Cheesecake and Teardrops

by Faye Thompson

  By the end of the week, Heather had received her first shipment of Z3K. It was easy. Almost too easy.

  “Look at you,” Charisma told Heather. “You were something before, but you’re a hot mama now.” She slid a coconut shrimp in her mouth as they shared a Red Lobster girls’ night out.

  “How much weight have you lost?” Tangie asked.

  “Thirty-seven and counting,” Heather said, sipping her raspberry lemonade.

  Tangie bowed her head and said grace. “I told you. Once you add exercise to the mix, you’re home free.”

  Heather smiled. “I have good news. I’m going on my first photo shoot. They had wanted me to lose another five to ten pounds, but apparently somebody’s interested.”

  “Finally,” Charisma said.

  “Look out, world. Here comes the next Tyra Banks,” Tangie said, raising her banana daiquiri in a toast. “Behind every successful woman is herself.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Heather raised her lemonade, and they clinked glasses. She had another forkful of crab Alfredo, relishing its creamy flavor. “I probably should have ordered the grilled chicken Caesar salad,” Heather admitted.

  “Hey, you gotta celebrate sometime. You’ve earned it,” Tangie told her.

  “Well, I’m enjoying every bite.” She reached for another biscuit, savoring one of her all-time favorite comfort foods one bite at a time. Heather looked at Charisma, who was seated across from her. “Charisma, is everything okay? You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m okay,” Charisma said.

  Tangie took a second look at Charisma and thought for a moment. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

  “Chase is pregnant with Nate’s baby.” Charisma held her head in her hand.

  “What?” Heather and Tangie said.

  “Remember when he asked me to go away with him, and I stood him up at the airport?” Charisma asked.

  They both nodded.

  “Well, after he relocated to the city, Chase went away for a business trip, and they ran into each other. Unfortunately, the rest is history,” Charisma summed it up.

  “Oh, Charisma, we’re so sorry,” Heather said.

  “Wow, that’s rough,” Tangie added.

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Charisma agreed. “I’m sick. I can’t even give my husband a baby, and this heifer is having one. She’s won.” Charisma began to cry. Heather reached in her purse and passed Charisma some tissue. Charisma blew her nose.

  “She hasn’t won,” Tangie insisted. “I bet she would love to be in your shoes. Trust me. How do you deal with seeing her at work every day?”

  “She took a leave of absence, thank God,” Charisma said.

  “But I just don’t know what to do,” she admitted through her tears.

  “We’ll get through this like we have everything else. You’ll see,” Tangie said.

  Heather had her very first shoot in Midtown Manhattan for Flow Cosmetics. Although Charisma declined, Tangie came to lend moral support. Freshly shampooed and without a lick of makeup, Heather drove to Tangie’s. They took the railroad and were in the city in no time.

  She went from hair and makeup to wardrobe. By the time she was ready for the shoot, she was perspiring slightly, so the makeup artist had to touch up her face. The entire shoot lasted less than thirty minutes.

  An hour later, she and Tangie were in Macy’s. The fall collections had arrived, and they were both looking for new shoes to add to their arsenal. The crowded elevator opened to the fifth floor, showcasing shoes as far as the naked eye could see. No matter what the hour or day of the week, the fifth floor was packed. There never seemed to be enough associates on the selling floor, and that day was no different. After trying on three pairs of shoes, Heather settled on a pair of peep-toe animal print pumps while Tangie walked out with a pair of red patent leather slingpumps. It was a good day.

  Heather was on pins and needles awaiting word from the modeling agency. Each day she rushed home to check her messages. Nothing. By the fourth day, she was welcomed home by the flashing red message light. Smiling, she listened to her one message. It was Paula. She had gotten the long-awaited fresh shipment of Z3K’s, and she wanted to give Heather first dibs. Heather wasn’t interested and did not even bother returning Paula’s call.

