City Chicks

Chapter 1-2

Bethany looked like the typical southern belle. Tasteful but flirty floral sundress, sweet high heel Mary Janes, hose. Her long blonde hair meticulously curled and sprayed yet touchably soft. Guys jumped to be chivalrous for her. Everywhere she went doors opened before her, chairs got pulled out beneath her, and men fell to their knees begging for marriage.

But she did have that steel magnolia edge. She owned and operated a very successful shop in SoHo, and a sweet gal didn’t last long in the city without learning to bite back.

“Oh my heavens,” Beth exclaimed as she got a good look at the magazine in Fiona’s clutches, “that’s Gavin!”

“Yeah,” Fiona answered, dropping the magazine to her lap. “Hot, huh?”

Beth will defend me. We’ve been friends since freshman year at Columbia, since before Gavin and I started dating. She knew his true nature—the sour, sticky core at his center.

I was wrong.

Beth nodded, taking a sip of her mojito. “Grade A Prime.”

“I wouldn’t mind rolling over to that the morning after.” Fiona got a dreamy look, glitter-glossed lips grinning, that reminded me how much steamier her love life was than mine.

The conversation turned dangerous. In my experience, no woman is safe even fantasizing about Gavin Fairchild. I had to interject before someone got hurt. “Too bad he’s such a Sour Apple Blow Pop.”

Fiona was undeterred. “Does he have an agent?”

“An agent? Fi, he’s a stockbroker.”

“Yes, but he’s a stockbroker on the cover of GQ.”

I really shouldn’t have been surprised. Fiona was a talent agent at Famous Faces, after all. Representing the most delicious hunks on the planet was her daily duty. Which was great, so long as this was one delicious hunk she stayed far, far away from. For all our sakes.

Just as I opened my mouth to say as much, a realization struck: What did I care if Fiona represented Gavin to supermodel stardom? I didn’t care about him. He was nothing but an anomaly in my otherwise normal dating record. He was the past. Good riddance to stale candy.

What I did care about was how everyone still treated me like I’d lost the winning lottery ticket. Gavin Fairchild was not my one and only chance at happily ever after.

Too bad I didn’t realize this sooner. Like this afternoon. Like before Jawbreaker brought him up in conversation and I freaked. I freaked and now I was in such a tight fix that conversation #3,527—not that I’m counting—seemed like a shopping spree at Dylan’s Candy Bar.

My groan, followed by the loud thunk as my head hit the bar again, must have caught Fiona and Beth’s attention because each grabbed a shoulder and hauled me back up.

“What’s wrong, sugar?”

“Tell us,” Fiona urged.

“We can help,” Beth promised.

“No,” I said, recalling every appalling word of the conversations #3,524—not that I’m counting—and #3,525—not that I’m—oh, who was I kidding, I’m counting, “you can’t.”

Beth smiled. “Try us.”

Resigned to the fate of relating every horrifying detail, I began my tale. As the words came out they picked up speed, and soon I was babbling about Jawbreakers, KYs, Southampton, and my desire to be a barnyard animal.

Fiona and Beth smiled and nodded and I could tell they wondered what in Hershey’s name I was talking about.

The vodka in my Lemon Drops—plural—must have been getting to me. But confection was good for the soul and I couldn’t stop.

“I had to shut her up,” I continued between gulps of lemon-flavored alcohol. “I mean there’s only so much ex-hashing a girl can take.” Closing my eyes I pictured Jawbreaker, hip-length platinum hair twisting around one finger as she fantasized about Gavin right before my eyes. “So I told her I had a new guy.”

Without looking, I felt them both shrug.

“I told her I had been dating this guy for several months and we’re really getting serious. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Shows Gavin is forgotten and I’m moving on with my life, love and all. Until the unthinkable happened. Jawbreaker insists I bring him to the Summer Sail Away next weekend.”

“Summer Sail Away?” Fiona’s brow crinkled.

“The company function of the season at her mansion in Southampton.” I groaned at the thought of losing my coveted promotion to a KY. “If I show up without this dream guy, my career is history.”

“Why?” Beth inquired. “It’s just a date.”

“Jawbreaker would relish any excuse to humiliate me.” And promote one of the KY Clique in my place. The bonds of Barnyard sisterhood are hard to break.

“We can find you a guy, no problem,” Fiona announced.

