“The best way to get over one man is to get under another.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

I watch as Alice touches up her lipstick in my bedroom mirror. We’re both dolled up in heels and short skirts, waiting for Sexy Carl and his older brother to come pick us up for the double date Alice planned.

“You’re all mopey, which was fine for a few days, but prolonged dejection is not a part of the Christina Dominguez I know and love. You just got a job with Palmer & Turquot, for god’s sake. We have to get you to lighten up.”

“And you think your new boyfriend’s brother is going to be able to do that?”

Alice gives me devilish look. “If he’s anywhere near as good as Carl in bed, then yes.”

I’m really not looking to sleep with anyone right now, even as a casual hookup, but Alice is right: I’ve been mopey. A social outing of any kind might be what I need to get me back on my game. Plus, Carl’s brother is also an advertiser and graduate of our program, with a few years’ experience in the field. At the very least, it will be a chance to network.

“And no turning our date into a networking opportunity,” Alice chides, as if reading my thoughts. “There will be no mixing business with pleasure.”

“Trust me,” I sigh, “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Alice pats me on the shoulder. “Come on, mopey. Carl just texted me that they’re here.”

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a booth with Dean, my date for the evening, as Alice and Carl wait at the bar to get themselves another round. I’m still nursing my first gin and tonic while shooting daggers at Alice’s back. From the wink she gave me when getting up, I know she only left to give me and Dean some time alone.

The gene pool seems to be a good one in the boys’ family; Dean certainly also deserves to have ‘Sexy’ as his nickname. With a chiselled jaw, aquiline nose, and perfectly sculpted black hair, he looks like a Grecian statue brought to life. He’s also charming without being creepy, intelligent without being irritating, and funny without being obnoxious. He interned at Summit Strategies before getting a permanent position with the firm, and seems dedicated to his job without letting it take over his life.

He’s basically my man-in-the-middle personified, and it’s making me hate him.

I should be all over this guy. I should be hanging on his every word and already planning our second date. He ticks off almost every single box on my potential boyfriend checklist. I’m sitting here next to the Mr. Perfect I’ve been searching for, and yet I just feel so bored by everything he says.

Alice and Carl come back, rescuing me from having to carry on with a direct conversation, and I excuse myself to the bathroom just as they’re settling down.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Some sort of impending crisis is coming on, bubbling inside me like a volcano about to erupt. I can’t shake the feeling that Dean’s entire existence has been conjured up by Aaron just to mock me. I can practically hear him speaking in his cockiest tone:

Here’s Mr. Right for you, Dominguez. Oh, what’s that? He’s not so right now that you’ve had a taste of the Penn?

I don’t know whether I want to laugh or smash something. What I do know is that sitting next to Dean and feeling absolutely no interest has made me realize something about what I used to be looking for in a guy.

All those traits I wrote on my Venn diagram were things I value in myself, things that I strive to be. I wanted to be with someone on who was on my level, and would always keep me pushing to reach the next one up. I thought dating someone equal to me meant dating someone identical to me.

I see the problem with that now, though: there’s nothing to learn. There’s no room to grow and expand, nothing to be gained from being with someone who sees the world exactly the way you do. Relationships require contrast as much as compatibility. Someone who shares all your flaws will be just as blind to them as you are. You need someone who can see your weaknesses and challenge you to overcome them, someone who can help you find the strength in yourself that you may never have noticed on your own.

Aaron Penn is my opposite in so many ways. He’s irreverent when I’m serious, immature when I’m doing my best to adult, but he’s also calm when I’m stressed and positive when I start drowning in negatives. He makes me feel good about myself, like everything I accomplish matters. He forces me to smile when it’s the last thing I want to do, but the only thing I really need.

“Foda-se!”

I slam my palms onto the bathroom counter just as a middle-aged woman opens the door. She glances at me and then quickly averts her eyes before ducking into a stall.

I turn the water on and wash my hands, just to give myself something to do for a minute while I collect myself enough to go back to the booth.

If Aaron was so perfect for you, I tell myself, things wouldn’t have ended like this.

Back at the table with Alice and the Sexy Brothers, I do my best to keep up with the conversation, but I barely contribute more than a few words.

“So Christina,” Dean says, turning to me, “Alice was telling me you’ve starting working with P&T.”

“Yeah!” Alice gushes. “It’s a major opportunity. I can’t believe you didn’t tell him yet, Christina.”

“I wouldn’t really call it major,” I correct.

“I think anything with a giant like P&T counts as major,” Dean says with a smile. “But didn’t you mention Epsilon as one of your dream firms? I don’t mean to sound critical, just curious, but aren’t they sort of opposite ends of the spectrum?”

I know he’s just making conversation, but I’m really not in the mood to have my own doubts thrown at me by someone else.

“I’m just gaining experience,” I say evenly.

“Do you think a firm like Epsilon would see experience with P&T as a favourable thing?”

This dream guy is getting less dreamy by the minute.

“I need to start somewhere, and like you said, regardless of their reputation, P&T is a major starting point.”

