The Makeover Read Online Free

nothing to do. As she stood to draw her bath, the phone rang, and in a rush of anxiety to answer, she knocked over the anti-aging serum she ordered twice a year from Paris, the precious c ontents spilling onto the white marble countertop.
    “Damn.” She righted the bottle with a shaky hand while reaching for the phone with the other, knowing before she looked that it would be Marissa. She pressed the answer button and placed the call on speaker, suddenly not certain she had the strength to hold the phone to her ear.
    “Well?” It was the only greeting that made sense. Pleasantries would be demeaning. Feigning ignorance would be a full-forced slap in the face.
    “Oh, Camellia.” And Marissa’s sobbing ensued.
    With careful focus on discerning Marissa’s words through the anguished lamenting, Camellia was able to piece together how the morning had unfolded at Flair . Tray had ordered Tavi (the leggy receptionist with the well-edited shoes was how Camellia had differentiated her) to arrive at the office a half hour early to flag all the employees to the main conference room. And he did make them wait, for thirty-four minutes, according to Marissa. No coffee or pastries had been laid out. Not even a pitcher of water and paper cups. The rumors swirling around the room were thicker than the sweat that was also accumulating, with the number-one suspicion growing in solidarity that the magazine was being sold.
    Tray’s entrance silenced the staff.
    He took his time making his way to the front of the room, positioning himself behind an acrylic podium that had once seemed so well matched for Camellia, who had used the delicate yet contemporary lectern to deliver her favorite fan mail selections, her petite frame erect yet energized as she had read the vernacular letters of art students and emerging photographers. Now, Tray not only overwhelmed the clear podium with his opposing stature, he also looked as if he placed himself in the one spot where he could not hide from the staff. An obvious adjustment of his male anatomy temporarily displaced the man known for the swooping terror he customarily delivered with satisfaction to the executives of Ruther Jacobs Publishing.
    He flipped on the microphone, though the quiet was so extreme, a whisper could have been comprehended at the back of the room. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, without emotion, his eyes landing just over the heads of the tallest employees. “Camellia Rhodes has been relieved of her duties. As of today, Flair is shuttered. Sales reps will stay on temporarily to reconcile their accounts. A few of you will receive offers for other positions within the company. As for the rest of you, Ruther Jacobs Publishing does not provide recommendation letters. Please clean out your desks immediately. Security is waiting to check your belongings and escort you out of the building.”
    It was over.
     
     
     
    “Honey, are you in here?”
    Camellia woke with a start and immediately grabbed the left side of her neck, which was throbbing. The bathroom lights flicked on. She shut her eyes in protest.
    “What are you doing in here?” Henry’s hands were on his wife’s shoulders, gently pulling her from a most uncomfortable position where she had fallen asleep with the left side of her face pressed against the hard countertop.
    “My neck,” Camellia cried out, her hand clutching at the pain. At last upright on her vanity bench, and her eyes now adjusted to the light, Camellia regarded herself in the mirror and gasped.
    “You’ve been crying,” Henry said, running a plush washcloth under cold water then wringing it out and placing it on
Camellia’s forehead.
    She put her hand over his and let it linger there for a moment before taking charge of the washcloth, moving its position south to her burning eyes. “Marissa called.”
    “Oh.” Henry picked up the house phone mounted on the wall beside the vanity “Yara, please bring up two glasses of chardonnay, thank