by Tamara Leigh
“I can do that.”
“Good.” He stares at my forehead. “Trish, think you can manage some wisps?”
“For all of five minutes. Her hair’s too thick and curly. Better to work with it than risk it going frizzy and have me running back and forth with a curling iron.”
“Maybe a little shorter—”
“No. By the time her hair dries, she’ll lose two inches to curls.”
He sighs. “Your call.”
Silence descends until the mirror reflects a very thin woman behind me.
“Lois!” Michael beckons her forward. “Let’s see what you came up with.”
Arms loaded, she sweeps forward. “All size ten except for the pantsuit.” She lowers the bagged garments to the counter. “It runs small, so I pulled a twelve.”
Maia gasps as though a bowl of slugs has been set before her. “Twelve?”
Why did I agree to this?
Michael holds up each of the garments, narrows the field to three, then looks at me. Despite my annoyance, I’m relieved he’s smiling again.
“What do you think?” He peels the plastic from a black knit dress and jacket.
Snap, snap, goes Arnie.
If not for the fuchsia that edges the hems, lapels, and flared cuffs of the narrow-sleeved jacket, I’d pass, but its understated elegance appeals to me. Also, as I’m certain Michael is aware, knits make a better fit for someone whose waist and hips are considerably out of proportion with her chest.
“I like it.”
“Thought you might.” He picks up a smart-looking ensemble. Though it appears to be this side of purple, when he lifts the clear blue plastic, I nearly recoil.
Red—the very shade Christopher loved; the shade that is long gone from my wardrobe. Never to return!
I shake my head. “No.”
His eyebrows perk up. “You don’t like the cut?”
“Uh, color. I don’t care for red.”
“It’s a beautiful shade.”
“Sorry, but it’s not me.”
He steps to my back and lifts the ensemble alongside my face. “Red is definitely your color.”
“I agree.” Maia nods. “Not only does it brighten your face, but it makes a great contrast for your hair.”
In the mirror, I catch Michael’s momentary look of surprise, which turns to admiration as he glances at Maia.
Trish props her hands on her hips. “Red is really you.”
Three against one. Do I hear four? I look to Arnie, but he’s preoccupied with the stuck zipper on his accessory case. Not that one more vote would have any bearing.
I sit taller in the chair. “It’ll have to be one of the others.”
For a moment Michael seems about to argue, but then he shrugs. “One of the others it is.” He retrieves the pantsuit. “What about this?”
It does have a nice cut.
A strangled sound jerks my attention to Maia, who curls her upper lip and mutters, “Size twelve.”
I will not let her get to me. I will unclench my fingers. And my toes. And my teeth. I will give the pantsuit a try even if it is a size twelve.
I return my gaze to Michael in the mirror. “I …”
Size twelve …
Michael raises an eyebrow.
Size twelve …
“I … uh … like the first outfit best.”
“All right. Provided we’re happy with the fit, the black dress and jacket it is.”
Maia crosses her arms. “I still like the red.”
Before I can stop myself, I snip, “Then maybe you should wear it.”
Her eyes bulge. “I assure you, Kate, I am not a size ten.” She gives a horror movie shudder. “Let alone a twelve.”
No, you aren’t, you Twiggy/Kate Moss–wannabe! And I nearly say it, but the look Michael exchanges with Trish makes me bite my tongue.
“Phone call, Mr. Palmier!”
Michael peers over his shoulder. “Be right there.” He turns back to me. “I’ll return in a half hour to do your face.”
“Make it an hour and a half,” Trish says. “Her hair needs highlighting.”
“Highlighting?” Assailed by imaginings of the obscene odor she thinks she’s going to subject me to, I shake my head. “Oh, no.”
She nods. “To perk up the color.”
True, it is kind of dull, but—
“Definitely highlights.” Michael meets my gaze, and there’s that twinkle in his eyes again. “Keep smiling, beautiful.”
