two
The next morning, I’m literally watching paint dry. And trying to ignore my hangover. The sound of impatient pacing feet echoes throughout my client’s living room, yet somehow, she’s not making the paint dry any faster. The samples that I’ve thrown on her wall are nearly identical. Blue is blue is blue. But Mrs. Crane is going to disagree with me.
An exasperated sigh from my client practically blows the hair off of my sweaty shoulders. “You must have something to say. This is my living room, and the color we choose is crucial in setting the right atmosphere. Amelia Price next door went with a green that is the color of a molding lime, and I can’t even think about going to one of her parties and having that vile shade reflecting over my skin.”
The eleven paint swatches in front of me look identical. Totally freaking identical. I scramble to come up with any sort of commentary. “Well…blues can be tricky.”
“Tricky? I know they’re tricky! That’s why I had Paint Your World send you here!” She jabs a finger at paint swatch number four. “This one is a possibility, don’t you agree?”
I glance at my clipboard. “HL-three-eight-seven-six-three.”
Mrs. Crane turns and scowls at me. “Not thenumber. Thename. What is the name of this color? That’s important too. There’s no way I’d pay money for a color with an unpalatable name. Like, there will be no Bosom of Bluebells in my house.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s actually a color.” I look down and frantically flip pages. It’s almost ninety degrees in Beverly Hills today, but that’s not why I’m sweating. I’ve got to get out of here.
I work at a paint store. I sell paint; I mix paint. End of story. I’m not exactly da Vinci, so why my moron of a boss sent me, of all people, out for this consult is beyond reason.
“How about Grecian Morning Sky Passion?” Somehow, I manage to say this without laughing. I step forward, make myself smile, and hold my palm up under the wall sample of GV-49228, like I’m a game-show hostess trying to wow a contestant with an air fryer or a unicycle.
“Sell me on this color,” my client demands as she lowers her glasses and squints back and forth between me and the Grecian-nonsense swatch. “You have thirty seconds.”
A stream of nervous bullshit flies out of my mouth. “What could be more perfect? Who doesn’t find Greece to be a top travel destination? You know, all those white houses and ocean views. Plus, the name has the wordmorningin it, and mornings…mornings are all about coffee and eggs Benedict and mimosas. Looking out at the sky is always nice. Not on the smoggy days, obviously. That’s not pretty.”
Mrs. Crane’s frown is not helping me here.
“And then passion? Er, who doesn’t like passion, if you know what I mean? Morning passion, right?” Then, unable to stop myself, as though my body were not my own, I give an exaggerated wink.Oh God, what am I doing?
Mrs. Crane folds her arms. “I’m allergic to eggs. I think we’re done here.”
I give a meek wave when I slink out to my car and leave the disastrous consult. By the time my air-conditioning fights through the soaring temperatures, I’ve already wiped my forehead five times. It’s only eleven a.m. And I’m sweating vodka, so that’s cool.
When I return to work, my boss, Lewis, is fussing over a display of brochures touting paint shades that will give a house the Victorian appeal it deserves. Los Angeles is not exactly littered with Victorian houses, but Lewis has been so enthralled by this line of paint that he even made me spend two hours helping him assemble a three-dimensional miniature wooden house, each detail highlighting one pastel color after another.
“Hi, Lewis!” I say brightly as I breeze past him to set my sample bag in the office. “Well, I think that went very well! Mrs. Crane is considering a number of options, but we narrowed it down to a few exceptional choices. I’m leaning toward one in particular—”
“You can cut the bullshit, Callie. She called.”
Shit.
I take a few deep breaths before I turn to face him. Lewis is only a few years older than I am, but at twenty-six, he’s found his calling as the manager of this boutique paint store. He takes everything about working here way too seriously, so I’m pretty sure that whatever Mrs. Crane told him has been added to the growing list of what he considers are my monumental screwups.
A salty glare bores through me, and Lewis pushes up the sleeves of the baggy V-neck sweater that hangs over his skinny frame. It reeks of the ammonia-like cologne sprayed throughout his favorite clothing store. I pray he doesn’t get closer to me, or I might not be able to stop from gagging.
“Listen, Callie, you’ve been here for over a year and a half. You should be able to handle a simple color consult.”
“I tried,” I say with false enthusiasm.
“In that case, we both have more to be disappointed about than I thought. If you don’t like working here, then maybe you should try going to college, like most people your age.”
Most people my age would be on the verge of graduating. Struggling at community college didn’t do much to bolster my ego.
I smile halfheartedly. “Maybe I’m not cut out for home visits. I’m sure that’s where you shine though, right? You’re so creative, all that thinking-outside-the-box visionary…drive…” My sad attempt at ass-kissing does nothing to change his expression, and I’m literally saved by the bell when the door jingles as a customer enters.
“What is it with you and your absolute refusal to refer to the paint colors by their names?” he whispers. “A team of marketing people worked long and hard to come up with enticing names, ones designed to appeal to buyers, and there you are, all robot-like, yammering, ‘B-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven!”
“That’s not even an identifying number,” I point out.
“That is not the issue!” Lewis becomes visibly unglued, waving his hands about and rolling his eyes. “The issue is that you act like this is a bingo hall! Or a math store!”
