The Makeover Read Online Free Page A

you.”
    “I don’t want a drink.”
    “Humor me, okay?”
    Within minutes there was a knock at the bedroom door. Henry excused himself and quickly reemerged with two stemless wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. Without removing the washcloth from her eyes, Camellia took a long drink of the crisp, dry wine, her eyes closed in appreciation. “That is good,” she admitted. “I suppose I should listen to you more often.”
    Henry chuckled. “Let’s not start talking crazy.”
    Camellia smiled for the first time that day. She let the washcloth drop into her lap. “Henry,” she said, her voice cracking. “What would I do without you?”
    Henry clinked her glass with his. “I hope you never figure that out.”
     

 
     
     
     
     
    THREE
     
     
    The day’s multi-hour nap proved to be a key player in upsetting Camellia’s circadian clock. After listening to the rhythm of Henry’s soft snoring for more than an hour, she finally slipped out of bed, tied her silk robe at the waist, and for the first time in a day, left the safety of her chambers for other – uninhabited – rooms of the apartment.
    The imposing modern living room with stark-white furniture and impossibly high ceilings was dark save for a slice of moonlight cutting across the espresso stained hardwood floor from a gap in the heavy drapery. Camellia pushed the velvet window dressing aside, taking in the widespread view of Central Park – the singular factor for her selection of this pre-war apartment building after only three months of paychecks from Flair .
    The sleepy town of Harleysville where she grew up had had such a park – on a much smaller scale – where her parents took her most Sundays. “Outdoorsy people,” as Camellia often referred to her parents, Tom and Gina Gryzbowski had practically raised their only daughter in the open air. Family outings were traveled on bike, meals were often eaten on a red-checked blanket in their yard, and the park was their main attraction. From baseball games to leisurely walks on the trails, taking in birds and small critters, that park was Camellia’s point of reference for her childhood. Which was why she found it so funny that she would want to be reminded of it daily in her New York high rise. Leaving that neighborhood had been her goal since the age of thirteen, when she first saw a copy of Vogue at the salon in town.
    She let the drape fall and exited the room, passing through the dining room with its mammoth round table and Murano crystal chandelier on her way to the kitchen. She was famished.
    The kitchen, for as little time as she spent in there, was her favorite room in the house. She loved the stainless-steel appliances, the gourmet range with seven burners and the concrete counters. Six low-back leather barstools – which Camellia had never used – lined the large island. Her meals were customarily served to her in either the dining room or at the cozy table in the conservatory located off the library.
    Thankfully the fridge was stocked. Camellia retrieved storage containers filled with turkey breast and new potatoes, a tomato-basil salad , and something with couscous. She ripped off the lids and dove in, not bothering to take pleasure in the aromas and textures and flavors of the dishes as she usually would. Instead she ate without thinking, practically without breathing, until she emptied every container. 
    Henry found his wife the next morning, her body folded over the rounded arm of the floral settee in the conservatory. “Camellia, what are you doing out here?” he asked, running a hand along her smooth neck. “Was I snoring?”
    Camellia opened an eye and then closed it again. She groaned, already feeling pain in her back from her awkward sleeping position. “Oh hell, I need aspirin,” she said, her hand pressed into the small of her back. She slowly righted herself, wondering why it felt like she had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours.
    Henry sat beside her and Camellia