by Hope Tarr
“Matt Landry. I signed on as art director last year. Glad you could make it tonight.” He stuck out his hand in the brash way of Americans.
Grateful that he’d saved her from fumbling, she took it briefly. “Lovely to see you again.”
They’d met for all of two minutes the previous fall but the encounter was a bit of a blur. Like everyone else, Francesca had been caught up in the drama of her ex-husband, Ross, and his love interest and now wife, Macie Graham, who walked off from her position as On Top’s features editor.
Matters had sorted themselves out—perhaps a bit too well. At her express wish, Francesca and Ross’s daughter, Sam, was staying on in DC with her dad and new stepmum—indefinitely. Though miserable with missing her, Francesca wasn’t about to pull Sam out of a situation where she was so obviously blossoming, particularly after the previous tumultuous year. Still, an empty nest felt just that—empty. Rattling about her posh Upper East Side prewar with its peerless river views, twelve-foot ceilings festooned with crown molding, and state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen, she sometimes felt on the brink of going stark raving.
Starr’s curious gaze slid over Francesca. “You’re usually bouncing between London, Paris, and Milan Fashion Weeks this time of year, aren’t you?”
Francesca forced a shrug. “I’m giving myself a mini-break this winter.”
What she was, in point, doing was taking time off to figure out how she might work less—and earn as much or more—in order to be present in her daughter’s life. Jetting from one exotic shoot locale to another might seem paradise to some, it might be paradise, but her lifestyle had cost her the one person in the world who mattered above all—and it wasn’t bloody worth it.
“Taking time off is important,” Matt said, casting a significant look at Starr, who rolled her aquamarine eyes.
Looking at Francesca, she said, “What do you say to us taking a load off in my office? I tucked away a top-shelf bottle of single-malt scotch in my desk earlier. It’s a helluva lot better than the crap we’re serving out here.” She winked and then turned back to Matt. “I’ll be back in twenty, sweetie.” She rose up on her toes and brushed a kiss over his jaw.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her against him. “Not so fast. It’s Valentine’s, remember?”
He pulled her in for a kiss, a real one this time. Looking awkwardly on, Francesca would swear Starr’s scarlet shoes deepened in hue, giving off a softly shimmering…glow. But no, that was absurd. Clearly she needed to look into having the prescription on her contact lenses changed.
The couple broke apart with obvious mutual reluctance. Flush-faced, Starr gestured Francesca toward the hallway leading back to the staff offices. “C’mon, London, let’s go get snookered.”
Eschewing the pair of vintage modern office chairs, Francesca and Starr sat side-by-side on the glass-topped desk with legs swinging off the side and hands wrapped around plastic party cups of Macallan 25.
Starr took another sip of the single malt before continuing her story. “And so the next thing I know Matt’s pulling me back beneath the mistletoe—hanging mistletoe at a Matzo Ball supper, I mean who does that!—and asking me out on this totally romantic New Year’s Eve date, and we’ve been together ever since.”
Suppressing a sigh, Francesca looked up from tracing tiny invisible heart patterns on the veneer surface and took another sip of the scotch. It wasn’t like her to become sentimental about the holiday—or much of anything really. Other than the obvious—quite a bit of liquor—what had gotten into her?
Starr slid a bowl of candy hearts toward her. “It’s no biggie. We beat the crowds and celebrated last night.”
Francesca gave the sweets a glance, hesitated, and then tucked in. Her nose was numb and now she had the munchies. Could a hangover headache be far behind? “It sounds as though you’ve got everything figured out.” She hoped the envy she felt didn’t find its way into her voice.
“Getting there, I guess.” Starr’s smile dimmed. She swirled the scotch around her cup, staring into the honey-colored liquid as though it were a crystal ball. “So what gives with you? The last I heard you were seeing some hot chef.”
Francesca didn’t need a mirror to know she grimaced. “Sous chef, actually, and we’ve been over since Thanksgiving.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Francesca popped another candy into her mouth—a terrible accompaniment to the scotch, but oh well. “Don’t be.”
Starr’s brows lifted. “That bad, huh?”
