by Leslie Meier
Aware that resistance was futile, Lucy followed the Slavic tyrant down a pink hallway back to her private treatment room. Amazing, she thought, as she seated herself in the chair and studied her reflection in the mirror: there was no trace of the pain she had suffered.
When Lucy’s stylist returned and unwrapped the towel, she clucked her tongue appreciatively. “Very good.” She proceeded to comb and clip Lucy’s hair, working with astonishing speed. Then she was gone and a tall, storklike man wielding a blow dryer appeared. He was completely bald and sported at least twenty silver bangles on each wrist.
“I’m Rudy,” he said, whirling her around in the chair so her back was to the mirror.
“Nice to meet you, Rudy,” said Lucy, crossing her fingers under the smock. She heard the bracelets jingling as he worked and tried to keep a good thought. It was reassuring to discover Olga hadn’t yanked out all her hair; she could feel him brushing and tugging at something. Suddenly the blow dryer’s roar was silenced, she was whirled around, and Rudy said, “Voila!”
Lucy was silent, studying her reflection. Her hair was now a subtle auburn, so silky it gleamed. It shimmered and glowed. It looked fantastic. She’d never looked better, and she couldn’t understand how a haircut could cause such a dramatic change.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
“Trade secret,” he said, and was gone.
When Lucy was escorted back to the waiting area, she discovered all the contest winners were there, congratulating each other on their new hairdos. Everyone except Elizabeth.
Puzzled, and a bit anxious, she turned to her escort. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Elizabeth?”
“That’s her.”
“Don’t worry. Just a small delay. She asked if we could stop for a few minutes and let her take a little nap.” The girl giggled. “She said she was up late last night, at a ball.”
“Can I see her?”
“No. Rudy is finishing her. He doesn’t like to be watched when he works.”
Lucy seated herself and picked up a magazine.
“Is something wrong?” asked Cathy. “Don’t you like your hair? I think it looks fabulous.”
“Thanks. Yours, too,” said Lucy. “I’m just a little worried about Elizabeth. They say she asked them to let her nap because she was so tired.”
Just then Elizabeth appeared and everyone started clapping. The ragged, spiky look had been tamed and her color brightened with buttery blond highlights; she looked radiant, blushing with embarrassment at the group’s reaction.
“I hate it,” she declared, joking, and everyone laughed.
* * *
Fiona was speechless when they arrived at the magazine’s beauty department to be made up for the photo.
“Blond! I never would’ve. . . .”
“Me, either,” agreed Elizabeth.
“It looks great.”
“Thanks. I wish I’d had it for the ball last night.”
“Bummer.” Fiona reached for the blush. “Who was there? What were they wearing?”
“Beyoncé is every bit as gorgeous in real life as she is in her videos,” gushed Elizabeth. “But Paris Hilton looks even skinnier in real life than she does on TV. Can you imagine?”
“She has great skin, though,” said Fiona. “That tan is gorgeous. Fake, sure, but really well done.”
“It’s actually orange,” volunteered Lucy, waiting her turn.
“Elizabeth’s a bit peaked today,” said Fiona, applying blush liberally with a brush. “Too much champagne?”
“You’re starting to sound like my mother,” complained Elizabeth.
In the adjacent chair, Lucy suppressed a giggle as Phyllis sponged on foundation.
“Actually, I’m afraid she’s coming down with the flu.” She paused. “How’s Nadine doing?”
“I’m worried,” admitted Phyllis. “This isn’t like her. She never takes sick days. I can’t remember the last time, it was that long ago. She’s so devoted to her job.”
“Phyllis,” said Fiona, leveling her gaze at the assistant beauty editor. “Nadine doesn’t even do her job. You do her job.”
“Oh, that’s not true,” protested Phyllis.
“Yes, it is,” insisted Fiona. “Think about it. What does she actually do?”
“She’s on the phone a lot.”
“With her friends.”
“She gives assignments.”
“So she doesn’t have to do them.”
“She studies new products.”
“Takes them home, you mean. Bags and bags full.”
