by John Saul
“We’ll have at least half an hour,” Dawn shot back. “And that’s plenty of time. You’ll see—we’re expert shoppers, and you’ll love the first thing you try on.”
“I just don’t want to be late,” Allison worried.
“We’re never late,” Tasha assured her. “We’ve got this down to a science.”
“You’ve been to Neiman’s before, right?” Crystal asked.
“A couple of times,” Alison said, carefully avoiding telling them she’d never actually bought anything there.
Tasha giggled in the backseat. “We go there on lunch hour all the time.”
“Shopping is way better than eating,” Crystal added, confirming Alison’s suspicions about her new friends’ attitude toward lunch.
As they arrived at the big store on Wilshire Boulevard, Tasha, Dawn, and Crystal wasted no time, knowing exactly where to go, and within less than two minutes a smartly suited saleswoman was smiling at them and greeting all three of them by name.
“Hi, Mrs. Wright,” Tasha said. “This is Alison Shaw, and she’s looking for something to wear to her sixteenth birthday party.”
Mrs. Wright appraised Alison’s figure, and Alison could see the uncertainty in the woman’s eyes.
“She needs to look hot,” Crystal said.
“And she’s putting it on Dr. Dunn’s account,” Tasha said over her shoulder as she began to sort through clothes, picking up dresses, quickly rejecting them, and dropping them back on the racks.
Mrs. Wright’s expression cleared, and now she was beaming. “Of course,” she said. “You’re that Alison Shaw! Dr. Dunn called this morning and told me to expect you.”
Dawn nudged her in the ribs. “Bingo!” she whispered.
“You’re on his open account,” Mrs. Wright continued, and now Crystal was grinning broadly at the puzzled look on Alison’s face.
“It means there’s no limit!” Crystal said. “Let’s get busy!”
“This!” Tasha declared a moment later, holding up a silvery black piece of fabric on a hanger. “Try this one on, Alison.”
“Mandalay,” Mrs. Wright said, deftly taking the dress from Tasha. “Lovely choice. I’ll open a dressing room for you.”
Alison watched nervously as the other three girls tore through the racks, pulling out one dress after another, holding them up against themselves and each other, rejecting most of them but keeping a few, none of which looked close to her style. They were all much too fancy, too expensive, too…
Too much like Dawn and Tasha and Crystal, and not at all like her.
“Time!” Dawn called out.
Alison relaxed. If they already had to go back to school, she wasn’t even going to have to try on any of the dresses, let alone choose one. But a second later Tasha dashed her hopes.
“Time to hit the dressing room,” she explained, and hurried her toward Mrs. Wright, who Alison could see obviously understood how these lunch-hour shopping sprees worked a lot better than she did.
A single dress hung on the wall in the enormous dressing area Mrs. Wright ushered her into, and her three classmates crowded onto a sofa, waiting.
“Well?” Dawn said. “Let’s see it on you.”
Wishing she could sink through the floor, Alison stripped off her school clothes and slipped into the dress.
It clung to her body like Saran wrap, and flared out into a very short skirt.
The back was cut in a vee that went so far below her waist, she was sure the tops of her buttocks were showing.
And there was far more room in the bodice than she needed, let alone could fill.
“This is a little too dressy,” Alison said, doing her best not to let her embarrassment over the cut of the dress show.
“It’s perfect,” Tasha said, ignoring her words. “Let’s see. Turn around.”
“And hold your hair up,” Crystal added.
Deciding argument would only waste time, Alison pushed her hair onto the top of her head and turned slowly. But she got a good look at herself in one of the mirrors and shook her head. “It’s too old for me.”
“You could use my falsies,” Tasha said, instantly homing in on the biggest problem with the dress.
Mrs. Wright tapped on the dressing room door, then stepped in, her face lighting up when she saw Alison. “That is the one dress on this whole floor that is absolutely perfect for you,” she said. “It shows off what a wonderful, athletic figure you have.”
