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Instead, I push my fingers a little further into my hair to see just how jacked up it really is. After some strategic tousling and a jaunty swoosh to the opposite side, I realize I could do a teased bombshell thing without too much effort. I mean, starting with dirty hair is pretty much on trend, right? I'm very fashion forward.
I put on a plastic shower cap, tucking the wandering strands under the elastic while I wait for the shower to heat up. I can at least wash my body, maybe slide a razor over the stubblier parts of my legs. I just had a wax so everything is pretty much okay right now, if you’re far enough away.
It's not like I'm going to fuck him, anyway. He probably won't be inspecting my bikini line for grooming faults, right?
“You are not that kind of girl,” I say aloud, reminding myself.
With only an hour and fifteen left to go, I plop my freshly showered bottom on my vanity chair and begin prepping my face for sultry glam vixen. That sounds like a decent look to go with the hair, right? I smear on few hundred dollars in free moisturizer and primer that I got from NYX and set to work, falling quickly into a sort of trance. I like to focus on the sweep of my brow line, the subtle rosy hue on my cheeks. Painting in the eyeliner wings gives me a kind of thrill, watching my face go from plain oval blandness to high contrast babe.
Not that I'm an actual babe, to be honest. I'm sort of run-of-the-mill. Plain brown hair, brown eyes, moderately clear skin. Standard issue lady face. But, as I have mentioned in at least two of my recent lifestyle articles, make up is a way of telling the world “Hey, lay off. I tried.”
People respond to that kind of confidence. They do. It’s like painting, almost. Or what I imagine artists do when they paint. It's kind of like showing everyone that you took control, at least a little bit.
A curling iron takes care of the swishy ends of my hair, turning it from rat’s nest to nineteen-sixties-inspired tousled hairdo. I like how in the ’sixties, everybody looked like they had sex hair. Like they just got out of bed after being properly jostled against the pillow for twenty minutes or so. Of course, it was the era of free love. Maybe they were all freshly fucked. Their lips are plump and pale. Their eyes are haunted. The ’sixties really were pretty terrific, from a fashion perspective.
This all helps me figure out my outfit too. I think I’ll wear a silk swing dress, the one with that crazy blue and green swirl pattern that I like so much. It looks kind of like the oil slick on the surface of a swimming pool that follows the teenage girl slathered in Bain de Soleil.
I slip it over my head and look in the mirror, swinging back and forth to let the loose fabric swish around me. I guess I’m presentable enough. First date appropriate, that's for darn sure.
First date with a billionaire.
A gorgeous billionaire, actually. He was voted Sexiest Man Alive two years in a row.
He’s been seen near-kissing with everyone from Lorde to Lady Gaga to Madonna, for Pete’s sake.
Ugh. I am going to be sick.
The simple truth is, I do not want to date this man, or any man. I do not want to do all of the typical getting to know you chatter: asking the questions, getting the answers. I do not want to memorize his birthday. I do not want to make a date where we meet each other's college friends in order to extend the diameter of our intimacy boundaries. I don’t want to do any of this crap. Sure it would be nice to have some sex, I think, admittedly a little wistfully, but it’s usually all wrapped up in emotion and that comes with a big price.
I just want to be left alone, planted in the middle of my couch, dictating my stories into my computer. Me and my virginity, by myself and at peace.
Is that really so much to ask?
Apparently yes. Hannah was crystal clear in her threat: do this, make it work, or be unemployed.
Again, I ask the mirror for advice. My flowy dress whooshes out as I turn from side to side. Am I billionaire-date material? No. I am a virgin in a turquoise dress with messy hair.
This won’t work.
Determined, I give it another try, rolling my shoulders back and leaning all my weight so that my hip juts to the side. I raise one eyebrow and suck in my cheeks, trying to think fierce thoughts.
Fierce
. Girl, you’re fierce. Roar.
To my surprise, it sort of works. I can show a little confidence, right? With my whole life on the line?
Come on, Bella, concentrate. Fake it til you make it, she said.
Definitely working. If I narrow my mind to only this goal, I can look the part. I’m smart. Shrewd. Focused. I am whatever I need to be to keep swimming, my head just above water.
Newly determined, I jam a couple of white leather stacked heels onto my feet and wobble back down the stairs to grab my blue beaded handbag that I think is under the dining room table for some reason, maybe the coffee table. I seem to remember half-punting it, last time I saw it.
As I get closer, I realize my phone is buzzing again. Another 800 number. Fucking terrific. I swipe left immediately and drop my phone into my bag.
And then I stop, forcing myself to count to ten.
“Bella, you’re going to slay this,” I tell myself aloud. “This is your job. Do your job. Write the story. Act like a pro instead of whiny little teenager. Go on the date like a normal human woman. A million other women in Chicago are doing this exact same thing tonight. Hike up your big-girl panties, and let’s go.”
