The movies were much more glamorous.
Marilyn stared back at her hand. As doubtful as she was that she could reach her unreachable goal, she’d promised Zelda that she’d try, so she headed down Fifth Avenue and searched for the salon called Mirror, Mirror.
When Marilyn walked in the door, she was shocked to find a tiny space jammed with at least a dozen full length mirrors. A woman almost as slender and beautiful as Zelda herself stood in the center of them, her reflection from every angle thin and smooth and sublime. She had dark hair with Bettie Page bangs, and Marilyn could see a black garter poking out the hemline of her leather miniskirt. Her top was pure sexy fairytale, a sweetheart neckline trimmed in white lace that looked far more naughty than nice—and this woman was stacked like a plateful of pancakes.
“Welcome to Mirror Mirror,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’m Jezebel. And you must be Marilyn.”
They exchanged pleasantries, comments about the hot weather, the Yankees, the dead guy rotting on the street outside, and then shared a long, awkward silence before Marilyn summoned the nerve to ask the question foremost in her mind. “What is this place?”
“Why, it’s a salon.”
She glanced around the room, the predominant furnishings being mirrors, large floor pillows, and a stone fountain surrounded by bonzai trees. “Then where are your shampoo sinks, your salon chairs, your manicure tables, and your waxing beds?”
“At Mirror Mirror, we believe in painless grooming.”
“Painless? But isn’t all grooming for women supposed to be painful? How else do you know you deserve to look better?”
“We believe every woman deserves to look better. And for some, it’s a necessity.” Jezebel eyed Marilyn with a look that said, especially the ones like you.
“So you say it’s painless, does that mean no tweezing?”
“Not one pluck.” Jez made her fingers into pincers and yanked an imaginary eyebrow out of the air.
“No waxing?”
“Not a single rriiippp.” Jez mimed tearing off a strip and then grimaced in mock-pain.
“And exfoliation?”
Jez shook her head. “Burning off layers of skin with caustic chemicals is not our thing. Neither is injecting botulism into laugh lines. This isn’t grooming for mortal women, Marilyn. Here at Mirror Mirror, we cater to magical folk.”
“Like Shifters?”
“Yes.”
“And witches?”
“Of course.”
Marilyn studied one of the ornate mirrors. “And fairy tales?”
“Our specialty. You see this mirror here?” Jezebel motioned to the mirror that had captured Marilyn’s attention. “If you step into this one, you’ll go Through the Looking Glass.”
“As in Alice in Wonderland?”
“It’s actually the follow-up story to Alice in Wonderland. And, I’ll have you know, Alice herself just popped in this morning.”
“So fairy tales are real?”
“Erotic fairy tales,” Jez said.
Marilyn made an I'm not buying it face. “That's sort of strange, don't you think?”
“Some hot guy can morph into a sex wolf, and that's okay, but climbing up a beanstalk is strange?”
“Point taken.”
Marilyn peered into the mirror, but all she could see were a group of middle aged people lying on pillows and playing chess… naked. “Those people are wearing crowns on their heads. Are they royalty?”
“Yes. If you’d like to join them, just slip off your clothes and step inside.”
Marilyn hesitated. She’d always liked chess--her inner nerd grrl could rock the Sicilian Defense like a Grand-fucking-master. But she would never feel comfortable naked while in the presence of royalty. Or in the presence of regular people. Or immortals. Or in the privacy of her own shower. Which was why she wore a tunic while bathing.
“Go on,” Jez urged. “A little mani-pedi. A little en passant. A little ménage à trois.”
“Ménage à trois?”
“Zelda told me you'd do that. Repeat my last sentence.”
“Repeat your--” Marilyn stopped herself. “What did you mean by ménage à trois?”
“Take a look.”
Marilyn squinted into the glass and noticed one of the women had a king in her mouth. But it wasn't a chess piece. Someone else was doing something naughty with a bishop. Again, not the chess piece. And what was happening with that horse?
