Part 21 (1/2)
”Oh, what do you know!” my mother-in-law snapped at him.
A lot, probably. More than probably. I was ninety-nine-percent sure Larry's father was right.
So what was my status? Was I single? Or married? What were the stages of separated? Was I going through a divorce? Despite Larry's New Year's Eve announcement (I had received no divorce papers or telephone calls from divorce lawyers, and the relatives' consensus seemed to be that Larry was suffering from temporary insanity), I had no idea what the answer to that question was. I took many long walks on weekends and during my lunch hour to try to think, to figure out how I felt, what I wanted. Today's lunch-hour walk took me to Beau and Bri's neighborhood, Greenwich Village. They lived in a billion-dollar brownstone on Perry Street, which I was having trouble finding.
Roxy had gone on a field trip to the neighborhood last week and had taken some great shots of the brownstone, but I needed to see it firsthand to describe it vividly for the book. I also wouldn't mind a glimpse of Beau and Bri, something to help burst the bubble of perfection. I wanted to see Bri without makeup, looking haggardas if she could. I wanted to see Beau waiting to cross the busy street like a regular person.
But first I had to find Perry Street. Aha man was walking toward me. I'd catch his eye and ask. But I didn'tcouldn'tcatch his eye. Despite the fact that I was staring at him to make him look at me, he didn't even notice me. Neither did the next man. Or the next man.
I stopped and glanced at my reflection in a bakery store window.
No wonder she can't get a date. She looks like a frumpy old sow...
Look at you! If you looked like Samantha Perlmutter's mother...
”Excuse me,” I said to the man waiting at the corner. ”Can you tell me where Perry Street is?”
Notice me. Admire my lovely blue eyes. Stare at my t.i.ts. Do something to show me I'm an attractive woman. Objectively speaking.
”I dunno,” he said, and walked away.
Frumpy old sow...no wonder she can't get a date....
”Lucy? Are you okay?”
I glanced up to find Wanda Belle staring at me. ”I'm fine,” I said, sniffling. Just fine. I'm a frumpy old sow, but I'm fine. Really.
”You left these in the kitchenette,” she whispered, dropping off the edited first chapter of Beau and Bri: The Courts.h.i.+p of the Century onto my desk. ”They're the originals.”
”Thanks,” I said, surprised. Just a couple of months ago, Wanda would have relished this kind of opportunity. She would have waited to return the pages to me when she was sure Futterman would hear so that he'd know how inept I was for the promotion to executive editor. She leaves original edited ma.n.u.scripts in the kitchenette! Where spilled coffee and globs of jelly from doughnuts could obliterate original pages!
Wanda and I had been compet.i.tors at Bold Books for years. I'd begrudged her ability to work late every day and all weekend since she was single and childless; she begrudged me my need to leave early because Amelia was sick or had a recital.
But there was no more campaigning to do. Christopher had gotten the promotion. Wanda and I were equals. And she was offering a handshake.
As she turned to go, I took in her hair, her clothes, her shoes, her makeup, her jewelry. How did she pull this off every day? Even when I was single, I didn't look like this. Granted, no one was too gussied up, but some women managed to look sophisticated even in a college sweats.h.i.+rt. ”Wanda, do you have plans tonight?”
She eyed me. ”Why?”
”I was just wondering if you dress up so beautifully every day because you have plans every night or if you just like to dress up.”
She seemed surprised by the compliment. ”I don't even think of myself as dressed up. This is just how I dress. My only plans tonight are to go grocery shopping.”
I tried to imagine Wanda Belle pus.h.i.+ng a grocery cart in the Food Emporium, struggling to open those thin plastic bags in the produce aisle, spending too much time in the cleaning supply aisle, debating whether to buy a Swiffer.
”I need an overhaul,” I said quite honestly. ”Head to toe. And I don't know the first thing about achieving a look like yours.”
”I do,” she said. ”It's called Bloomingdale's. We can accomplish everything thereclothes, shoes, hair, makeup, jewelry, and accessories.”