“Well, the manufacturers are developing new products all the time.”
“And she scoops them all up. Every single one. When’s the last time she offered something to you?”
“It’s her prerogative. She’s the beauty editor.”
“In name only. You do all the work.”
“That’s nonsense,” protested Phyllis, brushing some mascara on Lucy’s lashes. “Nadine’s the idea person. I just do what she tells me.”
“Admit it,” snapped Fiona. “If she never came back you couldn’t tell the difference, except we’d all get more free stuff.”
“You just want the bottle of Penhaligon perfume,” said Phyllis.
“Can I take it?”
“Sure.” Phyllis giggled. “Just don’t tell Nadine.”
“Cross my heart,” said Fiona, spraying it on liberally.
* * *
Lucy was still trying to pin down the fragrance—predominantly floral, but with a hint of something exotic—when they went to the fashion department to try on their new outfits. Lucy had to admit Elise had chosen well: the fitted jacket showed off her figure, and the long, straight pants, with heels underneath, made her legs look longer. Elizabeth’s off-the-shoulder top showed off her pale skin beautifully, and the flowing black skirt and boots were a nice change from the jeans she usually wore, yet it still looked fun and casual. They were quite pleased with their made-over selves when they headed for the photo studio.
That satisfaction changed when they saw the other women, all similarly arrayed in varying shades of black. And now that she got a good look at everyone, Lucy realized Rudy had given them all remarkably similar hairdos.
“Oh my gawd,” laughed Cathy. “We look like members of the same coven!”
“You shouldn’t joke about the devil,” said Lurleen.
“That hairdresser was a devil, that’s for sure,” said Ginny, fingering the shaggy pageboy that was a mirror image of Lucy’s and Lurleen’s and Serena’s styles. “We all have Jennifer Aniston’s hairdo.”
“But not the rest of her,” said Serena, patting her plump bottom, which was now disguised in a black A-line skirt. A scoop-necked blouse with a fitted waist flattered her ample decolletage while vertical stripes slimmed her middle.
“Well, I like the way I look and once I’m back home, away from you guys, I won’t look like I was stamped out with a cookie cutter,” said Lucy, as Pablo and Nancy arrived.
They both seemed happy enough with the contest winners’ new looks as they wandered from group to group, discussing possible poses.
“Fabulous, fabulous chiaroscuro,” murmured Pablo, stroking Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I’m thinking Goya, Rembrandt. A play of light and dark, like a classical portrait in a museum. And we’ll have a group shot, you know that very big painting of the Spanish royal court?”
“The one with the dwarf?” asked Nancy.
“That’s the one,” said Pablo, lifting Cathy’s face by the chin and turning it from side to side. “But I don’t want the dwarf. Maybe a monkey.”
“You want a monkey?”
“Yes.” Pablo had decided. “I must have a monkey.”
“Where am I going to get a monkey? And what if it bites someone. There may be liability issues.”
Pablo stamped his foot and tossed his head. “This is what I have to deal with, all the time! How can I be creative when it’s always a problem?
Just borrow one from the zoo! In Central Park, a few blocks from here, there are plenty of monkeys. I saw them myself.”
“Pablo, be reasonable,” begged Nancy. “The zoo isn’t going to lend us a monkey.”
“No?” He hung his head, pouting.
“If you get the pose right you won’t need a monkey.”
“You’re right! Pablo is a genius; I don’t need a monkey. The camera is my monkey.”
This announcement seemed to satisfy Nancy, but Lucy found it puzzling, as did the others.
“What does that mean? The camera is my monkey?” whispered Lurleen.
“He’s an artist,” said Lucy, with a shrug.
Before Lurleen could reply, the two women were pulled apart by Pablo’s assistant, who was arranging the women according to the photographer’s instructions, which he shouted down from his perch on a tall ladder. This familiar routine of being pushed and shoved around and ordered to hold uncomfortable poses for excruciatingly long periods of time was beginning to irritate her. She was also worried about Elizabeth and kept sneaking glances to make sure she was all right, relieved that she was one of the lucky few who’d been posed on a chair. They’d been at it for almost two hours, and Pablo was promising a break when Camilla blew into the studio and planted herself in front of the group, arms akimbo.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded.
