Killer Blonde (20 page)

P
assions was an uber-hip joint with gleaming hardwood floors, pulsating rock music, and fashions cut so small, for a minute I thought I was in a children’s clothing store.

Lance’s friend turned out to be a pixie in her twenties with Day-Glo orange hair that looked like it was styled with an eggbeater. Together with her big blue eyes and itsy-bitsy figure, she just about broke the needle on the cute-o-meter.

“Becky and I used to work together at Neiman’s,” Lance said, after he’d introduced us.

Somehow I couldn’t picture this elf, with her flaming hair and earrings the size of hula hoops, in the refined sales aisles of Neiman Marcus.

“My hair wasn’t orange back then,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I worked in ladies lingerie. Frankly it was a bit of a snore. It’s so much more fun here. I even get to do the windows.”

I glanced over at the window display, featuring a mannequin in thigh-high boots and thong underwear. Just what I always wanted. The sexy storm trooper look.

I picked up a tank top the size of a handkerchief.

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “do you have anything in a size large?”

“That
is
a size large.”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

“Jaine’s a writer,” Lance said. “She’s not really into the fashion scene.”

“A writer?” Becky asked, clearly impressed.

I nodded modestly.

And it’s true. I write résumés, personals ads, and industrial brochures. Perhaps you’ve read my block-buster brochure for Toiletmaster Plumbers (
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters
.)

“I adore writers!” Becky gushed. She blinked those big blue eyes of hers, and I couldn’t help wondering if she’d actually ever read a book.

“Tyler’s a writer, too.” She pointed to a salesman helping a customer in the men’s section. “He’s writing a novel.”

Lance eyed him with interest. And for good reason. Tyler was one eminently eyeable guy. Tall and slim, with an innocent face and a killer body, he managed to look both sweet and sexy at the same time.

“Forget it, Lance,” Becky said, following his hungry look. “He’s straight.”

“Are you sure about that? I don’t mind a challenge.”

“I’m sure, Lance. In fact, he used to date Frenchie.”

“Frenchie?”

“The blonde at the counter. Her real name is Giselle but everybody calls her Frenchie.”

We followed her gaze to a brittle blonde sitting at a stool in front of the register, talking into her cell phone. Her white-blond hair, pulled into a tight bun, contrasted sharply with her blood-red lipstick and fingernails. She wore a low-cut black dress and ridiculously high stiletto heels, which she tapped impatiently as she talked. Nestled in her cleavage was a gold Maltese cross. Yet somehow I didn’t figure her for much of a churchgoer.

“Where the hell is my pizza?” she shrieked. “I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

Her name may have been French, but her accent was strictly Brooklyn.

“A cutie like Tyler dated her?” Lance’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Quelle bitch.”

“You know who she’s talking to on the phone?” Becky said.

“An unlucky pizza parlor?”

“Her husband. She bosses him around like a trained seal.”

“Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning,” Frenchie barked, before slamming down the phone.

“Wait a minute,” Lance said. “She dated Tyler, and she’s married?”

Becky rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how much she cheats on her husband. I’m surprised she hasn’t hit on the UPS man yet.”

Lance shook his head, baffled. “What was a cutie like Tyler doing with a bitch like her?”

“Oh, Frenchie can be charming when she wants to be. But eventually Tyler realized how awful she was and dumped her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say nasty things about Frenchie.”

I turned around to see a mousy woman in a tweed suit and sensible low-heeled pumps. Her dull brown hair formed a frizzy halo around her head. She looked as out of place in this joint as I did.

“Frenchie is a very nice person when you get to know her,” the mouse said reprovingly, then scurried away toward the back of the store.

“That’s Maxine, the bookkeeper,” Becky said. “Poor thing. She’s got a mad crush on Frenchie. Frenchie barely gives her the time of day, but Maxine still worships her.”

“Hello, Frenchie,” Maxine said, waving shyly as she passed Frenchie.

Frenchie gave her a faint smile and went back to examining her cuticles. Then the phone rang, and she answered it.

“Passions,” she said, dropping her voice an octave, like a phone sex operator. “How may I help you?” Suddenly, she was back to her Brooklyn roots. “Oh, for crying out loud, Owen! You’re still stuck in traffic? Just get here already; I’m starving.”

She slammed down the phone, her face clouded in anger. But in the very next instant the storm clouds disappeared and her face was wreathed in smiles.

