Eye Candy

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "And because this will give me the advantage in the next promotion," I confessed, admitting to even myself for the first time how much beating out the KYs and triumphing over Jawbreaker meant to me.

  "Well then," he said, extending his hand, "I guess we're partners in muse-dom."

  7

  Q: What do you call a hotdog in a bun?

  A: An in betweenie weenie.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #53

  At 4:32 p.m. I set Jawbreaker's pug loose on the beach.

  I didn't mean to. Really. It was an entirely accidental occurrence. Mostly.

  When I came downstairs after the potato dirt shower, the little monst— um, darling started nipping at my feet. My fabulous new pair of grass green Sigerson Morrison slides with the cute flower cut-outs. The heels now bear several indentations that look remarkably like canine bites.

  Where the little mon— um, darling had been until that point I had no idea. He had probably been sequestered in a bedroom or something. Or mingling along with the guests and was only now pestering me because Jawbreaker had given him the attack command.

  I should have known there was a reason the French doors leading onto the deck were no longer wide open. I should have thought it at least a little odd.

  But no, I just flung open the door, hoping to escape onto the deck and close the little mon— oh, okay, he was a monster, off in the house, safely insinuating a pane of hurricane glass between him and my Sigersons.

  Then I heard the scream.

  "Miissterr Puuggssleey!!!" Jawbreaker wailed as the little monster—now the little escapee—squeezed through the closing door and raced across the teak decking as fast as his stunted little legs could carry him.

  Quite fast, surprisingly enough.

  "What have you done?" Jawbreaker cried as she reached my side, staring plaintively after the fast disappearing sight of Mr. Pugsley—no really, that's his real name—stirring up sand behind him as he made for the surf.

  "I'm sorry, Janice. I had no idea he could run like that."

  She glared at me like I had just eaten the last of a theater-sized box of Junior Mints before the previews even started.

  "You did th-that on p-purpose."

  Oh no, those looked suspiciously like tears. I didn't know heartless corporate robots could cry. I guess when their Mr. Pugsley just beat feet for the beach, all stereotypical bets are off.

  Before I could stop myself—or realize what I was doing, for that matter—I put my arms around her shoulders.

  "Don't worry," I soothed, "we'll get him back."

  "Last time he didn't come home for three days." She sobbed and pressed her face into my offered shoulder.

  I felt her tears wetting my second-of-the-day Lilly Pulitzer.

  Didn't she know her mascara would wind up in one giant smudge beneath her eyes? I guess if a gal has never cried before, she can't know the kind of havoc it would wreak on her makeup.

  Gingerly patting her back, I looked desperately around the room for any sign of reprieve. I found Phelps, heading our direction with that confident grin on his handsome face.

  "Which way did he head?" Phelps asked.

  "West," I answered, relieved to have the help. "Toward the city."

  "L-last time," Jawbreaker lifted her head and sniffled, "the Monteforts said he came and made puppy love with their Shitzhu." She wiped at her tears, smearing the pool of mascara out to her temples in a kohl-black sweep. "Their house is three properties down."

  Phelps smoothed a reassuring hand over her platinum hair—like a father soothing an upset child. "I'll get him back Janice." He turned and looked around the room of stunned guests. "I bet Fairchild will even help me, won't you?"

  Gavin, face erupting in red splotches, was rendered speechless for the second time in a single day. Apparently unable to come up with an adequate excuse, he followed Phelps out the French doors and headed onto the beach. Probably cursing every grain of sand that scuffed his Bruno Magli loafers.

  Those were so OJ Simpson, anyway.

  If not for my weeping boss at my side, I might have gloated. Yet a tiny little kernel of something deep inside my brain poked me with a feeling much like guilt.

  Double Bubble Damn. Now I was going to have to be nice to Jawbreaker for the rest of the weekend.

  Phelps and a very bedraggled Gavin returned with a grinning and well-satisfied Mr. Pugsley just in time for the scheduled lawn croquet tournament.

