We Can Make It Up Again || S-I-N Sequel

Chapter Three

Lainey's POV

I was seconds away from being late and panting from running when I reached Madame Dentelle, ten seconds away, ten seconds more and my asshole of a boss would have sent me packing. She hates that I work here, she hates that I'm not absolutely up myself like she is, that I don't have my hair pulled back in one of those facelift buns; you know what I mean?

When your skin's pulled so tight your eyebrows are like three inches higher on you head than they should be.

"Yet another close call, Lainey," she remarked coldly, her voice matched exactly how she looked. Severe, black, pointy-toed, heels, sour expression, linear eye liner, starched but expensive black and white clothes and an attitude that could easily scare children.

Her ovaries probably ran away years ago.

"My apologies, Farrah." Since she could only see my back I felt free to roll my eyes and pull a face. I probably liked her about as much as she liked me, maybe even less since she gets to go home to a place cleaned from top to bottom by house housemaid, me on the other hand, I had to clean my apartment every single day because three year olds make a fuckload of mess and that's even when I'm a lucky parent who has a kid that at least tries to clean up when you ask them.

"It's your second strike." I couldn't have given less of a fuck about her stupid strikes if I tried, to be perfectly honest I would be more than pleased if given the chance to push Farrah Fortier off the top of a building and get away with it. Hell, I've considered doing it even though I might go to prison.

She never did anything here, she had not reason to constantly come in and hang around, she didn't serve at the desk, she didn't fit anyone and she didn't fold and hang anything. All Farrah did was show up, stare icily at me for half an hour then walk off to do something, probably put herself back in her deep freezer to keep her heart nice and cold. The worst part about it was that during all the time Farrah watched, not folding or doing anything, she would pester me, constantly saying that I needed to do a better job, that I needed to smile more. I was doing the best damn job I could.

I took my satchel off as I went into the back room, hanging it up on the wall then looking in a nearby mirror to smooth out a few loose hairs in my French twist that had taken me ten YouTube videos and three hours to learn.

I'd only just figured out how to do it and that was while using half a can of hairspray every time which I'm pretty sure isn't healthy for my lungs or really anything in general. Actually I think I'm fine with doing anything that made me look even slightly better since the fringe Sunny insisted she cut was still growing out; if you want to imagine it think of Hayley Williams and her baby bangs but I look absolutely nothing like Hayley Williams so it looks like complete shit...not that I was a bad enough mother to tell Summer that, she thought she'd done a good job.

My high school and now grown up friend Bree - an actual, full time hairdresser - was supposed to be coming over and cutting it for me, something blunt that actually matched my face. Not a recreation of Beyoncé's new do and in my mind whatever speculation there was over her daughter doing her hair was out the fucking window, the kid did it.

I'm such a pushover with Sunny.

I turned around on a couple of different angles to make sure Farrah wouldn't be able to see a spider print singlet under my white blouse and adjusted the straps of the stupid heels I have to wear. I swear the Hot Topic gig is my only reprieve from this shitty place, at least the pay's alright, not that it makes a dent considering the price of my flat. I'd need to get a bonus of eight hundred a month to be even close to living half as well as Farrah.

I'd been to her house once, she left her purse at the store and made me drive nearly an hour away to give it back to her. She hadn't said thank you, given me fuel money for the effort, sheesh she was worse than Miss Archer, I wouldn't be shocked if she were Archer's long lost, un-identical twin. I'm not kidding she doesn't know how to appear grateful for anything, I wonder if her mother hugged her when she was a child. No, she was more likely hit for saying thanks, that's how she ended up like this; then again I suppose she could be a natural born bitch, some people are just like that.