Count My Lies

Chapter 7

7

I brace myself when I walk into work the next morning, silently rehearsing what I’m going to say about yesterday. About Allison. I don’t know who she was, I’ve decided to claim, donning a perplexed look, my face a well of confusion. It was disturbing, I’ll agree, which is why I left. It’s a reach, but disgruntled clients aren’t entirely unheard-of; every so often there will be an outburst, a dispute over the bill, dissatisfaction with a service, a perceived slight, and voices will rise, hostile and accusatory. Then the scene fades. It’s over and the spa readjusts, settles back into its normal din. This doesn’t have to be any different from any of those other times. Who says it isn’t?

Chloe looks up from the computer when I enter the spa, a customer-ready sunshine smile on her face. When she sees it’s me, there’s a shift. Her smile falters. She seems nervous, eyeing me cautiously, like a deer in the middle of the road, staring into bright white high beams.

“Lena—?” I start, and Chloe shakes her head. “She’s not here. I don’t think she’s coming in today. She mentioned something about her sister being in town this week.”

I nod, relieved. I’d forgotten about her sister’s visit. Lena had been talking about it for weeks. It would be the first time they’d seen each other in almost two years. Something about an issue with her visa.

I offer Chloe an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” I say. “About yesterday. I think that woman must have thought I was someone else. It really freaked me out.”

“That was crazy ,” Chloe says. She seems to relax, her nervousness dissipating.

“I know .” I lower my voice and take a step closer to the reception desk. “That’s New York for you. Chock-full of lunatics.”

Chloe nods, agreeing. “She made a last-minute appointment. Said she’d been referred. If I had known—”

“You couldn’t have,” I say, interrupting her. “Let’s just forget about it.” I thumb toward my station. “I’m going to get set up.”

I smile at Chloe, pleased she believed my retelling of the afternoon, then go to grab my kit.

Already, the spa is loud and noisy. We’re booked with back-to-back appointments all morning, women wanting their fingers and toes to be just the right shade of pastel pink, fire-engine red. I should be focused. But I’m not. I’m distracted, reaching into my purse to check my phone, waiting for a message to appear, putting it into my pocket, taking it out again. I stare at the screen as if I can manifest her name if I try hard enough. I’m a broken record, my mind snagged on last night’s dinner, the evening playing and replaying, over and over.

By eleven, my stomach is in knots. I’ve had to redo two of the nails of the woman in front of me after I smudged her polish as I fidgeted, jiggling my leg as I worked. Why hasn’t she texted yet?

And then it vibrates, my phone buzzing against my thigh in my front pocket. I reach for it and grin when I see the alert. It’s a message from her. From Violet. A rush of elation floods through me. I quickly unlock my phone and open the text, scanning quickly.

Hi! it reads. So much fun last night, thanks for coming! I think you left your jacket here—a red flannel? Want me to drop it by your place?

I smile, my stomach fluttering. I wasn’t sure how long it would take Violet to find the shirt. I was starting to wonder if she’d even know it was mine. Before I left their house, I untied it from my waist, just as she turned to walk me out, her back to me, leaving it balled in the corner of the sofa, half tucked under a knitted throw pillow. It wasn’t obvious, a flash of red—the sleeve—barely visible.

Okay, I know how it sounds, I do, but I needed a reason for her to text me. Sure, she said she’d love it if I babysat for her, but I’m not the only person who lies. And people get busy—work, kids, errands that pop up unexpectedly—before you know it, it’s been a week, then two, a month, then six. She planned to call, but instead, I’d dissolve into her memory until I was blurry, out of focus, and then, even if she squinted, I’d be hard to make out. Who? she’d ask if Jay mentioned me, then— oh, right, the nurse. What was her name?

I couldn’t let that happen. She was too interesting, too nice. I didn’t want her to slip through my fingers. So I found a way she wouldn’t.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman in the chair, then turn off the nail lamp and hurry into the back. I need some space to figure out how to reply.

In the break room, I study my phone, biting a fingernail as I compose my response. I type and delete, type and delete. I want to get it just right.

Finally, I press send. My message says: Oh, sorry about that! Can I pick it up tomorrow morning? Maybe we could grab coffee?

I don’t have to be at work until eleven, so we’d have several hours to pick up where we left off. I hold my breath, waiting for her response. My lungs begin to burn. Then a message. I release the air, a smile spreading across my face.

When I read it, my face falls. Actually, tomorrow morning Harper has a doctor’s appointment.

Then my phone lights up again. Meet in the afternoon instead? Does 1ish work? Same park?

I do a silent cheer. Yes! I write back. I’d love to. See you tomorrow! One p.m. is smack in the middle of my shift, but I can’t say no. Not now, not at the beginning of the friendship, when it’s so fragile it could disappear with the slightest breath, like a dandelion, naked in the wind. No, “no” wasn’t an option. I’ll figure something out. Beg Natasha to cover for me or fake a phone call midmorning. It’s my mom , I could say, pale-faced, she needs me .

