CHAPTER TWO – ANOTHER INTERVIEW
Kat
I’m back at Sweet Lies, and take a deep breath because am I really ready to do this? Simone’s warning rings in my head but I push it out of my brain. If I want to move beyond my barista life, then I have to do this.
Besides, what Simone doesn’t know is that after I signed the electronic NDA, a thousand dollars was deposited into my bank account.
I wasn’t even sure where it came from at first. But the agency has my name and contact info from the NDA, and they must have pushed it through given that these days, the only thing you need is a phone number to transfer money.
I swallowed, looking at my screen, and swallowed again.
It’s a lot of cash, just for an NDA. No matter what it takes, I should see this through because who knows how much is in the pot of gold at the end?
Still, I have misgivings because even the Sweet Lies office gives me chills—too sleek to feel real, the kind of place where if you bled out on the tile, you’d vanish before the next client’s arrival.
The lobby is empty except for the receptionist from yesterday, a woman with the face of a soap opera villain and the voice of a GPS.
She eyes me as if I’m a misplaced package: curious, but not her problem.
My hair—powder pink and still damp at the roots—feels out of place in this setting.
The walls are a silent, gleaming white, the art on them nothing but minimalist lines, as if daring you to find a speck of character.
The floor shines. I do a double-check of my reflection in the glass doors.
Sweater: navy today. Trousers: as close to business casual as Target allows.
My boots are scuffed, and that’s probably going to lose me points.
“Ms. Vreeland?” the receptionist says, her vowels crisp enough to cut glass.
“Yes?” My voice is an octave lower than last time I was here. I clear my throat.
She gestures to a single orange chair by the far window. “Please wait. Ms. Reyes will see you momentarily.”
I drop into the chair and immediately want to evaporate. My thighs spill over the seat. The city outside reflects off the glass, making it look like I’m sitting in the middle of a commercial. I rest my tote in my lap, clutching it like a life vest.
The silence is surgical. Even my breath feels too loud.
I check my phone—no new texts, of course—and scroll through the NDA again, just in case I missed a clause about something important.
The language is dense, but the terms are clear: confidentiality is everything.
Also, the salary is very, very real. Five grand a month, direct deposit.
“Ms. Vreeland?” The voice snaps me upright. Camille Reyes glides into the lobby again, all five-two of her wrapped in a grey suit. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun that lifts her features. She carries a slim tablet and a pen that costs more than my rent.
She looks at me, and smiles.
“Thank you for your punctuality,” she says. “If you’ll just follow me.”
“Of course,” I say, rising and instantly wishing I hadn’t, because standing next to Camille, I look like I was grown in a different climate. She is small and severe and moves like she’s always three steps ahead of everyone else, whereas I’m a lumbering giant by comparison.
We pass through a corridor lined with frosted glass offices, every single one empty or populated by people in business casual, looking very important.
Camille stops at a glass-walled conference room and gestures me inside. “Please, have a seat.”
The table is clear but for a single tablet and a bottle of premium water.
The chair is better than any chair I’ve sat in, and I sink into it gratefully.
I glance at my reflection in the glass—my hair is already untangling from its half-bun, little pieces sticking out like antennae.
I try to smooth them, then realize it’s hopeless.
Camille sits across from me, opens the tablet, and taps it a few times.
“Thank you for completing the NDA,” she says.
“I appreciate your responsiveness, and of course, that means we can proceed to the next phase. As I said, the client demands absolute discretion, making it difficult even to interview sometimes.”
I nod, suddenly thirsty. I open the water bottle and take a sip.
“Do you have any questions about the position?” Camille asks, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Yes,” I say, because if there’s ever a time to ask, it’s now. “The ad said ‘personal assistant,’ but I just want to make sure. Is this, like, a… companionship thing? Or just professional?” My face is flaming, and I instantly feel stupid.
Camille lifts her eyes, but her expression is smooth and unbothered. “The position is professional, of course. But the client is particular about aesthetics as a working artist, and you were selected for your fit with those preferences.”
I almost laugh. “You mean because I look like a failed e-girl?”
