City Chicks

Chapter 16

Sixteen

“Um,” I stalled, wishing I had any plausible excuse for saying no, “sure.”

“Great, I’ll be there in ten.” Kelly hung up before I could protest. Or disagree. Or agree, even.

Lurching off the stool, I dashed into the bedroom to change into something moderately more presentable than candy hearts pajamas. I was just slipping my pantyhose-clad feet into a pair of pumps when the doorbell buzzed.

Two and a half minutes later, I opened the door, tasteful makeup hastily applied and hair twisted up into a messy bun to hide the fact that I couldn’t find my brush.

“You look fabulous,” Kelly exclaimed as she burst into my apartment like an overfilled balloon. “You’d never catch me looking so glam on a home day.”

Ha, I snorted—unintentionally out loud—and earned a scowl from Kelly.

“No, really,” she asserted. “It’s sweats and slippers for me. Every day, if I could.”

One glance at her head-to-toe designerwear and I knew this KY had never seen the pilly side of a sweatshirt. Since the day they started at Ferrero, all three KYs had dressed impeccably. The only exception was the night Kathryn showed up in emotional distress, but that was a definite once-an-eon occurrence.

“Yeah, I’m sure you snuggle up in your designer workout suit on chilly nights.” My tone came out a lot snippier than I intended. Rather than apologize, I got to the point. “What’s so urgent?”

She looked taken aback by my abrupt change of subject.

“I think you have the wrong idea about me, Lydia.”

What idea was that? That she was a career- and social-climbing siren set on stealing my job and my fiancé?

Whoa! Fiancé? That came out of nowhere.

First of all, Gavin was no longer my fiancé. And second of all, what did I care if she stole him—not that someone can steal something that doesn’t belong to you.

Deep breath, Lydia.

“Sorry. I’m a little wound up at the moment.”

Leading the way into the living area, I headed for the buffet cabinet and plucked the lid off the antique soup tureen that had belonged to great-great-great-great-grandma Vanderwalk. A sea of gummy bears smiled up at me.

“Gummy bear?” I offered, ladling out a handful into my palm.

“No... thank you.” Kelly looked a little frightened.

As I glanced down at my fistful, I was a little frightened, too. To prove I wasn’t some insane candy freak, I poured half of the gummies back into the tureen. And slammed the lid down before I could retrieve them.

For a second, I thought I heard the tiny, high-pitched screams of a hundred little voices.

Was hallucination one of the signs of addiction?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the addiction checklist from that recovery book Mom gave me last Christmas. One was denial, and then concealment. Oooh, yeah, personification was number seven.

Turning off my inner voices, I lifted the lid once more and dropped the rest of the bears back inside.

When I turned back around, Kelly was eying me like you eye the crazy person walking down the street talking to himself. A little wary and a lot concerned.

I crossed to the chofa and sat as if nothing bizarre had happened. Kelly snapped out of her deer-in-headlights stare and lowered herself onto the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion and clearly ready to get back to business.

“I know we’ve never gotten on real well.” She set her briefcase on the floor and leaned forward, forcing a conversational intimacy I had no interest in sharing. “I just want to tell you that I—”

“Can we get to what you came for?” I cut in.

What was my problem?

She looked taken aback, but quickly recovered her composure. “Yes. Of course. I had a few questions about the numbers from the Bay Area campaign.”

As I looked over the papers she handed to me, I realized that she had caught a couple of errors. Not significant, career-breaking errors, but errors nonetheless.

My heart sank. I knew that everyone made mistakes, especially in such a high pressure, fast-paced world. But it bit that I had screwed up and Kelly had been the one to catch it.

Sitting up straighter in my seat, I knew I had to do the right thing.

“You’re right. I miscalculated the overhead,” I said, handing the papers back to her. Hard as it was for me to form the words, I made myself add, “You have a real head for this business. Nice job.”

And I even did it without cringing.

Her eyes brightened and for a second she looked like she might cry. “That,” she gasped, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips, “was the kindest thing you have ever said to me.”

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. Kelly was not the sort of girl who made it through life without being praised at every turn. She was beautiful, stylish, obviously intelligent, and must have been regularly swamped with compliments. She didn’t need mine on top of all that.

“Well, I’m sure—”

“No.” She stopped me, refocusing her attention and pinning me with an earnest look. “Let me say this. I have not had the easiest life, and I know I don’t relate very well with other women. But I’ve always wanted to be a fashion executive. From the moment I came on board at Ferrero, you were my role model. I wanted to do everything as smoothly and gracefully as you. And what you just said—well, that’s the greatest thing that you could ever say.”

Before I could react, she was out of her seat and next to me on the chofa. Her arms wound around me in what felt alarmingly like a hug. This was getting a little bit too friendly for me.

I stood, grabbed her briefcase off the floor, and urged her to her feet.

