by Mimi Strong
Pretty Girls
© 2013 Mimi Strong
-.. .--. --. .-. --- ..- .--. . -..- -.-. .-.. ..- ... .. ...-
(Note: This novel was originally published in 2012 as Pretty Girls Don't Cry, by Dalya Moon, which is a pen name of Mimi's. This new second edition contains expanded content and extra scenes.)
Description: Radio show host Nora Scott, age 27, is an ugly duckling. Nora has a "face for radio," but at least her fans in Eugene, Oregon love her spunky personality. Of course, if someone says "spunky personality" to Nora one more time, she may punch them in the mouth.
After a tough week at work, she cheers herself up with a booze-fueled one-night stand. The sex is better than expected, but now the guy wants to date her. He wants to take her to brunch. Brunch! In broad daylight!
He's got some serious competition, though, because there's a sexy rock star prowling around the radio station, and he's got his dark eyes on Nora. They have history. She loved him once, when she was fourteen, but that was before the accident.
Nora must figure out what she really wants, as well as how much she can forgive.
Content warning: Some mild sex scenes; recommended for older teens and adults, 17+.
CHAPTER 1
Nora had a face for radio, as the expression goes, so when rumors surfaced that a hot, single man was in the station that day, she didn't have high hopes. Nora finished the last live segment of her afternoon show with her attention partly on the studio's interior hall window, hoping to get a glimpse of this Aaron fellow. When he did walk by, she committed a mistake she rarely did. She stuttered through five seconds of nearly-dead air.
The back of his head disappeared, down the hall and around the corner. The next song queued up in Selector was an older one, Polyester Bride by Liz Phair, and Nora hummed along happily, for possibly the thousandth time. Nora felt women were naturally suited to work at a radio station, because they enjoy songs the more they hear them. It's the men who crave novelty.
As Nora sang along, about bartenders, and alligator cowboy boots bought on sale, she also indulged in a daydream about being a polyester bride, whatever that meant, and walking up the aisle toward Aaron.
From her quick glimpse, she'd seen his strong chin, his just-right nose, and dark, nearly-black hair, cut a little too short, showing a light-skinned tan line at the back of his neck. From his posture and gait, she guessed there was no potbelly under his sport jacket. This was not a man who worked in radio. Nora's friend Kylie said he was a musician, just moved to town to set up a recording studio, and interested in doing some contract work before business picked up.
The door to the studio opened, startling Nora. She immediately covered her nose with her right hand, rubbing that imaginary itch on her forehead with her index finger, as she often did. It was a face-improvement technique only second to sticking one's head in the sand.
Murray, the General Manager, stepped into the small studio and adjusted the waistband of his pants, the buttons of his shirt straining to keep his flesh concealed. “And this is Nora,” Murray said to the good-looking visitor. “Her sweet voice in the afternoon makes her a subject of many a fantasy for our male listeners, and some of the ladies too, if you know what I mean.” He smacked the visitor, Aaron, on the back.
Aaron stepped forward, hand extended. “Nora, is it?”
He was as cute as Kylie had said, and the air around him had a charge of electricity, like the beach. Nora switched her forehead-itching, face-shielding hand from right to left and timidly shook Aaron's hand.
He had light brown eyes, dark, thick eyelashes, and was clean shaven. Girls probably threw themselves at him, and he was staring, with a perplexed look, at Nora.
He's probably curious about my hair, Nora told herself. Just the hair, that's all.
If she met someone at the beach or the gym, they'd immediately notice Nora wore a prosthetic on her right leg to replace her missing foot. But, with jeans on, her hair would be the unusual thing people would notice. It was a medium shade of blond, but intensely curly, possibly from some distant African-American ancestor. Her nose, however, was decidedly Caucasian, with a high bridge—a ski-jump, as some would call it—tapering down to a boxy, sturdy-looking tip. It was the kind of nose that entered the room ahead of a person, and Nora hoped Aaron was indeed staring at her kinky hair and not the nose she was trying to veil behind her fingers.
