“But now, here I am.” She sighs, staring straight ahead into her kitchen. Her apartment is modest, and I’m guessing it’s a one-bedroom. There’s not a lot of color or any photos or personalized decorations that suggest this is more than a furnished, temporary rental. “Trying to get back out there again.”
“Have you been dating much?” I color-match her skin tone to one of my sheer foundations and squirt a blob on the back of my hand. She doesn’t need much, just a few places to even out her complexion.
“Oh, honey, no,” she says. “I hear it’s rough out there. Not for the faint of heart.”
“You heard correct.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from dating this last year. Focusing on my business instead.”
“Good for you.” I feel her watching me, studying, and her lips quiver like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. “Can I just say something?”
“Of course.” I grab a pot of cream blush in a shade of dusty rose and snap it open.
“I never had a daughter,” she says. “Or any kids for that matter. So I feel compelled to pass along a few words of wisdom, if I may.”
“By all means.” I pat the blush on top of the apples of her cheeks, leaving room for some highlight and contour above and below.
“Don’t stay married to your job too long,” she says. “One of these days you’re going to wake up and you might be lonely, and you’ve squandered the best years of your life away for the one thing that can never love you back.”
I nod, focusing on the curve of her cheekbone as she talks.
“I mean, Harold has his faults, but I wasn’t perfect either,” she says. “We loved each other like hell. The first twenty years were fire and ice and magic, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. In the end, we just weren’t meant to last. We got mean, you know? That’s when you know it’s time to hang it up and go home.”
I’m not sure what to say. I’ve had clients who like to vent, and they like to project, or they see part of themselves in me and that makes them open up to a complete stranger more than they normally would.
“Anyway, I look at you and I see this light in your eyes that you only have for so long,” she says. “You’re young and beautiful and smart and nice. I’d hate for you to spend the next twenty years married to work when you could be fighting and screwing some hot piece of ass. Believe me, when the work loses its flavor, and some day it will, you’re going to wish you had some hot and spicy memories to keep you warm at night. Everyone needs someone who makes their blood boil and their panties melt.”
I laugh.
“God,” she sighs. “Believe it or not, Harold used to be something wonderful to look at. And then he got bald. And fat. And mean. But at least I have the memories, right?”
“So who’s your hot date tonight?” I switch gears, consulting my eyeshadow palette. They’re mostly taupes and browns, but they’ll make for a killer smoky eye and bring out those emerald greens of hers.
She smiles with her eyes and tries to tame her excitement. “His name is Brad, and he’s an accountant. A CPA actually.”
“Very nice. How’d you meet?”
“We haven’t actually met yet,” she says. “We’ve been texting through this dating app. It’s weird to me, but it seems to be the way everyone meets these days. Anyway, we’re meeting for dinner at this Italian place in Little Italy. Starting with dinner and going from there.”
“Do you have anyone to call you partway through? You know, if the date is going bad, you can say you have an emergency and have to bail?”
She looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “Do people actually do that?”
My jaw falls. “Um, yes. I do it for my friends all the time.”
“And their dates fall for it?”
I shrug. “It’s not like it matters. They’re not getting a second date.”
Helena laughs. “That’s kind of sad.”
“Then they should be better dates.” I move to her eyebrows, which appear to be slightly overplucked and have seen better days. I’m guessing she fell victim to the “Skinny Eyebrow Craze of the Early 2000s.” Fortunately, they make products for that. I grab some brow gel and start filling them in. “So what are you wearing tonight on your hot date?”
Her face lights up. “I splurged. I went to Bergdorfs and spent the kind of money Harold would’ve shat a brick over. Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind sticking around while I try it on? I could use an honest opinion. The saleslady said it looked great, but you know how salespeople are.”
“I’d be happy to.” I finish her makeup and she ducks off to her room, closing the door and telling me she’ll be right out.
When she emerges, she’s dressed in a curve-hugging bandage dress. Her breasts are sky-high and her long legs are freshly waxed and smooth. Her arms are toned, Pilates I’m guessing. I never would’ve guessed Helena was hiding this banging of a body beneath an old ratty robe.
Sliding her hands down the front of her hips, she sucks in a deep breath. “So, Aidy? What do you think?”
My jaw hangs. “Um, you look like a freaking supermodel. Seriously. I could put you on a billboard in Times Square right next to Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington and no one would think twice.”
She swats her hand at me. “Oh, stop.”
“I mean it. Brad the Accountant is about to have his world rocked, and he’s not even going to know what hit him.”
There’s a full-length mirror in the middle of her hallway, leaning against the wall. She stops before it and examines herself, her expression fading from excitement and morphing into pure, unabashed fear.
In slow-motion real time, I watch as her eyes glass up and thick, mascara-colored tears slide down her perfectly made-up cheeks.
“Helena, Helena,” I take her aside, sliding my hand down her arm. “Stop. Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
She pushes me away, tearing at the dress, trying frantically to get it off. Her creamy skin fills with red blotches and she gasps for air.
“Get it off,” she says, breathless and panicked. “I can’t . . . I can’t do this . . .”
I tug the zipper down her back and escort her into her room, where she lets the dress fall to the floor and reaches desperately for her robe. Covered and hunched over on the side of her bed, she buries her face in her hands.
“What’s going on?” I ask, taking the spot beside her. I rub my hand across the small of her back, which sends her into an immediate state of inconsolable sobbing.
I sit with her, not saying a word, being the surrogate friend she so clearly needs in this moment, and when she finally comes up for air, she turns to me, her face a ruined mess.
“I can’t go out there,” she says. “I can’t look like this and wear this dress and pretend to be someone I’m not and hope that this complete stranger will love me half as much as Harold did.”
Helena sobs into her hands again, her shoulders heaving with each ragged breath.
“Clearly you’re not ready,” I say. “And that’s okay. Don’t feel bad about it. Brad will understand.”