Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (5 page)

I smiled weakly and did a half turn.

“Um, do you think I could use the rest room?” I asked.

“Sure.”

She pointed out the bathroom, and I scurried to it. It was a small no-frills john with a tiny window opening onto an alley. I checked out my slacks, and sure enough, the tag was showing. Quickly I shoved it under the waistband. I was just about to go back out onto the sales floor when I heard voices coming from the alley.

One of them was the unmistakable voice of Frenchie. And if I had to guess, I’d say the other one was Tyler, the adorable salesman Lance had lusted after. But I didn’t have to guess, because by this time, I was standing on the toilet peeking out the window.

What can I say? I’m nosy.

Frenchie was leaning into Tyler, both arms draped around his neck.

“I’ve missed you, babe,” she cooed. “When are you coming back to your Frenchie?”

Tyler looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Look, Frenchie,” he said, removing her arms from his shoulders, “we’ve been through this a million times. You’re a married woman.”

“So?”

“So Owen’s a nice guy. It’s not fair to him.”

“Owen doesn’t mind. We have an open marriage.”

“I think he does mind. I see the way he looks at me and it’s not the look of a happy man. Besides, I already told you. I’ve met somebody new.”

“You can’t like her more than you like me,” she said, running her finger along his upper lip.

“I’m afraid I do,” Tyler said, brushing away her hand.

And like that, she turned from pussycat to piranha.

“Nobody dumps Frenchie,” she said softly, so softly I had to strain to hear. “You’ll be sorry.”

It was hot in that small bathroom, but suddenly I felt a chill down my spine. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to get on Frenchie’s bad side.

Frenchie strode back into the store, the angry click of her high heels echoing in the alley. Tyler just stood there, wiping his lip where her fingers had been. I couldn’t tell if what I saw in his eyes was fear or disgust. Probably a little of both.

Then I climbed off the toilet bowl and headed out to meet Grace Lynbrook.

The first thing I noticed about Grace was her hair. It was, to borrow a phrase from Walt Disney, snow white. Which made a startling contrast with the deep blue of her eyes. She had cheekbones as sharp as Ginsu knives, and skin remarkably free of wrinkles. I remembered what Lance said, that she’d been a top model in the seventies. Surely she must’ve had plastic surgery to look so good. But there were no telltale signs of a surgeon’s knife. No slanted eyes, no eyebrows raised in a look of perpetual surprise.

“Jaine,” she said, standing up to shake my hand. “So nice to meet you.”

She wore white linen overalls with a black tank underneath. Now I can count on the fingers of Venus de Milo’s hand the number of women who can wear white overalls and not wind up looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. But Grace Lynbrook managed to pull it off. Not only that, her linen overalls—defying the laws of nature—hardly showed a single wrinkle. They wouldn’t dare. Not on someone as beautiful as Grace.

I reached out to shake her hand, praying that my price tag wouldn’t come zinging out from the rubber band.

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to an overstuffed chintz chair.

Her office, unlike the teak-and-chrome sales floor, was done up country cozy. Her desk was a scrubbed pine table, her chair a white wicker rocker. A back door was open, letting in a cool breeze. It felt like tea time in a Merchant-Ivory movie.

The only jarring note in the room was a battered mannequin propped up against the wall, dressed in faded bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

“That’s Bessie,” Grace said, following my gaze. “She’s from my very first window display. That’s the outfit she was wearing when I opened my shop. I can’t seem to let her go, even though she’s falling apart. Literally. I’ve got her arms Scotch-taped to her body.

“Poor Bessie,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not fun getting old, is it?”

I didn’t know about Bessie, but Grace was managing the transition quite nicely.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she offered.

I was dying for some coffee, but didn’t want to risk reaching for it and dislodging that damn price tag.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She gave me a quick once-over, her electric blue eyes scanning my suit.

“Prada?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Very nice,” she said.

Thank heavens for Lance.

“So,” she said, smiling a smile that could have lit up the Hollywood Bowl. “Tell me about yourself.”

I chatted for a bit about my career as a freelancer, carefully omitting the word Toiletmasters from my spiel.