“On the contrary,” Camille says, and this time there’s the faintest hint of a smile. “You present as vibrant, approachable, and youthful. The client finds that appealing. However, there are some conditions before we proceed.”
I brace myself.
She taps the screen again. “First: your hair. We believe that your natural color suits you best, and prefer that you return to it. You’re a blonde, no? We can recommend a salon, or reimburse costs.”
I look down at my hands. My hair is my one visible act of rebellion, and it’s about to get erased for a paycheck. “Is that negotiable?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Camille shakes her head, not unkindly. “It is not.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. “Yes, I’m a natural blonde and I can go back.”
“Excellent. Thank you. Second,” she continues, “we’ll need to take some photos once your hair is blonde again.”
I pause.
“But why?”
She shrugs.
“All employers do this. For security purposes, so that we have your face in the system, that kind of thing.”
I take a long drink of water, stalling for time.
Camille watches me, hands folded on the table, posture flawless. “Is this a problem?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
She closes the tablet and leans in, elbows on the glass. “You’re getting into a very lucrative arrangement, Ms. Vreeland. The client is a literary figure of international renown, and if you’re hired, you will be very well compensated. If not, there are many applicants waiting.”
The power dynamic is suddenly so clear, it makes my skin hot.
I force a smile. “Sure, photos,” I say, and I mean it. Or at least, I want to. “For security purposes.”
Camille seems satisfied. She stands, smoothing her skirt. “Perfect. I’ll have the receptionist send some salon recommendations to you, and then please return tomorrow once your hair is done. We’ll take the photos then.”
I nod and swallow, my fingers numb. “That’s it?”
She nods. “That’s it. I’m sorry you’ve had to come in so many times already, Ms. Vreeland, but as you can see, our vetting procedures are arduous for a reason. We want the best, and it takes many rounds to winnow the candidate pool. Please, let me know when you’re ready for your photos.”
I manage to smile and nod, before exiting the building.
I walk out into the cold, bright city, the sun like a searchlight. In the reflection of the glass, I see myself: a pink-haired girl with a future she can’t quite believe in yet. But I don’t want to get rid of the pink hair! It’s me!
A ping sounds on my phone then, and sure enough, another one thousand dollars was just deposited in my account. It seems that rich people can do, and will do anything, to get what they want. There’s simply no stopping the train.
I swallow because I haven’t even been hired, yet I’ve already made two thousand dollars.
But now, I’m even more determined to see the process through.
When I get home, I throw myself onto the sagging futon, and stare at my ceiling, mentally calculating the value of each dyed lock.
Tuition: $2700. Rent: $780. Groceries, utilities, one (1) functional pair of boots.
It’s math, but it’s also a referendum on my entire identity.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Camille’s face, the way her gaze didn’t even flicker when she said “return your hair to its natural color.” Like pink was a temporary error.
Like she could see straight through to the wheat-blonde underneath and knew that was who I was supposed to be.
I flip my phone over and stare at the screen. No texts from Simone. For a second, I debate calling my mom, but I can already hear the speech: “Be yourself, unless you can be better.” I don’t need that right now.
I pad over to my bathroom and stare in the mirror.
My roots are showing—a good half-inch of blonde—but the rest is bubblegum, faded at the ends from too many cheap box dyes.
Fortunately, my skin looks creamy under the bathroom light, and my blue eyes are a clear cornflower color.
I touch my pink strands, twirling a lock between my fingers.
I try to picture myself with “normal” hair, and suppose going back to blonde should be okay. After all, it’s just hair and hair always grows back.
When I show up at the salon recommended by Sweet Lies the next morning, the front desk woman greets me by name, which is unnerving. She leads me to a chair in the back, where a colorist with the arms of a linebacker and the voice of a preschool teacher waits.
“Golden or ash?” she asks, patting my scalp with alarming gentleness.
I smile.
“Whatever you think best.”
She nods, eyeing my hair.
“We’ll need to strip the pink, then tone. It’ll be a few hours, hon.”
“Okay,” I say, then settle in to wait. For the next three hours, I’m trapped in a cloud of fumes, reading old gossip magazines and listening to the colorist’s monologue about her rescue chihuahua. I lose all track of time until she finally spins me around to face the mirror.