Thin, Rich, Pretty

by Harbison, Beth

  “Hey, what are you doing?” He put his cup down and came up behind her. “Don’t do that. I don’t want you doing my work.”

  “It’s the only way I can be in this house and breathe,” she joked weakly. He was so close to her back, she could feel the heat coming off his body. “Leave me alone to do this.”

  “No way.” He elbowed her out of the way and reached for the dish soap.

  “Greg!”

  “If you have to have this clean, I’m doing it myself,” he said, then glanced at the clock over the stove. “Or at least whatever I can get done in the next five minutes.”

  She stepped back and put up her hands. She wasn’t going to fight that hard for the “prize” of doing some guy’s dishes. “This is why it’s a good idea to clean as you go along.”

  “That’s what my mother says.”

  “She’s right.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her, then returned to rinsing the dishes and putting them in the drying rack. There really weren’t so many as she’d initially thought.

  “You know what you need?” she asked, leaning back against the wall.

  “A new roommate?”

  “No, a dishwasher.”

  “Maybe my new roommate could be a dishwasher.”

  She smirked. “Very funny. Or you could get an automatic dishwasher, like everyone else in the world has. It gets dishes a lot more sanitary than that stuff you’re doing there does.”

  He stopped and looked back at her again. “I’m updating the entire kitchen while you paint the front rooms. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Blondie—you’ll have your dishwasher. At least until the place sells.”

  “What a relief.”

  He finished the last dish, wiped his hands on a bar rag that was hanging next to the sink, then turned back to her. “Tonight. Here. You and me. We’re going to talk.”

  Dread coursed through her. That was the kind of thing Michelle used to say. “Why?” She hated that her voice sounded so small and defensive.

  “Because I hardly know a thing about you,” he said simply. “And I want to. I know you’re not that great at talking about yourself, but I’m hoping after a couple of beers and some lo mein the stories might flow.”

  She smiled. Genuinely smiled, from her heart. That was so nice. “Make it merlot, and you’ve got a deal.”

  “Is that the only condition?”

  “So far . . .” It had been a long time since she’d flirted.

  It felt good.

  He gave a single nod. “Fine. See you here at seven.”

  “Done. Meanwhile I’ll paint the front room that awful tan shade you picked out.”

  “Excellent.”

  She walked on air for the rest of the day.

  “It never occurred to me that you might need to be told how to paint a wall.” Greg took his Washington Nationals baseball cap off and scratched his head.

  He’d been at her father’s house all day while she painted the front room. Until now, she’d thought it was the color that made it hideous, not the paint job.

  “Didn’t you notice the holes as you went along?” he asked. “Any of them, if not all nineteen thousand of them?”

  She noticed them now. Tons of tiny nail holes, all the more obvious because she’d just painted the wall a pale beige. “I figured they would be less noticeable when the paint dried.”

  Greg looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  Her face felt warm under his gaze. “In fact, I thought the paint would fill in the holes. Obviously I see now that it’s not the case.”

  “Good.” He started to walk away. “Then spackle and repaint tomorrow.”

  “Spackle?”

  He stopped, looked at her, then let out a long sigh and went to the pile of painting supplies he’d left in the room for her. Most were untouched.

  She was actually proud of the job she’d done, apart from the holes, because she hadn’t dripped paint anywhere. There was a tarp included with his supplies, but when she’d tried to lay it down, it was so thin that walking on it made it get caught in her shoes and rustle up the wall. She figured she was better off going without it and cleaning up any spots as they occurred, because she did know that latex paint was water soluble.

  Apparently she wasn’t going to get any kudos at all for being tidy.

  “This”—he held up a big tube that looked like toothpaste—“is spackle.”

  “Okay. What do I do with it?”

  “Good you should ask.” He gave a quick smile and picked up a tool. “This is a putty knife. Now come here, Blondie, I’ll show you how to use them together.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re kind of enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I am. I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

  “A couple of months ago, I could have bought and sold you.”

  “That’s what’s making this so much fun.”

  She nodded and headed toward him. “Don’t you owe me dinner? And some sort of alcohol product?”

  “I think we said seven.” He took the lid off the not-toothpaste tube. “Meanwhile, here’s a lesson for tomorrow.” He took her hand and put the tube in it. “Squeeze a tiny bit of that into the hole you’re filling.” He nodded at her. “Go on.”

  She tried. It came out in a rush and a big blob of it hung on the wall for a moment before falling to the ground.

  She looked at Greg. “Too much?”

  He laughed. “Little big. Here.” He came up behind her and held her hand up, squeezing the tube with her fingers so just a little came out. “See? Then you take the putty knife.” He handed it to her and guided it, in her hand, to the spot, and smoothed it over, leaving a smooth, if discolored, surface. “And . . . that’s it.”

  He was so warm behind her, and the feel of his hands on hers was so comforting that she had to fight herself not to collapse against him.

  “I’m not sure I got that,” she said. “Can you do it again?” She was glad she wasn’t looking at him because her face would have shown too much.

