Hostile Makeover

by Wendy Wax

  Did Craig feel this way when he went to work? Was it a relief to go somewhere and be appreciated for something more than providing a salary and showing up for school performances and sporting events? Did he walk into his office and think, “Thank God, I’m here”?

  Judy set the pen down on the pad and stared out the glass front of her cubicle. She didn’t have the first idea how Craig felt about his law practice anymore. Oh, she still asked about his day when he came home, still made clucking noises of comfort and nodded at what felt like the appropriate pauses in conversation. But somewhere along the way she’d stopped paying attention to his answers. She just let the words flow over her, absorbing very little; and though she didn’t like to admit it, she’d seen the glazed-eye look that told her Craig did the same to her.

  At three-thirty she gathered her things and walked over to Shelley’s office. Knocking softly on the open door, she popped her head inside. “I have to go,” she said. “Sammy gets off the bus at four-thirty, and I promised I’d be there.”

  “OK.” Shelley looked up from the open folders spread across her desk. She’d shed the linen jacket and had totally dislodged the “up do” she’d been wearing. Judy had never seen her so unaware of her appearance.

  “Do I get to, um, do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

  Shelley lifted her arms above her head and stretched her fingers toward the ceiling, then rubbed at the base of her neck, obviously trying to work out the kinks. “You won’t be punching a time clock or anything. Just come in as much as you need to to get things done. I’d like to sit down in a couple of days and hear where you are.”

  “Right now, I don’t even have a theme. So far all I’ve got is round.”

  Shelley smiled. “Round, huh? That could be pizza, doughnuts, bagels, pies, meatballs, falafels . . .”

  “Yeah.” Judy smiled back. “Like I said, my next mission is to start narrowing the focus.”

  Judy hummed her way out of the office and into the parking lot, knowing she needed to get on the road before rush hour began in earnest. Maybe tonight she’d run out and pick up a briefcase of some kind. Or a Coach pad holder she could use in meetings. She shivered in anticipation.

  Opening the car door, she tossed her purse on the passenger seat and drew in one last great breath of air, tasting the freedom of being out in the world on a beautiful spring afternoon, rather than in a kitchen or an overheated laundry room. Then she slid into the BMW and turned on the radio while her mind skittered here and there, weighing potential meal options and fiddling with the concept of round, as in tire, from which she needed to extract a theme. Then she moved mentally to tomorrow’s clothing options, and how lucky she was to have somewhere to go and something interesting to do.

  After a cursory glance in the rearview mirror, she began to back out of the parking space, her mind still focused on the wonder of being a part of the working world. The one thing it wasn’t focused on was what other cars might be backing up at precisely the same moment, in that exact parking lot.

  Which was why it was so unprepared for the sensation of slamming backward into what felt like a brick wall. And the sickening crunch of metal that accompanied it.

  chapter 15

  Behind her, a car door slammed and there was a quick, muttered curse. Footsteps approached. A peek over her shoulder revealed a tall male body striding toward her.

  She muttered a curse of her own, not at all in the mood to deal with an accident report and insurance companies and some irate somebody who would undoubtedly give her all kinds of grief.

  Dreading what lay ahead, Judy laid her forehead on the steering wheel and closed her eyes.

  “Are you OK?” The voice was mercifully calm and she thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t hit a raving lunatic brandishing a gun. It was also deep and masculine. And vaguely familiar.

  Still hugging her steering wheel, Judy looked up and into warm hazel eyes set in the middle of an arresting face. She hadn’t seen that face, except in the occasional bawdy dream, for almost twenty-two years, but she would have known it anywhere.

  “Judy?” Brett O’Connor flashed the killer smile he’d slain her with in high school. “Gee, it’s really great to . . .” he paused and his smile grew broader as he realized what he was about to say, “run into you.”

  She flushed and tried to smile back. “Yeah. I just wish it hadn’t happened so literally.”

  “Good point.” Still flashing that killer smile, he reached down to open her door and help her out. Together they turned and she got her first full look at his car, which was a bright red Lexus convertible. With a great big dent in it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He shrugged a pair of broad shoulders. “It could have been worse,” he said. “It could have been mine.”

  Her mind was too busy sorting through the tidbits she’d heard about him over the years to focus on his words. Ancient gossip had him married and living in Chicago, but she had no idea if this was still true. A surreptitious glance confirmed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but too many men went without them for this to be conclusive. She pulled her gaze back up to his and told herself to pay attention.

  “It’s a rental,” he explained as they moved to the rear of her car to examine the damage. “I have no personal attachment to it whatsoever.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she managed. “I hate to make a grown man cry.” OK, that was nice and casual, slightly flip. She wasn’t a teenage girl with a mad crush anymore.

  He smiled again. He did that a lot. And, she couldn’t help noticing, he did it really well.

  “Well, your bumper came out ahead in that one.” They looked at the point of impact. “It barely has a scratch. And you,” he said, shaking his head, “you look so exactly the same. I can hardly believe it.”

  Judy blushed and thanked whoever was in charge of these things that she was dressed and made-up. “What are you doing in town? Have you moved back?”