“Mrs. Tucker!” she said, jumping off her stool and heading to the front door to greet a customer, clomping along in those ridiculous high heels of hers.

“Jimmy Choo knockoffs,” Lance said, following my gaze.

“Who’s Jimmy Choo?” I asked.

“Send this girl to fashion camp,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “He’s only one of the world’s hottest shoe designers.”

Okay, so sue me if I happen to shop at Pay-Less.

By now Frenchie was at the door, air-kissing her customer.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Tucker,” she cooed.

“Mrs. Tucker’s one of our best customers,” Becky whispered. “Frenchie never lets her out of her sight.”

Mrs. Tucker was a woman in her fifties who dressed like a kid in her twenties. There was something creepy about the way she’d crammed her menopausal body into low-rider jeans and a midriff-baring tee. I’m no fashion expert, but I think its safe to say you should stop baring your midriff once it’s got liver spots.

“Love your outfit,” Frenchie gushed.

“You should, sweetie,” the older woman said. “You sold it to me.”

Frenchie laughed gaily. “So what can I show you today? We’ve got some fabulous new capris that’ll look just smashing on you.”

Like a blond hurricane, she swept through the racks, pulling out one item of clothing after the next. Mrs. Tucker’s eyes shone with anticipation. After Frenchie got her set up in a dressing room, she hurried over to where we were standing.

“What a silly old bat,” she said. “If I had a tummy as pouchy as hers, I’d shoot myself.

“Where the hell is the label thingie?” she asked, rummaging in a drawer behind the counter.

“It’s right here,” Becky said, handing her a device that looked like a stapler.

“Just watch,” Frenchie said, ripping out the size 8 label from a pair of sequinned capris. “She’s going to ask for these in a size 6. You’ll see.”

And as if on cue, Mrs. Tucker popped her head out the dressing room door.

“Frenchie, honey. These are a size 8. You know I wear a size 6.”

“Right, Mrs. Tucker,” Frenchie said. “I’ll go find you a pair.”

As soon as Mrs. Tucker disappeared back into the dressing room, Frenchie rummaged through the drawer and found a size 6 label. In an instant, thanks to the “label thingie,” Frenchie had it sewn onto the capris.

“Here we go, Mrs. Tucker,” she trilled, heading for the dressing room. “A size 6.”

“Did I just see what I think I saw?” I asked, amazed.

“Yes,” Becky said. “We switch size labels all the time.”

“What a brilliant idea. I wish Bloomingdale’s would start doing that. If they did, I might even try on a bathing suit.”

“As long as we’re here,” Lance said, “why don’t you try on a few outfits?”

“I already told you. I’m not interested in buying any clothes.”

“Oh, come on. Just one outfit.”

“No way, Lance. I’m not trying anything on. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.”

Ten minutes later I was squeezed into a dressing room with an outrageous assortment of outfits I’d never in a million years dream of wearing. There were skintight pants, see-through blouses, and one of those handkerchief-sized tank tops I’d seen earlier.

“How am I supposed to get into this?” I asked, waving it out the dressing room door.

“It’s spandex,” Lance said. “It stretches.”

Somehow I managed to squeeze myself into it. And for the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be a sausage.

“Try it on with the harem pants,” Becky called out.

Oh, God. Those harem pants. Just the memory of them makes me shudder. I’ll spare you the gruesome details. Let’s just say I looked like Barbara Eden on prednisone.

I stepped out of the dressing room and everyone gasped. Not in admiration, I can assure you.

From over at the counter, where Mrs. Tucker was paying for her “size 6” pants, Frenchie didn’t even bother to stifle a laugh.

I struggled through a few more outfits, each one more disastrous than the last.

Eventually even Lance gave up.

“I think Jaine’s more the tailored type,” Becky said diplomatically.

I scrambled back into my elastic-waist pants and T-shirt and came back out of the dressing room, ready to strangle Lance for putting me through such a humiliating ordeal.

Perhaps sensing how irritated I was, and trying to make amends, Becky said: “Hey, Jaine. I was just wondering. Have you ever written any advertising copy?”

I nodded. Of course, not everyone would consider Toiletmasters a major account, but it
was
advertising.

“It just so happens that the owner of the store is looking for someone to write a new ad campaign. Would you be interested in the job?”

Suddenly I was in a much better mood. Paychecks have a way of doing that to me.

“Should I try to set up an interview for you?” Becky asked.

And, in another move I’d live to regret, I said yes.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

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New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2004 by Laura Levine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6511-1