Beautiful. Imaginings of chemical odors dissolving, I’m tempted to whip off my specs and toss them at his feet. Goodness, it really has been a long time since a man looked at me like that.
“See you in a bit, Kate.”
As Michael leaves, my attention is captured by Maia whose face tells all—as in, “What am I? Lard?”—and jostles me back to reality.
My self-esteem enjoys the massage of Michael’s attention and kind words, but this isn’t good. After all, I have to live with the woman. What if she raises my rent? Rent that is already exorbitant, as San Francisco is not a cheap place to live.
Hives threatening at the thought of beating out another decent place, I pull my arms beneath the plastic cape and rub them.
When Michael returns to “do” my face, his expression of pleasure at my transformation mirrors my own. There’s a sheen to my hair I’ve never seen, light twisting inside and outside the curls that brush my shoulders. And the side part tosses curls across my brow to give me a … sexy look. Well, semisexy.
“Wow.” He surveys me from all sides. “You don’t disappoint, Kate.”
“Thanks.” I glance at Maia in the mirror. To my surprise, there’s wonder on her face where she stands to my left.
“You look great, Kate.” She shakes her head. “Really great.”
That’s a first. And I’m not even wearing makeup. Yet. Hmm. Maybe this makeover stuff isn’t so bad after all.
Maia looks at Michael. “You’re incredible.”
He sweeps his gaze down her and smiles wider. “Thank you.”
This time, there’s no doubt as to who he’s flirting with. The beauteous Maia has a bite on her hook.
Not that I’m disappointed—well, maybe a little. But it’s not as if I had a chance with Michael. And even if I did, we’re hardly compatible. No, Maia’s more his type—beautiful, self-assured, and doesn’t wear anything approaching a size ten (much less a twelve). Best of all, a few seemingly innocent comments made by Maia to Trish yielded confirmation that Michael is, indeed, single.
“Let’s get to it.” He reaches to me. “May I?”
I nod and he removes my specs. “Very pretty.” He turns to Arnie. “Ready to catch some great shots?”
Fifteen minutes late! I am never late for my clients!
I eye the building that rises before me, momentarily wonder behind which window Dr. Alexander’s office is located, then give the fuchsia-edged jacket a tug. As I near the lobby doors, I catch my reflection in the tinted glass.
Wow, I really do look good—in a slightly distorted way.
Grateful for the gift of the outfit, hairstyle, and makeup (which I insisted Michael tone down at the end of the photo shoot), I pick up my pace as best I can in unfamiliar heels—for which I am not grateful. As the click of my heels alerts the man ahead, he glances around. And once again I receive an appreciative gleam, as has happened several times since leaving the studio. I’m liking it.
He pulls open the door and nods for me to go ahead.
Really liking it. “Thank you.”
Stepping over the threshold, I’m met by a large sign: ALL PATIENTS AND VISITORS MUST CHECK IN AT THE FRONT DESK. I head for the desk at the center of the lobby. Unfortunately, the line is a dozen deep.
Is it possible to bypass this step? Perhaps a directory that points the way to Dr. Alexander’s office? I scan the large room and spot a bank of elevators. Guessing a directory is nearby, I click-clack-click across the tile, only to be disappointed. Obviousl
y administration is all too aware of human impatience. Must stick to the protocol. I shift my overstuffed bag and look around. And there’s the restroom. So what’s another five minutes?
In the restroom, I slide my specs on to perform a check of my hair, which has retained much of its semi–Shirley Temple curl. Hmm, nice highlights. Of course, when Trish applied the goop it had taken my all not to gag.
As for makeup, Michael’s application has done a nice job of accentuating what turn out to be my best features—large eyes and a neat nose. And my outfit! I dropped ten pounds the moment it settled on my shoulders.
I smile at my reflection. Enjoy it as long as you can, girl.
Though Michael presented me with a gift bag containing the products he used, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to duplicate the look when I slump out of bed in the morning. Pity. I could get used to this—except for the click-clack-click, the chafing that’s bound to yield blisters, and the further strain placed on an already burdened back. Unfortunately, the Birkenstocks I wore to the studio would ruin the look. And I’m liking those appreciative gleams too much to alter a thing.