I return my phone to the front pocket of my scrubs and hurry back to the woman I’d left waiting. She gives me an irritated sigh when I sit down, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall, but I don’t care. I smile broadly at her, apologize for the delay. In fact, I can’t stop smiling. Not even when I get a ten-percent tip instead of my usual twenty. It was worth it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Natasha says when we have a break, a rare moment when both our chairs are empty.

I nod, grinning. “That guy just texted, the one that I went out with last week. He said he wants to take me out again tomorrow night.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said he was away on business.”

“He is,” I say quickly. Right, I had said that. “But he’s coming home early. One of his meetings was canceled, so the trip was cut short.”

She stares at me for a long beat before giving me a wistful smile. “Where’s he taking you this time?”

I shrug. “I don’t know yet. He said he’d pick me up at seven.”

“You’re so lucky. The last time I was picked up for a date was”—she taps an acrylic nail against her front teeth—“right, it was never.”

She’s right. I am lucky. Lucky that I’ve met someone as nice as Violet. “I know,” I say, nodding. “I keep wanting to pinch myself.”

On my way home, I pass by the small shop where I bought that necklace, the one I told Natasha was a family heirloom. I slow, something catching my eye. In the window is a mannequin, dressed in a bohemian floral-print dress, puffy sleeves and a high neckline, a leather bag hanging from the crook of her stiff arm. But I’m not interested in the dress or the purse. I’m staring at the wide-brimmed felt hat on her head. Almost the exact same hat that Violet was wearing at the park yesterday. It even has the same thin leather tie around the head, looped in a small bow at the back.

After a minute, I walk into the store. There’s a mechanical bell sound as the door opens. Ding-dong! The woman behind the desk looks up, smiling at me as a greeting.

I smile back. I start to wander, then turn back to the salesgirl. “That hat, in the window—” I say.

“The fedora? It’s so cute, right?” she says. “We have it in a few other colors, too. Here, follow me.” She hops off her stool and motions me toward the back of the store to a table with a variety of hats in different shades: tans, beiges, grays, and blacks.

“I’m going on vacation next week,” I say, walking behind her. “To Europe. I’ve been looking for a hat to bring.”

“How fun!” she exclaims. “I’ve never been.” She clucks regretfully, then sighs and picks up a caramel-colored one, the same as in the window—the same as Violet’s—and hands it to me.

I take it and offer her a sympathetic smile as if I can relate to her longing—which of course I can. I’ve never been to Europe, either.

“Try it on,” she says encouragingly. “It’ll be perfect for your trip.”

I unwind my hair from the messy bun on top of my head and smooth it down. It’s long, almost midway down my back; I haven’t been to a hairdresser in eons. Then, gingerly, I place the hat on my head, tilt the brim up like Violet had worn hers. The salesgirl points behind me, to a mirror on the wall. “Check it out.” Then, “I’ll be up front if there’s anything else I can help you with,” she says, starting back to the counter. Then she smiles. “It looks great on you, by the way.”

I turn toward the mirror. To my surprise, it does look good. The hat hides my frizz and frames my face flatteringly. I look more put together, more chic. I smile at my reflection. It’s nice to see myself like this.

I haven’t always been such a schlub. Not that I’ve ever been as gorgeous as Violet, but there was a time when I made more of an effort. Before I lost my job, my hair was usually trimmed (and combed), my clothes unwrinkled, blouses instead of T-shirts, slacks instead of baggy jeans. Venus de Milo I was not, but it was better than how I look now. Maybe I could look like that again. Maybe I could look better than before. More like Violet. And this hat could help.

I take it off and turn it over, examining it. The price tag reads eighty-five dollars. Christ.

I should put it back. I shouldn’t be spending my money on things like this. Last night I told Violet the truth about one thing: I am planning to get my own place. I have been for ages. In fact, I almost signed a lease. About eighteen months ago, now. It was a newly renovated studio in Brooklyn Heights on the third floor of a seven-story building, flooded with light. I had first and last months’ rent, the broker’s fee, but my application fell through. The management company wanted to call my employer. Had it been a month earlier, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but as luck would have it, I’d lost my job the Friday before my broker called to let me know they’d started my background check. I asked if I could just show my last two pay stubs, hoping it would be enough, but the answer was no. And even if it hadn’t been, without a job, there was no way I’d have been able to afford the rent. So poof, just like that, there it went.

I thought getting hired at Lena’s spa would put me back on track, but because so much of my income is in tips—an unreliable stream of revenue, according to my broker—I’m not the desirable applicant I once was. So I’m waiting, waiting and hoping, the deposit still in my savings. It’s why the idea of being a live-in nanny is so appealing: no background checks, no proof of income, just an invitation and an open door.

I run my thumb over the soft brim of the hat. I shouldn’t. But a moment later, I start toward the counter, the hat in my hand. I leave wearing it.