Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  Fran sighed again. She felt she was being steamrollered, but she found she didn’t really object. It would do her good. She pulled a small calendar out of her purse. “Okay, the prize dinner and presentation ceremony is the 19th of April. Maybe I could get to New York around the 29th of March. That’s a Saturday. That would give me three weeks. How would that work?”

  “Great.” Fran could hear the lift in Eileen’s voice. “You will just love it here. New York is the only place to be. For me it beats April in Paris any day.”

  “And for Nicki?” Fran put on a broad, very phoney-sounding French accent. “Nicki says that eet is Paree or nothing.” Both women laughed, but beneath the laughter Fran was both exhilarated and terrified. “I will be there,” she said. “I will. And I’ll get to meet you face-to-face. And Sandy, too.”

  “You know,” Eileen said, “that amazes me. I feel like we’ve known each other for a lifetime, but I’ve never actually seen you.” She hesitated. “Or Nicki.”

  The two women talked for a while longer, and at several junctures Fran had the urge to tell Eileen that it had all been a mistake and that she was going to stay in Omaha. But she didn’t.

  After she hung up, Fran lay on the bed and considered what she had gotten herself into. She wanted to do it. She wanted to have people tell her how wonderful her writing was, how much they had enjoyed the book. She wanted that kind of reinforcement. And New York. She had always wanted to see it. Not the cliché tall buildings or the hustle and bustle, but the real New York. Rich people eating at Le Cirque, dancing at the Rainbow Room. Educated people visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Lincoln Center. Refined people always knowing which fork to use and what clever remark to make. Not small town, small person, small Fran Caputo. She’d never fit in. She could never be Nicki. But she could give it a shot. After all, what did she have to lose?

  Slowly Fran got up and wandered into the bathroom. She closed the door and faced the mirror on the back of it. She pulled off her sweatshirt and sweatpants, socks and then removed her underpants. Damn it, she thought, looking at her small breasts, I don’t even need a bra.

  She gazed at herself and tried to be objective. Okay, good points. Slender. Skinny, she muttered. No. Wrong attitude. Slender. Perky breasts. Right. Tiny breasts. All the characters in her stories had large, voluptuous breasts. And legs. They all had long, sexy legs. Fran looked at her legs. She was short. She sighed and cocked her head to one side. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” her parents’ friends used to ask her. “Willowy,” she would answer, and everyone would laugh.

  But that’s what I want more than anything. That’s what Nicki is, at least in my mind. Tall, slender, graceful. She enters a room and everyone stops to look. Long arms with pianist hands. Long fingers with perfectly oval nails. Coral nail polish that perfectly matches her coral lipstick which blends correctly with the shades of her outfit, all coordinating with her shoes, bag, hose and underwear. All put together to complement her tall, slender body.

  I’ll never be that Nicki, Fran thought. I can’t grow eight inches in a few weeks. I can’t have my breasts enlarged. She ran her hands over her small tight mounds and large dusky nipples, then shook her head.

  But no one knows what Nicki looks like, she answered herself. Maybe Nicki’s short. Maybe she’s flat-chested. “Well, she’d better be,” Fran said aloud. “Because this is Nicki, for good or bad.”

  Fran shifted her attention to her face. She turned and looked deeply into the mirror over the sink. Not too bad, she thought, again trying to be objective. Good deep blue eyes, nice skin, good features. But they just aren’t quite there. This face has nice parts, but when you put them all together, they are just average. She remembered the way she had described a character in a story she had written. “She had average features. Taken individually they were nothing special, but when combined in that heart-shaped face, they became glorious.”

  “Well,” she said to her reflection, “your face is just the opposite. Good features put together to look ordinary.”

  She pulled on her sweatshirt, threw her dirty underpants and socks in the hamper and flipped off the light. In the bedroom she turned on the TV and tried not to think about the weeks to come.

