by Nic Tatano
“Let it out,” said Roxanne.
“There’s nothing to let out!”
“We want you to be happy,” said Ariel.
“I am happy,” I said. “My career—”
“With your life! Ariel got up and tapped me on the head with one knuckle. “Hello! McFly! There’s more to life than work.”
Serena took me by one hand and led me to the couch. “Honey, if you keep going the way you’re going you’ll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies.”
I sat down on the soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled men. And I did like cats an awful lot. “Fine,” I said. “So what’s the deal with this charm school?”
“First,” said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker, “we’re going to start with what you’re looking for in a man.”
“Pffft. I’ll settle for breathing at this point,” I said.
“Be serious,” said Serena.
“Give us the qualities you’re looking for,” said Ariel.
***
Ten minutes later we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light on my problem.
Serena furrowed her brow. “Guys, I’m not sure he exists.”
“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Roxanne. “The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow.”
I shrugged. “So I have high standards.”
“You have unreal standards,” said Ariel. “Your problem is that you’ve spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a European vacation.”
“Fine,” I said. “So I need to lower my standards.”
“You don’t have to lower them,” said Serena, “you just have to learn to accept the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you want.”
I nodded, realizing they were right. “Okay. So I become more open minded about men. There, we’re done. Let’s go to dinner.”
“Not so fast,” said Ariel. “And not dressed like that. You’re not going out in those outfits anymore.”
I looked down at my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater. “What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s fine if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot,” said Roxanne.
“I always attract men,” I said. “That’s why you call me Wing Girl.”
“The Brass Cupcake attracts men,” said Serena. “Belinda needs to learn how to keep them.”
“Really?” said Ariel. “Pants and flats for a Saturday night?”
“They’re comfortable,” I said.
“Men want heels and skirts,” said Serena. “We know you’ve got great legs under there. We’ve been to the beach with you.”
“And the hair,” said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.
“What?” I asked.
“The bun is done,” she said.
“You’re blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel,” said Ariel. “Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that green.”
“I can’t see without glasses.”
“As a reporter you should know there’s been a fabulous new invention called contact lenses,” said Serena. “Maybe you’ve read about it.”
“So you’re giving me a total makeover.”
“Yep,” said Ariel.
“Right now?”
***
As my friends took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn’t sure how this makeover thing was gonna come out. I mean, I’ve got three women who are all very different and the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.
Ariel is my oldest and closest friend. She’s a tall drink of water from a wealthy section of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a blanket under which a man becomes powerless.
Always impeccably dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she’s the proverbial blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you’ve got a girl who could probably be a model if she wanted to.
Serena is an attorney from California who learned early on that male members of a jury can often be distracted by a lawyer who dresses as if she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender. Her short hemlines are legendary in New York courtrooms, as she’s known for “skirting the issues” when it comes to closing arguments.
She’s not a stunner by any means, but she’s kinda pretty and makes the most of what she’s got. In a sea of New York women obsessed with black, Serena has a closet full of red, so she always stands out. Her big, shoulder-length hair harkens back to the eighties, framing an angular face and a cute pug nose. She’s got these devilish hazel eyes that always make her look like she’s up to something. Probably because she is, either in the courtroom, bedroom, or both.
Serena loves the law so much she carries that “lawyer-talk” out of the courtroom and often works it into everyday conversations. (I’ve picked up a little myself, as I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she’s an excellent lawyer and could easily win her cases dressed in burlap.
Roxanne is my gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who’s a hairstylist, or, as she calls it, “hairdressuh.” But she’s not just any salon gal; she’s sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy, who no doubt endure her wicked accent because she’s a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She’s blessed with natural wavy hair, big light-green eyes and a great rack. Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever could in a boardroom.
She’s about five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you’d want in a foxhole because Roxanne doesn’t take shit from anybody. She’s a tight package: tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.
They made me get up on my kitchen step-stool like it’s some pedestal and then walked around me looking at the total package.
“Let’s start at the top. The hair’s comin’ down,” said Roxanne, who reached up on her tiptoes to unleash the bun.
I leaned away. “I like my hair up.”
“Men like it down,” she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of the Gordian Knot. “Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing.” My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers through it. “Gawd, it’s like straw. But I can work with this. Women would kill for this color, you know.”
