by Jane Graves
"Give me your phone number in case something comes up," Mark said.
"You mean in case you change your mind?"
He sighed. "I won't change my mind. I promise."
After they swapped phone numbers, Mark said, "I've never been to Sunrise Square. Don't they charge you just to breath the air around there?"
Liz smiled. "Don't worry. Eddie will give you his discount on that, too."
4
The moment Mark set eyes on the extravagant three-story expanse of Sunrise Square, he decided he hated it. He couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable in a place where there was a kiosk selling three-hundred-dollar pet carriers that looked like designer handbags.
Liz had insisted on coming by to pick him up this afternoon, and he knew it was because she was afraid he really was going to back out at the last minute. And if he'd known it was going to be like this, he might have. Every inch of the place breathed money, money, money, like some glass and steel monster waiting to suck up cash, credit cards and loose jewelry from every human being who came through the doors. And judging from the looks of the people who shopped there, this particular mall monster had a smorgasbord of potential victims to choose from.
Mark looked down at the clothes he wore--faded Levis, Miami Marlins T-shirt, beat-up Nikes--then surveyed the rest of the mall patrons. They wore jeans, but the two-hundred-dollar-a-pair kind. Their shirts had logos he didn't recognize, which meant they'd probably paid a fortune for them. The women held designer handbags and pushed fancy baby strollers, their wrists and necks dripping with casual but expensive jewelry.
Liz, on the other hand, wore form-fitting Lee jeans she filled out as only Liz could, accompanied by hot pink flip-flops and a straw handbag tossed over her shoulder. She wore a T-shirt, too, only hers read, "We've Got Enough Youth. How About a Fountain of Smart?" But that was Liz. He wouldn't have expected her to wear anything else.
But that just meant they were both out of place.
"Mark?"
"What?"
"You have a funny look on your face."
"This place is awful."
"And by awful you mean…?"
"Look," he said, pointing. "There's a Tiffany's and a Cartier. Right there across from each other. Are you believing that?"
"Well, of course, silly. Where else does one go if one wants to comparison shop for fifty thousand dollar diamonds?"
Mark thought he was going to be sick.
"Aw, come on. This mall is nothing. You should see Bal Harbour Shops. I'm pretty sure they check your net worth before they let you in the door. Oh, look! There's the hair salon." She checked her watch. "We're right on time."
"For what?"
"Your appointment. I called them this morning after I talked to Eddie."
"Now, wait a minute. I know we talked about a haircut, but--"
"Come on. They're waiting for you."
Liz took him by the arm and led him into the salon, where a spaghetti-thin woman with buzz-cut black hair sat behind the counter wearing a heavy-lidded look of sheer boredom. Glancing around, Mark saw that every stylist was clothed in black from head to toe, each with a head of hair that was frizzed, colored, spiked or otherwise mutilated. It looked like a casting call for a horror movie.
"This place is bizarre," he whispered to Liz.
"It's supposed to be chic."
"Chic? A few broomsticks and pumpkins and they'd be ready for Halloween."
"That's just for show. They don't actually do that to customers' hair."
"How much is this trip to the dark side going to cost me?"
"How much does a haircut usually cost you?"
"Twenty bucks."
"Uh...it'll probably be a little more than that."
Worried, he looked around for a sign like the one in the shop where he usually went, one that said exactly what you were going to have to pay for a shampoo, cut and blow dry. But there wasn't any such sign there.
Oh, hell. When was he going to stop worrying about every little dollar and start living a little? Successful people didn't pinch pennies, and they certainly didn't worry about paying for a stupid haircut.
How much could one haircut cost, anyway?
* * *
"Sixty-five dollars? Sixty-five dollars? For this?"
Mark ran a hand through his newly-cut hair, and for a moment Liz wondered if his eyeballs were going to pop right out of his head. The receptionist sat paralyzed on her stool, staring at Mark as if he were only one healthy brain cell away from being totally deranged. At the same time, all five stylists and their customers sat frozen in time, every one of them wearing a wide-eyed expression of disbelief that such an acutely uncivilized man had been allowed on the premises. A man who had just broken the cardinal rule of high-class establishments: One does not mention the price of anything, and certainly not at the top of one's lungs.