The horse was, thankfully, just a chess piece. Marilyn liked horses, even though she took a pony ride on her fifteenth birthday and broke the poor animal's spine. She sometimes still heard its painful whinnies in her dreams. Still, there was something really sexy about horses.
But it wasn't enough to get her to go into the mirror and play a naked three way with a bunch of strangers.
“Um, maybe some other time.”
“If you’d like the whole spa treatment, you might enjoy the Hellfire Club Spa. I spent some time there before my wedding, and it was very empowering.”
Marilyn sighed. “I'm sure. Were there any other Amazon links you wanted to work into this conversation, or are we done pimping our other books?”
“Also try Want It Bad, by Melinda DuChamp. It's contemporary, not supernatural, but really hot.”
“Duly bookmarked. Now can we get back to my story?”
“Sure. You're not stripping and going through the mirror? I can guarantee some hot, steamy sex. We haven't done a sex scene yet.”
“Too soon. I’m not quite ready.”
Jezebel touched a slender fingertip to her slender lips and contemplated.
After several minutes, Marilyn started to worry. The lovely spa owner looked like she might be straining herself. “Maybe I could just come back later…”
“I took one look at you and thought; chess orgy makeover. I'm not usually wrong.”
“It looks stimulating, both mentally and physically, but I've got this body-image shy thing going on.”
“So, what do you like, then?”
“Um, I like books.”
“Nobody reads anymore.”
“Really?”
“I read that in People Magazine. What else?”
“Movies.”
“What kinds of movies?”
“Old movies. Funny movies. Movies set in New York. With romance and adventures and horses.”
Jezebel looked Marilyn up and down. “I have just the mirror for you.”
***
When Marilyn stepped out of the mirror, she barely remembered what had happened. She also barely recognized herself. Her hair was no longer mousy, but a brilliant blond. Her lips were no longer bland, but a lush, cherry red. And a tiny mole she never knew she had adorned her upper lip. She looked like someone… someone famous… she just couldn’t put her finger on who.
Marilyn squinted at herself in the mirror. Not too bad. If only she was thinner…
“You’re not happy?”
“Oh, no.” Marilyn’s cheeks heated. Jezebel thought she was being an ungrateful brat. Marilyn could feel it. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I didn’t mean to be unappreciative. I just don’t know if there’s enough city magic in this entire town to fix my mojo.”
“You’re lacking confidence. Every woman feels that way once in a while, magical or not.”
“I feel that way all the time.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Maybe I'm bi-polar?”
“Could be. Could be because you're overweight, borderline inept, and on the boring side. I mean, who turns down a chess orgy makeover? You have to be a real lame, stodgy tool to say no to that.”
“Why are all the women I know mean to me?”
“And whiny. You're whiny.”
Marilyn didn't know how to object to that without sounding like she was whining, so she buttoned her lips.
Jez snapped her fingers. “I’ve got just the thing for you.” She handed her a b
usiness card. “New clothes! This is the best shop ever, and it’s just a block away. Tell them Jezebel sent you.”
Jez took her hand and led her over to the cash register, where she then began to ring her up.
“So… that's it?” Marilyn asked.
“That's all I can do. You know the saying. Lead a horse to water…”
“I like horses.”
“...but you can't make them join the chess orgy. So you get a makeover from me, and now you're someone else's problem.”
Then Jezebel charged Marilyn an obscene amount of money, and Marilyn paid it, because… well… New York.
The day was even hotter now, and as Marilyn stepped out onto Fifth Avenue, the street seemed to radiate hell itself. Dead homeless guy was still there. Still dead. And starting to reek. People still kept stepping over him.
Marilyn looked at the card Jezebel had handed her. And then at the itinerary Zelda had magically written on her palm. They both listed the same place, a boutique called The Rack.
