Page 7 of The Game

He blinks at me and laughs. “Why thank you!” He leans forward and whispers, “I’m starting to think that you’re less straight than you’re letting on.”

I chuckle. “I’m sorry to say I’m definitely straight. I’ve just never been that good with putting clothes together. I’m more of a faded tee and jeans type of guy.”

He purses his lips. “I have a friend, a stylist to the stars. I could put you in touch with her.”

I laugh. “I don’t think I’ve got that kind of profile … or money.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re red-carpeting with Anna! If you didn’t have any visibility before, you will after this.”

“Is she that big of a deal?” I don’t mean this in the insulting way it probably comes across. “I don’t know much about tennis,” I add. “I’ve heard of her but …”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Do you live under a rock, darling?”

“Very possibly,” I mutter.

“My friend will cut you a deal. She’s brilliant at finding inexpensive classics. She likes working with people who are up and coming.”

Up and coming?I can’t help the snort that escapes from my mouth.

“I’m just a nerd, really. Look …” I pull out my phone and drag up pictures of me in my office surrounded by electronic components and kits and dressed in an old T-shirt and jeans.

Serge’s eyes go round. “You’re in tech?” When I nod, he takes the phone from my hand and zooms in. “You scrub up well, though, and once we’ve finished with you today, there’ll be no holding the ladies back.” He squeezes my arm. “It can’t be all sitting behind a desk. You look pretty fit to me.”

I’m not offended by his upfront assessment, not at all. “I do jujitsu to keep in shape.”

I don’t want to tell him I started it so I could defend myself at school. I was a skinny, small guy. I’m still not that big, but I fight better now. And once the bullies found out I could go head-to-head with them, they left me alone. More or less.

He blinks.

“I was part of my college team. I used to compete,” I say. “I still do a bit.” I scratch my cheek. Something about Serge makes me want to reveal all my secrets. “You know what I really worry about is whether I smell like burning rubber. It’s the solder.”

“The solder?”

“We melt it to connect wires on electronic boards.”

He bends down and sniffs, then squeezes my shoulder. “You smell fine to me.”

Before I can say any more, a sharp-faced woman appears in the doorway, nods at Serge, and holds out her hand to me.

“I’m Anita. I’m here to do your makeup.” Her voice is slightly accented.

She unravels a large roll of brushes on the counter and unzips a multi-compartmented padded bag. The array of small pots and colors is dizzying.

“Do I honestly need makeup?” I say. I’ll look like a dick, surely.

She nods. “The way they light up the red carpet for the photographers andthe cameras? It’s actually like a stage. You’ll look strange in photos if you’renotwearing any. Don’t worry—you won’t be able to tell.”

“Really?”

She smiles. “Trust me. I’ve done hundreds of guys.” Serge meets my eyes in the mirror and bobs his head in agreement.

I watch her and my reflection as she rubs various creams followed by things with tints over my face. I can’t quite believe what’s happening to my skin: brighter, smoother, clearer. God, it’s impressive. This is why celebrities always look so polished.

At some point, Serge whips me off to wash whatever coloring thing he’s been doing out of my hair, and Anita threatens to cut his balls off if he messes with her work on my face. And then I’m back, being snipped and blow-dried and numerous products applied to my hair as Serge scrunches it.

A woman comes in with four shirts on hangers, all in slightly varying shades of dark plum.

“Ooh, nice,” Serge says, nodding. “Definitely his color.”

---