I try to hide how annoyed I am behind a smile, and do it well enough to convince everyone but Alice. She kicks my foot under the table.

“Should we get the bill?” she asks. “There’s this other place down the street Carl and I were talking about trying.”

I make a show of checking the time on my phone. “Actually, I might have to head out. I have my first day on the job tomorrow.”

It’s not even a lie. I really should try to get a good night’s sleep tonight. I order an Uber home and we exit the bar. Alice pulls Carl down the street after saying goodbye.

“You can catch up with us later, Dean. We’ll just be one block down.”

She makes obscene hand gestures behind Dean’s back as he turns to face me. Clearly she still thinks there’s a chance of me making a move.

“It was nice to meet you, Christina.”

I plaster on a smile. “You too, Dean.”

“I just have to say that I’m sorry if I sounded too critical about your work with P&T. I guess I’m just pretty wrapped up in the industry, and I didn’t mean to sound anything other than interested.”

Maybe I wasn’t as subtle about my irritation as I thought.

“It’s fine. Really, I’m just on edge lately. New job and all. Lots of stuff going on.”

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a grin that would have most girls pulling him into an Uber home as fast as humanly possible. “Too much stuff to give me your phone number?”

I give a little laugh. “Honest answer? Yes. It’s nothing personal, but I’m just not looking to get involved with anyone, in any capacity, right now.”

He dips his head in a gentlemanly nod. “So you’re leaving me to third wheel for the rest of the night?”

“It would appear so.”

My Uber pulls up and we say a quick goodbye. I lean my head against the window on the drive home, trying to put all the feelings churning inside me into order, to turn the negatives into a positive I can use.

Focus, I tell myself. Focus.

* * *

“So you’re the new brand rep?”

The same guy with a clipboard from my interview-masquerading-as-a-modelling-audition gives me a bored stare over the top of his glasses. I consider reminding him that we’ve already met, but I guess he must see a lot of models come in and out of this place.

You’re not a model, I remind myself. You are an up and coming advertiser whose contributions would be a valuable asset to this company. You just happen to have a job that also includes posing in bathing suits.

Today I’ll be doing my first photo shoot after a briefing with the creative team to go over my social media goals. I already came in for the HR meeting, a strenuous two hour, paperwork-filled affair. I’ll be posting on the client’s official accounts for their brand, so I basically signed my soul away if I break company confidentiality.

“Your briefing is down the hall to the left, boardroom C.”

Clipboard guy goes back to staring at the computer on the desk in front of him and I head off to the meeting.

Twenty minutes later I’m holding a packet of papers in my hands, glancing at the men around the table in disbelief. Jim Sanders isn’t among them, but if he was I’d be tempted to ask how exactly he plans on evaluating my creativity when this job seems to require next to none of it.

Everything has already been planned out. I have a pre-approved list of photo captions to pick from, a pre-approved set of hashtags I can use, and a pre-approved template for Facebook posts. Even the filters I can use on Instagram have been pre-approved, and on top of all that, I still have to submit whatever selections I make of all this pre-approved material for another round of approval.

“Is there any possibility of making additions or suggestions to all this?” I ask, after everything has been laid out in front of me and I’m finally given a chance to speak.

Everyone shifts in their seats.

“I just thought, given that I’ll be representing the brand, you may want to make things a bit more personal? I have experience in the field and I’d be happy to brainstorm a way to make these templates come across as more customized, more individual. That seems to be what our client wants.”

No one will meet my eyes, like I’m that awkward person in a waiting room who can’t pick up on the fact that nobody wants to talk, but I’ve started now and I’m not going to stop until I’ve said my piece.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping a line, but I also think it may be beneficial to have a woman’s perspective on the campaign, given that it is being directed at women. I may be wrong, but as far as I can tell the strategy so far has been developed almost completely by men.”

The man directly across from me seems to seize this as an opportunity to put me in my place. He almost sighs before he starts talking, as if he’s been left in charge of an obstinate child.

“These parameters are based on in-depth market research, Miss Dominguez, and were created to make sure we connect with our audience in the most effective way possible,” he begins, making even my name sound condescending. “As for providing your input, you’ll have lots of opportunities to use what we’ve given you today in your own creative way.”

I kind of want to throw up at the way he sing-songs ‘your own creative way,’ like he’s telling me I’m free to play with a colouring book. It’s clear that no one here shares Jim Sanders’ supposed interest in my advertising potential.

I flip through the packet in front of me. I feel like a kitten being tossed a ball of yarn and encouraged to do something cute while a dozen smart phones snap Instagram shots. Maybe that’s exactly what I am here.

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, and for the first time, I truly let myself wonder whether or not I should have done this at all.

The sound of chairs scraping across the floor pulls my attention back to the meeting.

“Alright, that about sums this meeting up. Back to your offices everyone, unless you’ve been scheduled to be on set for the shoot.”