“Oh yes,” Beth added. I heard the excitement in her voice as my datelessness became her new project. “There’s a guy in my building, Harvard grad, gorgeous to boot. He’s perfect for you.”

“No,” I interjected adamantly. “I don’t want a smart, gorgeous, lovable guy. No one interested in a relationship.”

I was one busy Marshmallow Peep. My life was too full and too complicated already, without the added attachment of a guy.

Unfortunately, everyone in my life interpreted this independent streak as evidence of my pining for Gavin.

Beth smiled sadly. “It’s been two years, sugar. Time to move on.”

“I know. And I am,” I insisted. “I have. But not right now. I have too much going on at work to get emotionally involved with anyone. I don’t need a relationship.”

Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say that I didn’t want a relationship. Rotten emotional longing. Stay under cover where you belong.

A look passed between my friends that I chose to interpret as concern, and I also chose to ignore it.

“Forget it. I’ll just show up stag and weather Jawbreaker’s interrogation.”

“No, no, let us help.” Resolve hardened Fiona’s exotic features and I knew argument was futile.

I turned to Bethany, the face of a true steel magnolia.

“We’ll find you the perfect guy,” Beth promised.

“A trophy date.”

“A date without a relationship.”

“A man without opinions.”

“Without emotions.”

“Without baggage.”

“Without a brain.”

Coming to the bottom of my—third—Lemon Drop, I began to see possibilities. A guy for show. One that looks good and thinks little. Easy on the eyes and short on the intellect.

I grinned. “Eye candy.”

We three stared at our drinks, deep in thought. Fiona finally spoke. “I know a guy.”

“You know a guy?” I asked.

“From the agency, one of the models.” Fiona paused. “He’s looking for some extra cash, and...”

“And...?” I prodded.

“He’s gorgeous and sweet. A little light in the attic but heavy in the basement, if you know what I mean.” Fiona waggled her eyebrows.

I had no idea what she meant. But that might have been due to the Lemon Drops, so I gave her a shrug-nod and signaled for another drink.

“I’m sure he’d be willing to help you out,” she continued. “For adequate compensation.”

Whoa! Compensation? Have I reached the lowest of the low? Do I have to buy a date? And Fiona was selling me one. “You’re pimping your models.”

She shook her head, taking a sip of her Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against A Wall before continuing. “Just one model. Singular. And I’m not pimping, just arranging. Like a dating service where money changes hands.”

“Sounds like pimping to me,” I grumbled.

“Sounds like the perfect plan,” Beth countered.

Had I thought earlier my day couldn’t get any worse? Mental Post-It: Always anticipate something even more horrific happening.

“Sugar, this is everything you need,” she persisted. “One gorgeous, boss-impressing hottie to get everyone off your back about Gavin and yourself out of the hole you’ve dug. One stringless guy who will accept your money at the end of the day and leave your heart intact.”

Barbie set the fresh Lemon Drop before me, but I decided I had enough. This plan was starting to sound like a good idea—that had to be an alcohol-induced opinion.

“Look, give him a shot.” Fiona dragged her satchel off the floor and pulled out her hot pink phone. A few taps of the screen and she announced, “He’s doing an in-house shoot tomorrow. I’ll talk to him and make all the arrangements. If he doesn’t take, you can always publicly break up with him at the Sailboat Saga.”

“Summer Sail Away,” I corrected.

“Everyone will think you’re hot stuff if you’re too good for the likes of him.” She shoved her phone back in her satchel.

“I don’t think...”

“You’re desperate. Take a chance.”

Tired and fed up with feeling like a spectator in my own life, I took a stand.

“No.”

Fiona and Beth peered at each other, brows raised. Maybe it was the vodka talking. Maybe it was the culmination of my horrendous day. Maybe it was me finally deciding to have a say in my own life. Whatever the case, they looked surprised.

But remained determined.

“You’ll change your mind,” Fiona stated.

With a groan, my forehead plunked to the bar.

Reehn, reehn, reehn!

“Uungh.” I rolled over and slapped the alarm clock into silence. How dare it wake me up at 8:00 on a Saturday morning? Nine minutes later it started screaming again. Another slap. Another nine minutes later it started screaming again. This time, I pried open one desert dry eye and managed to find the off switch.

Ring, ring, ring.

“Nooo,” I moaned.

There was no way I was prepared to speak. I let voicemail pick up.

