Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Of course I don’t,” she says. “Honestly, those would be my two choices too, but these are the two things we need to look for. Number one, what body type you have. Number two, what is your color profile? Okay?”
She’s now officially speaking Greek. I have some vague idea of what color palettes are, but only because my mother’s mentioned them in the past.
“Okay, so, I don’t know the answer to either one of those things,” I say to her, suddenly feeling like someone’s just thrown me in the deep end, and I don’t know how to swim. But Colleen comes in and hands me a flotation device.
“Excellent. Lucky for you, these are two things that I’ve studied. Alright, the first thing we need to know is that you have an hourglass figure.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Hourglass, like those things that you tip upside down and they show you how you’re running out of time?” Sounds anxiety-inducing to me.
“Yes, hourglass. Do you remember how they’re shaped?” she says gently.
I nod and shrug. “I guess so, like wider at the top, narrow at the waist, wider at the bottom.”
“Exactly,” she says. “It means that your bust and hip proportions are larger than your waist. This is excellent. We all want hourglass figures, Erin.”
“Okay.”
Bridget giggles again. “You wouldn’t know it, hiding it under those hoodies, but she’s got great titties.”
What? Why are we talking about titties with a perfect stranger?
“Oh, I believe it,” Colleen says. “Alright, so we need something that shows off your cleavage and your tiny little waist. Perfect. Next, color profile.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Show me your wrists.”
My wrists?
Then she grabs my wrists and turns them over. “Ah, see, the veins right here. They're green.”
“Aren't… everybody's?”
“No, they're not. If you had cool tones, your skin color would make this look blue instead of green, but you have warm undertones.” She peers into my eyes. “Mmm. Brown. Oh my god, your eyes are gorgeous. And with that platinum-blonde hair and porcelain skin, you're a true spring.”
“A true spring? Okay…”
“This is your color profile,” she says as she walks up to the front desk, opens a drawer, and takes out a little index card that's hard and shaped like a credit card.
“Slide this into your wallet. These are the colors that look good on you. Okay? Now, these are the colors that don't look good on you. Flip it over.”
I flip it over and look. Dusty colors, muted tones, black.
“Never wear these colors.”
I look down at myself. I'm literally wearing a black jumper.
“These are just not your colors, girlfriend. But that's fine. Look at the ones that are,” she says triumphantly. “They’re gorgeous on you. Perfect, let's do it. Watch, I'm going to show you how it changes everything.”
She walks over to a rack and pulls out two identical V-neck tops.
“Look in the mirror.”
She holds a bright-white one up under my chin, and my skin looks sallow and wan, but when she holds up the second, a warm peach, my skin looks warmer, golden, and my eyes seem brighter.
“Oh, wow.”
“Mm-hmm. Go now, keep your yoga pants on,” she says, “and then try this on. Ready?”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
The top is a warm ivory with a deep vee, and when I put it on, it immediately makes me look slim and fit, and, as Bridget would say, my titties do look amazing. It brings out the color in my cheeks and in my eyes.
When I come out, Bridget claps her hands in glee.
“This looks gorgeous.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, I like this. How much is it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bridget says in a singsong voice. “I’ve got Cavin’s credit card he gave Da.”
“What? Why did he give it to you?”
She sighs. “Because you blocked him, remember?”
Oh, right.
Two hours later, I’m surprised Bridget’s still going. “I need something to eat,” she says. “I am starving.”
It actually gets me a bit emotional that she says she’s hungry, since I swear she never gets hungry anymore.
“We could go to D’Agostino’s,” Bridget says, gesturing down the street toward the only proper Italian restaurant in this part of Ireland. “I’ve been craving their carbonara something fierce.”
“Let’s go.”
D’Agostino’s overlooks the harbor, all gleaming water and bobbing boats. Bridget picks at her food, which drives my mother crazy. But I, for one, like to see the fact that she took at least five generous bites of pasta.
I’m not a huge fan of going out to eat because I feel like I never know the rules, but in a family like mine, I’ve learned to just observe and follow.
“This looks delicious,” I say. I don’t even know what I ordered because I’m so overstimulated. Crowds, people, shopping.
“You’re going to knock his socks off with those dresses,” Bridget says, taking a sip of water. “I’m jealous.” She winks. It’s friendly, but it makes my heart ache a little.