She's All That
she's
all that
Other Books by Kristin Billerbeck
Ashley Stockingdale novels
What a Girl Wants
She's Out of Control
With This Ring, I'm Confused
Spa Girl Series
She's All That
A Girl 's Best Friend
Calm, Cool, and Adjusted
Split Ends
© 2005 by Kristin Billerbeck.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
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Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version
®
(NIV
®
). © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Billerbeck, Kristin.
She's all that / by Kristin Billerbeck.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59145-328-4 (trade paper)
ISBN 978-1-59554-377-6 (repack)
1. Women fashion designersâFiction. 2. San Francisco (Calif.)âFiction. 3. HairdressingâFiction. 4. HairâFiction. I. Title.
PS3602.I44S537 2005
813'.54âdc22
2005008312
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Beth Harke, my best friend since I was four. The spa and Kristin don't really mesh because I am way too hyper. Although Beth loves me, she is not planning anymore spa trips with me. I think “over my dead body” might have been her actual words. Between my inability to relax and the middle-aged bald guy macking at the pool with his girlfriend, that was really enough of the Spa experience for us. However, she continues to tell me how great the spa trips are with her other friends. I wonder what's up with that?
Love you, girlfriend!
Content
No man is an island (whatever that means) and no writer can do it without a team of experts. Thank you to my brainstorming team and writing playgroup: Colleen Coble, Diann Hunt, and Denise Hunter. My agent, Jeana Ledbetter, who puts up with meâand trust me, that ain't easy. My editors Natalie Gillespie and Angela DePriestâthese girls rock. And finally, to my faithful readers who keep me enthused and younger than my advancing age, especially Alisa Smith and Miss Michigan 2004, Kelli Talicska.
B
ad hair ruined my life. Oh, I know what you're thinking: it's physically impossible for bad hair to ruin your life. But if I didn't have frizzy, bushy, mushroom-shaped hair, I wouldn't need thermal reconditioning every four months. And if I didn't need thermal reconditioning, I wouldn't have been at the salon for five hours when my boss gave my promotion to another designer.
My boss, Sara Lang: “I'm sorry, Lilly, but you just don't have the distinction in your designs.”
I beg to differ. My designs cover every pertinent part. How
many others can claim that simple fact?
“Okay, thank you.”
Wimp. Wimp. Wimp.
Here's the kicker, though, the determining factor in my day of total humiliation and ruination: if I hadn't gone to my boyfriend's house after the news to cry on his shoulder, I would have never known about Katrina. Katrina, who is apparently his new girlfriend. The one he claims he's been trying to tell me about, so that I would know that I am officially, oh-by-the-way, the
ex
-girlfriend. Minor oversight on his part, I'm certain.
I'd like to say I'm crushed about Robert being my ex. I mean, it's sort of pathetic that he was part of my life for a few months, and my only answer to this unexpected Katrina surprise was a wave of the hand and a thoroughly disgusted, “What
ever
” (with a shrug for emphasis). Robert was more dinner companion than boyfriend, and that's about it. He was straight and a Christian. Let's face it, living in San Francisco and working in the fashion industry, that was really all he needed to be.
In terms of a long-term romantic future, I had higher hopes for myselfâdespite being continually stymied by my lack of speaking ability in the presence of men I find attractive. Generally, I date men I'm not all that attracted to. It's just easier, because at some point you have to talk to them, and with a mouth that doesn't function properly in front of guys I find, well,
hot
, this is an issue. Whereas, if I'm not looking at potential husband material, the words flow like Niagara. Granted, this dilemma doesn't bring me the passion of a Cary Grant movie, but it does suffice if I want to get out of the house once in a while.
So currently, I am Lilly Jacobs, single girl nearing thirty and fledgling fashion designer. Not
Lilly Jacobs for Sara Lang Couture
, or even the future
Mrs. Robert Hazelton
âbut I am still, and most importantly, a card-carrying member of the Spa Girls.
I unlock the litany of latches on my loft studio apartment, flop onto my futon, and call Morgan, my best college friend and fellow Spa Girl, on her cell. “I need a spa date! Fast.”
“Lilly, just a minute,” Morgan whispers. I hear some shuffling, and then Morgan is back on the line. “I'm at a political luncheon for a would-be senator. Woefully boring, and really, will the Republicans ever win in San Francisco? Talk about a waste of time.”
“What are you there for, then?” I ask, annoyed that the Republicans are interfering with my crisis.
