The Green Lace Corset, стр. 28
At two o’clock in the morning, Anne awoke feeling queasy, and her chest burned like bitter rain. She hoped she was just nervous about the interview and hadn’t caught Penny’s flu. She fluffed her pillow and tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.
She dumped two tablespoons of apple cider vinegar in a glass, added water, and stirred. That usually did the trick after she’d eaten too much pizza or greasy food. She put the glass to her lips, but the stench made her rush to the bathroom and throw up. She’d always been sensitive to smells, but vinegar had never done this to her before.
She made herself a cup of chamomile tea and added a little honey. She felt rotten.
At sunrise, she finally fell back to sleep.
20
Anne overslept by an hour. She’d planned to walk but now would have to take a Lyft. She threw on the clothes, clutched her portfolio and nerdy purse.
Mrs. Landenheim stepped out her door. “Look!”
“Sorry, I’m running late.” Anne glanced at the cupped hands her landlady held toward her.
Anne paused and fingered the soft black back of the furry kitten. “How cute!”
“Just got her last night.”
Anne pulled herself away. “Bye. I’ve gotta go!”
In the car she ate a PowerBar, worked on her hair, and applied lipstick. She sprinted down the museum halls, but when she arrived at the conference room out of breath and ten minutes past her time slot, the door was closed. They must be running late too. She could hear voices coming from inside, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She plopped heavily in the chair placed across from the door and slid her portfolio underneath. She drummed her hands on her knees, squirmed, and folded her hands. Why hadn’t she brought her lucky key from the altar? She closed her eyes and visualized a white light of success surrounding her. I am beautiful, I am strong, I am happy. I am the best artist in San Francisco. I am the best person for the residency.
What was taking so long? She read over her interview questions and answers again, then looked down at her wingtips. Since she’d taken a Lyft, she could have worn her Ferragamos after all.
She picked up her portfolio and flipped through the pages. The door opened, and she snapped the portfolio shut. Karl stepped out of the room, his back to Anne, and bowed. “Thank you all so very much.”
The panelists applauded as if he had just sung an operatic aria. Anne gritted her teeth. The jerk actually bowed.
“Please, shut the door,” Priscilla called.
Karl turned with a grin that clouded over when he saw Anne.
“Seems like that went well for you.” She forced herself to smile.
“May the best artist win.” He smirked and sauntered down the hall.
His foul cinnamon scent made her stomach roil. Even though she didn’t want to leave her seat in case they came out to get her, she rushed to the bathroom anyway. She got sick, cleaned herself up, and stuck a piece of peppermint gum in her mouth to mask the odor. Feeling better, she hurried back.
Luckily, she had sat back down when Fredricka came out into the hallway.
“Hi.” Anne beamed at her.
Fredricka had a rare frown on her face and toyed with her silver necklace. “I have to recuse myself because of a conflict of interest.”
“Close the door,” Priscilla called.
Fredricka closed it.
“What’s going on?”
“The committee asked me to step down because I sell your work in my gallery.” Fredricka put her hand on Anne’s shoulder and raised her brows. “Sorry.”
“Me too.” Anne watched Fredricka walk down the hall. With her on the committee Anne had hoped she might have a chance.
Priscilla opened the door with a sober face. “Come on in.”
Anne realized she was still chewing her gum. It would be unprofessional for her to have gum in her mouth during an interview. She didn’t see a trash can, so, in a panic, she swallowed it instead and stepped inside the room.
Priscilla and a stocky, square-jawed man with a wispy comb-over sat at the long conference table. Anne had assumed the interview committee would be larger. Karl’s cinnamon scent lingered in the room, and she tried not to inhale. Her portfolio slipped out of her hands and dropped on the floor in front of her. She picked it up, put it on the table, and tried to hang her purse on a chair back, but the strap kept slipping off.
She sat down across from Priscilla and the man, then, remembering her practice, stood and held out her hand to him. “Hello. I’m Anne McFarland.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Jessie Willingsby.” He shook her hand with his own; it was twice the size of hers, and hers were big.
“I’m so glad to meet you. I just got the horseshoes. Thanks for them, and for pulling out the nails.”
“No problem.” He had a kind face. In his dark corporate suit, he didn’t seem like a typical cowboy. She was tempted to look under the table and see if he wore boots. His tie did have horseshoes on it, though.
He pulled his hand away, and she realized she’d still been holding it.
“I look forward to seeing what you do with them.”
“I can’t wait to show you.” Anne sat down and untied her portfolio. “Do you want to see my work?”
“Not yet.” Priscilla’s hair had been dyed blond and styled in a Marilyn Monroe fashion. It looked better that way. “First off, is it true you’re having problems controlling our little artists?”
That jerk. He had been trying to throw her under the bus.
“Not really. No.”
“Karl has graciously offered to help you.”
“That’s okay. Everything’s under control.” Why would Priscilla bring this up in an interview? Anne had thought Priscilla liked her.
“It better be. I’ll be stopping by more often to see how you’re doing.” Priscilla paused. “And the last time I was