“Any fashion experience?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to pump some confidence in my voice. “I’ve done fashion copy.”

“Really? Who did you work for?”

“Marida.”

“Marida? I’ve never heard of them.”

“It’s an Italian company.”

“Oh? What do they make?”

“Footwear.”

Shame on you if you think I was fibbing. It’s true. I did work for a company called Marida. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Ferragamo. Marida was short for Marty and Ida Facciobene, the owners. And the “footwear” they made was extra-wide orthopedic shoes. But technically I wasn’t lying, so I don’t want to hear any flack about it.

“Sounds interesting,” Grace said.

And then she uttered the three words I’d dreaded hearing:

“Got any clips?”

Oh, no. She wanted to see writing samples.

Sighing deeply, I took out a small black portfolio from my attaché case. This was my sample book. In it were several Toiletmasters ads, a Tip Top Dry Cleaners brochure, and a catalogue for Marida footwear, featuring their famous Bunion-Ease Comfort Sandals.

I handed it to Grace, waiting for the ax to fall. But to my surprise, she laughed.

“How marvelously campy,” she said, leafing through my portfolio. “Did you really come up with the slogan
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters?
I see it in the Yellow Pages all the time.”

“And
Only You Can Prevent Clogged Garbage Disposals,
” I added. “That was mine, too. It won the Golden Plunger award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association.”

She finished thumbing through my book and slapped it closed.

“You’re not exactly what I had in mind,” she said, “but what the heck. Your copy is pretty damn good. Can you come back next week with some ideas for a magazine campaign? I’ll pay you five hundred dollars; five thousand if we use your campaign.”

Five thousand dollars? I hadn’t seen that many zeros on a check for a long time.

“It sounds great,” I gulped.

“Becky can fill you in on the kind of ads we’ve run in the past. But don’t feel limited by what we’ve already done. Use your imagination.”

My imagination was already in overdrive, just trying to picture me, Jaine Austen, a gal who bought her wedding dress from L.L.Bean, writing ads for a trendy boutique like Passions.

Back on the sales floor, Tyler was folding spandex tank tops, studiously avoiding all eye contact with Frenchie, who sat at the register pushing back her cuticles and tapping her Jimmy Choo knockoffs in an angry staccato. You could cut the tension between them with a weed whacker.

I, on the other hand, was remarkably tension-free. Even if I didn’t get the job, the $500 Grace Lynbrook was going to pay me for coming up with ideas would at least take my checking account off life support.

I told Becky the good news.

“That’s super!” she said, once again channeling Gidget. “Why don’t you drop by for dinner tomorrow night, and I’ll give you any background information you need.”

“You don’t have to cook dinner for me,” I said. “You’ve done enough as it is.”

“Don’t be silly. I adore cooking. I just hope you get the job.”

“What job?”

Frenchie was at our side, smiling an icy smile. Why did I get the feeling she could see right through the sleeve of my Prada suit to the price tag inside?

“Jaine might be writing Passions’ new ad campaign,” Becky said. “She’s coming back next week to pitch ideas to Grace.”

Frenchie’s eyes widened with surprise.

“You’re kidding, right? Surely Grace can do better than
her.
”

Okay, she didn’t really say that. She didn’t have time to say that, because at that moment she saw a customer and dropped me like a hot
pomme frite.

It was the older woman from the other day, the one who dressed like a recycled teenager. Today she was wearing capri’s and a mini-sweater, her thin hair pulled back in a pony tail high on her head.

“Mrs. Tucker,” Frenchie cooed, “how lovely to see you. I’ve got a new halter top that just came in. It’ll be perfect for you.”

And with that, she began plucking clothes off the racks. Mrs. Tucker followed her eagerly, a fashion junkie about to get her fix.

Having deposited Mrs. Tucker in the dressing room with several age-inappropriate outfits, she sailed back to us.

“What a silly old cow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The woman has been under the knife more times than a Benihana steak.”

“Frenchie,” Becky admonished, “that’s not nice.”

“You know what I call her?” Frenchie said, obviously not giving a damn about being nice. “I call her Mrs. Nip & Tucker.”

“Cut it out, Frenchie,” Becky said, a warning note in her voice.