“They can get it out of a bottle,” I said.
“Yeah, but the carpet won’t match the drapes,” said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.
Serena had been rummaging through one of my closets. “Where the hell are your heels?”
“I don’t have any,” I said. “I’m five-five, that’s tall enough.”
“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” she said. “Is it therefore your contention that you do not own one single pair?”
“Have you ever seen me in heels?”
She sat down on the floor facing me. “Now that I think about it, no. Do you even know how to walk in them?”
“I tried a pair in high school. Made my feet hurt.”
“What size are you?”
“Six. Narrow.”
“I’m a nine. Rox?�
��
“Sorry,” said Roxanne. “I got pancake flippers for feet.”
“Ariel?”
“Eight.”
“So much for tonight.” She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in closet. “What’s the dress situation?”
Ariel stuck her head out of the closet and shook her head. “Nada. No dresses or skirts. Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a battle with a spray can and a weed whacker.”
“Those are my cleaning shorts,” I said.
“I’m assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,” said Ariel. “You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting.”
I looked around my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt containers. “Fine, I’ll get a cleaning service.”
“A snow shovel would be quicker,” said Roxanne.
“Seriously,” said Serena. “You don’t have a single skirt?”
“What can I say, I like pants.”
“Do you even bother to shave your legs?” asked Ariel, ducking back into the closet.
“Of course,” I said, then shrugged. “Well, not every day.”
“So,” said Roxanne, “besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?”
Serena was making notes on a legal pad. “You ever try contacts?”
I nodded. “I had them in high school.”
“Did you like them?”
“Yeah, but they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses.”
“Figures,” said Serena, who made a check mark. “After the contacts, we need shoes and an entire new wardrobe.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“I’m starting a pile for Goodwill,” yelled Ariel, still in my closet. “Geez, it looks like Hillary Clinton lives in here.”
I saw one of my favorite pantsuits fly out of the closet. “Hey!”
“Shaddup and take your medicine,” said Roxanne. “Meanwhile, put your hair back up.”
“I thought you said men like it down?”
“They do, but I’ll need half a day to fix that mess and our dinner reservations are in an hour.”
I stepped off the stool. “So, I’m deemed okay to be seen in public with you guys this evening? I won’t embarrass you?”
Serena got off the floor and gave me the once over. “It will have to do, but we are going to change one thing tonight.”
“What’s that?” I asked, folding my arms. “I’ve apparently got no shoes, no clothes, my hair is a toxic waste dump and I can’t ditch my glasses or I’ll end up going home with someone who looks like Alan Greenspan.”
“That, right there. Your attitude,” said Serena. “Tonight, charm school begins.”
CHAPTER THREE
His eyes locked on me like a laser from across the room. Tall, well built, thick black hair and dark eyes to match. Rugged face, nice smile, dimples running the length of his cheeks. Probably about my age. Dark slacks, starched white French-cuffed shirt with gold links, red tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Shoes shining like mirrors, something my late father always told me to notice. Looks like he stepped off a wedding cake.
Another “total package” as Ariel would say. Can’t say I’d argue.
He started weaving his way through the bar traffic and headed for the chair next to me that was left purposely empty by my friends.
“Remember what we talked about, Wing Girl,” said Serena.
I nodded, downed a bit of wine, and smiled as he reached the table.
He placed his hands on the back of the empty chair, obviously waiting for permission to sit. Good. Polite. Looked right at me. Big smile. “You’re the girl on TV.”
“Woman on TV,” I said. Serena jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “Ow.”
“Right,” he said. “You did that great story the other night on the State Senator. Nice that we have people like you to keep politicians honest.”
“They’re all a bunch of scum. Next week—” I was interrupted by another elbow. “I mean, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”
Ariel reached one long leg under the table and pushed the empty chair out a bit. “Maybe our new friend would like to join us.”
“Uh, right,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, sitting down. “I’m Vincent Martino.”
“Belinda Carson,” I said.
“Yeah, I know.” Serena, Ariel and Roxanne introduced themselves since I’d forgotten to do it, my mind too busy going over the directives they’d given me.