Marilyn knew nothing about buying clothes, at least not chic clothes like Zelda and Jezebel wore. When it came to what to wear, Marilyn’s greatest ambition was to find something big enough to cover her butt. Muu Muus ‘R’ Us--her shop of choice--wasn't so much a clothier as it was an upholsterer. So Marilyn didn’t even look at the designer clothes in the shop windows she passed, just headed straight to The Rack, hoping to find a nice salesperson willing to help.
Marilyn stepped inside the boutique, which had the decor of ancient Greece, all marble and columns and statues of naked, thin people. A flurry of short, fussy warlocks immediately swarmed around her to take measurements, skimming her breasts, stroking her booty, and stretching their tapes from ankle to hoo-ha. They all spoke at once, a jumble of voices that Marilyn found more disconcerting than the probing, pressing hands on her body.
“We will make you a fabulous dress.”
“Yesss, yesss, you will be beautiful.”
“So pretty. So lovely. So fine.”
“Hell, I hope we have enough fabric in storage.”
“Hold on, hold on,” a woman’s voice rose above the warlock din, and none other than Jezebel herself rushed out from the back of the shop. She'd changed into a sleek red dress with a slit on the side that went up so high it showed side boob, and her updo boasted a glittering ruby barrette.
“Jezebel? You run The Rack, too?”
“Obviously. You really want to introduce a new supporting character?”
“No. I've already forgotten a few of them. Will there be a romantic interest soon?”
“You could have had one back at the salon, but Little Miss Prudemeister didn't want to strip in front of strangers. Now let’s get you a dress.”
Jezebel nodded to the warlocks. In unison, they snapped their fingers, and Marilyn found herself wearing a beautiful white halter dress with a full, swirly skirt and a plunging neckline. She twirled around, lost in the swish against her legs. “This is divine!”
“This is the best custom boutique in Manhattan at this address,” Jezebel said. “Why else do you think I recommended this place?”
“Because you own it?”
“There’s that, too. So I not only get the sale, but I also get a referral commission.”
“But if you own both shops, how can you get a referral? Isn't it all the same income?”
“No. I charge you the extra fifteen percent.”
“That's quite the scam,” Marilyn said to herself.
“Zelda said you do that, too. Mutter to yourself. Let me tell you, girlfriend, it is unattractive. Men hate it. It's a real shriveler. Girls who mumble are like anti-Viagra.”
“Doesn't it make me sort of a plucky underdog?”
“Plucky underdogs don't get laid.”
“Duly noted.” Marilyn spun again, watching the fabric dance and sway. “So if you make custom clothing, why is the shop called The Rack, then? It sounds like you sell clothing off the rack.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. The shop is named The Rack, because you can only get clothing that makes your rack look good.”
Marilyn stared down at her chest. Even though she was still totally aware of her excessive weight, she had to admit the girls had never looked better. The measuring warlocks were all staring at them, too. Which begged another question. “If you were going to just zap me a custom dress, why all the measuring?”
“Oh, they just like groping women.”
As far as reasons went, Marilyn didn’t think that was a very good one. But if she mentioned it, Jezebel would probably say she was being whiny.
Another zap, and Jezebel gave her a pair of silver Louboutins that were simply to die for, and she decided she’d just chalk up the whole grabby warlock episode to just another one of those embarrassing, mildly threatening, sexist humiliations that most women suffered every day. If women ever came together to smite the offenders or support a female presidential candidate or something, watch out.
“How do you feel?” Jez asked. “Attractive? Empowered? Confident?”
Marilyn did another twirl. “Actually, I do feel more confident.”
“Excellent,” Jez beamed. “Then this won't hurt as much as it might.”
She handed Marilyn the bill.
Marilyn's confidence immediately drained when she saw the amount. “Is this for just the dress and shoes? Or did you add on a Mercedes?”
“Oh, you don't want a car in the city. No place to park.”
Marilyn squinted at the bill. “I think I bought a garage as well.”