“You’d better get back to work,” I blurted. “Those spreadsheets aren’t going to fix themselves.”

Kelly smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course.”

She started gathering her paperwork, neatly stuffing spreadsheets and summaries into colorful folders, and tucking those folders into her fuchsia work tote. I hadn’t meant to be harsh, but after a year of conflict, I was not quite prepared to bond with KY Kelly. Things couldn’t change that fast.

I got her out into the hall, briefcase in hand, and was about to shut the door when she turned back to face me.

“Before I go,” she said, “you should know there isn’t anything going on with me and Gavin. We’re friends, that’s all.”

I scowled and nudged her toward the hall. “Great. Thanks.”

“I mean, I know you’re with Phelps now, but the only woman Gavin ever talks about,” she added as she stepped into the hall, “is you.”

I stood there frozen in shock as she walked away.

“Have you packed?” Fiona asked, reclining on my couch as I recounted the events of the past few days.

There was a lot to catch up on.

“For Milan? Not yet. We don’t leave until Friday.” I heard her mm-hmm around the piece of chocolate on her tongue.

When Fi showed up at my door with a 16-piece box of gourmet chocolates I knew she’d had a tough day. Nothing but the roughest of days could induce her to bring out the big guns. And, although chocolate was not my personal favorite—if it’s not gummied, sugared, sour, or caramelized, it’s not really for me—we shared this indulgence once every black and blue moon.

Choosing a dark chocolate chili pepper truffle from the box, I leaned back into the chofa and bit into the sweet and spicy ball.

“Do you know what you’re taking?” she asked.

“Haven’t even thought about it.”

“Think about it now,” she suggested. “Let’s have a look at your wardrobe.”

Fi was on her feet and heading through my bedroom door before I could answer. Slowly rising, I replaced the lid on the truffles box so Dyllie wouldn’t get interested, and followed to my room.

In the span of twenty seconds, she had half my closet draped across the bed. The half from the back. The half I was too chicken to wear.

“I am not taking any of that!”

“You’ve been hiding behind your suits and cardigans for too long, sister. You have the perfect body to pull all these off. All you need is a little confidence.”

I looked down at my scrawny self. Flat chest. Chicken legs. Protruding collarbone. My body wasn’t perfect for anything. Hence the carefully concealing layers of wool and cashmere.

“These clothes,” she added, holding up white eyelet sundress, “were designed for models with your figure.”

“You mean your figure,” I countered. Fiona had the perfect body: tall, lean but shapely, full-breasted. I’d always envied her that.

And she had the fashion sense to show it all off. Right now she wore a red v-neck sweater that accentuated and displayed her pushed-up chest and a skintight black pencil skirt that molded her hips into seductive curves.

Without hesitation she pulled off her sweater, peeled off the skirt and tugged the sundress over her head.

Though we wore the same size, the dress stretched way-too-tight across her hips and chest. Her pushed-up breasts were pushed even more into view, nearly cut in half by the low neckline of the dress.

“So one dress doesn’t fit,” I conceded. I held up my gunmetal gray cocktail number, knowing it would look better on her. “Try this one.”

After struggling out of the tight cotton sundress, Fiona slipped into the slinky number. Like the sundress, this dress stretched tighter across the hips than it should, and her ample breasts pushed out on the panels of the halter top, leaving a gaping view of her bra and abdomen.

“All right, so two dresses—”

“No,” she interrupted, passionate in her argument. “All dresses. There isn’t a single designer dress in my closet that hasn’t been professionally altered to fit my figure. I probably spend as much on tailoring as I do on clothes. Maybe more. So trust me when I tell you, these clothes were designed for you.”

Shocked, I stared at her like she had sprouted Sour Straws for hair. A candy-haired medusa.

“Really?” I finally ventured when I could speak.

She rolled her eyes dramatically before slinking out of the cocktail dress and pulling her clothes back on. “Not that I would trade figures for anything—my C-cups have many fans—but yours is the body type gracing all the runways and magazine spreads. So shove your body image issues into the garbage disposal and let’s pack you a wowser wardrobe for Milan.”

My courage bolstered, I headed for the closet and dug into the way back. “And this,” I said, finding the hanger and lifting it off the bar, “is the first thing in.”

Holding the strapless minidress up to my chest, I faced Fiona. Every golden bead and sequin sparkled in the bright light of my room.

Her beaming grin said everything.

I hung the dress on the valet hook next to my closet and reached for the silver-gray shoe box on the top shelf. Strappy stiletto sandals in matching metallic gold.

“You wear that outfit around any guy with eyes and you won’t be wearing it very long.” Fiona grinned when I threw a wad of tissue at her. Which only made her goad me more. “Better wax up that zipper.”

I was just about to forget the six-hundred dollar price tag and fling a shoe at her when the buzzer sounded.

And a good thing, too. That was six-hundred per shoe.