Serena widened her eyes as she looked at me and gave me a gentle kick under the table. Say something. Anything. “So, uh … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
The guy smiled. “That’s okay. Vincent.” Roxanne rolled her eyes then threw down the rest of her drink.
“Right, Vincent.” I remembered the orders I’d been given. Ask him about himself. Nothing too serious. “So, Vincent … are you married?”
“Madonne,” said Roxanne, as the man’s face tightened.
“No,” said Vincent, who looked at me as if I were a space alien. “Did you think I’m some married guy out cheating on his wife?”
“Uh, no, I was … you know … just making conversation.”
Serena snorted, stifling a laugh.
“That’s one hell of a pick-up line,” he said.
“Sorry.” My pulse spiked as the checklist in my head got jumbled. My armpits grew damp. “Do you … uh … what do you do?” I smiled and exhaled. That was pretty safe.
“I work on Wall Street.”
“So, you work with some shady characters.”
The man shook his head and turned toward Roxanne. “Geez, Rox.”
I furrowed my brow. “What’s going on?”
“Vincent’s my cousin,” said Roxanne, cocking her head toward him. “I asked him to be our test subject tonight.”
“So you weren’t really going to hit on me?” I asked.
“I did hit on you. At least I was trying to. I would have even taken you out if we’d hit it off because Rox said you’re such a great person. They weren’t going to tell you it was a set-up if things went well, but … ”
“So, Vincent,” said Serena, who took out a legal pad and put it on the table. She clicked her pen in the air. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us your first impressions for the record.”
He looked at me, his eyes seemingly asking for permission. “What the hell, go ahead,” I said.
“Would be nice if she remembered my name ten seconds after I told her,” said Vincent, who turned to face Serena. “And asking me if I’m married? Seriously? I would have beat my feet right after that one.” He turned back to me. “Listen Belinda, no offense, but Rox said you guys needed a man’s point of view on your, you know, dateability.”
I shrugged and looked down. “I’m not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire away, I’m a big girl.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, I take on politicians all the time. I’m not afraid of anything. Don’t hold back.”
“Ohhhh-kaaaay,” he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. “Well, here goes. You’re not approachable.”
Ouch.
“People come up to me all the time.”
“Because you’re a celebrity,” said Ariel.
“I meant you’re not approachable as a potential date,” said Vincent.
“Fine,” I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. “Tell me why I’m unapproachable.”
Vincent leaned forward on his forearms. Usually they lean back when the death stare makes its first appearance. Interesting. “Well, first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you’re some militant feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which was beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it’s the overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You’re
sitting there on your hands, all hunched up. And the outfit.”
My face tightened. “What’s wrong with the outfit?”
“Rox said you’re hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick glasses. Those shoes look like you’re going hiking. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. There’s probably a serious babe under all that but I can’t be sure.”
He reached across the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. “Whoa!”
“Relax, would you?” he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.
He reached toward my face and gently removed my glasses. “Wow,” he said.
“What?” I asked, as my view of Vincent morphed into a Monet painting.
“You’ve got spectacular eyes. I mean, they’re like emeralds, such a vivid green. You could do eye makeup commercials.”
“If she actually wore makeup outside the studio,” said Roxanne, as I snatched my glasses back from him and put them on.
“Look, Belinda. Roxanne tells me you’re a beautiful girl with a big heart, but as a man looking for a date I would have no idea if any of that’s true. If you weren’t famous I doubt if any man would come up to you, and if anyone did he wouldn’t stay long.”
I bit my lower lip and felt my eyes well up. No! This wasn’t happening! A man cannot make the Brass Cupcake cry! “I’d like you to leave now,” I said softly.
“Hey, I’m sorry, that was a bit harsh, but you told me not to hold back—”
“Just! Go!”
Vincent put up his hands in surrender. He got up, kissed Roxanne on the side of the head. “Thanks, cuz,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. He shot me an apologetic look with sad eyes, but I turned away. He headed for the door.
“So,” I said, when he was out of earshot. “Whose brilliant idea was that?”
“Mea culpa,” said Serena, putting her wrists out as if she were waiting to be handcuffed. “I plead no contest.”
“And the rest of you were okay with it?”
“We thought it was a great idea,” said Ariel.