by S. E. Babin
I went straight for the suits, channelling the successful personal shopper I am—usually. I know fashion and I know what works on men. I’d been a personal shopper in my native New Zealand for years. Put any man in a well-tailored suit and he’ll look a million bucks. Not that Brady needed a suit to look good.
I selected about six different suits and set him up in a dressing room, throwing in a couple of shirts, ties, and shoes to complete the look.
I stood and waited patiently for him to come out, thoughts running through my head. I had the biggest crush on him in high school. He still looked the same, only better. He’d made my senior year pretty darn hellish. Did he really remember me?
I tried not to picture him in his boxers, what his abs must look like, how broad his shoulders were, how tight his...
His voice punctured my thoughts. “What do you think of his one? I quite like it.”
Brady stood in front of me dressed in one of the suits, an uncertain look on his good-looking-enough-to-be-a-daytime-soap-star’s face. With the cut of the suit emphasising his athletic build and the white shirt showing off his olive skin to perfection, he could give James freaking Bond a run for his money.
My breath caught in my throat. “It’s good,” I squeaked.
He looked from his reflection to me in surprise.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Something... caught,” I bluffed, my blush returning with a vengeance. “The cut of the suit works well with your... ah... physique.” Nice. “And it fits you well across the shoulders.”
“You don’t think it’s too tight?” He flexed his muscles like he was The Hulk. It took a mammoth effort to push the image of him breaking out of the suit in a fit of sexy, manly rage from my mind.
“No, not at all. You have to feel comfortable. You’ll be in this suit all evening.”
“I’ll go try on the next one.”
We repeated the same exercise for all six suits. Each and every time he stepped out of the changing room, he looked just as hot. And each and every time he closed the door to change, I gave myself a stern talking to.
Sure, he’s still my dream guy but he was a total ass back then. And he probably still is today.
Finally, after wrestling with my emotions—and libido—for what felt like a week, he decided on the first suit and purchased it along with one of the shirts, a tie, and a pair of shoes.
With sweaty hands, I handed him his tissue-wrapped purchases inside the store’s Marlowe monogrammed paper bag.
As he was about to leave, he turned to me. “Hey, there’s this Christmas party coming up. There’ll be a few people from high school there. It’ll be fun. Do you think you might like to come?”
I blinked at him, speechless. Brady McKinnon was asking me out?
“Tilly?” he asked uncertainly when I didn’t respond.
“Sorry. Ah, thanks, I...” I searched my brain for an excuse, those hamsters bouncing off the walls of my belly like a bunch of wrestlers in the ring. All I came up with was a lame: “I’m sorry, I’m busy that night.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I haven’t told you when it is yet.”
How do you get that confident?
“Ah.” I shot him an embarrassed smile, cursing my pale complexion and easy blush-ability.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. It’s at Tobey Thomas’s parents’ roof garden. The view alone from up there is worth it.”
Tobey Thomas. I narrowed my eyes as I recalled the strapping captain of the football team, one of Brady’s cronies in high school. Seeing Tobey ‘The Tobester’ Thomas was right up there with having hot needles inserted under my fingernails, as far as I was concerned. No, scrub that: hot needles under my fingernails would be a vacation in comparison with being in the same room as The Tobester again.
Without waiting for my response, he picked a pen up from the counter. “Have you got a piece of paper?”
On automatic pilot, I pulled a notepad out from under the cash register and handed it to him.
He wrote something on the pad. Pushing it over towards me, he said, “Here. Say you’ll come.”
Geez, for a guy who quite possibly couldn’t remember me an hour ago, he sure was persistent.
I plastered on my best Miss Universe smile. “Thank you, Brady. I’ll take a look at my calendar and be in touch.”
He beamed at me. “Awesome.” He picked up his bag. “And thanks for this. You were a great help. It was real nice seeing you again.”