“This is the after photo,” said Nancy, stepping forward. “We’re going for a classic look inspired by Goya.”
“Goya! Is that why they’re all dressed like crows?”
“Actually,” said Nancy, “the black looks great.”
“It looks like crap.”
Nancy shifted uneasily from one foot to another and looked skyward at Pablo, still perched on his ladder. “Pablo says . . .”
“I don’t care what Pablo says, I’m the editor here and I say this looks a lot more like The Stepford Wives than Goya, despite our little artiste’s pretensions, and I DON’T WANT STEPFORD! I want INDIVIDUALITY! I want our readers to think they can buy a new lipstick or get a new dress and it will transform them from ordinary to extraordinary.”
Lucy found this exchange fascinating. She had no idea that magazine editors actually uttered the phrases they plastered on the covers. Pablo, however, remained impassive, high above the turmoil below. “Listen,” he said, leaning down to speak to her, “this black was not my idea.”
“No?” Camilla’s back stiffened.
“No! Black is what I got, everyone in black, so I think: What can Pablo do with black? The answer is obvious. Goya. But,” he paused and held up a hand, “if it was up to me, I would put each of these lovely ladies in a different color and they would be like a garden of beautiful flowers.”
“So who decided to go with black?”
“You know perfectly well,” said Nancy, coolly. “Elise chose all the clothes.”
Camilla’s eyes flashed and there was a collective intake of breath as everyone waited, expecting an explosion. It never came. Instead, Camilla marched over to the intercom and calmly requested that Elise come to the photo studio.
As a reporter, Lucy had learned long ago that bad news travels fast. She figured the photographer’s assistant had dropped a word to a friend in the advertising department who had run into someone from the fashion department in the ladies’ room. That’s how it went, whether you were in a little town like Tinker’s Cove or a big city like New York. Still, it was disconcerting when Elise arrived in a flood of tears. Somehow Lucy hadn’t pictured her as the emotional type.
“Elise, dear,” said Camilla, her voice as sweet as sugar, “do you see anything wrong with this picture?”
“Ohmigod,” she wailed, wrapping her arms around Camilla and collapsing into her arms. “I can’t believe it.”
“Now, now.” Camilla was staggering under the larger woman’s weight. Fortunately, whether her grief made it impossible for her to support herself or because she realized that Camilla’s little bird body was about to snap, Elise slid to her knees, still keeping her arms wrapped around Camilla’s tiny waist. Camilla looked extremely put out at the situation. “It’s not as bad as that,” she snapped, trying to squirm out of Elise’s constricting grip. “We’ll just get them some different outfits.”
Elise lifted her tear-filled eyes to meet Camilla’s. “Haven’t you heard?”
Camilla’s eyes flashed, but she managed to retain control of her voice. “Heard what?”
“Nadine’s gone.” Elise continued her downward slide to the floor, pulling Camilla down with her. “Nadine’s dead.”
Chapter Eight
BANISH BLEMISHES: TIPS FROM TOP DERMATOLOGISTS
A part from Faith and Lurleen, who immediately fell to their knees and began praying, nobody seemed to know how to react to the news. They all stood awkwardly, watching and waiting.
“Nobody dies from the flu,” declared Camilla, struggling to get back on her feet but hampered by her four-inch heels. “Who told you she’s dead?”
“Arnold’s secretary called,” blubbered Elise, as her substantial shoulders shook with sobs and she pounded her fists on the floor. “She said there were complications.”
Camilla glared at Nancy and Pablo, who were whispering together in a corner. “Help me up, you idiots!” she screamed.
The two rushed over to the entangled pair. Pablo helped Camilla up while Nancy attempted to console Elise, who was now flat on her stomach with her face buried in her hands.