  “No. The investment group I’m with is buying property in midtown for development. I’m here for a closing. In fact,” he looked down at her as if she were completely and utterly fascinating, “I’ll be in and out of Atlanta for the next six months.” He flashed the lethal smile at her. “Tell me about you.”

  “Me?” She smiled stupidly. “I, uh, do consulting work. I’m planning a grand opening for a chain of tire stores.” She left out the fact that this was her first and possibly last project. And the existence of her husband and two children.

  Leaning into the Lexus, he pulled a packet out of the glove compartment. “I just need to call the rental company and see what they want me to do.” He pulled out a cell phone and began to punch in a number. “Do you need to report this?”

  Normally she would have called Craig to let him know what had happened, but it wasn’t like she needed towing or anything, and it looked like she was in good hands. She blushed as she remembered their high school fumblings, how their heavy breathing had fogged the windows of the vintage black Mustang he’d driven.

  She dug out her own insurance card and began to punch the numbers into the phone. While she held for the next available agent, she watched Brett O’Connor start up the Lexus and move it into the empty space next to her BMW. He walked back around the car and leaned over to take something out of the trunk, and for the second time that day she checked out an unfamiliar hard male body; it was absolutely amazing how many steel buns seemed to be wandering around Atlanta, available for ogling.

  The low rumble of Brett O’Connor’s voice sent a ripple of awareness through her into places that had been unaware for a very long time. Embarrassed at her reaction, she turned her back to him and called home to leave a message for Sammy.

  Then she pulled out her lipstick case and applied a fresh coat of Persian Pink.

  Shelley didn’t have time to worry about lipstick shades or motivational clothing. She spent the week with her nose pressed firmly to the grindstone, arriving early each morning and staying la
te, spending as much time as possible with Luke and his creative team in order to work up presentations for the clients she’d already called on.

  For the last three hours she’d been in Luke’s office with his people discussing L.A. soundstages, location sites, and a realistic production schedule for Brian Simms’s futuristic furniture commercials. As the meeting drew to an end, Luke shooed the rest of the staff out of his office and closed the door behind them.

  Shelley was still high from the excitement she felt at being a part of the creative give-and-take, the “what ifs” that led to better ideas and cleaner concepts. She could hardly wait to present the storyboards the art department had created and to let Simms’s nephew know that he’d been invited to do a full internship with Jake Helmsley, one of the best-known commercial directors in Hollywood. Her sense of accomplishment was only eclipsed by her desire to accomplish more. And to rub Ross Morgan’s nose in her success.

  She looked up when Luke came over and took a seat next to her at the conference table where they’d been working. Drawings and meeting notes were still strewn across the tabletop, but he was looking at her, not the work.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “What would you say if I told you the most incredible opportunity is hanging out there waiting to be plucked?”

  “I’d say, what kind of fruit?”

  Luke smiled. “I heard from an old friend this morning in Chicago.”

  “And?”

  “He’s with BBD&O,” he said, naming one of the largest ad agencies in the country, “and he spends a lot of time out on the coast, supervising production.”

  “And?”

  “The Selena Moore Boutiques account is going to be put out for bid.”

  Shelley’s spine tingled. Selena Moore was a high-end retail chain with billings over ten million. Coupled with Easy To Be Me, it would catapult Schwartz and Associates into the upper echelon of women’s retail.

  “Why would he tell you this?”

  “Because BBD&O can’t bid on it. They’re already representing a direct competitor, so they’re out of the running.”

  “I remember when the chain started in Atlanta. About a year ago they turned over a corner of each store to Custom Cleavage, Ballantyne Bras’ custom lingerie line, and took the whole thing national.”

  “Yes,” Luke said, “that’s when they moved their advertising to Chicago.”

  Shelley’s spine tingled again. She shopped Selena Moore regularly and owned three of Ballantyne’s custom-made creations, which had cost a small fortune and were worth every penny. “Do you think we could get a shot at it?”

  “Not normally. But they’re making noises about looking for a smaller ad shop and the owner wants to move their headquarters back to the southeast.”

  “Better and better.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part yet.” He leaned closer. “They’re going to be in L.A. shooting with their old agency at the same time we’re doing Simms’s stuff.”

  Shelley could already see it; she’d find out where they were booked in L.A. and then she’d create her opportunity. She’d met Selena Moore and Miranda Smith of Custom Cleavage at a local fund-raiser. If they were staying at the same hotel it would be easy enough to renew the acquaintance.

  “Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?” She threw her arms around the creative director’s neck and gave him a goofy buss on the cheek. “I’m going to get right on this.”

  She looked down to check her watch, surprised at how quickly the morning had flown. “Just as soon as Judy and I finish our ‘tahr’ research.”

  Hurrying to the door, she stopped at the last minute and turned to face the creative director. “Let’s not mention this to Ross Morgan just yet. When it comes to landing a new account, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

  An hour later, she and Judy were in a Tire World restroom looking around in dismay.

  “They really need to do something about their ladies’ rooms.” Judy eyed the two metal stalls.