Liz clamped her hand onto Mark's arm and pulled him aside. He dropped his voice, but his expression was still crazed.
"Did you hear that? Sixty-five dollars?"
"Mark, please--"
"No way. I am not going to pay--"
"You have to!"
"That's three times what a haircut usually costs me!"
"You don't have any choice! What do you expect them to do? Glue your hair back on?"
Mark narrowed his eyes in an I'll get you for this stare, then muttered something that sounded like four-letter words in a rare and unusual combination. Finally he yanked his wallet out of his pocket and turned back to the receptionist. While his back was turned, Liz pulled a ten from her purse and slipped it to the stylist. Under the circumstances, reminding Mark to leave a tip would be like squirting gasoline on a fire.
A few minutes later they were heading down the promenade again, Liz taking two hurried steps to every one of Mark's. She put on a cheery smile, hoping her little bit of sunshine would chase away the thunderclouds building on his horizon.
"See," she said, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
He screeched to a halt and spun around. "I could have stuck my head in a blender and gotten the same effect, and it wouldn't have cost me a dime!"
"No! It looks great! Now, I know the woman who cut it was a little weird, but--"
"Woman? I thought it was a man!"
Liz rolled her eyes. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. Weird or not, that person did a fabulous job. I'm not kidding, Mark. You look wonderful."
"You're just saying that so I don't go back to him, or her, or whatever, and demand my money back!"
"Trust me, will you? It's a great haircut. Here. Have another look."
She took him by the shoulders and turned him until he caught his reflection in a shop window. He groaned. "Good God, I look like I got struck by lightning!"
"Oh, will you stop? It's got a lot of style to it, but it's still conservative, right?"
He patted his hair, then made a face of disgust. "It's got that mouse stuff in it."
Liz smiled. "That's 'mousse.'"
"Whatever. It feels like Styrofoam."
"It's trendy."
"It's stupid."
Liz sighed. "Look again. Are you sure you don't like it?"
Mark returned his gaze to the shop window. Liz stood beside him and eyed his reflection, too. She noticed not just his hair, but how tall and long-legged he was, wearing a pair of jeans just the way she liked to see them on a man--faded and comfy. And he had nice, broad shoulders that filled out his Rangers T-shirt in a way that made it hard for her to stop looking at him. The glasses he wore still made him look like Clark Kent, but she was pretty sure Superman was in there somewhere. With luck, before the day was out she'd have him in contact lenses.
He poked at his hair a moment more, then dropped his hand to his side. "Okay. Maybe it's not so bad. Or at least it won't be, once it grows out a little."
Liz breathed a silent sigh of relief. Mission accomplished. Now that they were past the hair hurdle, hopefully things would be downhill from there.
*
* *
The moment they stepped into Bergman's, Mark felt a twinge of foreboding, and the feeling grew more intense with every step he took. Its overly-elegant, deathly quiet atmosphere made him think twice about actually touching anything. The walls were a muted beige, and in lieu of harsh overhead fluorescent lights, the store was lit with wall sconces and crystal chandeliers. The flooring consisted of wide mahogany planks polished to a high gloss, and everywhere brass and glass sparkled like precious gems.
He and Liz made their way around the cosmetics section of the store, past the shoes, then came alongside the women's department. They passed a display of dresses, and Mark stopped long enough to glance furtively at a price tag, trying to get some idea of what he might be in for. Relief flooded through him.
"Eighty-nine dollars," he said to Liz. "That's not so bad for a dress, right?"
"Uh...you're looking at the wrong tag. That's for the scarf that goes with it."
Mark dropped the price tag as if it had suddenly caught fire. He did a rough mental calculation: A woman's scarf equals a man's tie equals...
Oh, God.
"May I help you, sir?"
