“Hi. Um, no. I’m Lily Louten. I’m here for an interview with Deidre. We have an eleven-thirty?” I hated the way I sounded—as uncertain as someone trying out a foreign language.

“Sure. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived. Please have a seat.” She gestured to a gray slipper chair against the wall. There was a coffee table in front of it—more brushed steel—and a spread of fashion magazines arranged in a fan on top. Next to the magazines, a single white orchid drooped in a pink glazed pot. I sat and tried to smooth over the wrinkles in my dress. The blonde woman—Emily, according to the name tag clipped to her lapel—picked up the phone, said mmhmm, and yes, of course, several times, then clicked the receiver down again.

“She’s ready for you. I’ll walk you back to her office now.”

I followed Emily behind the glass partition, into a boutique, where I caught a look at my face in a vanity mirror. The circles under my eyes were inky and jarring. My pores were gaping and dark. I immediately felt revealed, embarrassed. Emily, perhaps sensing this, stepped over to a row of lipstick testers and plucked one between her fingers.

“Here. Deidre has this thing about wanting staff to wear at least three types of makeup on their shift. You should go in there looking the part, right? Try this one.” Emily held a tube out to me, the silver case as sleek as a bullet. I turned the tube until the lipstick swiveled out, a pinkish red. Philip Louis, my old boss, always said he preferred a clean look for his gallery girls, and so I never bothered with more than a swipe of taupe eye shadow and a bit of mascara.

“Go ahead,” Emily prompted. As I leaned in and traced my mouth in a shaky scrawl, her eyes gleamed with amusement. Or maybe it was annoyance. Up to a few weeks ago I would have said I was good at reading people. I wasn’t so sure anymore.