Francesca shrugged. “Not good, not bad, just…not enough. Don’t mistake me, it was a great lot of fun at first, and he did manage the most amazing late-night meals, but in the end it just didn’t feel…sufficient.” That Freddie had found someone else in a mere ten days confirmed she’d made the right choice.
Starr sent her a “been there, done that” look. “And now you want more, right?”
Pushing the bowl aside, Francesca sighed. “I don’t know what I want, that’s my bloody problem. But these last few months, I’ve gotten a lot better at knowing what I don’t want.” Pouting and immaturity led the list.
She glanced away and her gaze snagged yet again on Starr’s shoes. With more than three fingers of scotch beneath her belt, she could almost believe the rhinestones on the vamp winked at her.
“Those are lovely,” she said. “I didn’t know you fancied vintage.”
“These were a gift from…a friend,” Starr admitted, expression turning sheepish.
Francesca didn’t remember Starr having all that many friends—or friends at all. “Matthew gave them to you for St. Valentine’s?”
The question drew Starr’s chuckle. “God, no! Matt’s artistic eye turns blind when it comes to clothing and accessories. Tonight is as dressed up as he gets.”
Francesca thought a moment more. “Macie?”
Starr hesitated before admitting, “Yes. Does that bother you? I know Ross is your ex—and Sam’s father.”
Francesca felt her eyes welling. Since Sam’s leaving, it seemed her stiff upper lip was virtually nonexistent.
Wishing she might numb her heart along with her nose, she finished off the scotch in a last unladylike gulp. Setting the cup aside, she said, “Ross and I were over a long time ago. I’m happy he’s found someone—really.” Blinking back tears, she turned away, hoping Starr might miss seeing what a bloody basket case she’d become. “It’s just that…our daughter has decided to live with them full-time and the worst of it is…I can’t blame her!”
Starr handed her the box of tissues. “I’m not a mother except to a cat, so I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through, but it sounds pretty fucking tough.”
Francesca shook her head, amazed that she’d poured out her troubles to a colleague. Tomorrow she’d be frightfully embarrassed, but for now she pulled out a fistful of tissues and used them to dab at her running nose. “I focused so much of my time and energy on my career and my stupid bloody boyfriend that I neglected my child. That’s the real reason I’m taking time off—to figure out how to fix the mess I’ve made of my life.”
Starr hesitated and then laid a hand on Francesca’s shoulder. “I have an idea, something that might help.”
Francesca shook her head. “I have a therapist, thanks.” She did—and a fat lot of good “Dr. Freud” had done her.
“I was thinking more along the lines of retail therapy, only without the retail.”
Likely the booze was to blame but, regardless, Francesca was most definitely not following. She finished blowing her nose and looked up. “Sorry?”
Starr stretched out one slender leg, flexing one dainty, ruby-velvet-shod foot. “Take my shoes. Think of it as my way of saying Happy Valentine’s.”
“I couldn’t!” Good God, was Francesca really that pathetic? Between all the designer samples and her shopping addiction, her walk-in closet was crammed with clothing and accessories, many with the tags still attached. More mildly, she added, “You’re being terribly sw
eet, but I cannot take the shoes from your feet.”
Starr handed her one and started taking off the other. “Of course you can. They’ve already worked their magic for me. I’ve got the guy I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. Now it’s your turn.”
Francesca ran a hand across her damp cheek, for once forgetting to have a care for her cosmetics. Had she heard properly? The formerly flinty magazine editor was speaking of magical shoes as though they existed beyond the Cinderella fairy tale.
“Take the shoes, London. Trust me, you need these more than I do—a lot more.”
Apparently her loveless love life constituted an emergency. A shoe in either hand, Francesca bristled. “Thanks a bloody lot.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, but these aren’t just any vintage shoes. I have it on good authority that they once belonged to Maddie Mulligan.”
Francesca had heard of the famous Irish-born film actress, of course, but her familiarity ended there. She wasn’t terribly keen on old films. It was yet another interest she and Ross hadn’t shared.