I watched as he walked away, my heart rate returning to normal for the first time since I’d clamped eyes on him. I glanced down at the notepad. Without even reading it, I ripped the page off and scrunched it up, throwing it into the trash.
What sort of masochist would want to see Brady McKinnon surrounded by all his high school buddies again? Not me, that’s for sure.
* * *
I dropped my lunch tray with an audible thud on the table. Lana almost leapt out of her staff cafeteria chair.
“Whoa, there!” she yelped.
“What? Oh, sorry.” I sat down heavily opposite her.
She peered at my tray. “What exactly are you eating for lunch today?”
I glanced down. On automatic pilot I’d picked up a jelly donut, a bowl of plain rice, and two chocolate fudge brownies. “Umm, this?”
She shrugged. “Okay. Your diabetic funeral.” She continued to munch on her sandwich. “Rodney’s been at it again. This time he felt me up while I was leaning over to hand a candy cane to a three-year old. Classy, huh?”
Lana worked as an elf on Level Two with one of the store’s Santas, a guy we’d nicknamed ‘Randy Rodney’. And for good reason: Lana spent half her time fending off passes from him. Despite rejection after rejection, he persisted with his creepy come-ons. He was about a gazillion years older than her and, well, looked like Santa. It wasn’t going to happen.
I could see the headline now: “HORNY SANTA TRIES TO SEDUCE YOUNG ELF. “Forbidden love is better than candy canes,” Santa told Ten News of his love for his elf.”
I shuddered. It was all kind of icky.
Lana and I had met on my first day in the job and, lucky for me, she was in the market for a new roommate and I was in the market for a place to live. She was a native New Yorker and knew all the best places to go. She had taken me under her wing and I was eternally grateful.
Lana finished her sandwich and took a sip of her coffee. “Man, they could seal roads with this crap. Still, it’s caffeine and I need it today. Anyway, what’s up with you? How’s the crazy world of men’s fashion?”
“It’s—” I paused, thinking about my encounter with Mr High School Heart Throb this morning, “—weird.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Sounds interesting.”
“I helped this guy I used to know in high school find a suit for his sister’s wedding.”
“And?” The bells on her costume jingled as she flicked some sandwich crumbs off her lapel.
“I don’t think he remembered me. I mean, he said he did, but it wasn’t convincing.”
“And that bothered you? Hell, I don’t even remember my best friend from high school.”
I darted her a look. “That’s not true, is it?”
“Nah, you got me. So he didn’t remember you.” She shrugged. “Big deal.”
“It’s more than that. He was kind of a jerk to me back then.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “What did he do?”
“I don’t think I want to tell you.” I took a bite of the donut.
“That bad, huh?”
“Kind of. At least it felt pretty bad at the time.”
“A problem shared is a problem halved.”
“I guess.” I knew I sounded unconvincing. What could it hurt telling Lana about what had happened? It was seven years ago, for goodness sake. I took a deep breath. “Okay. When I was seventeen I had a bit of a crush on him.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How big?”
“Not that big.”
“Really?” She doesn’t look convinced.
“Alright, maybe quite big.”
She grinned at me. “You were head over heels in love with him, right?”
“Yeah,” I conceded. I pushed some rice around the bowl. “I thought all my Christmases had come at once when he asked me to go to the Winter Dance.”
She scrunched up her face. “I think I know what’s coming next.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, he stood you up, right?”
“No. Worse. Sheryl Linklater, one of the cheerleaders, told me he was on a dare to ask the nerdiest girl in school to the dance only to publicly dump her beforehand.”
“You were the nerdiest girl in school?”
“Kind of. Not the nerdiest exactly, but definitely not one of the cool kids. I didn’t have the best haircut back then, I had a bad case of acne and I was a little more... chunky.”
She laughed. “Dude! You were the ugly swan. And now you’re beautiful.”
“I was the ugly duckling.”
“No, swan.”
“Duckling.”
“I don’t know how the story goes in New Zealand, but here it’s about a swan.”