  Instead, she called the modeling agency and left a message for Don. He called her later that evening. Yes, Flow Cosmetics had sent over the proofs from the photo shoot. He needed her to come into the office and have a look at them.

  Heather took a day of from work and schlepped back to Manhattan. She caught the 10:32 train at the Jamaica Long Island Railroad station and arrived at Penn Station before eleven. She was right on time for her eleven-thirty appointment with Don. She walked the three blocks and was seated in the busy reception area in no time.

  Heather passed the time flipping through the latest issue of Vogue as she waited. The elevator doors opened and a beautiful brown-skinned woman stepped out. Her hair and makeup were flawless. She must have been a model. She saw the receptionist, apologized for being late, and took a seat next to Heather.

  “Are you interviewing for the personal assistant?” she asked Heather.

  “No, I’m a model,” Heather replied, smiling to herself as the words sank in.

  “Oh, okay.” She smiled, looking obviously relieved that she was not sitting next to her competition.

  The receptionist had one phone call after another. A multitasker, she transmitted several faxes and prepared packages for FedEx pickups without battling an eyelash. Finally, she stood and informed Heather that Don was ready to see her, then escorted Heather back to his office.

  Heather gathered that Don was on a call with their Los Angeles office. They were in the process of scheduling a fashion show on the West Coast and needed models for the catwalk. Don looked up and motioned for Heather to have a seat. She sat opposite his chrome-and-glass-top desk and tried to appear relaxed. Inside, she was anything but.

  The conversation ended and Don apologized for the delay. He got straight to the point. “Heather, we have your proofs from the mascara shoot. Those extra pounds you lost have made all the difference. You photograph beautifully, by the way.” He spread the head shots on his desk.

  “Come have a look.”

  Heather came around the desk and checked out the photos. He was right. The extra pounds had paid off. Her face had a definition she hadn’t seen in years. “So did I get the job?” she asked.

  “They like your photos, Heather. They really do, but there’s one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me just say that they were very impressed with you.”

  He paused. “But you have a slightly deviated septum, and this is a mascara ad. They felt that if they magnified your photo, they’d have to do too much airbrushing to reduce the bump on your nose. So they’ve decided to pass. Sorry, love.”

  Heather let out a deep sigh. Just when she thought things were working in her favor, up went another roadblock. She couldn’t win. “I see,” she said.

  “You might want to consider plastic surgery. I can give you the number of an excellent surgeon who does great work.” His eyes searched hers gently. He checked the address book on his cell phone before jotting down the number on a business card.

  Heather accepted the number and stood to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” she sighed.

  “You do that, Heather. Keep your chin up.”

  “You know something, Heather. I’m not feeling the love,” Jamal told her one night over the phone. “How long has it been since we’ve spent any time together?”

  “I know,” she agreed emphatically. “I’ve been so busy working out and running back and forth to Manhattan that I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s your schedule look like? Think you can carve out some time for me tomorrow?”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Good.”

  “How about my place?” she asked. />
  “That’ll work.”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “Seven-thirty it is.”

  “Cool, see you tomorrow.” Just as Heather hung up, her phone rang again. She picked up again, assuming that Jamal had forgotten something. “Yes, Jamal?”

  “Heather?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’s Jamal?”

  “A friend. What’s up?”

  “Didn’t you get my message? I have more pills. I’ve been trying to hold on to them just for you, but the demand is hot. Know what I mean?”

  “Of course,” Heather said simply.

  “Have you thought any more about my proposition? I mean, I can’t hold on to them forever.”

  “I know, Paula. As a matter of fact, I was about to call you.”

  “You’ve decided?”

  “Uh-huh. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” Heather told her.

  “You’ll pass? Do you know how hard it is to lose weight and then keep it off?”

  “I’m willing to try, Paula.”

  “You’ll be sorry, you little pussy teaser. I guarantee you.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, but you must be really desperate to use pills to hook women. You’re pathetic.” She hung up, seething, not knowing whom she was more mad at—Paula for making such a ridiculous offer or herself for almost agreeing to it.