But Frenchie ignored her.

“If I have to lie to her one more time about how good she looks, I’m going to puke.”

“Don’t worry, Frenchie. You won’t have to lie to me any more.”

Frenchie whirled around to see Mrs. Tucker, standing outside the dressing room, her eyes blazing.

“You brought me the wrong size,” she said, holding up the halter.

Frenchie laughed nervously. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you, Mrs. Tucker.”

“Don’t you mean Mrs. Nip-and-Tucker?”

For once Frenchie was at a loss for words.

“No, you won’t have to lie to me any more, Frenchie. Or to anybody else in this store. Not after I finish talking with Grace. We used to model together, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re friends.
Best
friends.”

She stormed off to Grace’s office, her surgically taut face even tighter with rage.

“I tried to warn you,” Becky said.

“I’m not afraid,” Frenchie said airily. “Grace will never fire me. I’m much too valuable to the store.”

And with that she went back to the register to contemplate her cuticles.

“What do you think?” I asked Becky when Frenchie was out of earshot. “Will Grace fire her?”

“Gosh,” Becky said wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be neat?”

Frenchie’s fate was of little interest to me as I drove home from Passions. All I could think about was that $5,000 carrot Grace had dangled before my eyes.

I found a parking spot in front of my duplex and was heading up the path to my apartment when I ran into Lance.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, looking me up and down approvingly. “How did the interview go?”

“Great! I’m going back next week to pitch ads for a new campaign.”

“Congratulations! Now we have to get you a new outfit. We’ll just return the Prada and get something else. Maybe Armani. You can’t go wrong with Armani.”

“No way, Lance,” I said. “I’m not pulling the same scam again. I’m feeling guilty enough as it is.”

“But what will you wear?”

“The Prada. I’ll wear it one more time, and then I’m going to return it.”

“But you can’t wear the same outfit twice.”

“Why not? I’ll just put on a different blouse and change my jewelry.”

“I guess it might work,” he conceded.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick up a new blouse for you?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got a very pretty Ann Taylor blouse I can wear.”

“It’s not polyester, is it?”

“It’s silk. A hundred percent. I swear on a stack of
Women’s Wear Daily
s.”

After convincing Lance that the world would not collapse if I showed up in the same outfit twice, we air-kissed each other good-bye, and I let myself into my apartment.

The first thing I did was stow the Prada suit in a garment bag, away from Prozac and her Claws from Hell. The second thing I did was slip into a T-shirt and a pair of elastic-waist pants.

I spent the rest of the afternoon paying bills and getting things done around the apartment.

Okay, so I spent the rest of the afternoon stretched out on the sofa, watching House & Garden Television. But I got to watch a lot of other people getting things done around their apartments. Does that count?

After a Chinese take-out dinner of wonton soup and chicken lo mein (which Prozac was kind enough to let me share), I headed off for a soak in the tub. As I lay there, up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, I could feel my straight Gunterized hair spronging back into tight ringlets. Oh, well. Who cared? I had a whole week before I had to look stylish again.

When my muscles were as limp as my lo mein noodles, I hauled myself out of the tub and slipped into my pink chenille bathrobe, the one with the coffee stains in the shape of the big dipper. Then I toddled to the kitchen, where I treated myself to an Eskimo Pie for dessert.

I was just about to climb into bed when I caught a glimpse of myself in my bedroom mirror. Frizzy hair. Bunny slippers. A fresh ice cream stain on my bathrobe.

In less than twelve hours, I’d gone from Prada to nada.

And frankly, it felt great.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: A New Career

Pip-pip and cheerio, old bean!

(That’s British for
Hi, Sweetpea!
)

I’ve been busy as a bee working on my British accent and learning my lines. I figured I might as well memorize the whole part; I’m sure to get it. Your mom has been rehearsing with me. As we theater folks say, she’s been “feeding me” my lines.

If I do say so myself, I’m getting better with each reading. In fact, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I’m seriously considering taking up acting as a career. I could work the dinner theater circuit, and who knows where that might lead? Remember that lady who said, “Where’s the beef?” Didn’t she break into show biz in her eighties? Heck, I’m a spring chicken compared to her.