I’m ushered through the building and down to one of the lower levels. We enter into a huge photography studio, complete with multiple backdrops and complicated looking lighting rigs hanging from the ceiling. I’m awed at the sight of it all, but it’s a different feeling from when I first walked into the studio at school. There, I felt enthralled by the vast space and sprawling warehouse windows. Here, stuck underground and bathed in harsh artificial light, I just feel intimidated, exposed.

Jim’s now-familiar voice greets me from across the room. “Miss Dominguez! A pleasure as always. How did the briefing go?”

“It was...informative,” I answer, an edge to my voice.

Either he doesn’t hear that edge, or he ignores it. “Excellent. You can head over to makeup now, just behind those screens there.”

I follow the direction he’s pointing towards and step into a makeshift room with walls made out of large canvas screens. Behind them is a chair fixed under the glare of a few freestanding lights and a table set up with enough makeup to stock an entire aisle at Sephora. One of the few women I’ve seen at P&T is hovering over a box of lipstick, a makeup tool belt filled with about a dozen brushes fixed around her waist.

“Hi,” I greet her. “I’m Christina, the brand representative.”

She lifts up her blonde head and I’m face to face with what looks like a mash-up of Amy Winehouse’s eye makeup, Kylie Jenner’s lipstick tricks, and Cara Delavigne’s eyebrow game. While it would be too much for a mere mortal to pull off, somehow it all works together on the makeup artist.

“Ah, fresh meat.”

Her voice is tinged with an accent I can’t place. She beckons me closer and I almost jump when she hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my head back, shifting my face from side to side as she inspects me.

“Mmm, yes. Sit.”

Stunned into obedience, I take a seat on the chair.

“Zhey say zhey vant natural. Men always say zhat, but what they really vant is a girl wearing lots of makeup without looking like she is wearing lots of makeup.”

She putters around the table for a bit, gathering up some items. Then, without any warning, she spins around and holds a brush up in the air, shouting loud enough to make me literally jump in my chair.

“I am tired of disguising my art for zheeze people!” She steps closer, grabbing my chin so she can look at my face again. “Zhee things I could do vis this face. Zhee things I could do! But no! Natural. We must be natural.”

As if she hasn’t made any outburst at all, she goes back to picking out items off the table.

I spend the next twenty minutes having various products applied to my face. Every now and then the makeup artist stops to look at her work and makes a derisive comment along the lines of “Natural! HA!” I stay as still as I can, since most of her comments are accompanied by a jab of her brush that narrowly misses my eye a few times.

After a final few dabs of powder, she grabs a mirror off the table and holds it up in front of me.

“It is done. It is natural, yes?”

I stare at my reflection and have to admit that this woman knows her stuff. I hardly seem like I’m wearing makeup at all, but she’s made me look better than I would have been able to with a full cat eye and stoplight red lips. My skin is practically glowing, and she’s done some sort of contouring magic that puts my cheekbones on point.

“Uh, yes. Very natural,” I answer, hoping the response won’t gain me another brush to the eye. “You did a really good job.”

I can’t tear my eyes away. I reach up a hand to touch my cheek and before I know it, my arm is being slapped away from my face.

“NO TOUCHING! You put on bathing suit now, then we do body makeup.”

She uses her brush to point out a bundle of fabric on the edge of the table. I hop up and grab it, discovering a cotton robe and an emerald green two piece.

“Where do I change?”

She just shrugs and starts rearranging some eye shadow palettes. “In corner.”

I hesitate for a moment and consider asking to use the bathroom instead, but figure I might as well just get things over with. Makeup lady keeps fawning over her collection, her back to me, and I pull off my blouse and pencil skirt before shimmying into the bathing suit.

Even without a mirror to look in, I can tell the two piece suits me. The top half is a halter with a latticework back, and the bottom has matching cut-out sections on the sides. The deep green colour goes well with my perpetually sun-kissed Portuguese skin. Looking down at myself, I feel a little better about the impending photo shoot.

“I’m, uh, done now,” I announce, setting my clothes down in a pile on the chair.

Makeup lady spins around and her eyes light up.

“Ah, good!” She walks over and looks me up and down. “We do not need to give you zhee stomach muscles. You are strong like bull!”

Okay, she has to be Russian.

“And this”—she points to the halter— “means we do not have to contour zhee boobs.”

I feel myself shaking as I try to hold in the need to laugh uncontrollably after hearing the phrase ‘zhee boobs.’

She circles around me, tugging at the bathing suit a bit and making ‘Mhmm’ sounds.

“Skin is good. We do not need to fix it,” she announces, once the inspection is complete. “You may go.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“I am Yulia Francuzova. Here is my card.”

She reaches into her tool belt and pulls out a business card, and when I look down at it I have to hold back another burst of laughter.

The background is an image of turquoise glitter. In the wavy blue bubble letter Word Art I remember using for elementary school projects, it says ‘Yulia Francuzova,’ and underneath, in Comic Sans, ‘The Makeup. The Art.’

“Thanks,” I manage to say.

I stuff the card into my pile of clothing and pull on the cotton robe before heading out into the studio.