For a long moment, I waver over whether to leave my specs in place, but vanity prevails. When I return to the lobby, it’s to discover that the line at the desk has grown by a half dozen people. Resolved to a bad first impression—or second, if I count the introduction at Belle and Beau’s—I hurry to the desk.
As the line inches forward, I scan the lobby with its multitude of chairs overflowing with those awaiting some doctor or other. And it’s then that I catch sight of Brad-ish—er, Dr. Alexander. Hands in the pockets of his long white jacket, he stands near the elevators, eyes scanning the lobby.
Did I breeze past him when I came out of the restroom? I pick up my leather bag and click-clack-click toward him. Halfway there, his eyes meet mine, and I offer an apologetic smile.
A five o’clock shadow roughing up his jaw, he gives one of his tight, á la carte smiles and looks past me.
He doesn’t recognize me. Of course, I have morphed from the spectacled, ponytailed, jean-clad, San Franciscan artist he first met. Imagining his reaction when I reintroduce myself, I smile.
With less than ten feet separating us, his attention returns to me. “Ms. Meadows.”
Oh. Maybe I’m not all that different after all. True, he didn’t appear to recognize me at a distance, but he could be nearsighted. Wish I were.
“Dr. Alexander.” I halt before his blurred figure and extend a hand. “I apologize for running late. I was …” At a makeover session? Probably not. “… unavoidably detained.”
After brushing sandy-colored hair off his brow, he closes his hand around mine.
It’s only a handshake. I feel ab-so-lute-ly nothing—no tingle, no frisson, no attraction. I give a good, firm shake.
He smiles, and I’m startled by how much more attractive he is with his harsh-edged features blurred. I squint in an attempt to determine if his eyes sport an appreciative gleam. Hard to say, though there is something—
He breaks eye contact and releases my hand.
Good idea. Regardless of what he thinks of my transformation, the man is married. Not that the wedding band stopped him from enjoying a night on the town with Adelphia whatever-her-last-name-is.
He glances at his watch. “I was detained as well. Thought you might have given up on me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say, while inside I’m slinging “whew!” all over the place. Is this my day or what?
He turns. “Let’s go.”
I follow him to an elevator that delivers us to the fourth floor. He leads me down a corridor, at the end of which hangs a plastic sheet that denotes one is about to enter a construction area—as does the noise coming from beyond a Construction Workers Only sign.
Clive Alexander, whose resemblance to a construction worker is limited to an unshaven jaw, pulls back the plastic sheet and motions for me to precede him.
As I step past, pain shoots through the back of my right heel. Yep, there’s going to be a blister.
Dr. Alexander draws alongside me, and together we pass through a wide corridor that winds back and forth like a lazy river toward the increasing sound of pounding, sawing, and drilling.
Running my gaze over bare walls that curve and wave, some with portholes, others with elaborate glass block windows, I feel excitement uncoil within the depths of my creativity.
“Wow, this is …”
“Yes, it is,” Dr. Alexander says, as if he understands what I can’t quite voice. Does he? I steal a sideways glance, but his expression is unreadable.
After a bit more winding, the corridor fans out into a large domed room, where a half dozen construction workers are engaged in creating an environment for pediatric burn victims.
As I cross the unfinished cement floor, I slow to take it all in. And just like that, I know what I’d do with these barren walls—a representation of the earth that stretches from the uppermost center of the domed ceiling down the walls to the floor. An “outside-in” perspective, with all nations represented by their colorful children—holding hands, dancing, playing, laughing, praying. Some in relief to make the mural come alive, especially lower, where little ones could touch their counterparts and trace their smiles.
“You’ll do it?”
Realizing I’ve halted at the center of the room, I look around to find Dr. Alexander’s blurred figure beside me. “What?”
“Accept the job.”