  “It’s not rocket science, Blondie. Put the spackle on,” he did, “then smooth it over. Easy.”

  “What do you do with the mess left on that?” She pointed to the putty knife, even though she already figured she could hang a rag from her waistband and wipe it on there.

  He let go of her and walked around, probably not noticing the way her face was flushed. “For this, you just take a paper towel and wipe it off.”

  “Got it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She cocked her head and gave him a look. “Pretty sure, Greg.”

  “Great. So after all the spackle has dried, which means it will turn from that pink color to white, you can paint over it again.”

  “Got it.”

  “No questions?”

  “Only one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why are you painting this room such a dull, blah shade? Look at all the sunlight that comes in here. If you went with a light butter yellow, it would look so pretty!”

  “No.” He smiled. “We’re going for neutral here.”

  She liked the way the laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. They probably wouldn’t be so pronounced if he used a moisturizer with sunscreen, but this was one example of a person who looked better with a few years carved into his face. Clearly he’d always been hot—dark hair, light eyes, that clichéd chiseled jaw—but the laugh lines took him from “pretty boy” to “handsome” in a way that most guys didn’t have.

  “Well, you’ve got neutral all right,” she said, shaking her head. “But I think it would sell faster with pretty.”

  “It will sell faster with neutral.” He started to leave again.

  “Why does everyone say that?” Lexi asked, bringing him to a halt. “Why would blah be more attractive to a prospective buyer than zing?”

  “Because what’s zing to one person might be eek to another,” he explained with a small chuckle. “You know, half the
time I think you’re pulling my leg.”

  She put her hands up, spackle in one of them. “No pulling here.”

  He laughed again, then said, “Neutral is the rule of thumb. Let the place be someone else’s canvas. If you’re finished with the crazy questions, I’ve got to go bathe so my date doesn’t run out on me tonight.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll just keep working because I don’t care what my date thinks of me.” She tucked a rag into her pants and started spackling, making an effort not to look back at Greg.

  But she heard him leave.

  And only then did she stop for a moment and look back at where he’d gone.

  She was excited about their dinner.

  She’d spent too much of her life in her little sheltered area, never getting out and meeting different kinds of people. If she hadn’t, she might have been able to scrape Maribeth and her ilk off long before they decided to scrape her off and then she might have met someone like Greg sooner.

  Not that there was anything romantic there. The beauty of it was that there didn’t need to be—she didn’t need that—having a friend, and an honest friendship, was far more fulfilling than romance ever could be.

  At least for now.

  So it really kind of stank that they were both working their tails off to get the place sold because Lexi wasn’t sure what she would do next. Her rent here was so low she’d never find anything like it again. What would she do next?

  It was tempting to do a bad job so buyers would be turned off, but Greg would notice it long before anyone else did, and he’d make her fix it anyway, so there was no point.

  Plus, if she didn’t do this well, she’d have no job at all. That one night where she’d lost two sales—especially that one girl who’d looked like she was going to buy a ton—had done her in. Garda had wasted no time in implying to their manager that Lexi was deliberately turning customers off.

  Lexi hadn’t had the energy to argue about it.

  It was time now—actually it was past time—to think about getting another job. Maybe one that would pay enough for her to put a down payment on her own place. Much as she loved Sephora, she was only there part-time. What she needed was to go full-time and get her own place.

  She knew she had to do it.

  She’d known that this deal was finite from the beginning.

  So, whatever her silly girlish feelings for Greg, she needed to keep them in check. It would be just plain stupid to fall for the guy right before they went their separate ways.

  It would be wine and lo mein but nothing more.

  Period.

  19

  Holly wasn’t ready to commit to “skinny clothes” yet, even though she was officially down 20.6 pounds, but she loved the little boutique Louisa Remley’s at the Rio Center in Gaithersburg, so she decided to go in anyway. They carried unique clothes from size 4 to 16, and she’d spent many happy hours there, shopping for special occasions, from the time she was in high school.

  In fact, when she entered the store, she realized that she wasn’t as happy as she used to be.

  Actually, now that the shock of Randy’s leaving—and never even bothering to return her calls—had worn off, her appetite was coming back.

  And she was glad of it.

  “Holly!” Rosa was the manager, and she’d been working there as long as Holly had been shopping there, so they knew each other by name. “Girl, I almost didn’t recognize you!”

  “Oh!” What could she say? Thanks just didn’t seem appropriate. “I guess I look different lately.”

  “Lately! You look different than you did ten minutes ago! I need to wear my glasses!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I first saw you out here with your boyfriend, I didn’t think anything was so different. But now that I look at you . . .” She shook her head admiringly. “Mmm-hmmm, you look good! How’d you do it?”

  “Complete deprivation,” Holly answered. “What do you mean you saw me with my boyfriend?” The “ten minutes ago” thing was confusing her. “You mean last winter?”

  “No, I mean when you first came in, whenever that was—ten, fifteen minutes ago? You were over in the lingerie section.”

