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“Professional,” she corrects. “I know him and Nash are friends, but Peter has never been all that friendly to me.”
When I first met Peter virtually, he’d been a referral from Nash, and when we’d spoken over the phone, he’d been open to a thorough makeover.
I’d done my research and knew how he dressed. Nash had been your typical tech bro, and Peter was, too, but with a European twist. Clients send me pictures of styles they like and want to emulate, and I use that as a guide to develop their personal style. I’d also given him resources and verbiage to use when he went to the salon.
I sigh. “He’s hard to get a read on. I think he looks great, but does he agree?”
“I’m sure he does. You are so good at your job,” Bea assures me. “The manscaping alone was a vast improvement.”
Telling a guy to wax his unibrow isn’t rocket science. That’s what my family would remind me, which has some extra sting because my sister Daria is, literally, a rocket scientist.
Bea sits up. “Where’s all his stuff?” She looks around as if an entire collection of clothes is hiding in this suite. It’s big, but it’s notthatbig.
“It’s in my room with Nash and Clara’s luggage for their trip to the Alps.”
“If you have the same room I do, yours must be full.”
“I’m just glad hoop skirts aren’t in style. A single one would take up half my closet. But even if they were, Clara wouldn’t wear them.” I loved dressing Clara because she was all about the classics. The Jackie O of our generation, without the politics.
Bea relaxes back down on the couch. Her champagne flute is almost empty.
“Enough about my plans. What about you?”
Her southern drawl is charming as she responds. “What would really be ‘the life’ is getting to stay here for the holidays. What I wouldn’t give to be joining Nash and Clara in the Alps.”
“Hang on.” I mirror Bea’s pose, propping my chin up on my hand. “You’d rather spend the holiday with your boss and his adoptive family, which includeshisboss, in a strange place instead of being with your family? I would say that I relate to this so hard, except your family is amazing.”
“My familyandmy ex.”
I groan. “Oh my god. I forgot that his family is besties with your family. You have to see him every year?”
“Yup. See, a Swiss chalet with my boss and his family sounds better than my Christmas plans.”
“Which are?”
“Tomorrow morning, I fly back to New York and drive to the same Podunk town we go to every year and rent a cabin big enough for our familyplushis. And if I dare complain, then I get reminded that we never should have dated in the first place.”
“Oof.”
“Oof, is right. Hence the need for libations,” she says, raising her glass.
Bea and I drink our champagne and poke around the hotel room. The best part is definitely the view. When we first got here, the bellhop who helped with our bags—there were a lot of them on account of all the clothes—pointed out that if we angled ourselves just right and looked down the Rhine River, we could see France on the left side and Germany on the right.
Even though it’s December 21st, there’s no snow on the ground. Being in a cozy Swiss hotel in winter without snow on the ground is like being in France and not eating a baguette or being in New York and not going to the Statue of Liberty—which, in true New Yorker fashion, I’ve never done—and the forecast says that a ton of snow will arrive on Christmas Eve, but by then it’ll be too late.
I’ll be back home in the Bronx with my parents and three sisters, probably sitting in the living room of our apartment, drinking hot cider and listening to them playAgricola, an annoying strategy game that my family loves to play.
Neither Bea nor I top up our drinks, and an hour or so later, when Clara and Nash arrive, it’s a flurry of activity, wishing each other Merry Christmas and exchanging warm hugs.
“Kara!” Clara exclaims, wrapping her arms around me.
I respond in the same tone in the way we’ve done for years. “Clara!”
She looks like a winter princess with her faux-fur lined duster I picked out for her last year and cheeks rosy from the cold. Clara sheds the coat quickly in the warm room and takes off the matching hat, revealing dirty blonde hair that’s compressed against her scalp. She needs a shower—they both probably do—before I style her hair.
“Hey, Kara,” Nash says, pulling me in for a sideways hug. “Merry early Christmas.”
Nash is tall and lean, with warm brown skin from his Arabic parents, just a few shades darker than my olive tones. His Roman nose and thick, wavy hair make him more serious than he is. Nash is a complete goner for Clara and has been for years.
