Making Waves

by Catherine Todd

  Making Waves

  Catherine Todd

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1997 by Catherine Todd

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition June 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-899-6

  Also by Catherine Todd

  Secret Lives of Second Wives

  Exit Strategies

  Staying Cool

  For A. E. L. M.

  Acknowledgments

  For several of the ideas and images appearing in Chapter 1, I am indebted to a HERS column in The New York Times Magazine entitled “Face to Face with the New Me” by Dava Sobel, April 16, 1989, page 26.

  I would like to thank my agent, Denise Marcil, for her editorial help in preparing the manuscript and for all her efforts on behalf of the book. I would also like to thank my editor at Avon Books, Ellen Edwards, for her first-rate editorial advice and encouragement.

  Sean Hutchins very kindly gave me background and advice on the retailing business, and Bruce Campbell of Radio Shack consulted on recording devices. Any errors or adaptation of the facts are entirely my own.

  A book is very much a collaborative effort, and I would like to express my appreciation to everyone involved in the publication of Making Waves.

  1

  I was a blank slate. My name tag, which had “Caroline” printed over a background of muted peach and salmon, had no other information, certainly not my history or my taste in books (Jane Austen and Barbara Kingsolver) or whether I had always dreamed of being a blonde (I hadn’t). The receptionist, her voice carefully neutral, balanced a minuscule pot reverently on her outstretched palm and offered it to me with perfect pink nails. “This is our own specially formulated cleanser,” she breathed, in a tone suitable to one offering frankincense at the Virgin Birth. “If you would like to step into the Treatment Room and remove all your makeup, Signor”—she gave it the Italian pronunciation—“Eduardo will be with you in just a few minutes. His other appointment has not arrived yet.”

  With two slim fingers, she lifted a plastic package from a bowl on her desk. “This is a bandage to pull your hair back from your face.” She shook her own glossy, perfectly cut hair—into which no gray would make insidious advances for at least a decade and a half—and smiled sympathetically. “It is not flattering, but Signor Eduardo wants to study your bone structure. Step this way, please.”

  Inside the Treatment Room, I scrutinized my face under the fluorescent light. What would this person whom I was trusting to unearth the new me find there? Despite years of scarcely disinterested inspection, I hadn’t a clue.

  Well, that’s not quite true. There were hints enough—the little runways of gray at each temple, the blotch of brown pigment on my forehead, the lipstick oozing into the tiny crevices the years had formed around my lips. Still, I didn’t really know what I looked like. Pictures usually startled me. My nose was bigger and my hair shorter than I remembered, though the general effect was not displeasing. But whether or not Signor Eduardo could find any characteristics on my face that I had failed to observe on my own, I couldn’t say. What hidden facets would he bring out in the glamorous new me? Passion? Suppressed desire? Cool competence?

  I didn’t really care so long as my face wasn’t a signboard for the real truth: Middle-aged. Separated. Abandoned. Scared.

  You might think “sex-starved” or some other cliché for the newly partnerless would not be inapt, but the fact is that ever since my marriage had succumbed to domestic attrition or whatever it was, the south end of my body had pretty well closed up shop. Fear and humiliation were scarcely the most potent aphrodisiacs, despite the unsuitable opportunities that almost immediately presented themselves, just the way all the books said they would. The prospect of a quickie with the mailman was scarcely the appropriate tonic to my battered pride. No wonder I needed a makeover.

  Still, I was more than a little embarrassed to be handing over the task of renovation to an image consultant. I had always distrusted interior decorators, despite the hulking black leather couch that took up too much space in my family room and other mistakes that, presumably, expert advice would have saved me from. Look at all those pictures in Architectural Digest; not a single perfect room ever contains more than three books or a few discreetly arranged magazines, even if the owner is Susan Sontag. Besides, decorators always want to put sago palms or pampas grass or some such thing in the living room, and I am really bad with plants. So how could I trust a total stranger—albeit a highly paid and, as I was shortly to discover, extremely confident one—to turn me into something I liked better than what I was?