“See?” Tasha said.
Alison rolled her eyes, certain Mrs. Wright would have said the same thing no matter what she was wearing, as long as it was expensive.
“And you can wear it everywhere, too,” Crystal said. “From now on you’ll be going to lots of parties.”
Alison shook her head and started to peel the dress off.
“She’ll take it,” Dawn said to Mrs. Wright as she glanced at her watch.
Alison frowned.
“You can always return it if you really don’t like it,” Dawn reasoned. “And we don’t have time for anything else right now.”
Mrs. Wright quickly stepped forward to help Alison out of the dress.
“How much is it?” Alison asked as the saleswoman put the dress back on a hanger.
Mrs. Wright consulted the tag. “Only twelve fifty,” she said.
Alison’s eyes widened. “Twelve hundred?”
“It’s an excellent value,” Mrs. Wright replied as she adjusted the dress on its hanger. “Shall I have it sent up to Dr. Dunn’s home?”
“Yes,” Tasha answered for Alison. “And we have to run, or we’ll be late.”
Less than five minutes later Alison was back in Dawn’s car, the receipt for the dress in her purse. What had she been doing, spending over a thousand dollars on a dress?
A beautiful dress, yes. In fact, a dress that was far too beautiful for her—she couldn’t even fill its bodice!
What was going on? How had she let it happen? And why had her whole life turned into something she barely even understood, that was being run by people she barely knew?
But it was going to be all right—she’d just have to learn how to live her new life in her new world, and in the end everything would work out.
RISA SHAW KNEW by the look on Lynette Rudd’s face that there was little chance of selling her the house they had entered no more than a minute earlier, but that had never stopped her yet. “The great thing about this house is that it’s got good bones. You can’t get construction like this anymore, no matter what you’re willing to pay.”
Lynette nodded noncommittally as she gazed at the living room, which was certainly large enough, even if the ceiling was far too low. “Very mid-century,” she said. “Way too much updating, and I don’t even want to think about what the bathrooms are going to look like.”
“Dated,” Marjorie Stern declared, making Risa wish once again that Lynette Rudd hadn’t insisted on bringing her along. Alone, she could have worked Lynette into giving the house a chance, but with Marjorie Stern, it was two against one. “Still, Risa has a point. Most of the work’s cosmetic, and the basic design isn’t bad.” Risa’s hopes rose. “If you like mid-century,” Marjorie went on, making it clear that she herself did not, and dashing Risa’s newfound hope before it had even fully formed.
“And cosmetic isn’t cheap,” Lynette said with a smile. “As we all so very well know.”
“Still, it’s a buyer’s market,” Risa interjected in a last-ditch effort to save the possibility of a sale. “We can take ten percent off the asking price right off the bat, and I suspect there’s still a lot of room for negotiation.”
“Twenty-five percent off the top might get my attention,” Lynette sighed, “so I don’t think this is the house for me.”
“At least I know what not to show you,” Risa replied, deciding that next time she showed Lynette a house, Marjorie Stern would not be with them. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“So enough of this house hunting,” Marjorie said. “Let’
s go have a drink.”
Risa picked up her purse and briefcase, mentally rescheduling the time she’d set aside to show Lynette Rudd what was currently on the Bel Air housing market.
“Will you join us, Risa?” Lynette asked.
Risa hoped her surprise at the invitation didn’t show. She’d shown Lynette houses twice before, but never had she suggested they get together for anything other than business. “I’d love to. Where shall I meet you?”
“The club?” Lynette suggested to Marjorie, who nodded her approval. Lynette turned to Risa. “Bel Air Country Club. Just follow us.”
Ten minutes later Risa’s Buick was parked behind Lynette’s Bentley in front of the valet stand, and the three women walked through the club to the terrace and ordered cocktails.
“How’s Alison liking the academy?” Lynette asked as the waiter disappeared.
