Free Dark Secret Love by Alison Tyler

twelve. It was attached to a beauty supply store, and I hung out at the makeup counter so often that the manager put me to work. So the noise, the hectic pace, and the very familiar scents of salons were more comforting to me than almost anything else.
    Still, this was the biggest place than I’d ever worked, with celebrities coming in hourly, often using a private elevator in the back. There was an espresso bar and an international newsstand and a whole bank of manicurist/pedicurist stations, chairs facing a wall painted with a detailed mural of a horizon.
    “You understand that you never let a client off the phone without booking an appointment. If we can’t book the desired stylist at that time, you offer another time. If the time is more important than the stylist, you find another stylist.”
    I nodded.
    “And you’re pleasant, even if someone is irate. That’s the number-one priority.”
    “But you can put them on hold,” the girl with a shiny black bob next to me grinned. “I’m Nina,” she added, “and that’s my favorite trick.”
    Carmen nodded. “As a last resort,” she said, “because they’ll simply hang up and call back, but if someone’s screaming at you, that’s what we all do.”
    Screaming, I thought. People take their hair way too seriously in L.A.
    Carmen brought me back to meet the different stylists, and I knew that it would be weeks before I could memorize everyone’s names. Half were French, with fairy-tale names like Adrien, Patrice, Jean-Claude. The rest hadmonikers that sounded as if they’d renamed themselves: Brandy, Temper, Raven, and Frankie. But all were friendly to me as I passed through the massive salon.
    “Don’t worry,” one said, pulling up alongside me. “You’ll get it.” I must have looked mildly panicked. I stared at him, realizing I’d already forgotten his name. “Matteo,” he said, smiling, and when I hurried after Carmen, who’d already headed toward the rear break room, I heard him whisper something under his breath.
    “So,” Carmen said, kicking her feet up on a zebra-striped leather chair and settling in with a giant cup of coffee. “Does it all make sense?”
    I nodded. I’d done reception during my freshman year at an architecture firm. All I did there was run an eighty-line switchboard for six hours at a time. The name of the firm was a tongue twister and keeping the employees straight was a nightmare, but I’d succeeded. This couldn’t be half as difficult.
    “And you got the dress code down,” she said, nodding her approval. “Do you have any questions?”
    I shook my head.
    “Really,” she insisted. “Ask me anything.”
    I paused. We were alone, for the moment, so I took a risk. “Anyone to watch out for?”
    She laughed. “You’ve got a beehive of pissy hairstylists. Half of them will love you. The rest will try to stab you in the back.”
    That was reassuring.
    “This place has its own atmosphere. It might be sunny and ninety degrees outside, but if KC—” he was the owner— “is in a bad mood, then it’s raining in here. There are constant soap operas. We don’t have an official rule about employees dating, so you’ll witness plenty ofromantic dramas. But all in all, I’m sure you’re going to love it.”
    I was sure, too.
    The day flew. There was never down time. The phones rang all day long, and the clients came in a steady stream. By six o’clock, I was whipped. At least, that’s what I thought, until I headed to my car and remembered Nate and what he’d said. I amended the statement in my head.
    I wasn’t whipped—yet.
    When I got home, Lois was waiting for me with a surprise. She’d landed a part in an off-Broadway play in New York and was flying out in a few days. But more importantly, she thought she’d stay out there. She had friends from college in Brooklyn and Manhattan, and she was tired of working ceaselessly only to land commercials. Yeah, they paid well, but the most recent one was for an