  The front lawn had been set with a dozen different croquet courses, differentiated by variously colored wickets. Each guest was assigned a course color and a mallet color. Guests with matching colors were teammates.

  My card read: Green Course, Pink Mallet.

  I never knew there was a pink mallet in croquet, but I was content because this color scheme coordinated nicely with my equally pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer—this one decorated with charming pink elephants on grass green, um, grass.

  Spying a field of green wickets, I headed that direction as Phelps headed for Yellow Course, Blue Mallet. Noticeably on the opposite side of the lawn.

  A servant clad in white tie formals stood in attendance at the mallet stand, ready to quell any color conflicts, I assumed. I handed him my card as I watched Phelps receive his blue mallet. Why was I not surprised when Kelly bounded to his side, cheerfully waving her card that presumably also sported Yellow Course, Blue Mallet?

  I briefly wondered how far a croquet ball could fly given enough motivated force. Then my brain jumped to a realization. If Kelly were paired with Phelps, then who—

  "The gentleman already has the pink mallet, ma'am."

  Following the servant's extended arm, I turned to see Gavin palming the pink mallet, slapping it against his Lacoste-clad thigh.

  "Hello, Lydia."

  Leave it to Gavin to try and single-handedly bring back the alligator shirt.

  "Gavin," I answered in acknowledgement.

  All guilt-induced sympathy for Jawbreaker and the plight of the lost-but-now-returned pug evaporated. Unlike Mr. Pugsley's purely accidental release—I mentally retracted any confession of knowledgeable intent—this was entirely deliberate. Malice aforethought.

  "I hope my being here isn't making you uncomfortable." He even had the gumption to look contrite.

  "Why should I be uncomfortable?"

  My mind took a detour, deciding against having the highly overrated "let's-put-this-behind-us-and-still-be-friends" conversation. Instead, I focused every ounce of my attention on the idea that winning this tournament would be a terrific means of making up for this malicious match.

  Beat Jawbreaker and the KYs and redeem some measure of pride. If Gavin managed to benefit from my competitive determination, then I'd just have to take the bad with the good.

  I eyed the mallet hungrily and tried to grab it from his hands.

  "Don't be like this, Lydia." Gavin stepped back, holding the mallet securely behind his back. "We can be civilized."

  "What is civilized about a man boinking his already-married secretary two weeks before his own wedding?" I said. On the inside. On the outside, I said, "I don't want to talk about this. Just play the game."

  A shrill whistle sounded and a voice over loudspeaker commanded that the games should begin.

  As I stalked past him toward the first green wicket, I grabbed the mallet from his fist. And smacked the head into my palm for maximum effect.

  My game had already begun.

  After the first round of croquet, the winning teams from each of the six courses on the east lawn played a championship match, as did the winning teams on the west lawn. The three best teams from each of these matches came together to play a final on the white wicket course set up on the central lawn contained by the circular drive.

  Among the final teams were Karyn and Kathryn, Jawbreaker and bottom feeder Brant, Kelly and Phelps, and myself and Gavin. Ferrero and his partner—some young metrosexual-looking hunk—also advanced, though from what I saw of their last game, they advanced be
cause everyone kept granting Ferrero gimmes.

  It pays to be the boss.

  We all got to keep our balls. Even though two other pink teams made it to the final, ours had green stripes. The others also had stripes that matched their initial courses.

  My adrenaline was pumping. Years of practice at the Westchester Country Club assured that my game was head on. And Gavin was much better on the other side of a croquet stake than he had ever been on the other side of an engagement ring.

  We were going to win, I could feel it.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," Jawbreaker called out, "before the championship match begins, you should know to the victors what spoils will go. Armando."

  She motioned to an Italian-looking servant standing at the edge of the circle of guests. He made his way through the crowd and handed Jawbreaker a large white envelope with the Ferrero Couture logo embossed in gold.

  "In this envelope are four first-class tickets to Milan, one-week for four at a five star hotel and four week-long, all-access passes to fashion week for the Fall season." She waved the envelope above her head and announced, "To the winners and their guests."