“Nice to meet you,” she said to Aaron in her off-air voice, which was slightly higher in pitch. She worked hard to not sound shrill on air.
“Same,” he said, tipping his head to the side. He made her feel naked, with his gentle-looking brown eyes. He made her forget anyone else was in the room.
Breaking the spell, Murray said, “Hey, Nora, I got some more of those emails about my penis. You get those emails? What do ladies get in their inboxes? Is it offers to do stuff to your vaginas?”
Her voice stretching thin, Nora said, “I wouldn't know.” She swiveled in her chair and shuffled some papers on the other side of the on-air studio's desk, waiting for the men to leave.
The best way to deal with Murray was to ignore him. He was, in Nora's words, “too stupid to be truly offensive,” though he tried, bringing up the topic of genitals at every opportunity. One of these days, Nora was going to let him know how she really felt, but not today. She was wearing her best business-casual suit for the job interview she had scheduled for later, and she didn't want to make the navy suit and cream-colored blouse sweaty. Murray wasn't worth pit-stains.
The two men left, closing the studio door behind them, and she rubbed her tensed-up thigh muscles to relax. Gorgeous guys made her so nervous, and if Aaron was going to be around the studio doing freelance work, it couldn't be better timing for her to leave the place.
Someone like Aaron would never go for a woman like her, and she felt ashamed for even hoping. He might be okay with the disability, or kinky hair he couldn't run his hands through, or the weird nose, but not all of the above. Three strikes.
Nora finished making notes on the computer, cleared her browser history, and tidied up the physical counters. The morning guys were slobs who left half-finished drinks perilously close to the expensive mixing board, but they were funny and garnered the station a decent market share, and that was all that mattered. Nora wasn't one to gnash her teeth over how the world was compared to how it ought to be. She simply assessed a situation and tried to make the best of it.
It wasn't fair she was missing her right leg from the mid-calf down, but she'd made her own decisions and that was the consequence. At least God had given her brains enough to do well in school, plus a voice that ninety-five percent of people polled found “friendly and relatable,” and a rich uncle who owned a radio station.
After finishing in the studio, Nora stopped by Kylie's desk for some moral support before the big interview.
Kylie was the promotions manager for all five sister stations. She was pretty and twenty-four, with straight, dark brown hair, green eyes, and the optimal amount of freckles on her blemish-free, symmetrical face and tiny nose. If tested before a panel of community members, Kylie would be the type every mother would want her son to marry. She didn't catch subtle sarcasm, but she exuded trustworthiness and sturdy genetic traits.
“That suit makes you look so skinny,” Kylie said.
Nora said, “Skinny, sure, but do I look like an advertising executive? Do I look like I could close big deals over two-martini lunches with clients? They probably want someone like you. You'd be great for this job.”
Kylie picked at some lint on Nora's suit and pursed her lips thoughtfully. Kylie had no college degree, but they both knew Nora wasn't wrong. Looks mattered.
Nora had studied marketing in college, excelling, but the job market had bee
n weak upon graduation. She'd taken an administration job at her uncle's radio station, and when the afternoon announcer had gone on maternity leave, she'd nervously taken over the microphone, “just for a few months.”
Two years passed. A set of twins plus one more baby later, it didn't look like Nora's predecessor would be coming back.
Falling into the job had been easier than getting out.
Kylie said, “Bet you're glad you were spiffed up for today, of all days.”
“It's no coincidence. I have had the interview booked for weeks.” Nora perched on the edge of Kylie's immaculate desk. “Oh, you mean Mr. Tall Dark and Yummy? Pu-lease. Like he even saw me.”
Kylie sneezed—a ridiculously cute sneeze. Rubbing her tiny nose, she said, “I'm wearing these disgusting Old Navy jeans that make my ass look enormous. I just heard from a reliable source, my very good friend, Google, that he's single.”
