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“That’s the tricky part,” I sigh. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” she asks me and I see confusion in her eyes. She really doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Well, you. How do you do, you?” I ask, giggling at the weird question.
“Oh, that,” she laughs, too. “I just act as I feel. It’s easy.”
“Maybe for you.”
“You’re an introvert,” Vanessa tells me something I already know. My introverted nature isn’t what’s causing me problems. “You guys need to be pushed a little to go after your dreams. You don’t lack ambition; I mean you personally don’t. But, if mom and I didn’t push you to actually go ahead with this audition you would have already quit by now, right?”
I don’t need to say anything. She is right and she knows it, so I just smile.
“But it doesn’t matter,” she continues gently. “You just need to be careful. And, I’m here for anything you need. I could still try to get out of work for an hour or so and go with you, if you’d like.”
There’s nothing more I’d like than having her by my side, to be the keeper of my fear. But I know I can’t ask that of her. She has a serious job and the last thing I want to do is jeopardize it in any way. And besides, what would they think if she told them that she needs to be her adult sister’s keeper for a modeling job interview? It would make me look stupid, on top of incompetent. I need to do this on my own. No matter how difficult or scary it is, I need to do it. Me. Myself. No one else.
“I appreciate it, but I want to do this alone,” I nod at her, coming to terms with it.
“I’m proud of you,” she smiles.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” I chuckle, surprised.
“The very fact you’re here is enough for me to be proud of you,” she continues and I jump to wrap my arms around her. She returns the gesture.
I feel better than this morning and I know I’ve got Vanessa to thank for that.
Chapter 3
Cathy’s Cupcakes is a small, family owned cafe, where you can buy something to go or you can stay there and enjoy a nibble with a sip of delicious coffee. That’s what I read behind the barista, as he makes me a small latte, using a machine that looks like it could churn out mini robots, instead of just regular coffee.
As I look around, I see that the place is almost empty. There are two girls sitting at the table by the window and a guy with an overly bushy beard is reading the newspapers in the corner. There is a golden retriever by his feet, lying down obediently. No one seems to mind him and he seems not to mind anyone.
“Anything else?” the barista asks me, placing a dainty cup before me. It looks chipped, but a second glance assures me that it’s just an aesthetic purpose. Meant to look old, but actually new. I never understood that, but OK.
“I’ll have a blueberry muffin, please,” I point through the window as I speak and a moment later, I realize how rude that must have looked, pointing like that, so I quickly pull my finger back, like a gun with a loose trigger.
“Good choice,” he smiles at me and I just nod.
I pay exactly what he tells me and then, I take notice of the tip jar. I take out some change and try to put it inside, without it making too much noise. The second person in line behind me is already being served as I take my stuff and walk out. They have a little terrace that overlooks the street and I take a seat there. I’m the only one sitting outside. The rest are people who hurry past me, lost in thought and looking somewhere ahead.
I pour some sugar in my paper cup and check the time. It’s 8:55 a.m. Perfect. At least, they won’t be able to pin lack of punctuality on me, if worse comes to worst. I take a sip and it really is good. I love a cup of good coffee. There’s nothing like it. And, on such a nerve-wracking morning, it is more than welcome.
“Isabel?” I hear my name being said and a short, but smartly dressed woman approaches me.
She is wearing a pair of dark blue pants and her blouse is the color of summer peaches. It’s just see-through enough to entice someone’s imagination, but Victorian enough to be buttoned at the neck. It’s a strange combination, but I know it’s popular right now.
She sits down without being asked to, led by my quick, barely perceptible nod. Sh
e offers me her hand and I see a thick, gold colored watch on her left wrist. Her nails are short and red.
“I’m Hannah,” she says, even though I know her name. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Of course,” I nod again, feeling like a bobble-head. I try to remind myself to stop gesturing so much.
“You look much prettier than your photo,” she continues, eyeing me from top to bottom.
I immediately blush under her scrutiny, hiding my discomfort behind the sip of coffee I take.