I decided to let it go.
Lana pushed her cup of coffee away across the table in disgust. “Caffeine or no caffeine, I cannot drink this. So what happened next?”
“Brady went to the dance with Sheryl, of course, and they told everyone about the ‘fun’ prank they’d pulled on me. I was the laughing stock of the school for weeks. I was so humiliated I wanted to get on the first plane and head back home to New Zealand.”
“This Brady guy sounds like a prize douche bag.”
I nodded at her. It sounded weird to hear an elf say ‘douche bag’. “Oh, yes. The thing is, he asked me to this party.”
“He did?” She laughed, her eyes bright. It sounded kind of evil. “Oh, my god. You have to go.”
I shook my head, shuddering at the very thought of it. “No way! It would be horrible. Beyond horrible. ”
“Tilly, look at me.” Her voice was serious as she fixed me with her gaze. She looked intense and kind of freaky. It was unnerving. “You need to go. You have to show this Brady guy how awesome you are now.”
I shook my head, scrunching my eyes shut.
“Plus, I think a little revenge could be in order.”
My eyes sprung open. “Revenge?”
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Exactly. This party is the perfect opportunity for you. Let’s convene at nineteen hundred hours to discuss our battle plan.”
“Lana, what are you talking about? I don’t even want to go to this party. And what’s up with the military terminology?”
“Just being professional. And yes you do. Don’t you want to see how it feels when you treat him the way he treated you?”
A smile teased the edges of my mouth at the thought of humiliating Brady in front of his friends, making him feel just as bad as I had back in high school. I’d fantasized about doing just that many, many times. And it had always felt so good.
“See? You want to, I know you do,” Lana encouraged. “And I’ll be there for moral support. Oh, and for documentary purposes too.”
“You’re going to film it?”
“Of course. What’s the point of revenge if you can’t share it with your closest five hundred friends on social media?”
I scoffed, then paused, deep in thought. Did he remember me? Or was I so forgettable he’d faked it, chancing on the fact we’d been in history class together? I bit my lip. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Lana bounced in her chair, clapping her hands together like an excited seal. Several people turned to look at us.
“You are not going to regret this, Tilly Grayson.”
My body gave an involuntary tingle as an image of Brady’s smiling face popped into my head. “I hope not, Lana. I hope not.”
* * *
At precisely nineteen hundred hours that night, Lana was standing in our tiny kitchen when I came through the front door of our apartment. I was exhausted from a long day of dressing clients—and obsessing about Brady McKinnon.
To be honest, my mind was a quagmire of conflicting thoughts. Yes, I wanted revenge for my teenage self, and yes, Brady totally deserved it. But seeing him again had brought back those feelings I had about him all that time ago: lust, anger, humiliation. But most of all, lust.
I managed to rescue the crumpled bit of paper with the party’s address on it from the trash, to bemused looks from my colleagues. I placed it safely in my purse after texting the details to Lana as she had requested.
“Are you ready for this?” Lana asked.
“Sure.” I settled down on a stool at what our landlord laughingly called the kitchen bench.
“Okay. Here’s the plan.” With a theatrical flourish she pulled a tea towel away, revealing a whiteboard covered in writing.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Work.”
I eyed what looked like an elaborate plan on the board. “Is this all really necessary?”
“Yes it is!” She looked offended. “Look, Tilly, you need to forget this tragic teenage girl crush on this guy. People in the revenge business need to be focussed on one thing and one thing only: revenge.”
I opened my mouth to protest. She was right. It was a tragic teenage girl crush. I needed to forget about it. In the revenge business I was. “Okay,” I replied weakly.
She brandished a wooden spoon at the board. “So, as you can see here, we have a Three Point Revenge Plan.”
I looked at the board. It was covered in writing and she’d even added a trademark logo next to the title. She’d put a serious amount of thought into this.