  Because I was desperate.

  Not only that, but my mother-in-law had bought me the session about a year before our separation three months before, and ever since then she had not failed to ask me about it every time I saw her. The message was scarcely subtle, and she had gotten a deal on the makeover because the cosmetic company that employs the image consultants is one of the law firm’s biggest clients, but nevertheless she managed to make me feel guilty. The unspoken rebuke was that if I had acted more quickly, my perilous grip on a shaky marriage might never have faltered, and her son might not be spending his weekends squiring flight attendants round the breakwater on the firm’s yacht, leaving his children to run wild in the streets of La Jolla.

  She might even have been right. So add “guilty” to middle-aged, desperate, etc., etc.

  Signor Eduardo’s origins were probably a lot closer to Guadalajara than Fiesole, but his mauve silk shirt and slim-cut Italian pants exuded an enviable air of fashionable certainty. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He raised one slender wrist and frowned at his watch in disbelief. “My clients are never late. Never!” His accent, like his style, hovered somewhere between two continents. He was a half hour late himself.

  I smiled apologetically, although it was not my fault.

  He did not appear to be mollified. “We must begin,” he announced, with the air of a symphony conductor raising his baton. My renovation could not wait a moment longer, apparently. “Clarice,” he said, reopening the door of what I had come to think of as the Examining Room, “when Signora Hampton arrives, if she arrives, please show her into Giorgio’s room. She must begin with him.”

  I started. “Signora—Mrs. Hampton? Is that Eleanor Hampton?”

  He consulted a typed card surreptitiously. “Signora Eleanor Hampton, sí. She is a friend, perhaps? If so, I may make an exception and allow her to come into my session late. I have found that my ladies are more confident in the company of friends.”

  I shook my head, more to clear it than in denial. I was trying to find a way to explain Eleanor Hampton. “Her ex-husband and my…husband are partners in Eastman, Bartels, and Steed.”

  He looked politely blank.

  “It’s a law firm,” I told him. “They do the legal work for this company.”

  His nostrils quivered a little, as if I had presented him with a piece of moldy cheese. “I do not concern myself with such things,” he said with finality. “I live only for beauty and loveliness. I find beauty in every woman,” he added firmly, though I was not inclined to dispute it. I did wonder, though, what he
would find in Eleanor Hampton.

  Eleanor Hampton was the divorced woman’s Dorian Gray. The portrait, not the character. Every wounded feeling, every urge to hurl the spaghetti al vongole in the bastard’s face, every outraged rebellion against being quietly replaced with some pliant bimbette, was magnified and given (ample) flesh in Eleanor Hampton. Ever since Barclay had left her for his legal assistant, she had made Medea look like Anne of Green Gables. Her obsession with her ex-husband, his new wife, and the life they had stolen from her was her only topic of conversation, and the lengths to which she would go to harass and pursue them (sample: She had hired herself out as an assistant to the florist who furnished her husband’s wedding, and then she sneaked ragweed into the bridal bouquet.) made her a social pariah. I don’t suppose too many people sat down to dinner with the Furies, either. Still, she served as a kind of a safety valve for the rest of us. She did what we could only imagine doing, and her excess reassured us that no matter how neurotic we felt, we still had not “gone too far,” like Eleanor.

  Like me, Eleanor lived in a Mediterranean-style villa in La Jolla, except that hers was on the view side of her street, which added a generous collection of zeroes to its value, and the part of the Mediterranean it emulated was Cap d’Antibes. The walls were thick with bougainvillea—the salmon-colored type, not ordinary Barbara Karst—but the garden was so meticulous that not a single messy blossom ever found its way into the pool. In palmier days the Hamptons had done quite a bit of entertaining, mostly outdoor affairs with lots of margaritas and ceviche and quesadillas with papayas and Anaheim chiles. Once they had a woman in a brightly embroidered blouse who patted out fresh tortillas and cooked them on a comal in front of the guests. Those were law firm events. The charities probably got California champagne and lobster quenelles, but I never went to any of those. Still, they were good parties.

