hell I got home before three in the morning. My alarm is set to wake me up at the same time every morning, which means I slept four hours—maybe. I don’t have the plague. I’m wasted.
My equilibrium forsakes me in my attempt to get out of bed, but I have to be across town later this afternoon for my appointment with Gary Brooker. An art dealer with obsessive-compulsive disorder, Gary’s particular about what time I arrive, what I look and smell like, and how we spend our time together. He’s the only one of my clients who supplied me with a checklist of dos and don’ts before our first appointment together.
Don’t wear perfume of any kind.
Leave your hair down and straight.
Shave your entire body before your arrival.
Don’t be late.
And so on.
I manage to drag my ass to the kitchen where I drink an entire bottle of water in one gulp. It sloshes around in my belly atop last night’s whisky like oil and vinegar. The only food I can stomach the idea of is a slice of bread, but I only manage to swallow half before tossing the rest into the trash.
In a right state of mind, I’d reschedule my appointment with OCD Gary and sleep twelve-hundred-dollar alcohol off. But in my current state of mind, I convince myself that after a couple of ibuprofen and a long bath, I’ll be good as new.
I’ve never been more wrong in my life.
Whisky sweats from my pores.
I soaked in a bath longer than normal, but all I smell is last night’s bad choices on my skin and hair. My makeup looks uneven and thick on my sickly skin, and my eyeliner smudges as my bloodshot eyes water every time I blink. Ibuprofen further upset my stomach and did nothing to remedy the ache in my head.
By the time I truly consider rescheduling my appointment, my driver’s already waiting outside. Canceling on OCD Gary at all would be bad enough, but to cancel an hour before his scheduled time would be unforgivable. I’d lose a client, and someone as finicky as Gary would make sure my reputation takes a hit. Unlike most of my clients, Gary isn’t married, he doesn’t have children, and he’s too old to care if anyone finds out that he pays for sex from a younger woman once a month. He keeps our arrangement a secret because that’s the deal agreed upon in order to hire me.
I follow his rituals, and he shuts the fuck up.
Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, I drop my head between my shoulders and close my eyes against the slight spin poise left behind when it ditched me.
“You can suck it up for an hour, Lydia,” I tell myself. “You’ll be home before you know it.”
Inhaling a deep breath, I push away from the sink and head out the front door to the car. With the largest pair of sunglasses I own over my eyes, I keep my purse tucked under my arm and watch every step I take from my door to the dark Suburban. My driver today doesn’t stare at me like the others do. He gives me a wide berth, like he can sense the sickness on me and is afraid I’m contagious.
I roll the window down as we drive toward the other side of the city. Ocean air is refreshing against my clammy face, and the early afternoon sun injects me with much-needed vitamin D. It seems brighter than it normally is, intensifying the throbbing behind my eyes. The drive across town isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, until we hit traffic halfway there and my driver’s heavy on the brakes.
My stomach rolls as we lurch forward and jerk to a stop, moving a car length at a time. As my mouth fills with thick saliva, I hold the back of my fingers to my mouth and plan my escape route in case the contents of my stomach reappear. I’d have to sprint across the three-lane highway to get to the shoulder. Maybe a car will take me out and end this misery.
“It looks like the traffic is going to clear up ahead, ma’am,” says the driver. He watches me from the rearview mirror. It would be a nightmare he’d have to clean up if I get sick in his vehicle. “Do you normally get car sick? I once heard that chewing cinnamon gum can help settle your stomach.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, I shake my head