Nora's daydream came back, only this time she imagined Kylie walking up the aisle in a Size Two wedding dress, elegant sandals on her bare feet, then standing on her manicured tiptoes to kiss Aaron. A wave of loss and longing washed over Nora, catching in her throat.
“You two would make a nice couple,” Nora said. “Maybe it's our lucky day. I'll get the job and you'll get the guy.”
Kylie held her two little fists under her eyes and pretended to bawl. “Don't weave me hewe a-wone,” she said. “Seriously, you're the coolest person here and the only one who doesn't make fart jokes. Don't use me as a reference or I'll sabotage your ass.”
“No you wouldn't.”
“Damnit, I wish I could lie better.”
“Don't ever change. And what's this about your big jeans? I haven't worn jeans that little since I was twelve.”
Murray appeared suddenly, disrupting the conversation. He held a wilted poinsettia plant from Christmas. “Twelve, huh? Little jeans? Do you have any photos?” he said. “I'd like to see some pictures from when you were twelve. See how you've developed over the years.”
Flatly and without humor, Kylie said, “Murray, you're a pig.”
“Puberty is such an interesting time,” Murray said to Nora, unable or unwilling to sense that he wasn't one of the gals. “How old were you when you got your first training bra? I bet you were mature, like one of those girls who develops early. Not like skinny Kylie here. Did you tease all the boys on the playground? Offer them kisses under the bleachers if they—”
Nora swiftly knocked the poinsettia plant out of Murray's hands, sending it crashing to the floor. Dry dirt sprayed across the carpet.
“I'm not cleaning that up,” Murray said. He turn and left as quickly and silently as he'd appeared.
“Time?” Nora asked Kylie.
“Five twenty-seven.”
“Can you note this one? I've got to get to that you-know-what.”
“I'm on it,” Kylie said, reaching for the journal she kept in her locked drawer. The cover had the words Statistical Anomalies on the front, which was an in-joke between the two women. Inside were notes on every offensive thing Murray had said or done. Some of them were quite funny, but occasionally, he went way too far. Jokes about Nora's leg were too far.
Kylie looked up from her notes. “Wait, did he mention his dick that time?”
“No, just puberty in general, and my adolescent sexual history. Though he did mention his dick earlier, in the studio. Leave that out, it was pretty tame. He gets that one for free.”
Nora noted her armpits were a little moist from the stress of the interaction, which stoked her anger at Murray.
There was only one choice: she had to nail the interview. She had to get away from the station or she'd be stuck there for life, without parole.
Nora got a quick hug from Kylie and rushed off for one last bathroom break, then drove to the interview. She turned off the radio in the car and tried to breathe deeply and stay calm, but her chest felt like it had rubber bands around it.
In the parking lot at the agency's building, Nora stepped out of her car carefully. She was hyper-aware that she could be seen by people at the advertising agency, even though they were on the third floor. She exited the car with her left foot first, then her right, and made a sweeping motion over her slacks that to any observer would simply look like she was smoothing out wrinkles. She was actually giving her prosthetic a micro-adjustment. A good prosthetic, for people fortunate enough to afford such things, is one you can put on in the morning and not think about again until you wipe it down at night before climbing into bed. Her current prosthetic, which she'd had for two years, was just such a device; however, the perfect fit didn't stop her from fiddling with it when nervous. Nora's mother would twist her wedding rings and Nora's father stroked his beard, which at least made him appear thoughtful.
On her way into the building, Nora was definitely over-thinking her walking gait, but her reflection in the door showed no sign of a limp. It would be illegal for them to discriminate against her based on her disability, but Nora preferred in situations like this for people to not know. That way she wouldn't have to wonder.
The receptionist was friendly. Young women were usually polite to Nora, as they perceived her as being older than her age of twenty-seven, and not a competitive threat. This girl behind the enormous lime-green desk was maybe twenty-three, and she had more boobs than brains by the look of her paperback reading selection. The receptionist offered her a beverage while she waited, and Nora politely declined, pulling out the bottle of water from her bag and taking a sip. Some people recommend you take the coffee or tea, consuming the interviewer's resources. Nora had no interest in consuming end-of-day coffee, and felt bringing her own water was a sign of independence and good planning skills. The receptionist smiled with approval and flipped open her paperback. They would be allies, Nora could feel it.
