Every now and again a sinewy older guy who appeared to be in charge would come out and yell at them and tell them to get back to their real job: handing out free samples of face cream.
No thanks.
I hate taking samples. Hate having to make conversation with strangers. I managed to avoid the clutches of the Russians until one day one of the girls called out: “Hey, I like your style.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
After all, who knew style better than these kids? All day long they stood outside, watching the fashionable people walk up and down the giant runway of Madison World.
Eventually, I struck up a passing acquaintance with these Russians. If I was in a good mood, I’d pass by and take a packet of face cream and talk about my dogs. If I was in a bad mood, I’d cross to the other side. While I’d see them ask other women to come inside the shop, I noted that they never asked me. I got the distinct sense they didn’t think I was quite good enough for their face cream.
A day came when I was feeling particularly blue—too blue to cross to the other side. That middle-aged drumbeat of terror—it’s all downhill from here!—was pulsing in my head. I was convinced that nothing good would ever happen again, that age was about to take away all of life’s excitements and pleasures, leaving me with nothing but my own useless existence.
On that day, the day when they got me, I was also particularly laden with b
ags.
“You’re so busy,” called out the girl who’d said I had good style. We usually exchanged a few bon mots as I passed; she was the friendliest and not actually Russian but Greek.
I paused. For some reason, I wanted to explain. Yes, I was busy, but not doing anything particularly important.
“You’ve got to relax,” said another.
They were right. I did need to relax. “You smoke?” asked the slim guy who was the most disdainful, perhaps because he looked like a male model. He held out a pack of foreign cigarettes.
They’d never offered me a cigarette before. I thought it would be rude to refuse, so I took it, while it crossed my mind that maybe they wanted to be friends with me.
“Hey!” said the Greek girl. “You’re working so hard I’ll give you a special treat.”
“Really?”
“You want to get rid of the bags under your eyes?”
Hell yes.
She glanced over at the modelly guy, as if she needed his approval to “let me in.” As though he were the de facto bouncer at this secret face cream club.
He looked me up and down, raised his eyebrows as if I were probably a lost cause, and nodded.
I was in!
* * *
The interior didn’t disappoint. It was white and shiny, like one of those sleek stage sets on Broadway. Marble steps accented with gold led up to what could have been an actual small stage but instead contained the cash register.
I knew I’d made a mistake. This place was expensive—far too expensive for my budget. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Come on. It will only take five minutes.”
I balked. “Five minutes” in Madison World was fifteen or twenty anyplace else.
“You don’t have five minutes?” she asked, as if this couldn’t possibly be true. “Five minutes to look good for your boyfriend?”
I laughed. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Maybe after you have this treatment you will.”
She hustled me into a chair in front of the window. Having removed my glasses, she was now patting my face like I was a bunny. “Pretty,” she said. “Why are you so pretty?”