  “You are so right,” Shelley said as she studied the stark nondescript walls and cracked concrete floor. “If we actually get more women into these places, they’ll be afraid to go to the bathroom.” She remembered her unease buying cold drinks during the meeting with Wiley Haynes. “And the drink and snack machines need to come out of the garage area and into the showroom or waiting area.”

  Judy did a 360-degree turn, her brow furrowed in thought. “What if we got the bathrooms redone?”

  “What?”

  “Not overly elegant, but funky stylish—maybe with faux finishing and a few nice touches?”

  Shelley could just imagine Ross Morgan and Wiley Haynes’s reaction to that line item on the budget.

  “You know, it might be enough of an oddity to get a feature of some kind in the Style section.”

  Shelley looked at her older sister. “That’s a good idea.” Her mind raced ahead. “Didn’t you go to school with the Home and Garden editor at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution?”

  “Mm-hmm. And speaking of getting press, what if we asked different decorators to do them, like they do for the symphony show houses?” Judy squinted one eye at the big yellow stain in the white porcelain sink. “Can’t you just picture bringing Claude Gilbert or Jacques Dumas in to do a Tire World bathroom?”

  As they washed their hands, Shelley looked at her sister, the one with the glow in her cheeks and the fabulous ideas spilling out of her mouth.

  “Yes,” Shelley said, her own enthusiasm growing, “I can. But first we need to extract the words ‘little lady’ from Wiley Haynes’s vocabulary and find a female mechanic to present the workshops.”

  “You know,” Judy said, digging up into the paper towel receptacle in search of a towel, “maybe the presenter doesn’t have to be female. Maybe it just needs to be someone attractive to females.”

  “Yeah,” Shelley deadpanned, trying her own hand at the paper towel dispenser when Judy came up empty, “I’m definitely going to call Brad Pitt and Antonio Banderas’s agents to see if they want to come to Atlanta and teach tire classes.”

  They shared a laugh over that one.

  “Well,” Judy asked, “what about local celebrities or sports figures? Or, I know, why don’t we worry less about the presenter and have female radio personalities participate in the classes. Let them give away a free class to female listeners?”

  “Wow.” Shelley grasped a piece of paper toweling and tried to yank it down. “I don’t know where all this great stuff is coming from, but I am so glad you’re a part of this team.”

  “You are?”

  “I am.”

  Judy shook her hands dry while Shelley tried to use the sliver of paper towel she’d torn from the dispenser. “I’m glad someone thinks my working makes sense. Craig and the boys are giving me such grief about the hours I’m putting in.” She checked her watch. “In fact, I’ve got to get going. I promised them an actual meal; something that doesn’t come wrapped in plastic.”

  Shelley studied her sister’s reflection in the mirror, but her expression was hard to decipher. “Why didn’t you say something? You can work less if you need to.”

  “No, I don’t want to do that. I’m having a ball. They’re just not used to having to pick up after themselves, or, as it turns out, actually do anything for themselves. You’d think I was the only one capable of operating a washing machine; it’s as if they think women are born with some sort of genetic predisposition to separate whites from colors.”

  Shelley laughed, wondering why it had taken her so long to notice what good company her sister was. How could she have missed that?

  “I just wish someone had told me how great this working thing was sooner,” Judy said, leaving the mirror and moving to Shelley’s side. “I would have tried it a long time ago.”

  “Yeah.” Shelley smiled at her sister as they used their forearms to push open the bathroom door. “That makes two of us.”

  It was Friday aftern
oon and time for Shelley to leave for her appointment with Howard Mellnick when the shit hit the fan.

  She’d already packed up her things and was sprinting for the door when the intercom on her desk buzzed. Standing just shy of the open doorway—and freedom—she debated whether to make a break for it. It was the hesitation that did her in.

  “Shelley?” Mia’s voice squawked in the silent room.

  Shelley looked longingly toward the door. She was tired and irritable and she wanted to be out of there.

  “If you’re there, please respond.”

  With a groan she went back to her desk and mashed her finger on the speak button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Morgan would like to see you.”

  Shelley checked her watch. It was four P.M.; her appointment was for four-thirty. She needed to talk to Howard Mellnick; she did NOT need to talk to Ross Morgan. “I’m just on my way out the door for an appointment, Mia. Can I see him on Monday?”

  “Uh, hold on.” There was a squawk and a brief silence. “Sorry,” Mia came back. “He says it won’t take long.”

  Damn right it won’t. She stomped down the hallway and took the elevator up to the big windowed office of the president. She’d avoided coming in here since Ross had moved into it because she hadn’t wanted to see anyone else—especially not Ross Morgan—sitting behind her father’s hand-carved cherry desk, but there was no help for it now.

  In the outer office, Shelley swept by Mia, strode through the double doors, and came to a stop in front of Morgan. “You buzzed?”

  Papers were piled in front of him. She recognized her presentation notes and the accompanying storyboards as well as the budgets and requisition forms she’d prepared. He looked up at her and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Did you do all of this on your own?”

  She couldn’t tell whether he was impressed at the amount of work she’d accomplished or appalled by what she’d done. Which made it especially difficult to tailor an appropriate response.