  “You have good bones,” said my mentor, apparently studying the arrangement of these objects with some care, “but your hair is too short. You must grow it out, but while you are waiting we will give you a cut with more style. And it should be red.”

  There was a limit to my complicity in this process. I gasped.

  Signor Eduardo frowned. “I do not say some vulgar red which screams ‘Here I am,’ or even the flaming color of Tiziano.” He carried this off as if Titian had been his next door neighbor in Old Trastavere. “That would not be you. But we will add highlights—yes?—the color of rubies or fine wine.”

  Or rust.

  He studied my expression in the mirror with disapproval. “Your hair is pretty and very thick. But dark brown—and a little gray, yes?—is too dull for you. Your eyes—so beautiful, so intelligent—deserve more.”

  He was expecting a response, but I couldn’t answer him. I was too overwhelmed at the thought of becoming a redhead to succumb to flattery.

  His tone became more distant and almost parental. “If you are happy with the way you look, why are you here?” he asked reprovingly, clucking his tongue. “We will discuss your clothing later—”

  My heart sank to the tops of my Neiman Marcus pumps. I had worn something very expensive and, I thought, very tasteful.

  “It is very tasteful, very expensive, yes? But it does not speak. The real you does not come through. It is very safe to dress so, but it is not chic. To be chic you must be uniquely yourself, no one else. Trust me, and I will make you a very striking woman.”

  I thought some of Signor Eduardo’s pep talk would not have been inappropriate at a motivational conference for car salesmen or, at the very least, between the covers of the latest self-help manual, but I fell for it anyway, for a number of the aforementioned reasons. Besides that, my closet was full of an embarrassing array of expensive mistakes, so how could I resist someone who promised to endow me with that most mystical of European qualities, chic? So what if his version was a south-of-the-border hybrid? It was closer than I was likely to get on my own. And anyway, hair dye would always grow out, wouldn’t it?

  “All right,” I agreed, hoping I did not sound cowed.

  “Mrs. Hampton is here,” announced Clarice brightly from the doorway.

  Signor Eduardo was not so involved with beauty and loveliness that he had lost all his business sense. He looked up. “Excellent! Have her begin with Giorgio and I will look in while Signora James is having her shampoo.”

  Clarice remained where she was, her smile—all gloss and lip pencil—frozen on her face. Even I could see that she was tense.

  Signor Eduardo raised one delicate eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

  “Mrs. Hampton insists that her appointment is with you.” She hesitated. “I told her you had already begun with another client and she…”

  “Yes, cara?”

  “She said she would not mind sharing you with Mrs. James.”

  I laughed.

  Signor Eduardo looked flustered. “You do not mind, Caroline?”

  I considered telling him the truth, that I did in fact very much mind spending the rest of the day in Eleanor’s exhausting company, but it would only have put him in a difficult position, as he was unlikely in any case to emerge from this skirmish victorious. I sighed. “No. Of course not.”

  He exhaled. “Va bene. Clarice, please tell Salvador that Signora James is ready for her shampoo.” He flashed me a smile in which I caught a glint of gold. “For you, I think, we will use the Blanc de Noir. All of our shampoos are made from the finest champagne. You will see how it adds body and shine to your hair without drying it out. Step this way, please.”

  I did, just as the door opened on Eleanor Hampton. She was wearing a beautiful pink suit, but a size sixteen in Chanel is still a size sixteen. One of the things she had done since Barclay left her was eat. I certainly didn’t blame her for that, but one of her weapons against him was to reproach him with the past of her own body and her now-burgeoning hips and thighs. She liked to say that she would still be a size six if Tricia Lindera Hampton had never come on the scene, although I had known her for several years before that event and she was more like an eight or a ten. Still, since Steve had moved out, I had more than once been tempted by the prospect of an orgy of Häagen-Dazs Belgian Chocolate Chocolate, but the thought of Eleanor Hampton had kept my spoon firmly anchored on the table. It was bad enough to have incipient varicose veins like little raisins, without giving them thighs like rice pudding to float around in.