“Very much,” Risa replied. “Thanks to Tasha and her friends. They seem to have taken her under their wings.”
“Tasha likes Alison. I think they’ll become good friends.”
Risa turned to Marjorie Stern, who looked to be about their same age. “Do you have children at the academy, too?” she asked, deciding to use the same shortening for the Wilson Academy that Lynette had just employed.
“God no!” Marjorie exclaimed. “Never married—never found anyone willing to sign a prenup.” She laughed and drank half of her martini.
“Marjorie’s family owns half of Culver City, and most of the oil under it,” Lynette explained.
“Which I’m going to need when I have my brows lifted next week,” Marjorie said, signaling the waiter for a second round of drinks only a moment after he’d delivered the first. “The price has doubled since my last one. Ten thousand for two lousy eyebrows! Can you believe it? It’s not like he’s giving me brand-new ones, for Christ’s sake.”
“Who’s doing it?” Lynette asked, sipping her martini.
“Conrad, of course—who else would I trust?” She leaned toward Risa. “You must be costing him a bundle, the way he’s raising his rates!” Then, as Risa felt her face flushing, Marjorie Stern raised her glass. “And more power to you!” She leaned back in her chair, drained the rest of her glass, and eyed Risa speculatively a moment before the waiter set another martini down. “So what’s next for you?” she asked.
Risa stared her. What was the woman talking about? Had she missed something?
“Nips and tucks, Risa,” Lynette offered, reading Risa’s confusion.
“You mean surgery?” Risa asked. “I’ve never actually—”
“Oh, my God!” Marjorie barked. “We have a virgin! So then, let me rephrase: what’s scheduled first?”
“First?” Risa echoed. “I wasn’t planning on having anything done.”
Lynette and Marjorie stared at her blankly.
“You’re kidding, right?” Marjorie finally said into the ensuing silence.
Risa felt as if she’d said something wrong. “Why? What have you had done?”
“Me?” Lynette laughed, then held up one hand and started ticking off her fingers one by one. “Let me count. Chin implant was first—and you should consider that first, too, since it’s really easy. Then my nose and eyes. Breast reduction when I turned forty, which was a true load off my back. And I had a brow lift last year.”
As Risa’s fingers went self-consciously to her chin, Lynette turned to Marjorie, who had just finished the second martini. “Come on, Marj—give her the list, and don’t leave anything out.”
“Good lord,” Marjorie said. “I don’t even know if I can remember everything. I’ve had breast implants twice, a brow lift, my nose, my eyes, my turkey wattle tightened up, liposuction…” She sighed and shook her head with mock ruefulness. “Jesus, it seems like it’s always one damn thing or another.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Risa blurted without thinking. A split second later, realizing how her words must have sounded, she tried to recover. “I mean, I just never would have known—looking at both of you—”
“Oh, come on, Risa,” Lynette cut in. “Look around here! Do you actually think there’s a single woman in this place but you that hasn’t had at least half a dozen procedures?” She nodded toward a woman with beautifully coiffed white hair who was clad in what even Risa knew had to be at least ten thousand dollars worth of elegantly casual clothes and several hundred thousand dollars worth of perfectly cut diamonds. “How old do you think she is?”
Risa tried not to stare too long at the woman, and finally shrugged uncertainly. “Fifty? I’d say in her forties, except for her hair.”
“Try eighties,” Lynette replied. “And not early eighties, either. You need to rethink your ideas about surgery fast, Risa.” Lynette’s voice dropped and took on a serious note. “If you want to stay married to Conrad for very long, you’d better learn to always look your very best, and I don’t mean just your clothes and hair. You’re going to be the first person people think of when they’re deciding who’s going to work on them. You, and Alison.”
“Which means you’re both going to have to be perfect,” Marjorie added, just in case Risa might not have understood Lynette’s words.
Risa felt herself flushing again. “Conrad’s not that shallow,” she said, but even as she spoke, she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it.
