place for regrets and no turning back.

Bring the party on.

???

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