Page 1 of Fragile Twisted Vows
one
Lucy
“I heard their new scent is supposed to smell like Gwyneth Paltrow’s Pussy Candle.”
I tilt my head towards the direction of the fake blond with massive breasts because clearly, my head is curious even though my ears are practically bleeding.
“Yes! No GMO’s, completely organic and apparently, an aphrodisiac. It’s a win-win in my book. Maybe one day they can make a perfume that can also be a tincture for premature wrinkles,” the brunette laughs.
It’s a rich laugh. An extremely rich laugh after a typical sentence that any uptight, rigid pilates mom would say in downtown Manhattan.
“That would be lovely, but it would also put my plastic surgeon out of business.” The blond laughs as they giggle and walk away from the store front.
Both her fake tits and botox are definitely not organic and GMO free. I know that’s for certain. But who am I to judge?
I’m the one standing in front of a luxury perfume store in SoHo, wearing my best friend’s borrowed wrap dress and somehow, I’ve already managed to ruin the fabric with a splatter of coffee. Something that might be impossible to wash out of a cream-colored dress. Something that’s totally visible and not good for a first impression.
Fleur de Femme is not only the most sought-after perfume company in the world, but it’s also the most sought-after brand for literally every marketing firm worldwide. I did extensive research on them during my time in college, and it was a dream to take them on as a client when I was interning at my first firm, but life had other plans.
Which is why I’m here now, standing in a stained, cream wrap dress with my resume and portfolio hugged tight to my chest. Because life has led me down a road of tragedy and now instead of taking Fleur de Femme on as a client, I am forcing myself to walk inside and schedule a potential interview with the lead sales rep. I’m tired of working long hours at the same bar every night. I’m tired of men grabbing my body when they please, tired of the shit tips and even shittier benefits. Or lack thereof.
I’m also tired of living on my best friend’s couch. Apparently, the feeling is mutual for her as well. Because as soon as I was sliding on my worn, scuffed, nude pumps and rushing out of her studio apartment door, she showed me a very large and sparkly engagement ring on her finger. Her college boyfriend has finally proposed after five years and now, they’re moving. Because unlike me, they graduated. Unlike me, they have money to move. And unlike them, now I am practically on the street and out of options.
Because also, unlike them, I don’t have a family to back me up and support me. I haven’t in a very long time.
So, here I am. Taking initiative. Making the first bold step for a better future. A future where I don’t rely on a single soul for help. A future that isn’t fueled by dirty money, but earnings made from hard work. A future on my own with no one else to judge me or control me.
A good future. A peaceful future.
A future that also doesn’t require me to work day and night at a bar, only to have enough money to pay for my unfinished student loans, half of rent, and a handful of groceries.
I smooth a strand of light brown, wavy hair away from my face and tuck it back into my long ponytail. When I pull my compact mirror from my worn, brown leather satchel, I stare at my tired, bright blue eyes. I tried every bit of eye cream and concealer to get rid of the tired bags beneath them, but the double shifts from the last two weeks have taken their toll.
“Here we go,” I say into the mirror before closing it and shoving it back into my old bag.
I stare up at the beautiful storefront. The glass windows display rows of elegant flowers and expensive bottles of perfume. Some from here, from Italy, from France. And hopefully, I’ll be able to work my way up to corporate ladder to travel to those designer firms and help with their marketing campaigns one day.
A girl can dream. For now.
“Let’s go sell bottles of Gwyneth Paltrow’s pussy,” I mumble, plastering on my best, fake smile as I walk up to the large, double glass doors with gold handles.
When I step inside Fleur de Femme, my nose is immediately assaulted with thousands of expensive, luxury scents. I want to fall into them, let them wrap around me tighter than this dress that’s definitely a size too small. The coffee stain is the least of my worries. I don’t want my ass to rip it open-
“Can I help you?” an attendant at the counter asks as I reach it.
She’s older, maybe in her forties. Her hair is blond and tightly gelled back into a perfect bun. Her lips are painted red and her white, crisp collared shirt is neatly tucked into her tight, black pencil skirt. She wears a large, expensive watch and a single diamond ring on her middle finger. I spot the gold plated name tag on her breast and it readsPriscilla.
She looks me up and down, her assessing eyes traveling from my old satchel to the coffee stain on my dress. I smile sheepishly at her.
You’re off to a great start, babe.
“Yes, um, hi,” I stammer, gently placing my portfolio on the glass countertop.
She sneers at me, glancing down at my unpainted, overgrown fingernails that are in desperate need of a manicure.
“I’m here to speak with your hiring manager or someone that’s in charge of the interviewing process-”
“That would be me.” She cuts me off, the scrunch in her small nose high, making me worry that she might ruin her very obvious and expensive nose job, but I smile at her anyway.
