bagel and a couple of coffees to go. They were due at Rudolf’s in less than an hour and, since there hadn’t been any earthquakes this morning, she was prepared to bet money that Elizabeth was still asleep.
So sound asleep, in fact, that she didn’t stir when Lucy came into the room.
“Come on, honey. We’ve got a photo shoot today.”
“I’m tired.”
“Well, what do you expect when you dance all night and drink a gallon of champagne?”
“Didn’t.”
“Don’t try to pretend you weren’t drinking,” said Lucy, carefully setting the paper cup of coffee on the tiny nightstand. “I saw you with a glass of champagne. I don’t know how they get away with serving underage drinkers, but I didn’t see any of the servers asking for ID.”
“Mom, I think I’m sick. I ache all over.”
“Even a glass or two could give you a hangover because you’re not used to it.”
“I only had a sip or two.”
“Really?” Lucy couldn’t help thinking of the headline announcing the flu epidemic’s rising death toll.
“Yeah. And I’ve got this bite on my hand that really hurts.” She held out her right hand, which was swollen and had a nasty red bump. “There’s no bugs in winter, are there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe city bugs are different,” said Lucy. “Drink some coffee.”
“Maybe some water?”
Lucy went into the bathroom to fill a glass for Elizabeth, and when she returned she discovered the girl had fallen asleep again. She pressed her hand against Elizabeth’s forehead and was relieved to find it was cool.
“Come on, honey.” Lucy shook her shoulder. “You’ve got to get up.”
The girl’s eyes finally opened and she managed to take a sip or two of water. Then, very unsteadily, she made her way to the bathroom.
“Demon rum,” muttered Lucy, unaware that she sounded exactly like her great-grandmother, a founding member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.
Elizabeth seemed to rally when they arrived at Rudolf’s exclusive Fifth Avenue salon, where customers were greeted by a constantly flowing wall of water before being ushered into a luxurious waiting area where they were offered a choice of fresh coffee or herbal tea. Not that they had to wait very long; Lucy had only taken a sip of two of coffee before she was whisked into a private treatment room by a white-coat beautician.
Once Lucy was installed in the chair and covered with a smock, the beautician, an Asian girl with flawless tan skin and long, glossy black hair, began examining Lucy’s hair.
“Too dry,” was her verdict, “and your color is not flattering.”
“Really?”
“You need something warmer, a little red perhaps.”
Lucy didn’t like the sound of this. “Not red.”
“Trust me, you’ll see,” said the beautician, busily squeezing tubes of color into a plastic dish and stirring enthusiastically.
Soon Lucy’s head was slathered with a mudlike substance and tightly covered with a plastic cap. Then she was seated under a hair dryer, next to several other makeover winners. They all looked rather nervous.
“Why are we under the dryer?” asked Lucy, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the machine.
“Beats me,” said Ginny.
“I didn’t want any color, I insisted,” said Lurleen.
“It’s a new process,” said Cathy, who was flipping through Town & Country magazine. “It sets the color faster.”
“I don’t have color,” said Lurleen. “I specifically said I didn’t want it.”
“Trust me,” said Cathy, nodding sagely. “You got color.”
Before Lurleen could protest further, the hood of the dryer was flipped back by a remarkably handsome young man wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed his muscles to advantage. “Ready for your shampoo?” he cooed, leading her away. For once, Lurleen was dumbstruck.
“I hope I get him, too,” said Cathy.
“Me, too,” piped up Ginny, and they all laughed.
When her turn came Lucy didn’t get the young man—she
So sound asleep, in fact, that she didn’t stir when Lucy came into the room.
“Come on, honey. We’ve got a photo shoot today.”
“I’m tired.”
“Well, what do you expect when you dance all night and drink a gallon of champagne?”
“Didn’t.”
“Don’t try to pretend you weren’t drinking,” said Lucy, carefully setting the paper cup of coffee on the tiny nightstand. “I saw you with a glass of champagne. I don’t know how they get away with serving underage drinkers, but I didn’t see any of the servers asking for ID.”
“Mom, I think I’m sick. I ache all over.”
“Even a glass or two could give you a hangover because you’re not used to it.”
“I only had a sip or two.”
“Really?” Lucy couldn’t help thinking of the headline announcing the flu epidemic’s rising death toll.
“Yeah. And I’ve got this bite on my hand that really hurts.” She held out her right hand, which was swollen and had a nasty red bump. “There’s no bugs in winter, are there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe city bugs are different,” said Lucy. “Drink some coffee.”
“Maybe some water?”
Lucy went into the bathroom to fill a glass for Elizabeth, and when she returned she discovered the girl had fallen asleep again. She pressed her hand against Elizabeth’s forehead and was relieved to find it was cool.
“Come on, honey.” Lucy shook her shoulder. “You’ve got to get up.”
The girl’s eyes finally opened and she managed to take a sip or two of water. Then, very unsteadily, she made her way to the bathroom.
“Demon rum,” muttered Lucy, unaware that she sounded exactly like her great-grandmother, a founding member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.
Elizabeth seemed to rally when they arrived at Rudolf’s exclusive Fifth Avenue salon, where customers were greeted by a constantly flowing wall of water before being ushered into a luxurious waiting area where they were offered a choice of fresh coffee or herbal tea. Not that they had to wait very long; Lucy had only taken a sip of two of coffee before she was whisked into a private treatment room by a white-coat beautician.
Once Lucy was installed in the chair and covered with a smock, the beautician, an Asian girl with flawless tan skin and long, glossy black hair, began examining Lucy’s hair.
“Too dry,” was her verdict, “and your color is not flattering.”
“Really?”
“You need something warmer, a little red perhaps.”
Lucy didn’t like the sound of this. “Not red.”
“Trust me, you’ll see,” said the beautician, busily squeezing tubes of color into a plastic dish and stirring enthusiastically.
Soon Lucy’s head was slathered with a mudlike substance and tightly covered with a plastic cap. Then she was seated under a hair dryer, next to several other makeover winners. They all looked rather nervous.
“Why are we under the dryer?” asked Lucy, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the machine.
“Beats me,” said Ginny.
“I didn’t want any color, I insisted,” said Lurleen.
“It’s a new process,” said Cathy, who was flipping through Town & Country magazine. “It sets the color faster.”
“I don’t have color,” said Lurleen. “I specifically said I didn’t want it.”
“Trust me,” said Cathy, nodding sagely. “You got color.”
Before Lurleen could protest further, the hood of the dryer was flipped back by a remarkably handsome young man wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed his muscles to advantage. “Ready for your shampoo?” he cooed, leading her away. For once, Lurleen was dumbstruck.
“I hope I get him, too,” said Cathy.
“Me, too,” piped up Ginny, and they all laughed.
When her turn came Lucy didn’t get the young man—she
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