Page 12 of The Angel and the Agent

DC was an image-based city, and that worked out well for a stylist who made her living based on helping people with their image. Amelia swore to herself when she finally began to arrive, she would be frank with people, telling them honestly when she thought a desired look wouldn’t work for them. It wasn’t always easy, but she found people appreciated her input. No one wanted to look bad, and if she could somehow stop that from happening, they were willing to pay for her services.

This morning’s client was new to the salon and had been waiting for two months to get in. Amelia didn’t have much information on her other than the fact that her husband did something with the military. Like everything in DC, it wasclassified and therefore an open secret. For instance, Amelia wasn’t supposed to know her brother-in-law and sister were spies, but she did. Likewise Ethan had also recently delved into the world of espionage. Amelia knew what his job was, despite the fact that he pretended he worked for a private indexing firm, but she’d never called him on it.

When her client arrived, five minutes early, she turned heads, mostly because she was massively pregnant, so large she looked ready to pop. No wonder she’d been in such a mad rush to get in. Amelia greeted her warmly, offering a hot beverage or cold-pressed juice from the bar.

“No, thank you,” the woman, Jordan, said.

Amelia seated her and pulled up a chair beside her so they were face to face. The salon made a big point about individual attention. Each client got the stylist’s undivided devotion for as long as the appointment lasted so there was no feeling of being rushed, only of being valued and pampered. “Would you prefer I call you Mrs. Peterson?” Amelia asked.

“Call me Jordan, please,” the woman said.

“Jordan, what did you have in mind today? What would you like to have happen in our session?”

“Ideally I’d like some color, but,” she paused and pressed her palm to her swollen belly. “That’s going to have to wait a bit, according to my doctor. I guess what I’d most like is to feel pretty, despite the bloat and water retention. I need a refresh, a perk. I’ve gained sixty pounds this pregnancy, and my self-image is taking a beating.”

“Hmm,” Amelia said, nodding in sympathy. She wasn’t faking her pathos; she genuinely couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to gain so much weight in such a short amount of time. “You carry it well, it’s all baby. I would never have guessed how much you’ve gained unless you told me.”

“I’m not sure I believe you, but at least it’s for a good cause,” Jordan said, wincing and groaning as she shifted.

“Are you feeling all right? Can I get you a pillow or prop your feet to make you more comfortable?”

“I don’t think anything is going to help at this point. The contractions are seven minutes apart.”

Amelia froze. “You’re in labor?”

Jordan nodded. “But I’ve been waiting so long to get in, and I want to look good in the post-baby pictures, you know?”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I could rearrange my schedule to get you in post-baby. I’ll even come in on my day off,” Amelia said. She didn’t do well with people who were sick or in pain. And bodily fluids? Forget about it. It was the number one reason she hadn’t gone into medicine in college.

“I’m totally fine,” Jordan said. She gripped the edges of the chair and breathed deeply as another contraction took her.

That was way less than seven minutes apart,Amelia thought. But who was she to argue with a pregnant woman? “Let’s get started,” Amelia said. Her tone sounded rushed, but she couldn’t help it. The thought of someone having a baby in her chair terrified her. She washed Jordan’s hair, sweating as she tried to maneuver around the woman’s giant bump, wincing every time Jordan groaned and gripped the chair. A few surreptitious glances at the clock showed the contractions approximately three minutes apart, at least by Amelia’s calculations.

“Is this your first baby?” Amelia asked as she massaged Jordan’s hands with oil.

“Mm, hm,” Jordan said, breathing heavily through her nose as another contraction hit.

The hand massage portion of things was supposed to take a luxurious half hour, but Amelia only gave each hand five minutes. And at that her own hands were shaking.

“Do you have a name yet?” she asked as she stood and began to gently comb Jordan’s hair.

“Yes, but we’re not sharing until after he’s born,” Jordan said, teeth gritted.

Amelia was mirroring her tension. She felt as if everything inside her was clenched and in pain. This was by far the most stressful client encounter she’d ever had, and it had barely begun.

As the session continued, so did Amelia’s nerves and so did Jordan’s misery. Eventually she gave up on conversation completely and doubled over, moaning in agony. Amelia glanced around the salon uncertainly, hoping for a rescue, but no one seemed to notice what was happening, no one but her supervisor who motioned her over, an angry expression on her face.

“Amelia, what is happening with your client?” Petra snapped.

“She’s in labor. I seriously think she’s about to have her baby right here,” Amelia said. “Can I call an ambulance for her and force her to go?”

“Are you joking? How would that look if word gets out that we force our clients into an ambulance against their will? Just keep her happy, and keep her quiet.”

“But she’s inlabor,” Amelia said.

“Look, you’re new here, but I’m telling you that if she leaves here by any means but the door and with anything but a smile on her face, your head is going to be on the platter,” Petra said and turned her back, effectively ending the conversation.

The little talk did nothing to ease Amelia’s anxiety. In fact it inched up exponentially to the point she could barely hold the hair dryer and brush for shaking. And it was nearly impossible to dry the hair of a woman who was doubled over panting.

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