  She ran herself a bath, fascinated as the bath gel Jamal had given her succumbed to the assertive stream of water, producing offspring bubbles. She soaked until her skin began to shrivel. Having lost her appetite, she turned in early. Punching her pillow as she tried to find the right spot, she realized just how tense her body was. Tomorrow, she’d see Jamal. He’d work out those kinks.

  Eight-thirty and Jamal was nowhere to be found. Heather had left messages on his cell and his home phones. Nothing. Curled up on her couch, she wondered what in the world was keeping him. He wasn’t always punctual, but then again, he wasn’t normally this late either. She sighed and sipped her wine, grabbing the remote from a nearby end table. Those damn American Idol contestants seemed extra-pitiful this season. Had they no shame? Apparently not, but as she headed for her bedroom in search of some batteries, neither did she.

  Evidently, Heather had dozed off, awakening to the sound of the telephone sometime after midnight. It was Jamal.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, checking the clock on her nightstand.

  “Well, you tell me. You think you know somebody pretty well, and then you realize you don’t know jack.”

  “Life’s funny like that,” she said, not knowing where the conversation was headed.

  “You should know.”

  “What d’ya mean?” she asked.

  “I got a really interesting call tonight on my way over to see you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep, stopped me dead in my tracks.”

  “Really. From whom?”

  “My ex. You remember Paula?”

  “Of course. What did she have to say?”

  “Plenty. I got a real earful.”

  “Is that right?” She yawned.

  “I guess I know why you haven’t had time for me lately. You were too busy sleeping with her.”

  “What?” She was wide-awake now. “You’re buggin’.”

  “She filled me in on all the details.”

  “Oh please, she’s lying. She’s mad because she couldn’t buy me with her little pill-deal scheme. So she’s telling you we’re lovers to get back at me. Don’t believe the hype,” she warned.

  “What pill deal?” he asked.

  “Her brother’s a pharmacist, and he’s been getting these special diet pills for me on the black market.”

  “Jay? Please, he’s as straight as they come. You gotta be joking.”

  “Jamal, she’s lying to you.”

  “Good-bye, Heather.”

  She called him right back, but he refused to answer. His machine picked up. Heather hung up, vowing that Paula would pay for her lies. If Paula wanted to play dirty, then let the games begin.

  Sinking her heels into its plush, ivory carpet, Heather sat in the reception area of Dr. Speller’s Upper East Side office awaiting her consultation. She had completed the questionnaire as requested. She looked at the women with their perfect profiles sitting in the room along with her, tossing their perfect hair with their perfectly manicured fingers. Their diamond rings alone could choke a bull, not to mention their stud earrings.

  Even with an appointment, Heather waited over half an hour for her consultation. When she finally did see Dr. Speller, he immediately made her uneasy. There was just something about him she couldn’t put her finger on. He was a tall, well-tanned man with cold blue eyes. He shook her hand and motioned for her to have a seat. He briefly reviewed her answers to the questionnaire before giving her his full attention.

  “So tell me about yourself, Miss Grey.”

  Heather gave him the generic story of her life, ending with her recent thirty-eight pound weight loss.

  Dr. Speller listened intensely. “I see,” he said, making notes as she spoke. He paused momentarily before continuing.

  “How do you think rhinoplasty will change your life?”

  Now it was Heather’s turn to pause. “Well,” she began. “I have always been self-conscious about my nose. I know the bump isn’t huge, but when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s the first thing I see. I’ve recently started modeling, and my nose appears to be a hindrance. I think it’s time that it’s dealt with.”

  He donned pair of latex gloves and walked over to Heather to examine her nose more closely. Dr. Speller gently held her face in his hands, viewing her nose from different angles before returning to his seat.

  “Well, Miss Grey, you’re a beautiful woman. Giving you a more flattering nose should not be a problem. It would be my pleasure. Of course, there are routine medical tests you need to undergo first, but barring any complications, I think you would be an excellent candidate.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I know this is an expensive operation.”