Starr continued, “The story goes that she wore these very shoes on the day she got the news that she was nominated for an Oscar. That night, her moneybags boyfriend, international financier Carlos Banks, proposed. Until then, she didn’t think he’d ever ask, seeing as how she’d been around the block three times already and he was forty and still a bachelor. But he asked and she said yes and they not only got married but stayed married for the rest of their lives. According to her memoir, he was the love of her life, her soul mate.”
Francesca had to admit it was an intriguing tale—even if it was rubbish. “I don’t believe in soul mates,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel so very bleak about that.
“You know,” Starr said quietly, “believing doesn’t cost anything. And neither does trying on these shoes.”
Examining the footwear at arm’s length, Francesca mentally measured their length and width. “My feet are easily a size larger than these. They shan’t fit. Besides, you have Matt waiting, and I…”
Have no one. Which served her bloody right. Last Valentine’s she’d trotted out the apartment door on the arm of a tuxedo-clad Freddie, leaving Sam sulking on the sofa. If she could travel back a year, she’d stay at home with Samantha. They’d order their favorite greasy takeout, whip up a pitcher of mock margaritas, and watch whatever sappy old films Sam fancied. Instead she’d ditched her daughter for a date.
A less-than-gentle nudge brought her back to the moment. “Put them on,” Starr commanded, bringing her Boss Lady voice to bear.
Francesca sighed. To humor her hostess, she set the vintage shoes on the desk and then reached down to unbuckle her Christian Louboutin T-strap heels. Handing those to Starr, she picked up one red shoe, the vintage velvet seeming to pulse against her palm. “If I force my foot to fit, it may stretch the leather,” she warned.
Starr held her gaze. “Go for it.”
Francesca steeled herself to squeeze into the vintage Saks—only no squeezing was required. Slipping her foot into the shoe, she flexed her toes against the buttery leather lining and reached down to fasten the bejeweled strap.
“Take them for a test drive,” Starr urged, handing her the mate.
She put it on as well and slid off the desk to stand. Footwear from the thirties was notorious for being torturous, but this pair was a happy exception.
Starr reached for the scotch bottle and refilled Francesca’s cup to the rim. “Keep them as long as you like,” Starr said with a grin. “And either send them back to me when you’re done or pass them on to an unlucky-in-love friend, up to you.”
Francesca hesitated. The moment before she’d been adamant, but now she found herself wavering. “Then you must take mine—I insist,” she added when Starr started looking stubborn. “They’ll go smashingly with your dress.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.” Starr raised her cup. “This calls for a toast. What should we drink to?”
Francesca picked up her refilled drink. “To new friendships.”
“And happily-ever-after beginnings,” Starr added, raising her cup as well.
Meeting her new friend’s shining gaze, Francesca hadn’t the heart to disagree. Instead she looked pointedly down at her ruby-colored shoes and playfully touched the heels together once, twice, thrice… “To happily ever after, fairy tales, one true loves, shooting stars, magic wands, brownies, elves, fairy godmothers, and the ruddy lot of romantic rubbish.”
…
SILICON VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
“This is like…the weirdest Valentine’s Day ever,” Brian called out from across the in-home media room, pausing in setting up the video camera’s tabletop tripod to cast Greg a skeptical glance.
“Did you have plans?” Greg asked, knowing the answer.
Like him, his Android programmer was solidly single, a card-carrying member of the Lonely Hearts Club. Unlike him, Brian seemed happy to hang out playing Angry Birds on his iPhone and watching back-to-back movies on the Syfy channel. Then again, he was only twenty-two. At thirty-three, Greg wanted more—a lot more. Tonight’s video filming was his first big step toward getting it.
“No, but dude, are you sure you want to go through with this? Reality TV? You’re, like, totally putting it all out there,” Brian cautioned.
Impatient to get going, Greg shifted on the curved seventies sectional sofa. He soothed himself with watching the vintage lava lamp let loose another pea-green globule. “Actually, the contest entry videos don’t go public. The show’s producers set up a secure portal. Once we upload them, they’ll be the only ones with viewing privileges.”
