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The hotel room door is still open, and Peter Toch steps into the room.
Seeing Peter for the first time in person is a combination ofwow, that man is seriousanddamn, I’m good at my job.He’s wearing an outfit I put together for him, and now that I can see him in real life, little details stand out that I hadn’t noticed before, like how soft his hair is and how dark his eyes are.
The most striking thing about Peter is his jawline. When I first met with him virtually, one recommendation I made was to trim his facial hair back to stubble and show it off. It could cut glass—a nice stylist pun since he has a diamond-shaped face.
I squee a little inside, thinking about how I get to touch him over the next twenty-four hours.
In a totally professional sense, of course.
Peter is myclient. Anything else would be inappropriate.
And, keeping with mytotally appropriate thoughts,I offer him my hand. “Peter, great to meet in person.”
“Hello, Kara. It’s good to see you.” Peter is soft-spoken, with a mild accent. After talking with him, I had done a bunch of furious Googling since I knew nothing about Switzerland beyond cheese, chocolate, and banks.
He shakes my hand, his eyes serious, taking in the room. Peter lives in Zurich, which is an hour away, so I wonder if he’s ever stayed in Basel before. He’s got his own room, and when I tell him that his suit is there, he just nods again and then leaves while I’m distracted by a question from Clara.
I hope I’ll at least get to see him dressed before they leave.
Clara and I slip into our easy routine that we’ve perfected over many galas and charity dinners: she showers, washing her hair, and emerges from the bathroom in a robe to beckon me in. I blow dry, style, paint, and then help her wriggle into her dress and make sure she has whatever undergarments she needs. I have a stash of sheer tights if it’s going to be too cold, pasties if she’s worried about a nip slip, bobby pins, safety pins, nail polish, deodorant...anything Clara might need.
Of course, she doesn’t carry it. Bea does.
Nash dresses in an all-black suit with hunter-green accents. It is a Christmas-themed event, and Clara’s dress is the same hunter-green with accents of white.
It’s nostalgic for me to chat with Clara while we talk about her flight here. She used to fly in for an event from exotic destinations, and I’d hear about months of adventures.
Last year, around this time, Clara backed off on her traveling and moved in with Nash, turning her focus more toward inner-city experiences instead of globetrotting. Her blog,Worth Going,is now the platform she uses to explore the diaspora of New York. My parents, who emigrated our family to the US in the 1980s, even helped her out once, introducing her to some of the Bulgarian community in the city.
“How are your parents?” I ask after I’ve heard all about the flight connection in Paris.
“Good. Dad and Uncle D say hello and ask if you aresureyou don’t want to crash our family Christmas?”
I laugh. Clara’s two dads—Craig and Rolf, whom Clara calls Uncle D—know how much being the black sheep of my family pains me. But if I didn’t come home for Christmas, I’d never hear the end of it.
“I’m sure. Besides, I may have to deal with my family, but that’s better than being the seventh wheel at a romantic Swiss chalet.”
Clara makes a face. “My niblings will be there.”
I give a rogue lock of hair a teasing tug before I pin it back into place. “I wish I could. Molly, Ricky, and Benny are way more well-behaved than my sisters’ kids.”
“Ah yes, the Dobreva grandchild hoard.”
Clara’s wry look makes me grin. My parents love being grandparents. But us Dobreva girls were always driven to excel at school and achieve the best in our careers, not necessarily to be the best parents, and my niblings are...a lot.
For my sisters, who have jobs at Lockheed Martin, Google, and Heartly, they rely a lot on my parents to babysit, and my parents spoil their grandchildren rotten.
Yup, my youngest sister, Tanya, works for Nash’s company. That’s how I got the job styling him, and she never lets me forget it.
“Trips like these are great because if I’m not in the city, I can’t babysit. Guess whose ‘flexible schedule’ and ‘frivolous job’ have her being voluntold to babysit?”
I put a safety pin in my mouth and nudge Clara’s arm up. She obediently raises it while I see if I can get the fabric tucked in a little further to get rid of a weird shadow at her hip.
When my mouth is free again, I finish my thought. “Kids are the worst.”
Clara glances over her shoulder at me, but something behind me catches her eye. “Well, well. Look how nicely Peter cleans up.”
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