She caught herself covering her nose with one hand and pulled the arm down with a jerk. Confidence, she told herself. Believe in your abilities.
A woman strode into the waiting room. She wore low heels and had gorgeous legs and a noticeable baby bulge sticking out of her black dress. A nubby-looking shawl draped across her shoulders, and she had the face of a mermaid amidst wavy gold hair. “I swear I just heard you on the radio,” the woman said. “A minute ago!”
Nora stood, carefully, and shook the woman's hand. “Must have been a pre-recorded promo. There's only one of me. Thank you for meeting me so late in the day.”
The woman, Sue Harding, who had spoken to Nora previously by phone and email, waved a hand. “No worries. We burn the midnight oil around here all the time. I might bring in one of those kiddie pools and give birth to the baby right here so I don't miss any client phone calls.”
As she spoke, Sue whirled around and beckoned Nora to follow her on a tour of the office. Unlike the modest radio station, everything—and everyone—in the ad agency had a veneer that read hip, expensive, and sexy. Nora wished she'd worn the red silk blouse, but it was too late now, as she shook the hands of a dozen people with gleaming white teeth and nice cologne or perfume.
They ended the tour in the board room, overlooking the park, which had a tinge of pale green from the budding leaves on the trees. The creamy flowers on the board room table, lysanthia, were the essence of spring.
Sue pulled out her chair first, at the head of the table. She sat with the ease of a belly-prosthetic-wearing model playing a pregnant woman, and gestured to the seat at her right.
“I've enjoyed my time in radio,” Nora said, “but I am ready for a change.”
“I listened to your whole show today, and I loved that you played Liz Phair,” Sue said, “though she makes me feel so naughty. Must be the pregnancy hormones. Ca-razy.”
Nora laughed, unsure where to go with that. Radio had made her quick with comebacks, but she was out of her element here, hoping for her first post-college job from a non-family member.
Sue opened a folder and looked over what Nora recognized as her resume. “No sales experience,” Sue said.<
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“Technically, no, but I do interface with the station's corporate clients, and in the past, I've worked with Bobby, from your office, on some of his projects. In fact he's the one who suggested… ”
Sue had already closed the folder and looked bored. “Bobby,” she said flatly. She rolled her chair away from the table and opened the glass door of the board room. She called out, “Bobby! Join us in the board room.”
Seconds later, Bobby rushed over, staring at Nora through the glass walls as he walked by, and then from inside the board room. She steadied her hands on her lap and let him look. He was a friend, even though they'd only spoken on the phone.
Bobby didn't look at all like his voice. His voice had seemed older, but he was only thirty at most, average height and build, with boyishly pink cheeks and red hair. “Nora in the afternoon!” he shouted.
It must have been the accent, the posh British accent Bobby had, that made him seem older—and taller—over the phone. “Let's have a look at you,” he said, exaggerating by making a scanning movement with his head. “Just as I pictured.”
Cutting him, off, Sue said, “Bobby, do you have that research for me?”
Nora wondered exactly what research Bobby had on her. The interview had been his idea.
The two advertising people proceeded to talk about market research and budgets, and not about Nora at all. All around the fishbowl of a board room, the white-teethed ad agency people gathered up their coats and purses and turned their computer monitors off, leaving for the day.
Nora pulled the bottled water from her purse and took a sip. Despite all her planning and studying up on interview confidence, this was not going well. She should have demanded a fresh coffee.
Bobby reached his hand toward her. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you.” He squeezed her hand. “In the flesh.” His red-brown eyebrows twitched with flirtation.
Sue said, “That'll be all,” and Bobby left quickly. A row of overhead lights turned off.
Sue shifted halfway out of her chair, perching on the edge as she asked Nora, “Any questions?”