It was more than just feeling out of place. Last week, sitting in that high backed brocade chair in my oversized sweater and worn out jeans, I had felt physically exposed. Mr. Jason had gotten under my skin, into the very architecture of my head, in a way no one ever had. I wasn't used to being seen so clearly, especially not the parts of me I was trying to keep buried.
I wasn't dressing up for him. Not exactly. I was dressing up against him, shielding my sickness under layers of expensive looking fabric and carefully applied cosmetics.
I was hiding my weakness from a man who seemed to thrive on it.
I remembered my Grandma clearly then. She used to break out her sensible heels and her full palette of makeup whenever she had an important meeting at work or a confrontation with the school board. If the stakes were truly high, she wore the only tailored suit she owned. She called it putting on her war paint.
"You don't always have to look prettier or younger than they do, Amanda," she used to tell me, her voice firm as she lined her lips. "But if you look more put together, that's half the battle won before you even open your mouth."
Well, I certainly wasn't under any illusions that I would look more attractive or more put together than the man in the penthouse. But I hoped, I prayed it would be enough to keep me from shattering.
"And that's the other thing," Elisa said, her voice pulling me back to the present. "The car. Amanda, it's just weird. Doctors don't send private cars for consultations unless you're a Saudi prince."
"I told you, I think it's some kind of super rich, boutique corporation," I said, my voice steady as I swiped a light peach shadow over my eyelids. It was a subtle trick, but it seemed successful in bringing a ghost of warmth back to my brown eyes. "They probably need viable volunteers for this drug trial so badly they're willing to splurge on the logistics."
"If they're that desperate for people to sign up, it's got to be crazy dangerous, then," Elisa said, her brow furrowing even deeper.
Four quick, precise brushes, and the mascara was on. I only did my upper lashes. I already looked tired enough without adding weight to the bottom. "Probably. I'll find out the specifics tonight. But even trying something crazy dangerous is better than the alternative. 'Terminal' is the only word I've heard for months, Elisa. I'm ready for a different one."
"Well, you do look great," she said, though the compliment sounded almost begrudging, as if she were afraid that looking healthy would make me forget I was sick.
"I feel like I'm playing dress up." I rolled my eyes at my reflection. I'd had that corporate internship last year, but I'd never really adjusted to the stiff formality of business clothes. Even then, I hadn't bothered with much more than a swipe of lip gloss and a prayer.
I'm not really sure this is working for me, I thought, tentatively trying out a new blush.
"Oh, God," I muttered, pulling back. The rouge looked garish, like a doll's paint against my washed out, translucent features. I reached for a damp washcloth, ready to scrub the whole mess off.
"No, stop, let me fix it," Elisa said, stepping into my personal space. She grabbed a handful of tissues and expertly dusted at my cheekbones, blending the pigment until it softened into a natural looking flush. "There. Much better. You don't look like a clown anymore."
It was an improvement. "Thanks."
"Are you sure you've got enough energy for this?" Elisa fretted, her hand lingering near my shoulder. "You look... fragile, Amanda."
"God, Elisa, you're like the mother I never had. And never wanted," I teased, but I softened the jab with a smile as I shook my head. "I napped for three solid hours this afternoon. I'm going to be fine. It's just a meeting, not a marathon."
"If you're sure," she grumbled, though she finally stepped back.
I grabbed a safe, muted peach lipstick and carefully applied it. Between the makeup and the structured coral blouse, I'd managed to bring a semblance of liveliness back to my face. Did I look stronger, too? I hoped so. I needed to look like a woman who could handle a one percent chance, not a girl who was already halfway to the grave.