“First off,” she began, whacking the spoon loudly against the board, “and most crucially I might add, Point One: Look Devastatingly Hot. You have to turn up to this party looking so hot he gets a chubby from you simply saying hello.”
I guffawed. “Sure, no problem. I’ll just jump in my Make Me Into A Sexy Super Model machine over here.”
“Ha! You’re gorgeous, and you know it. And with my expert guidance you will be amazeballs hot.”
I shrugged, unconvinced. “You can try. I don’t know if I have a party dress, though.”
She waved the spoon in the air. “It’s all in hand. I have a gazillion dresses you can borrow. You’ll look good enough to eat and you can reel Brady right on in.”
“Reel him in?” Brady’s face atop a fish body at the end of my fishing line sprung to mind.
“Yeah. Give him a taste of his own medicine.”
I tried to swallow the rising lump in my throat. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Yeah you can. Just look hot, lead him on, and then dump his sorry ass.”
I shook my head, biting my lip. Lead him on then dump him? Those pesky hamsters from earlier today started a boisterous dance party in my belly.
“Now, moving on.” Lana whacked the board with the spoon again. “Point Two: Dog Turd Gift.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”
“Because inside a beautiful, fragrantly scented gift will be a large, stinking dog turd.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ah, one question,” I interjected, raising my hand like I was back in the classroom.
“Tilly,” Lana replied, as though she had an audience of many to choose from.
“Where, exactly, will I get a dog turd?”
“Out on the street, of course.” Her tone implied I’d asked the dumbest question known to humanity. “There are oodles of dogs in New York City. All you have to do is scoop up some of their poop, and hey presto, Brady gift time.”
I curled my toes at the thought. “So I’m just going to rock on up to this party, looking amazing, and hand Brady a dog turd present?”
“No.” A wicked smile spread across her face. “You’re going to set it alight.”
I stared at her, my eyes huge. “I am?”
/> “Tilly! Haven’t you seen Orange is the New Black?”
“That prison show?”
She nodded.
“No. Why?”
“Okay, let me explain what they did. This character wanted revenge on her ex so she got a pile of dog turd, wrapped it up, doused it in gasoline, put it on the ground, then set it alight. When the guy saw the fire he stomped on it to put it out, only to get dog poop all over himself! It was classic. That’s what I want you to do.” She leaned back against the bench, satisfied with Point Two in her Three Point Revenge Plan.
I, on the other hand, gaped at her. “You want me to do what? That would be crazy, not to mention completely unsafe. And disgusting.”
She shook her head at me. “It’s a roof garden party, stupid. You’ll be outside. It’s perfect!”
I bristled at being called ‘stupid’. “I’m not sure it’ll work.”
“I’ve used this one and it works great, trust me.” She had a satisfied look on her face.
“What’s the final point?”
“Point Three is Attack of the Digestive System, for what I hope is obvious reasons.”
I arched my eyebrows. “You want me to attack his digestive system? How?”
She reached around the back of the whiteboard and pulled out a bottle. “Exhibit A.”
I read the label. “Liquid laxative. Oh, I get it. You want me to give him the runs.”
“Yes! Wouldn’t that be hilarious? He won’t know what hit him and he’ll have to leave the party. With any luck he’ll poop in his pants on the way home.”
I let a giggle escape. “That would be kind of funny.”
“I know, right? Let me see. The recommended does for constipation is,” she searched the back of the bottle, “one teaspoon. I say we go for ten as a starting point.”
I chortled. “Ten?”
“We want to make sure it works.”
“Fair point. What are those?” I pointed to the edge of a box poking out from behind the whiteboard. I was getting into this whole revenge idea now.
Lana picked the box up. “Aha! Exhibit B.”
I peered at the label. “Santa moulds.”
“Yeah, baby. We’re going to make laxative-laced chocolate Santas.”
“I should have known.” I shook my head. “Logistical question: how do I make sure only Brady eats them?”