“Well, darling, this is New York City. There's a Muu Muus 'R' Us in Schenectady that might be more your style. You can pay for your dress by the square yard.”
Marilyn paid. Then she checked her hand for the next stop.
Her next stop was Tiffany & Co, which thrilled Marilyn because it reminded her of one of her favorite films. Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The mind is an inexplicable thing.
Marilyn walked outside, stepped over the rotting dead guy, and then flagged a cab.
Kidding! You can't get a cab in New York.
Instead, Marilyn walked to Tiffany's, focusing on the feeling of the dress hugging her body, the pinch of the heels, the furtive ogles from the men she passed. It had been a while since she'd been stared at like that. Good thing or bad? Were neo-feminists allowed to want male attention, or was diminishing a person to an object sexist no matter what? She decided to judge on a case-by-case basis. The cute businessman in the suit who smiled at her, that was a plus. The drooling guy who tugged on his junk as she walked past, a minus. The muscley construction workers who whistled at her…
Well, the jury was out on that one.
She finally arrived at the famous jewelry store and stepped inside, luxuriating in the air conditioning and surrounded by sparkling, shiny objects. Marilyn wandered through the showcases gaping at baubles, sipped from the super cold marble water fountains, and kept waiting for Jezebel to appear in a new outfit and tell her she owned the place.
Jez did not appear. But a salesman did come over, giving her cleavage extra special attention. His nametag read H. McGlade.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“I'm looking for earrings,” Marilyn said, remembering the reason she'd come.
“Have you checked your cleavage? If they fell in there, good luck finding them again. Heck, I bet you could lose a whole sandwich in there.”
“I'm looking for earrings,” Marilyn repeated, “to buy.”
“Oh. Sorry, we're out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why? You just let one rip? I thought I smelled something.” He sniffed loudly. “Did you have burritos earlier?”
“I did not pass gas.”
“It must have been me, then. I had burritos. Gotta warn you; tuna is not your best protein choice when it comes to Mexican food. Feels like someone is squeezing my bowels with pliers. Like a toothpaste tube.”
He made a toothpaste gesture with his hands.
“Can someone else wait on me?” she asked.
“You're Marilyn, right?”
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“Zelda told me to keep an eye out for fatties. But, I gotta say, for a plus-sized female you are rocking that dress.”
As with the construction workers, Marilyn didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. She settled for neutral, and responded with a flat, “Thanks.”
“So, earrings? What are you thinking? Let me guess… food. You're thinking about food. Because, I mean, do you ever stop eating? You've got something stuck to your lip. I think it's ham.”
“It's a mole.”
“Jesus, you ate a mole? Just snuck up on the little bastard and stuffed him into your pie hole? I bet the poor little blind rodent never even saw you coming. Because: blind.” He grinned. “I'm funny.”
Marilyn stared at him. For Goddess’s sake, this man’s ego was so big, she could almost see his thoughts playing out over his face, almost feel what he felt. H. McGlade seemed to think he was the greatest thing since the push-up bra. And she couldn’t see any reason for it. She must be missing something.
Now he was imagining her in a push-up bra.
Hmm... She looked pretty good to this guy.
And now he was imagining his face on her body.
“Seriously, H. McGlade? Get over yourself. You’re kind of a jerk.”
“I'm also that. But I was telling the truth about that dress. It makes your boobs look so huge, they could be seen from space.” He leaned forward. “Whoa, help! Their gravity is pulling me in!”
Marilyn stepped back far enough to get his nose out of her cleavage. “You're really not as funny as you think.”
“You're right,” H. McGlade said. “That joke was a bust.”
That was actually pretty funny. But then, Marilyn had an unhealthy attraction to bad puns.
“Let's see…” he said, “earrings. How about something long and dangly? Like churros? That way you can nibble on them as they swing past your mouth.”
Not knowing how to handle this guy, Marilyn turned to leave, but H. McGlade was suddenly holding a small, plush box beneath her nose.
The Seven Year Witch Page 2