  The crowd cheered and on cue an army of servants appeared carrying silver trays laden with glasses of white wine.

  "I don't know about you," Gavin whispered conspiratorially, "but I could use a week in Italy."

  As much as I wanted to disagree with everything out of the man's mouth—for reasons of morality—I had to concede that Italy sounded wonderful. And if Ferrero really did use my jewelry in the Spring collection, it would be beneficial to have the experience of a fashion week extravaganza before I was required to participate.

  "Then let's win this thing."

  I smiled—an actual, unforced, genuine smile—and we headed together to the first wicket.

  The teams drew straws for order of play. Karyn drew the shortest straw and last start. Jawbreaker drew second to last and Ferrero third. Kelly squealed as she and Phelps drew the longest straw. Looking at the straw in my hand I realized we would play second, directly after Phelps and Kelly.

  Gavin realized this, too.

  "Good," he said in their direction, "after you go, we can show everyone how the game is really played."

  "Don't let your talk get bigger than your game, Fairchild," Phelps replied with that arrogant grin.

  "A whisper would be bigger than your game, Elliot."

  Oh no, the pissing contest began. I took two steps away in an act of self-preservation.

  "Care to wager on that?" Phelps threw back.

  A servant ushered us out of the playing field so the match could begin.

  Gavin laughed as he avoided being herded to the sidelines. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of your misplaced confidence."

  "Stuff it and name your terms."

  "Okay," Gavin said with the devious glint in his amber eyes that had earned him the nickname The Demon Banker of Wall Street, "loser has to..."

  The terms of the bet were lost to my hearing as Gavin leaned in and whispered them for Phelps' ears only. Double Bubble Damn.

  And if the answering gleam in Phelps' baby blues were any indication, the terms were mighty juicy.

  That shrill whistle blew again, announcing the start of the match. Phelps grabbed the blue mallet from Kelly and dropped the yellow-striped blue ball at the starting stake

  "You've got yourself a bet, Fairchild."

  Phelps whacked the ball, sailing it perfectly between the uprights of the first wicket and into position for the second. Gavin's triumphant smile dimmed.

  Well, I was not about to give up after one shot. Besides, we were playing alternate turns. Scoring a wicket did not earn a consecutive hit. No one could get very far ahead at any one time.

  And I planned on keeping right up.

  "Give me the ball," I demanded.

  Gavin stared at me dumbly.

  "The ball," I repeated, holding out my hand palm up for emphasis. He hesitated and I snatched the ball from his hand. "We're winning this trip to Italy," I said, "no matter what your stupid bet was."

  For the first time in memory Gavin looked impressed. By me.

  I wondered if that had been part of our problem—well, his problem really—that I stopped impressing him. Men get bored so easily, don't they?

  Phelps interrupted my ponderings. "You going or not?"

  I turned to him and smiled brightly. "Shut up, Sweet Tooth."

  Setting my ball perfectly at the starting stake, I shimmied and aligned myself into perfect position before smoothly striking the wooden ball. Pink-and-green went rolling over the closely groomed lawn, through the wicket and into the blue-and-yellow ball. Knocking it several inches out of the path of the next wicket.

  Gavin gloated. "Looks like you might be losing that bet, Elliot."

  Now if he didn't hold up his end of the game, I would seriously reconsider my opinion on capital punishment.

  The other four teams played their turns, each pretty dismal after the first two shots. Ferrero managed to hit his black-striped pink ball into the driveway. And Jawbreaker's purple-and-red followed right behind.

  Unfortunately, my need to kiss up to the boss was heavily outweighed by my need to win the trip. Other people clearly didn't have that problem.

  After several rounds of play, we four were two wickets each from the finishing stake and the trash talk—if trash talk is even legal in croquet—had escalated to mountainous proportions. The other teams had actually given up, resigning themselves to shared last place and first dibs on the fresh round of wine.