My head felt like someone stuffed it full of gumballs—every movement sent the throbbing pain thundering to another side of my brain. My eyelids were stuck to my eyeballs, something that should have been medically impossible. And my stomach—well, let’s just say my stomach was seriously rethinking everything I had consumed in the last twelve hours.

Having no desire to see any of that again, I sank into the softness of my feather-top and held a white downy pillow over my face.

Ring, ring, ring.

Even through the sound-baffling pillow I heard the phone.

I ignored it, ready to drift peacefully back to sleep. But as I started to doze my phone dinged. A message. Without opening my eyes, I played it.

There were actually two.

First message, Friday, 7:07 p.m.: “Hi, Lydia.” Holy Hot Tamales. I jolted upright in bed. “It’s Gavin. We need to talk. I know this is out of the blue, but can we get together this week? Call me, I can make time whenever you’re available.”

I replayed the message.

“Hi, Lydia. It’s Gavin. We need to talk.” What could we possibly have to talk about after two years of communication blackout? “I know this is out of the blue—” No, I totally expected this. “But can we get together this week?” Gee, my week was pretty full... “Call me, I can make time whenever you’re available.” Well that’s different. He never had time for me when we were engaged.

As I recalled, he only had time for a certain redheaded secretary named Rhonda who wore high heels and short skirts—not that I noticed, but a girl is bound to retain a few details about the woman she finds her significant other of six years balling on his desk when she shows up to surprise him with Chinese food.

Delete or save? Delete or save? Hmmm... I jabbed the delete button with an exuberance usually reserved for a candy spree.

Second message, Saturday, 8:19 a.m.: “Lydia, this is Janice.” Jawbreaker called on a Saturday morning? “I’m calling to let you know I e-mailed you directions to the Summer Sail Away. Remember, it’s a weekend retreat so pack your jammies and your bikini. And make sure that new hunk of yours packs his too, unless he sleeps in the buff and skinny dips.” Yesterday’s farce—blissfully forgotten in vodka-rendered memory loss—came crashing back into my aching brain. “Oh, one more thing.” I could hear Jawbreaker’s smirk. The hair rose on the back of my neck. “Do you have Gavin’s email address? I need to zap him the directions, as well. He can’t make it Friday, so he’s meeting Kelly there on Saturday. Ta ta, see you Monday.”

I sat there, blinking like a hummingbird on Pixy Stix. I finally found the capacity to press delete before letting the phone fall to the floor.

If my brain worked, I would probably have tried to figure out how my life had swirled around the bowl so quickly. I reached for the bag of candy in my nightstand drawer before dragging myself, clothed in my candy hearts-covered pajamas, into my workroom. Closing the door behind me, secure in the knowledge that there was no phone, no internet, and no outside distraction in this room, I crossed to the workbench and climbed onto the stool.

I chewed passively on some Swedish Fish.

The workroom was my sanctuary, where I left the outside world and turned inward. It was my stress relief. Some people tried yoga, others skydiving. I made jewelry. It had started when I took jewelry-making as an elective in college, and it just kind of stuck.

What had started as pure hobby became part business when my friend Bethany wanted to stock my designs in her SoHo boutique.

LIV Jewelry was selling like penny candy. For much more than a penny.

Beth couldn’t keep it on the shelves. She kept pushing me to hire an assistant, to produce more and take my distribution wider. But that would mean taking my hobby seriously and that might take the fun out the process. For now I just enjoyed working on pieces when the inspiration struck. Like today.

I had a feeling today’s sketches would result in some very scary jewelry.

Mentally checking my frustrations at the door, I pulled out a sketch pad and went to work. Dark swirling shapes decorated with spiked starbursts. Heavy lines. Black, midnight blue, and tarnished silver.

The doodles developed into a fine swirl of silver wire with dark sapphire beads and black onyx stars. I proudly titled the sketch, “Midnight sky.”

Setting down my pencil, I pronounced the sketch finished. I glanced up at the clock on the wall to find I had been working for almost two hours.

I produced one sketch and came to one conclusion.

If Gavin was gracing us with his presence at the Summer Sail Away, I was definitely not going singular. Even if it meant a degrading humiliation.

After safely closing all my creativity behind the workroom door, I retrieved my cell. I fidgeted as I waited for her to pick up.

“Yo,” she greeted.

This was the moment of no return. I knew I could still back out. And I knew I wouldn’t.

“All right, Fi,” I said, twirling a candy necklace around my finger, “set me up.”