Page 9 of The Twins

“My name’s Liz. Carey’s patiently waiting for us inside!” The mom ushers us inside, but we both stare after Remo as he drives away. She does so in scrutiny while I stand there longing for my man.

Liz waltzes ahead of me in her dirty blonde pixie hair, high heels, and a cream shirt dress.

New clients tend to spend the first appointments introducing themselves and their needs from me. I wait for the waterfall of monologues to begin, and I shut down.

Liz Jean gives me a tour of her mansion. I’ve been to proper mansions, and this one’s not it, but I refrain from telling her. I yawn behind her back because I’m not here to be the recipient of house tours.

I’m a nail artist.

I don’t need to be bragged in front of.

“Here, have a look at my daughter’s closet. Doesn’t all of this scream emo? That’s scary, isn’t it?” Liz Jean twists her face as she caresses her daughter’s clothes. The disgust on her face alerts me, but I don’t act upon it. My mom never looked at my closet this way because I always dressed how she wanted me to dress.

An expensive slut. Ready for sale to the highest bidder.

Who ended up being a rapist mafioso.

I shrug.

“My daughter’s current employer, the Avra channel, doesn’t appreciate the eyeliners and the thick boots. They want her to learn how to wear heels and pink,” Liz explains. I flinch, and I hope for my sake that Liz is so self-absorbed that she didn’t notice. “I was hoping you could help us with that. You have a very feminine presence on social media.”

“I post what’s pretty,” I say, instantly regretting it…

“I agree! That’s what my daughter needs to see. Why all this darkness?” I’m already fucked up enough. The world doesn’t need to experience my darkness, Liz Jean. “Pink is fine, but purple is already too much!”

I don’t do small talk with strangers, much less new clients. I warm up to people, and eventually, I pretend to engage in their conversation.

I’m not in the mood to chat to the housemaker slash mini pop star manager.

An hour or two passes before we get to Liz Jean’s daughter’s room. Liz talked my ears off about the four bedrooms she has in this big mansion.

Boring.

“Carey, baby girl. Open up. Our new friend is here!” Liz cheerfully says in a singsong voice. It sounds like a Disney musical, but the horror version of it.

There’s no response from Carey Jean’s end. Her mom knocks on her door insistently, but she keeps quiet.

We spend thirty minutes waiting in front of her door until Liz Jean decides to take me down to the living room. I left my suitcase there, and she wants to discuss my nail art proposals.

I turn on my Grey-at-work mode. Imagining that Vegas sits behind Liz Jean, I fantasize how he’s listening to every word that I say. He does that in real life, so it’s not much of a fantasy… But it helps cope with the anxiety of speaking in front of strangers.

By the end of my presentation, I expect Liz Jean to have comments. She does, unfortunately.

I take note of it all because customer service, duh.

At some point, Carey Jean graces us with her presence, and her unnerving green eyes see through me. For one second, I feel exposed.

She knows.

How would she know?

Then she turns to her mom, and her sole focus, her energy, charges for that woman with wrath. The girl doesn’t move. It’s her eyes that do the work.

They let me know that I did well by coming here.

Charles and Remo were right to be worried.

Like her mom, Carey has pixie hair. In contrast to her mom, her hairdo doesn’t seem as polished. It’s not the dark shade of my hair—which is naturally dark chocolate. This is a blonde girl who dyed it black against her mom’s wishes and without access to her trust fund.

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