He turned to see a salesgirl wearing a stark black suit and white blouse, her hair drawn into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She was one of three identical women he saw working in the same department. Same hair, same clothes, same colors. The Stepford Salesgirls. And all of them were so bone-thin that Mark wondered if having an eating disorder was a prerequisite for employment.
"No," he replied to the salesgirl. "We're just looking."
She gave him a skimpy smile, as if she'd already used up her quota for the day. "Let me know if I can help you in any way."
Yeah. Be sure to call me when you have a ninety-percent-off sale.
As the woman strolled away, Mark leaned toward Liz and whispered, "Has anyone considered feeding those women?"
"Thin is in," she whispered back. "It's never not in."
"That thin is pathologic. The Halloween crew at the hair place we just left could use a few skeletons. They'd be perfect for the job."
"You just don't know chic when you see it."
"No, but I do know emaciation when I see it."
"I wouldn't mind being that thin."
"You've got to be kidding. You have a great body. Why would you want to trade it for one of those?"
The words were out of Mark's mouth before he realized it, and immediately he wished he could take them back. He'd admired Liz's physical attributes more than once since he'd met her, but he hadn't intended to blurt it out.
"Really?" Her eyes widened with disbelief. Then she smiled, looking hopeful. "You really think I look better than they do?"
"Of course you do. A lot better." He couldn't stop his gaze from traveling furtively down her body, taking in all those curves he'd been admiring. "Don't tell me you're one of those women who puts a lettuce leaf on a plate and calls it dinner."
"Are you kidding? I eat anything. Which is why I look like me and not like them."
"So if, say, we were to go for a pizza after shopping, you'd actually eat some of it?"
“If you put a pizza with everything in front of me, you'll lose a finger if you reach for a slice."
"I take my pizza pretty seriously, too. You might be the one minus a few digits."
"Then let's do it. And I know just the place. Gino's. Ever been there?"
"No."
"Their meat lover's pizza is amazing. But you have to let me pick up the tab. After today your credit card might be a little out of breath."
They started toward the men's department again, and it wasn't until they were within smelling distance of the leather accessories that it suddenly dawned on Mark what he'd just done.
He'd asked Liz out.
No. It wasn't really like a date or anything. It was just a quick pizza. But would she think it was something else?
He gave her a sidelong glance and decided she wouldn't think that for a minute. She'd horned in on his love life, shown up at his condo at midnight uninvited, then coerced him into a million-dollar shopping trip, and all of it had been totally platonic. Asking her to share a pizza was nothing to worry about.
But if it had been a date...
He couldn't believe how easy it had been. He'd always gotten a little tongue-tied when asking a woman out. But Liz--Liz was something else. Liz was friendly. Liz was comfortable. Liz was easy to be around. Liz was--
"Liz, darling!"
From between two racks of suits, a man emerged who was barely taller than the racks themselves. His build was so insubstantial that a good, solid wind would blow him into the treetops. He wore one of those weird three-button suit coats in an odd shade of olive green, a geometric-patterned tie, and a bright, cantaloupe-colored shirt. Mark never would have thought to put those particular clothes on the same body, but he had to admit that somehow it all looked good together.
Eddie kissed Liz on either cheek, then turned to Mark. "Is this your friend?"
"Yes. This is Mark."
Eddie put his hand on his chin thoughtfully, then began a slow stroll around Mark, eyeing him up and down. He turned back to Liz with a single raised eyebrow. "Well, as I told you, I do love a challenge." His gaze shifted back to Mark, then traveled up to his hair. "Hmm. Nice haircut, though."
Liz beamed at Mark, giving him an I told you so look, and he rolled his eyes.
Eddie made a shooing sign at Liz with his hands. "Now, darling, why don't you go find a sale somewhere and come back in an hour? I have things under control here."
"Thanks, Eddie. I knew I could count on you."
"Wait a minute!" Mark said. "You're not staying?"
"You can trust Eddie," Liz said. "If he recommends something, spend the money. It'll be worth it. I promise."
