Give yourself a hand, she thought wryly, remembering back to the first time she and Matthew had toasted with drinks. This came to mind every time she had a fizzy juice cocktail. They had met at International Foods' advertising agency. She had been hired as a hand model. It was what she, Gretchen Bonner, had done before she had met Matthew. In her lovely hand she had been holding a can of Orange Fresh, a new, all-natural carbonated orange beverage. While at the agency for another meeting, Matthew had dropped in on the shoot. His eyes had locked on the beautiful hand wrapped around his newest beverage invention. He followed the hand to the arm to the body to the face. Holding his creation perfectly still in her hand, the woman glanced at Matthew and smiled. She was perfect for the part, and when the shoot was over he offered her a glass of International Foods' own brand of vodka over ice. She accepted the drink, warning him that she would become woozy if she drank it straight on the rocks. She poured Orange Fresh into the glass and took a sip. She said she liked it better that way, sweet. At that very instant, unknown to either of them, she had single-handedly invented a multimillion dollar market segment for International Foods, for which Matthew would later garner considerable praise.
Marie entered the kitchen. Forgetting discretion, the servant allowed her critical gaze to rest for a moment too long on the open bottle of champagne in Greta's hand. Bad move.
Greta placed the bottle on the granite counter, set down her glass and, walking toward the long, sweeping kitchen windows, removed the glove from her right hand. "Marie," she called.
Marie, who had gone back to her business, faced her employer. She brushed her hand across her blinking eyes, which showed the effects of ammonia vapors.
"I think these need cleaning too," Greta said, running her index finger along the windows. She smirked.
"Of course, Mrs. Locke."
"And don't forget the outside," Greta added, picking up her drink. She gulped down half of it, then poured the remainder of the champagne into her glass. She left the empty bottle on the counter, and opened the refrigerator again and searched its open shelves for breakfast. She took a plastic container and opened it. Inside were two slices of veal left over from last night's meal. She ate one of the slices. The sauce was congealed and hardened, but the meat tasted good, and she licked the oily shine from her fingers. Her mood was returning to normal.
Greta exited the kitchen and stretched out on the couch in the sitting room. Her hand found the remote control between the cushions and she pointed the thing at the television and pressed its buttons, sipping her drink as the screen flipped through channels. Her mind flipped through its own channels, still contemplating what to do with her day.
She stopped on a commercial showing a young, laughing couple running along a beach hand in hand. It was interspersed with quick, one-second images of cocktails, dancing, dining. It concluded with the pair on horseback, galloping down the beach into the sunset, leaving her with the message: "Live again!"
She tucked the device between the pillows and set her empty glass on the coffee table; she had resolved today's activity dilemma.