Confessions of a Grande Diva, Chapter Eight

If poor Louise thought I was insufferable the morning after I didn’t get the lead in Sweeney, she certainly found me doubly detestable the morning after the first rehearsal. Hung over and humiliated, I slunk into the office practically at noontime, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses to hide my bloodshot eyes.
 
Louise sat behind her pristine desk, a model of technical efficiency (I wouldn’t have it any other way), her
wavy red hair neatly coiffed and her perky Irish face (in an Ann B. Davis kind of way) a positive beacon of cheerfulness. “Why, hello, Dante! How are you—!”            

I cut the bitch off at the pass. “Coffee, dear girl. Coffee!” I screamed out and rushed past her, trying to make a beeline to my office.

The poor cow had the nerve to actually rise from her desk and try to follow me into my office. “The thing is, Dante—“

“Louise!” I spun around to face her, angrily. “How many times have I told you NEVER to call me by my first name when I have a hangover?”

Her ever-perky smile dropped just a notch. “Oh, it’s a...a hangover morning...”

( Ouch! Read more, but do it softly...really softly. This hangover is killing me! )