Brian dragged a nail-bitten hand back through the swatch of long blond bangs. “That’s for now. But national TV, you’ll be, like…famous.”
“I already am famous,” Greg corrected, lifting his gaze from the lamp.
Brian sent him an exasperated look. “Dude, you don’t even show up for your own press conferences or product launch parties.”
“Ever think maybe that adds to my mystique? Besides, I have people I pay for that.”
Too bad he couldn’t hire people to date for him by proxy, especially since he sucked at small talk—and parties. The lavish launches he threw to celebrate his new products tended to attract hangers-on. Given his status and money, getting women to go out with him was the easy part. It was the actual dates where he tanked. Whether on a casual coffee meet-up or out for an evening of drinks and dinner, he couldn’t seem to come up with anything to say, at least nothing that didn’t make him seem stiff or awkward or even pompous. Pulling out his phone and texting hadn’t won him any points, either.
Brian shook his head, sending bangs flying. “Sorry, it’s just the whole fairy-tale thing is freaking me out. Project Cinderella, seriously?”
“I believe it’s meant as a takeoff on Project Runway,” Greg answered, digging his bare toes into the kelly-green shag carpeting. He really wished the kid would just get on with it.
But Brian was obviously in no rush. Tinkering with the equipment, he said, “You sure instead of a style makeover it’s not really a…sex-over? Like where they drug you and cut off your cock and balls and give you, like, a man-gina?”
Greg stifled a laugh. Brian had cut his baby teeth on old Twilight Zone episodes. The paranormal influence on his formative years was one from which he’d never completely recovered.
“Thanks for the warning, but I think I’m probably pretty safe.” Not that he was doing anything especially interesting at the moment with his…cock, but he certainly planned to keep the possibility open. “Now stop stalling. You owe me, remember? You lost.”
Their bet had involved the speed of the first megahertz microprocessor. Brian had guessed one hundred. The correct answer, which Gregory had known all along, was one. It was, of course, a trick question, and he’d unabashedly set the kid up. Casting his gaze around the high-ceilinged room with its movie-theater-sized projection screen, collection of vintage pinball mac
hines, and state-of-the-art sound system, he considered that being over thirty and a billionaire wasn’t so bad. If only he had someone with whom he could share his success, it could be a lot better than not so bad. It could be fucking fabulous.
“Okay, dude, but when you wake up with tits and a pussy, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Brian tended to forget that he was the employee and Greg the boss. A flat corporate structure had its pitfalls, but Cloud Flyer’s laid-back atmosphere also allowed him to get to know his programmers as people. Practically, that made it a lot easier to assess their strengths and weaknesses and to put their unique talents to the most productive and profitable use. Personally, the friendships he’d formed kept him from turning into a total workaholic.
Bypassing the karaoke stand, Brian crossed the carpet and handed Greg the audio. “How’d you find out about this…Project Cinderella, anyway?”
Clipping the mini microphone to his shirt collar, Greg hesitated. It had been January 24, just after Michelle, the dental hygienist, had ditched him on his birthday. The birthday blow-off had felt like a wake-up call, or better yet a call to action. Sleepless, he’d knocked back a few beers, inhaled a bag of chips, and sat up surfing the Internet. Several hours later, he’d come across the reality show’s website with its call for contestants. He’d swallowed his pride along with the last chip and submitted the online application, including completing the optional essay question. The topic, “What Does Happily Ever Mean to You?” wasn’t one he would have chosen—maybe Brian had a point about his balls being cut off—but he’d answered it anyway, knowing that doing so would increase his chances of being a finalist.
He’d as good as forgotten all about Project Cinderella until a few days ago when the e-mail had hit his in-box inviting him to submit a short video of up to three minutes for the final contestant pick.
But that was a lot of shit to explain to Brian even if he’d felt like it, which he didn’t.
“Just messing around online, I guess. Let’s get going, okay? I have a crapload of code to hack before tomorrow.”
Brian walked back to the camera and took up position behind it. “If you want to pack pussy, I guess that’s your call.” He picked up the handheld. “One, two, three…action!”