  “You must have me confused with someone else. I just came in.” Holly idly fingered a red-and-white Empire-waist dress. “I love the summer stuff.”

  “It’s a good season this year,” Rosa agreed, but she was frowning. “Are you saying you weren’t standing right over there with your boyfriend a few minutes ago? That tall blond guy with the big nose?”

  Sounded like Randy, all right. “No, we broke up. Must have been another fat girl with a tall blond boyfriend.”

  Rosa nodded but looked uncertain. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I was sure it was him, and from the back I just assumed it was you, too. Then here you were.” She shrugged. “Weird stuff. But forget that—is there anything I can help you with? I know you liked our nightshirts, but, honey, I don’t think they’re gonna fit you anymore.”

  “Come on, Rosa, I’m not that different.” And it was true. She felt exactly the same as ever. If she were in a better mood, she might even try to shop for a few things, though she was realistic enough to admit that she’d outshrunk many of the things in the store.

  In a way, that kind of felt like a shame, because she loved their stuff.

  “You just let me know if you want me to help you out with anything,” Rosa said. “And if I’m in the back, you know Shelly can help, too.” She pointed toward a girl putting shoes away.

  “Thanks.” Holly did spend a few minutes wandering around, looking at things, but her heart just wasn’t in it today.

  And the thing with Rosa thinking she’d seen Holly and Randy earlier was kind of disconcerting. Holly, always ready to be superstitious, wondered if it might somehow mean something. Was she supposed to get back with him? Try to make it work?

  She dismissed the thought as soon as it came to her, but its sticky residue remained in her mind as she walked out into the bright sunshine and down the row of shops to do what she’d actually come for—to prepare for Nicola’s visit. She stopped in Pier 1 and picked up some candlesticks, then went down the road to FineWines and picked up a red and a white, along with some cheese and crackers.

  It was going to be fun to have Nicola in. It had been so long since she’d had a good old girls’ night, with wine and bad TV and junk food. She couldn’t wait.

  She put the stuff in a cooler in her car, then locked up and went back to the shopping area with the idea of walking around the lake before heading back home.

  It was a nice day, despite the heat, and her optimism about having her friend over put a bounce in her step.

  But as she passed the wide windows of the Corner Bakery, something—or rather, someone—caught her eye. She looked in and saw Randy sitting at a back table.

  Her first thought was that it was unfathomably weird that here he was right after that exchange with Rosa. For a split second, it was hard for Holly to dismiss the idea of fate.

  Until she noticed the girl he was with.

  How she’d missed her at first, she didn’t know, but now that she looked closer, what she saw was someone who, at least from the back, looked a little like Holly—same hair color and length, same height.

  Except this woman weighed more than Holly did. In fact, she looked even bigger than Holly had been at her biggest.

  Holly’s jaw dropped, and she tried to form a thought, but it was impossible.

  Then he laughed at something his companion said, and he leaned across the table to kiss her.

  And it was as if Holly were seeing some strange echo of her own life playing itself out now.

  But it wasn’t that.

  It was just Randy making out with a fat girl.

  After making Holly lose weight as a condition of marrying her, then dumping her once she did.

  All at once, it became horribly, disconcertingly clear to Holly who Randy was and what he was all about.


  He was a chubby-chaser!

  Actually, he was worse than a mere chubby-chaser. He preyed on women with that vulnerability so he could manipulate and control them in a way he could actually watch. He hadn’t missed the fact that Holly had lost a lot of weight when he told her he could “pinch an inch”—he’d have had to have been blind to miss it!

  But he got some sick thrill out of pushing her to do it, to lose more and more.

  Then, once she had, she was no longer of interest to him.

  He’d found his new mark.

  For about five minutes, Holly stood there, paralyzed, watching the two of them nuzzle and flirt. Part of her wanted to go back to her car and drive far, far away, hoping to erase this image—and this truth—from her mind.

  Yet part of her wanted to go in and strangle him.

  To say nothing of warning the poor girl he was with what he was all about.

  A series of scenarios ran through her mind: things she could say to each of them, things she could dump on Randy’s head, but when he looked up and caught her eye in the window, what she did do was leave.

  And she didn’t look back.

  “Hey! Holly!” Randy called behind her.

  She quickened her pace.

  Now that she could.

  “Holly!” Footsteps closed in on her, and she felt his hand on her shoulder.

  She whirled to face him. “I do not want to talk to you.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Of all the things he could have responded with, what he decided on was why not? How could she even begin to answer that one?

  “You are a pig,” she said, her voice simmering with hostility. She wanted to hit him. She really, really did.

  “What did I do?”

  “You really need me to tell you?” She glanced in the direction of the Corner Bakery, then back at him, trying to formulate one clear, succinct fuck you that would satisfy this moment for the rest of her life.

  Unfortunately, fuck you was the only thing that came to mind, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of going so lowbrow.

  “Okay, so you think I was seeing Monica before we broke up, but I promise things didn’t get serious until after you and I were over.”