“Then I’m afraid you’re underestimating exactly how much Margot did for his practice,” Marjorie said. “And how much work he did on her.”
Risa stared at her drink, unwilling to look at either Lynette or Marjorie Stern.
“It’s not really about being shallow,” Lynette said, trying to alleviate some of the sting she could sense Risa feeling. “Making women beautiful isn’t just Conrad’s job—it’s his passion. And both you and Alison would be making big mistakes if you didn’t use his services.”
Marjorie reached out and gave Risa’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Let him make you gorgeous before it’s too late.”
“And get Alison with the program, too,” Lynette advised. “Did she tell you that she borrowed Tasha’s falsies the other day?”
Risa stared at her mutely, shaking her head.
“There was no swimming suit top that would fit her without them.” She leaned forward again. “You can’t let Alison be Wilson Academy’s first wallflower, Risa—it’s just not fair to her.”
Risa sat back in her chair, barely able to believe what she was hearing.
“Take a good look around here,” Lynette said. “Look at everybody. Do you see a flat chest or a wrinkle anywhere?”
Risa scanned the women who filled the club. This was Conrad’s world, and this was Conrad’s club.
And every woman in it—even their waitresses—was perfect.
Lynette was right—there was no way either she or Alison could compete with these people, not without all the help her husband could give them. Maybe she ought to ask Conrad for a consultation and a professional appraisal, not only of Alison, but of her, too. She hadn’t forgotten their honeymoon night, when Conrad had called out Margot’s name as they made love, and if she was going to be honest with herself, their sex life wasn’t what it should be for newlyweds.
Was Conrad already losing interest in her?
Would something as simple as a little plastic surgery fix that?
She didn’t know, but she intended to find out.
ALISON GAZED dolefully at the black zippered bag emblazoned with the Neiman-Marcus logo that was already hanging on the hook on her closet door, then turned away from it, pulled the textbooks out of her backpack, and settled down at her desk to start organizing her homework for the evening.
But even with her back to the black bag hanging on her closet door, she couldn’t get it—or its contents—out of her mind. Maybe she should take another look at herself in the dress before she sent it back. What if she was wrong? What if the dress really did look good on her, as Tasha and Dawn kept insisting when she told them she was going to return it? What if they were ri
ght, and it was the perfect dress for her birthday party?
Maybe she should show it to her mother. That would do it—her mother would hate the dress, and she’d be right, it was way too old for her, and nothing at all like the kind of stuff she and her friends in Santa Monica always wore. The most dressed-up they ever got was a skirt and blouse instead of their usual jeans and shirts.
Except she wasn’t in Santa Monica anymore, and her new friends never wore the kind of stuff she used to wear all the time. Pushing the still unopened history book aside, she left her desk, pulled down the zipper on the bag, then shed the jeans and cotton sweater she’d been wearing that day.
The dress shimmered even in the daylight of the room—under the lights of a birthday party, it would be spectacular. She took the nearly weightless dress gently off its hanger, careful to do nothing that might render it unreturnable, and slipped it over her head. The straps dropped onto her shoulders, and she delicately adjusted the fit.
She stood on tiptoe, seeing how her legs would look if she were wearing the high heels the dress demanded. And as she looked at herself in the mirrored wall surrounding the closet door, she had to admit that Tasha and Dawn were right; the dress was absolutely spectacular, and except for the bodice, it actually looked right on her.
There was a soft knock, immediately followed by her mother’s voice, muffled by the heavy wood of the bedroom door. “Honey?”
Alison hesitated, feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, then let her heels drop back to the floor. She hadn’t done anything wrong; in fact, the next thing she’d intended to do was ask her mother about the dress. “C’mon in,” she called, bracing herself for what she was sure would be an instant rejection. “You better see what I bought.”
The door opened, Risa stepped inside, caught sight of the dress, and stopped short, staring at her daughter in silence.
Seconds ticked by.