”How much time do you think that would take,” I asked. ”A couple of hours?”
She laughed. ”Try doubling that. It'll require an entire weekend day.”
And just like that, Wanda Belle and I had weekend plans.
On Sat.u.r.day, Wanda and I met at the Lancome counter in Bloomingdale's. I wore my usual weekend ensemble of baggy jeans and ”mom” sweater. Wanda looked as though she'd stepped out of Vogue.
In moments I was seated on a plush chair, my hair pulled back with a headband as a beauty consultant examined me from the neck up. She slathered my face with delicious-scented creams and potions and lotions, then applied tubes and pots of what seemed to be foundation but were, I was to learn, primers, concealers, base, powder. There was also eyeshadow, eyeliner, lip liner, lipstick, blush.
”Are you ready for the new you?” Wanda asked, twisting the counter mirror so that I could see.
Wow. I looked...pretty! Very pretty. Sophisticated. I looked like I was going to a wedding or on a romantic date. I looked the way Wanda Belle looked every day.
”Now we're going to take this off,” the consultant said. ”And you're going to do it yourself.”
A half hour later, I'd come close. I'd learned how to sweep sand-colored shadow across my eyes to bring out their blue color. How to line the lower rim of my lashes to make my eyes pop. I knew where the apples of my cheeks were. How to use gloss to make my lips look bigger. I learned how to be a girlie-girl. And all for the price of two shopping bags of every cosmetic, cream and brush I'd used. Almost three hundred dollars!
”You're worth it,” Wanda said. ”Just remember that. And you've worked d.a.m.ned hard for the money.”
I glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked like a different woman. No frumpy old sow in that mirror.
”Now for the clothes,” Wanda said, her hazel eyes sparkling.
After watching me gravitate to and grab the drab, tried-and-true baggy, boring clothes I always wore, Wanda took everything off my arm, dumped it on a salesclerk, and then deposited me in front of a full-length mirror. She held up colors, styles, jackets, skirts, pants, dressesand either shook her head or nodded, making yes or no piles. In the fitting room, I tried on so many articles of clothing from her yes pile that I couldn't lift my arms or legs after a while. She stood outside my room, had me twirl in front of the three-way mirror, and studied me from head to toe.
”No. Wrong color!”
”Boat necks are for sailors!”
”No pleats!”
”A-line only!”
Five times she disappeared and reappeared, her arms draped with more clothes.
Finally she announced we were done. I was the proud owner of two of everything. Two new suitscreative corporate, Wanda had called themtwo fun skirts, two pairs of pants, two sweaters, two blouses, and three dressestwo for work and one for evening. Wanda thought I should hold off on buying a more complete wardrobe until I lost the fifteen pounds I wanted to shed and until I developed my own personal style, which seemed to be tailored clothes with pretty, feminine touches.
We then hit the footwear department, where I tried on gorgeous shoes that actually were comfortable. I bought a pair of black pumps with crocodile toes and buckles and some high-heeled Italian leather boots. Then we headed to the belt-and-hosiery department, where I bought my first pair of fishnets. I spent way too much money and we weren't even finished yet. There was still the matter of my hair.
When I left the salon and looked at myself in the mirror, I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me. Sophisticated, glamorous, pulled together. My hair was just an inch shorterand chin lengthbut swingy and bouncy, and the new chestnut-brown color s.h.i.+mmered with its new highlights and lowlights. I had youthful bangs that suited me.
”If you want him back, this will do it,” she whispered.
I looked at her. ”Office gossip?”
She nodded. ”I'll tell you something, though, Lucy. I look like this twenty-four/seven and it's never kept any of my boyfriends from leaving. You don't see me going home to my gorgeous husband, do you?”
”Then what's the point?” I asked. ”Why not be comfortable like I was before? Why go through all this trouble and expense?”
”Because looking great really does help perk you up. And when you're confident about how you look, you feel more powerful.” She freshened her lipstick. ”Then again, I didn't get the promotion to executive editor, did I? I'm not living with my true love, am I? So who the h.e.l.l knows?”