“I might have to do a double wash. You have a lot of green makeup caked around your hairline and in your temples?” she said quizzically.
“Occupational hazard,” I joked. “A double wash is great. Thank you.”
After the shampoo, she led me to her station and handed me a menu of blowout options.
“My dress has a high collar, so an updo, I think? I don’t know, I’m fine with whatever you think will look best,” I said, passing it back to her.
“You got it. I’m going to use your natural texture for volume, but I’ll twist the pieces and arrange them so that they are out of your face and look intricately woven together. Sound good?” she asked, her fingers mounting a pile of freshly spiraled curls on top of my head to demonstrate.
“I trust you,” I said with a smile and closed my eyes to relax for the next hour.
“Before we get started,” she said, “can I offer you a complimentary glass of champagne or a mimosa?”
“Um . . . I’m good with just some ice water.” But as she turned to leave, a flutter of anxiety forced me to call after her. “Actually, you know what, maybe I will take some champagne, if you’re offering.”
Staring at my reflection in the salon mirror, I couldn’t help but flash back to the last event I attended with Gabe, the same day as the disastrous Wicked audition. It’d been almost seven years, and I could still remember every detail of that cataclysmic night like it was yesterday.
As angry as I had been with Gabe for being so oblivious to my feelings, I’d set them aside and still went to support him and his cause that night. The event had been months in the making—outreach, planning, and investor meetings all culminating at a gala in support of Bigs & Littles NYC Mentoring Services, an organization Gabe had been volunteering his time at since he was in high school. The fact that Gabe had managed to get the Clintons to attend was a major coup, and the fundraiser was slated to be their biggest night of the year.
Once I’d arrived at the venue （Gabe having gone early to help with the setup）， I’d positioned myself in the corner by the bar and tried to plaster a smile on my face, all the while my mind continuing to rehearse everything I planned to say to him once the event was over and behind us. In the time between Gabe leaving me standing in our apartment dumbfounded that he’d completely dismissed what could have been a huge break in my career and my arrival at the gala, my anger had melted and given way to a profound sense of hurt and disappointment at not having seen the writing on the wall all along.
Stirring me from my spiraling rabbit hole of thoughts, a handsome man I’d never seen before made his way to where I was standing, his lapels as sharp as his jawline. “Here,” he said, taking an empty champagne flute from my hand, placing it on a passing tray, and subbing it out for a full one. “I’ve learned that the best way to get through these things is to make sure the well never runs dry.” When he smiled, my stance softened, and my shoulders relaxed as I took a sip from the fresh glass, the pop of the champagne bubbles tickling my lips.
“See? Better, right?” he said.
“Definitely better,” I admitted. “Sounds like this ain’t your first rodeo.”
“Far from it. But all for a good cause, right? One of these days, someone’s gonna realize they’d do even better if they’d organize a fundraiser where we just had to send in a check and could stay home in our pj’s. But until they figure that out, I’m stuck wearing the monkey suit every Thursday night of the social season,” he said, gesturing to his tailored tux.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you wear the monkey suit well.” I reached out to touch the arm of his jacket, the gesture almost involuntary. The fabric was sumptuous under my fingertips.
Was I flirting with this handsome stranger? No, I was just making polite small talk at a cocktail party, something you apparently do with handsome or not-so-handsome strangers when you’ve basically been stood up by your boyfriend at his charity event, mooed during the most important audition of your life . . . and had three glasses of champagne. I tried to catch the eye of a passing server to see what kinds of hors d’oeuvres he was carrying in an effort to soak up some of the alcohol, but each tray turned up empty as they headed past me back to the kitchen.
Before I knew it, the stranger extended his glass to me. “Can you hold on to this for just a minute. . . ,” he said, dragging out the last word as he gestured for me to fill in my name.
“Avery,” I answered, reaching out to grab the flute he was handing me.
“Nice to meet you, Avery. I’m Adam. Promise you’ll stay right here. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Moments later, he returned balancing plates piled high with all sorts of appetizers and snacks. I wanted to reach out to help him, but with the flutes still in my grasp, I was pretty useless.
“There’s an open table over there. Should we claim it?” he asked. “It might be a little tricky for us to try to eat with our hands full.”
I followed him to the small high-top where he set the hors d’oeuvres, and I did the same with our drinks.
“I realized I forgot to give you the other half of my fundraiser survival guide,” Adam said, tapping the flute. “While you don’t want the well to run dry, you also need to make sure to wrangle up some food during the cocktail portion. Once the presentations and speeches start, it’s a good hour-plus before they even serve the salad. And too much champagne on an empty stomach can lead to one of two things.”
“Oh yeah? What are those?” I asked, leaning in closer and slurping up an oyster.
“Either spending your whole evening praying to the porcelain god in some very posh hotel bathroom or spending all of your money at the event’s silent auction. Trust me, I know this from experience. Though this time, I have my eye on a bike tour through Provence for two,” he offered with a charming smile, a flash of one deep-set dimple catching my eye.
“Provence. Sounds nice. So are you like a professional fundraiser attendee or something? Or do you have an actual job you report to?” I asked playfully.
He chuckled and took a sip from his flute before responding. “It’s a bit complicated to explain, but to put it simply, I’m in market research.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Not really. What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a struggling actress, and it just so happens I blew the biggest audition of my life today.” The horror of me swinging through the air like the pendulum of a great cow clock repeated over and over again in my brain, and I winced at the memory.
“I’m sorry to hear that. With a face like yours and such sparkling conversation, it seems a shame for you to have to struggle as an actress when there’s probably a million things that you could do and do well.”
My heart sank as I realized this stranger had been more consoling than my boyfriend of almost five years. “Thanks. That’s nice of you to say.”
Just then I heard my name called from over my shoulder. “Avery, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I have a bunch of people I want you to meet,” Gabe said as he approached us at the table.