Back on her pointy little Manolos, Camilla straightened her black-and-white tweed suit and ran her hands through her hair, returning it to its previous perfection. She pointed a crimson-tipped finger at Elise. “Get her up!” she barked to Nancy and Pablo.
Pablo and Nancy’s eyes met as they each took one of Elise’s elbows and gave the old heave-ho, succeeding only in raising her to her knees. With a second enormous effort they managed to get her somewhat upright.
“Bring her along. I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” Camilla declared, stomping out of the studio. Pablo and Nancy followed, struggling to support Elise who was now making pathetic mewing sounds and sniffling noisily.
Everyone seemed to expel a sigh of relief when they were gone, except for Faith and Lurleen, who were absorbed in their prayers.
“Well, I for one am glad this makeover is almost over and I can go home to sunny California,” said Serena, giving her daughter a supportive hug. “We don’t have flu in California, at least I don’t think we do.”
“Well, we have it in Omaha,” said Ginny, “but otherwise healthy people don’t die of it. Did she have some sort of condition like asthma? Some sort of immune deficiency?”
“She always seemed pretty healthy to me,” said Cathy. “She never missed any promotions at Neiman Marcus, that’s for sure. She’d fly two thousand miles for a free meal.”
“You ought to be ashamed,” declared Maria, eyes blazing. “It’s not a joke. The poor woman is dead, just like we all will be one day.” She crossed herself, as did Carmela.
“It sure makes you think,” said Cathy, shaking her head. “She had everything. She was married to a millionaire, she had a great job on a magazine, she had it all.”
“Were there any kids?” asked Tiffany.
“No. No kids,” said Cathy. “At least none that she ever mentioned.”
Realizing that her own child had been awfully quiet, Lucy anxiously searched the group for her. She wasn’t standing with the others in the anxious little knot they had formed but had retreated to the raised platform, where she was slumped over to one side and fast asleep.
Lucy immediately knew something was very wrong. Elizabeth was a light sleeper and the commotion in the studio would have kept her awake, even if she’d felt tired enough to stretch out on the stage. She also liked her comfort but hadn’t even slipped her purse under her head as a pillow. Lucy anxiously remembered how she’d had so much trouble staying awake earlier, and this time, when she felt Elizabeth’s forehead, Lucy dis
covered she was burning with fever. Lucy gave her a shake; her eyelashes fluttered but Lucy couldn’t rouse her.
“Is something the matter?” asked Maria. “Should I call an ambulance?”
Lucy shook Elizabeth harder, and her eyes opened.
“Wake up, honey. We need to get you to the doctor. Can you walk?”
“Sure.” Elizabeth sat up and Lucy slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her to her feet.
“Thanks, but I think we can manage with a taxi,” Lucy told Maria. “Where’s the nearest emergency room?”
* * *
It didn’t matter whether you were at New York Weill Cornell Medical Center or Tinker’s Cove Cottage Hospital, all emergency rooms were the same, thought Lucy. She was sitting on one of those standard plastic chairs in the corner of an examining room. Elizabeth was lying on the table, and they were waiting for the doctor. They’d been waiting for what seemed like a long time, and Lucy suspected they’d only been put in the examining room because Elizabeth couldn’t sit upright in the waiting room and kept slumping against the other patients. Now she was, once again, sound asleep and the hand with the bite was red and swollen. Lucy didn’t like the looks of it one bit.
The door opened and a young man in green hospital scrubs and thick black-rimmed glasses introduced himself as Doctor Altschuler. “What’s the problem?” he asked, lifting first one and then the other of Elizabeth’s eyelids. Then he slid the stethoscope beneath her sweater and pressed it against her chest, listening intently.
“She’s got a fever, she keeps falling asleep, and she’s got this nasty bite on her hand,” said Lucy. “She’s been kind of sluggish for a day or two and I thought she might be coming down with the flu, but we’ve been very busy, too, and I thought she just might be tired.”
“Busy doing what?” asked the doctor, examining Elizabeth’s hand.
“We won a magazine contest for a trip to New York and makeovers.”
“Where do you live?”