  “Hello, Eleanor,” I said, extending my hand.

  She took it and looked at me oddly, I thought. “Caroline?”

  I’d forgotten that I was makeup-less and had my hair skinned back from my head. I nodded. “This is the ‘before’ look.”

  “You are the chrysalis—yes?—before the butterfly emerges,” offered Signor Eduardo.

  I was disappointed that he would say something so trite, but then I decided it was undoubtedly the sort of thing they taught you in image consultant school.

  “Good God,” said Eleanor. “I haven’t seen you since your son-of-a-bitch of a husband moved out. Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” I told her.

  “Caroline,” said Signor Eduardo rather hurriedly, “Salvador is waiting for you at the hair station. Step this way, please.”

  From underneath the delirious froth of bubbles created by the Champagne of Shampoos, I could hear snatches of Eleanor’s consultation. I had to hand it to Signor Eduardo; his enthusiasm for his Galateas appeared to be boundless and not at all tarnished by what must appear to less loving eyes as a challenge. We might both have been in hot demand as Vogue models instead of fortyish matrons with too much avoirdupois around the hips.

  “You have such lovely proportions,” I heard him tell Eleanor, who was at least thirty pounds overweight. “You must not wear pink.”

  “Why not?” asked Eleanor, the defensive note in her voice not entirely unwarranted, since she was, I knew, the possessor of a number of very expensive pink outfits in addition to the Chanel.

  “It is a lovely color—y
es?—and the suit is beeutiful,” he said soothingly. “But it is what everyone expects with your pale blond coloring, so there is no mystery. Besides, Eleanor, pink is the color of ingenues, and you are a woman of experience and sophistication, is it not so?”

  “Not black,” said Eleanor suspiciously. “I hate black.”

  “Did I say you must wear black?” he asked huffily. “You must wear rich shades—plum, burgundy—which reflect your confidence, your desirability…”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I didn’t want to know if Signor Eduardo researched his clients or just made educated guesses about their psychological vulnerability. Most of all, I didn’t want to discover the Wizard pulling levers behind the curtain.

  The Champagne of Shampoos, according to my husband, Steve, who had not worked on Naturcare’s incorporation himself but had “heard all the stories,” was inspired by one of Diana Vreeland’s famous “Why don’t you’s” in Vogue magazine in the 1930s: “Why don’t you rinse your child’s hair in ‘dead’ champagne as they do in France to keep it gold?” It was the first of a line of all-natural products (although it might be stretching it a bit to call champagne a natural product) touted as environmentally sound and sensuously indulgent. Naturcare was politically correct even before that term was invented. The salespeople had fundraisers for Save the Rainforests and “volunteered” their time planting trees in parks and protesting the massacre of dolphins. The product line was quite expensive—a one-ounce jar of sea urchin cream for dry skin (extracted, perhaps, under duress but never requiring the “ultimate sacrifice”—besides, had anyone ever seen a dry sea urchin?) cost about sixty-five dollars—and phenomenally successful.

  In the several years since the company’s incorporation, the founders—Cindi Meadows, a onetime animal trainer at Sea World, and her husband, Michael, a financial planner—had made their fortune many times over, so that they were constantly talking about moving the business to Utah or Nevada or some such place where personal income taxes were negligible or nonexistent. The only thing was, most of the products were made or processed just over the border in Mexico, where the wages were even lower than they were in Utah, and Michael believed in hands-on management. Besides, Cindi told me once, when their success was still new enough for them to invite their lawyers to their parties, “In Utah everybody’s Mormon, and in Nevada they’re all pale from spending so much time in casinos. And anyway, I’d, like, miss the ocean.”