  “Unfortunately, since this is a cosmetic procedure, it’s not covered by insurance. However, we do have affordable payment plans.”

  “How much are we talking?” she asked.

  “Ten thousand,” he said with his fingers intertwined and both forefingers touching his chin. “But it’s well worth it. Believe me.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of money,” she sighed deeply. “Why don’t I think it over, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “That’ll be fine, Miss Grey.”

  Heather stood to leave. She wouldn’t be back.

  As Heather sat in the reception area of Dr. Taylor’s office in Jamaica Hospital, she thought about how having nurse for a mother had its privileges. Her mother was able to get her an appointment with the heavily booked plastic surgeon just by pulling a few strings. Thank goodness for small miracles. Heather had already done her homework, reviewing Dr. Taylor’s credentials and making certain that she was board certified. She had a private practice in Manhasset, and was also affiliated with Mount Sinai.

  Finally, the nurse came and escorted her into Dr. Taylor’s office. Dr. Taylor stood and greeted her prospective patient, immediately putting her at ease. The first thing that struck Heather about the doctor was her looks. She was dropdead gorgeous with flawless brown skin, hazel eyes, and a thick mane of brown hair. She couldn’t have been over forty. She reminded Heather of a Barbie doll with her perfect proportions and long, lean limbs. Noting her smile—a genuine smile—Heather instantly relaxed.

  “Heather, if I could be your very own fairy godmother, what would you have me do for you?”

  Heather put it bluntly. “I need a new nose.”

  “And you think a different nose will . . . what?” Dr. Taylor asked.

  “It’ll make me feel better about myself.”

  “In what way?” she delved.

  “For one thing, I’d be able to look back at myself
in the mirror.”

  “And you’re unable to do that now?” she asked, making notes.

  “I would feel more attractive and have more confidence without this deviated septum.”

  “I see.” She made more notes. “I’ve always wanted to be a plastic surgeon. I thought that if I could make people happy with their appearance, they’d accept themselves and begin to love themselves. Sometimes, it’s not that simple. Do you love yourself, Heather?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you like yourself?”

  “Most of the time. I just lost thirty-eight pounds so it’s a lot easier these days,” Heather admitted.

  “Thirty-eight pounds? That’s quite an accomplishment. How’d you do it?”

  “Diet and exercise, mostly.”

  “That’s wonderful. You’ll have to have a complete physical before I can determine if you’re a good candidate for the surgery. Are you on any medication?”

  Heather hesitated. “No, not really.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, Heather?” Dr. Taylor asked. “Everything shows up in the lab work.”

  “I . . . I’ve been taking diet pills—Z3Ks.”

  “Z3Ks? They’re not even FDA approved. How are you getting them?”

  “Originally from a pharmacist but now off the Internet,” she admitted.

  “You’re jeopardizing your health, Heather. Do you realize that?”

  “I haven’t had any side effects.”

  “That you know of,” Dr. Taylor reminded her. “You don’t know what those pills are doing to your body. Why do you think they’re not FDA approved? As a physician, it’s my responsibility to report this pharmacist. What’s his name?”

  “I never should have told you.”

  “You could be saving someone’s life. Maybe even your own. Do you realize that?”

  Heather thought for a moment. Paula never ever mentioned his name, but Jamal did once or twice. “His last name is Little. Jay Little? Jack Little? No, I’m pretty sure it’s Jay. Jay Little. If this gets out, I’m toast.”

  “Don’t worry, Heather. This conversation is strictly confidential. You have my word. In the meantime, I want you to begin taking this supplement to prep your body for surgery.” She picked up her pad and began to write. “You can find it in any health food store. Set up another appointe-ment with my nurse. You’ll need to take the physical after you’ve finished your thirty-day supply of the supplement. Your deviated septum is very slight. It shouldn’t be a problem to correct.” She tore off the sheet from the pad and handed it to Heather.