“You’re offering?”
“That is the reason you’re here, Ms. Meadows.”
I shake my head. “Of course, but isn’t this an interview?”
“No, it’s an offer. I’ve seen your work, I like it, and you’re perfect.”
There’s that word again—perfect. So what if it’s in reference to my work? “Really?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really.”
“You don’t want to see my portfolio?” I pat the bag beneath my arm.
“Not necessary.”
“Well then, all right.” I shift my weight and nearly whimper as pain shoots through my heel. “Provided we come to terms, I’d be a fool not to accept a project this size.”
“Good. We can discuss the specifics in my office.” He strides away from me.
As I follow I notice one of the construction workers looking my way. And another. The latter smiles, and I catch that gleam in his eyes. Well, at least he appreciates my torturous makeover.
Not that I care what Brad-ish—Dr. Alexander, Kate!—thinks. Far from it. He’ll be the one judged for adultery, not me.
I hasten after him and, halfway down the winding corridor, catch up with him only to grab his sleeve to keep from falling off my heels.
He steadies me. “All right, Ms. Meadows?”
Averting my eyes, I ease out of his grasp. “Seems I’m developing a blister. I’m not used to heels.”
“Then take them off.”
I jerk my chin up. “Off?”
“Wear a hole in your hose or your heel.” His mouth tilts as if to smile. “Your choice.”
And a pretty obvious one. Fortunately, my Birkenstocks are in my bag. Unfortunately, they’ll look cloddish with my outfit. Fortunately, it appears the job is mine.
“You’re right.” I step out of the shoes. Within moments my feet are cradled by Birkies and my back is shouting a resounding “Thank you!”
As I grab the handles of my leather bag, I find Dr. Alexander watching me, a question on his fuzzy-edged brow.
Hoping to tease a smile from him, though why I want him to show teeth I have no idea, I grin. “I come prepared.”
“So it appears.” No teeth.
A few minutes later, he leads me past a receptionist, down a hallway, and into his office. Gesturing toward the chairs before his desk, he steps around the unpretentious piece of furniture and settles in his own chair.
As I lower, I lift a hand to push my specs up and, in their absence, almost poke myself in the eye. Goodness!
Have I developed a habit, or what?
Inwardly shaking my head, I take in the room. Bookshelves. File cabinets. Tasteful prints. Modestly framed degrees. Computer. Desk. Credenza. But not a single family photo to complement the wedding band.
“So do I pass?”
I look back at Dr. Alexander. “Hmm?”
“Inspection.”
“Oh. I was just … wondering what kind of doctor you are.”
With finality that discourages further probing, he says, “Plastic surgeon specializing in reconstruction.”
That makes sense, as it is the burn unit he’s overseeing.
He raises his eyebrows. “How long?”
Honestly, these “men of few words” could use some help from a big fat dictionary. “I’m sorry. How long what?”
“The domed room and hallways. How long will they take to complete?”
I lean forward. “Dr. Alexander, shouldn’t we bat around some ideas? You know, get a feel for what’s involved? What the hospital envisions?”
“I presume an artist of your skill has already formed an idea of what will work best.”
“I have, but surely someone will want to approve my idea before I implement it.”
“That would be me.”
I sit back. “Then there isn’t a committee or … something?”
He clasps his hands on the desk. “Ms. Meadows, the committee appointed me to oversee the construction and design of our new unit, and as I’m financing a portion of it, approval rests with me.”
Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. I think.
“Thus, I choose you to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, provided you’re up to tackling something on a larger scale than the children’s shop.”
“I think I’m up to it.”
He frowns. “Think? I need something more definite than that.”
Patience, Kate. This could be the job that launches you. And brings about that excess amount of cash for your breast reduction.
“I’m definitely up to it.”
“And you can begin in six weeks?”
I sit straighter. “Six weeks?” The deal breaker. I will not turn my back on my other commitments. With a sinking heart, I say, “I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, I’m booked solid for the next four months.”