“I'm wearing this fabulous teardrop necklace with an incredible pink diamond. Daddy just got it in from Australia. I've already had a few comments,” Morgan says. “I bet it's sold by dinnertime.”
I sigh aloud.
Could our lives be any more divergent?
Morgan Malliard is a tall, willowy, blond jewelry heiress officially known about town as the “Ice Queen” for her ever-changing diamond collection provided by her father's fashionable Union Square store. And what better item to soothe an aching Republican in Liberal Central than a fabulous diamond, the cost of which would bring many people's problems to an end? And most small countries' problems, as well.
“Which do you want to hear first?” I ask. “The bad news? Or the really bad news?” Personally, I think the fact that I'm still sleeping on a futon and am about to turn thirty speaks pretty loudly for my fate.
But wait, there's more!
“Give me any bad news that involves Robert. I never liked him. Too blahâlike a white wall amidst Ralph Lauren paint colors. He gives nerds a bad name. There
is
bad news about Robert, isn't there?” she asks hopefully.
I sigh again. “Yes, that's the pseudo-bad news. He has a girlfriend.”
“A girlfriend who is not you, I'm assuming.”
“Correct.”
Morgan lets out a restrained, “Yes!”
“Could I get some sympathy here? I have been seeing him for three months.” But even I have trouble feeling too sorry for myself. This is the equivalent of saying I've been seeing my second cousin for months. It doesn't really invoke sympathy. Just sort of a sad disgust.
“Seeing him only when you had nothing better to do,” Morgan retorts. “Give me a break. It's not like we're talking about the great love of your life. What's the
really
bad news?”
“Shane Wesley got my promotion today.”
“No! Oh, Lilly!”
“Yep. Another bald, gay man who represents the fashion industry better than me. It's my hair, I just know it.”
“Would you stop? You have great hair. Felicity made a mint on hair just like yours. Remember, she even got in trouble for cutting it off.”
“Um, back to me here,” I say, looking for my dose of sympathy and wallowing in my narcissism for the moment. After all, I earned it fair and square.
“Sorry. I'm sorry about the promotion.” Morgan sounds like she's going to cry for me. “I know how much you wanted it and deserved it. I wish you'd let me help you, Lilly. I've told you that a million times. I'll wear anything you ask. Your designs would be mentioned in the society pages. For the four people who read that page, it would be great!”
“Thanks for the offer, Morgan, but no. I want to do this by myself. I want to be so good that I can write my own ticket. Like Tom Ford. Only not male. And not gay. More like Vera Wang, I guess. Maybe I could do for the bolero jacket what she did for the wedding gown.”
“The bolero jacket?”
“Okay, what about the woven hat?”
“Like J.Lo and Mariah Carey? Not exactly strutting down the couture runway, Lilly. You do need a spa weekend. You're delirious.”
“Yeah. I'm desperate, Morgan. I need truffles, exfoliation, and gallons of Diet Pepsi to drown my sorrows. And pickles. Could we get some pickles too?”
“You better warn Poppy if you're bringing the hard stuff. She'll want you to sip detox tea, you know that. There will be ginseng and chamomile for all, but there will definitely
not
be Diet Pepsi. Somehow I'm thinking cured, dead cucumbers are not on the menu either.”
“Can you call Poppy for me?” I whine like the worm I am. “It's been a really bad day.”
“Lilly, I've got news for you. She knows you drink Diet Pepsiâand the pickle thing? Well, you're on your own there, because that's just weird.” Morgan pauses for a moment. “I wonder how many people in this ballroom have ever even eaten a really good pickle.”
“Have you?” I ask.
“No, not really. It's not the most feminine of snacks, Lilly. I mean, if you were here at this Republican soiree with me, would you feel comfortable chomping on a pickle?”
“It's
the
most feminine of snacks. Think of all the pregnant women who will settle for nothing else. I'll bring you one this weekend.”
“That's all right, Lil. If you were pregnant, maybe I'd understand, but as a consolation for losing Robert? Please. He's not even worth good chocolate. A Hershey bar and I'd be over him.”
“If I'm going nowhere in my career,” I remind her, “I might as well be bloated, but happy, from a salty foodfest. I just hate to upset Poppy. You call her. She wants me to be healthy and âin touch with my temple as God created it.' She'll think I've fallen off the wagon if she hears about the soda.”
“I'm hanging up now. The senator wannabe is wrapping up. Call Poppy, and I'll make the reservations for the spa. But no more whining over Robert. I'm not wasting any more energy there.”