  "Why are you taking this competition so seriously?" Jawbreaker asked before downing an entire glass of Pinot Grigio in one gulp. "No matter who wins, all four of you will be going to Italy."

  We turned to stare in unison.

  "The glory," Gavin said.

  "The bragging rights," Phelps added.

  Kelly and I looked at each other, shrugged, and said, "The tiara."

  Whoa was that just a shared moment? Between me and Kelly?

  Maybe I needed a Pinot Grigio, too.

  The men looked at us like we had Fun Dip for brains. "Tiara?" Phelps managed.

  "Like in a beauty pageant," Kelly explained.

  Still concerned about occupying the same planet as Kelly, but undeniably on the same wavelength, I added, "The queen gets the tiara."

  Gavin frowned in obvious confusion. "But there's no tiara," he argued.

  "Of course not." Kelly patted him on the arm. "Not a real one, anyway."

  Phelps asked, "Is there another kind?"

  "Symbolic." I steepled my hands over my head. "Imaginary."

  The pair of them shook their heads at the inscrutable nature of women and went back to the game. Men could never be expected to understand the tiara concept.

  All women live in silent and subtle pursuit of a tiara. Any tiara. That symbolic proof of one woman's triumph over another woman. Glittering evidence that, for one moment in time, in one arena, we were better than every other woman out there. For that brief instant we were Miss America or Princess Diana.

  Some women take the tiara hunt literally, endeavoring to win a pageant crown or a princess' title. Others substitute the tiara for a glass-ceiling-shattering corporate helmet. Most settle for that miniature tiara: the diamond ring on the ring finger.

  Only the most competitive among us settle for nothing less than every tiara available.

  Kelly and I were two such women.

  Shocked the living hot tamales out of me too.

  So, as the men played on, we eyed each other warily, afraid of this new thread bonding us. When it came down to the last shot, two balls side by side and equally aligned for the perfect shot, Kelly stepped up to take her turn.

  She had two choices. Shoot the wicket and win the game. Or. Knock our ball out of play.

  Guess which shot she chose. No really, guess.

  As I retrieved our ball from a very thorny bush I could almost see the glittering tiara hovering over her g
olden blonde head, glowing with the glory of my humiliation.

  That was the problem with tiara-hunting. Sometimes you had to see another woman crowned.

  Phelps handled the win gracefully.

  If by gracefully you meant grabbed Kelly around the waist, spun her around like a cotton candy machine, and hollered at the top of his lungs, "Eat that, Fairchild!"

  By the time we retired to our room at around three a.m. he had calmed down. Mostly.

  "Did you see that last shot?" he called up from the floor. "Masterful I tell you, masterful."

  I leaned over the side of the bed.

  "I was there, remember?"

  If I sounded bitter, it was only because I really wanted to win. Not because it seemed Kelly was everyone's golden child. Jawbreaker's favorite. Gavin's favorite. Now Phelps' favorite. No, that didn't bother me at all.

  "Knocked your ball out of play like a real pro." He waved his hands around, presumably reenacting the path of the redirected ball.

  "Yeah, she should go on the international croquet circuit." My humor level was at an all-time low. And I had other things on my mind. "We need to talk."

  He lifted himself up on one elbow. "Sounds serious."

  "Not really." I sighed, thinking over everything that had happened in the last few days. "I just need to know if you are still available for some upcoming business functions."

  In the soft moonlight I saw him smile. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that sets my teeth on edge, but a genuine friendly smile.

  "You asking me out on a date?"

  "I guess," I replied. "What's the going per-date rate?"

  He frowned and rose to a full sitting position. "What do you mean?"

  "People will expect me to show up with you by my side. At least for now. I just want to know what each date will cost me. A date should run about two to three hours. There are a couple of cocktail parties that will probably be longer, but I figure we could come up with a set rate."

  "Oh." Phelps laid back down and folded his arms behind his head. "I almost forgot I was being paid."

  That threw me for a loop. He sounded almost wistful. Almost sad.

  Great Gobstoppers, Lyd. Get a grip.