“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Nell said, letting a bit of sarcasm bleed through in her voice. “The point is, I don’t want to be mistaken for a bodyguard or PA or something.”
“You do walk like a bodyguard.” Amy giggled. “Oh, come on, bestie, don’t be mad — you know you move like you’re going to take people apart if they look at you wrong. But I see what you mean. And your work clothes make you look like a PA. Shit, I wish I were at home!” She tapped her fingernails against her phone screen, and the clicking sound echoed through the speaker. “Hold on, I think Johnny’s performing in Seattle right now. I’ll call you back.”
“Who’s Johnny?” Nell asked, but Amy had already ended the connection.
Practical action is best, she told herself. She took a load of pajamas and underwear down to the laundry room in the basement, then decided to look up Time Rock and find out what it was.
Ten minutes later, she was even more overwhelmed. It seemed that back in the 90s, some rock promoter had bought a vineyard overlooking Lake Hennessey in the Napa Valley and turned it into a concert venue. From what she could tell, a number of events were held there throughout the year, but the biggest of all was the Time Rock Music Festival, in which newer bands were paired up with bands whose first big hits had been recorded in past decades, each pairing sharing a stage as they alternated sets and then performed a few songs together. The official website showed glamorous pictures of beautiful people gathered around open-air bars and spectacular stages, lots of bare skin shining with sunscreen and sparkles, leather and metal accessories everywhere, rock t-shirts cut low and tied high on women or tight and de-sleeved on men. Grapevines and the blue twinkle of a lake view graced the soft-focus distance in every shot. Crap. She couldn’t imagine fitting in with all that. Give me a taekwondo tournament over this any day. A trace of reluctance settled in her stomach. But I promised.
Her phone buzzed, alerting her to a new message from an unknown number: Hi Nell, this is Johnny. Amy gave me your number. I can meet up with you this afternoon if you like, take you shopping?
“Shopping?” Nell said out loud, momentarily taken aback. Really kind of you, she texted back, but I think Amy maybe gave you the wrong idea. Wasn’t planning on a shopping spree.
I know you’re on a budget, but she says you don’t own any jeans, came his reply. Trust me, I’ve been to Time Rock. You need a pair of jeans. Let’s meet at the Westlake Center Starbucks and go from there.
Faced with that, she agreed to meet him at three o’clock. Was there something wrong with preferring loose-fitting workout pants and stretchy, comfortable yoga pants? She asked how she would recognize him.
Pretty sure I’ll be the only guy with pink hair, Johnny texted in reply.
Nell made a point of arriving twenty minutes early, partly because she disliked even the risk of being late, and partly to counteract her reluctance — shopping in general used up time better spent doing other things, plus this particular trip involved buying an item of clothing she didn’t want, with money she didn’t have to spare, for an event that didn’t appeal to her. She didn’t love having strangers involved in her business, either, which Amy knew very well.
The tattoo wrap on her shoulder itched, and she wanted it off.
She sat by a window in the Starbucks, grimly sipping her tea, wondering whether Amy’s friend Johnny was an on-time person or a late one. Probably late.
But he was five minutes early.
He did have pink hair — vivid neon pink hair, buzzed short around the back and sides, a couple of inches longer and expertly styled on top. Lean and toned in a way that made her think he might be an athlete, he walked into the coffeehouse like he owned it. That’s some confidence, Nell thought with grudging respect. She stood up and raised a hand in a small wave so that he’d know she was the person he was looking for. He returned her wave with a smile and pointed to the lineup, indicating that he’d order something and then join her.
In a relatively short time, he’d acquired some kind of iced coffee drink and was striding up to her table, his hand out for her to shake. “You must be Nell. I’m Johnny. Good to meet you.” He sat down, took a sip of his drink, hauled his backpack onto his lap, and said, “While we’re sitting here, let’s talk about makeup. Get that out of the way.”
What the ever-loving hell? “I really don’t know what Amy told you, but—”
“You’ve met a musician dude and are going to Time Rock with him, and you don’t want to be mistaken for a roadie or PA or something, so you need to look like a Girlfriend with a capital G.”
“Sure, but I know how to put on eyeliner. And I’m not going to coat my face with all kinds of gunk.”
Johnny laughed. “Amy told me you’d say that. You wear sunscreen, don’t you? So all I want you to do is use this instead.” He took a small makeup bag out of his backpack and extracted a pastel-green pump bottle. “Sunscreen moisturizer with skin brighteners — think of it like, oh, a super-subtle hint of shimmer, barely even noticeable. But it’ll give you that music festival glow you want.”
Shimmer. Ick. But Nell nodded her acceptance. Barely even noticeable didn’t sound so bad. And she had asked for help, so it would be foolish to refuse it now. “Okay. What else do I need to do?”
He reached into the makeup bag again and brought out a fat jet-black eye pencil, a round eyeshadow container with glittery contents the color of an almond cookie,