"But--"
"I'll be back in an hour," she said with a big smile and a little wave of her fingertips. She turned and walked away, the hip pockets of her jeans swaying back and forth as only Liz's hip pockets could. Mark turned back to Eddie, who was staring at him with a tight, narrowed-eyed expression.
"Time to get started," he said, with a single clap of his hands. "We have a lot of ground to cover."
Mark cringed. The more ground they covered, the more it was going to cost him. "A suit. That's all I really need."
"Nonsense. I promised Liz a new man from the inside out, so first things first. Boxers or briefs?
* * *
Liz wished she could have hung around the men's department, but she knew Eddie too well for that. He had a flare for the dramatic and insisted on building to a fashion crescendo. So she wandered aimlessly through the mall, weaving in and out of Anthropologie, Sephora and Cartier, then browsed a store that sold an astonishing array of frilly, pastel stuff for little girls. Then she went to Espresso Express, where she ordered a Salted Caramel Mocha, which cost her approximately half her paycheck. As she drank it, she flipped through her Facebook newsfeed to kill time, but she couldn't stop thinking about Mark.
What if he didn't like what Eddie picked out for him? What if he flipped over the price? What if he resented her horning into his life in the first place?
And why was it so important to her whether he did or not?
Because helping people was her destiny. Okay, maybe she was taking it a step or two further than her mother and grandmother by actually implementing her own advice, but Mark was a special case.
Ever since she'd left his condo last night, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about what incredible potential lay just beneath his surface, if only he realized it. She didn't know his whole story, of course, but he was clearly hung up on the fact that he was from a small town where he'd grown up poor, and judging from his modest condo, the clothes he wore, and the car he drove, he'd never gotten over it. She'd overheard enough conversations from one customer to the next at Simon's to know that a manager at one of those big accounting firms pulled down a substantial amount of money, but none of it was reflected in M
ark's lifestyle.
He was a rarity--a guy who had money but didn't flaunt it. A guy who had a position of professional responsibility but didn't yammer endlessly about it, trying to impress people. If he hadn't blown up last night and given himself away, she might never have known how successful he really was. He'd mentioned money markets and stock and thrift plans, but only when she prompted him to do it. She liked that about Mark. And he didn't seem to be nearly as stuffy as she would have assumed when she first saw his business card, either. His only negative trait seemed to be his poor taste in the opposite sex.
Why would he want a cold-as-ice woman like that, anyway? Living with Gwen would undoubtedly mean he'd have to wear a silk bathrobe around the house, drink beer out of a glass and eat pizza with a knife and fork--if Gwen would allow him to drink beer and eat pizza at all. What kind of fun was that?
Wait a minute. Pizza.
All at once she remembered Mark's invitation. If we were to go out for a pizza after shopping...
She swallowed hard, her heart suddenly racing. Had he been asking her out on a date?
No. That was silly. It had been just a friendly gesture. Any man who went ga-ga over a woman like Gwen Adams would never be interested in a woman like her. Nor would she want a man who would want a Gwen Adams. But the more she tried to picture him with Gwen, the harder it was to imagine. He just didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd enjoy being around a woman like that.
Liz sighed and took another sip of coffee, admitting the truth to herself. Gwen was well-dressed, educated, and icy-perfect, and Mark was a professional man. Despite his small-town origins, he'd moved up the corporate ladder. Way up. Men like that looked for their female counterparts. But still he struck her as the kind of guy who wouldn't mind sitting in a red vinyl booth at a truck stop diner, sipping thirty-weight coffee and chatting the night away.
No. That's exactly the kind of image he wants to escape. And he's counting on you to help him do it.
Exactly twenty-three minutes later, Liz returned to the men's department at Bergman's. Eddie greeted her with a smile of supreme satisfaction, then sat her down in an overstuffed chair in a large, plush-carpeted room outside the men's dressing area. Soft classical music floated through the room, imparting an air of quiet sophistication. Eddie handed her a glass of wine.