  Time sped by. Several times Fran picked up the phone to call Eileen, but each time she put the instrument back in its holder. All she could do was the best she could do, and if she didn’t pull it off, she would really be no worse off than she was now. And she would have had an amazing adventure.

  During her weekly Sunday afternoon phone call with her mother she casually mentioned that she was taking a few weeks off to go to New York.

  “New York,” her mother said from Denver, “how exciting. What made you decide to do it? I’ve been after you for a long while to have some fun, but this is so sudden.”

  “Actually a friend invited me.”

  Her mother’s voice brightened. “A male friend?”

  “No, Mom, a girl I knew in school.” She had thought out her story over the past several weeks. “We got back in touch through the high school alumni group and we’ve been e-mailing each other almost every day. She’s got a friend with an empty apartment I can use and, well, I just decided to do it.”

  “Good for you,” Fran’s mother said. “And maybe you’ll meet someone nice.”

  “Oh Mom,” Fran groaned.

  “You know, Eric’s been gone for a long time. It’s time to get out, meet new people.”

  Little does Mom know, Fran thought, that one of the new people I’ll be meeting will be Nicki.

  And so it was that the 29th of March found Fran disembarking from a flight to LaGuardia Airport and walking down the long corridor toward the security checkpoint, beyond which Eileen would be waiting. She shifted her small suitcase to her other hand, adjusted her backpack and hustled across the carpet. She surveyed the crowd and saw a woman waving frantically, holding a copy of The Love Flower in her hand. Grinning, Fran broke into a trot and, when she reached Eileen, they embraced like long-lost sisters. “I don’t believe you’re really here,” Eileen said as they separated. “Let me look at you.”

  “Not too much to look at,” Fran said. “Just a short drink of water, as my father used to say.”

  “Hey, I was afraid we’d have to pull this off with a four hundred pound, dumpy, ugly woman. You’re wonderful. And with a bit of help and support, you’ll be just great.”

  Fran didn’t for a moment buy the line Eileen was feeding her, but she loved to hear it.

  Eileen scooped up Fran’s suitcase. “You’ve got more luggage, I assume,” she said.

  Fran shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I brought everything I thought might be useful, but one look at you and I realize how Omaha my wardrobe is.”

  “Oh come now,” Eileen said.

  Fran looked more carefully at her friend. Eileen was of medium height, but still at least four inches taller than she was, wearing a plum-colored wool pantsuit with a coordinated plum and emerald blouse and a black wool coat. A redhead, Eileen wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was a handsome woman who made a statement by just standing there. She could be Nicki. Oh God, Fran thought, thinking of her lime-green man-tailored shirt and jeans, with the brown wool blazer and trench coat. I just reek of Omaha. This will never work.

  “Listen,” Eileen said as she guided Fran toward the baggage carousel, “let’s get a few things straight here. You look at me as though I’m some sort of New York model. Just for your information, I’m almost twenty pounds over the maximum healthy weight for my height.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Fran said, glancing sideways at Eileen who nodded ruefully.

  “I select my clothes very carefully to cover up my thunder thighs and gigantic butt.”

  Fran stopped in the middle of the crush of people and looked more carefully. When she knew what to look for, she realized that Eileen was, indeed, larger than she should have been around the hips and thighs.

  “And,” E
ileen continued, “I have my hair carefully styled and I’ve taken classes with a makeup artist who does the faces of all the gorgeous women in Search for Happiness. I wear large, but non-dangly earrings so the effect of my short neck is minimized. I’m an illusion. And eventually you will be too. Not all illusion, since you’ve got a lot to work with, but you’ll be so much more than you are now.” Eileen laughed. “I’ve dug myself into this. Help, get me out. I don’t mean that you’re not attractive now….”

  Fran looked, really looked at Eileen and smiled inwardly. Everything her friend had said about her body was true. Maybe, just maybe there was a small chance, a very small chance, that she could pull this off. She shifted her backpack and linked her arm in Eileen’s. “I think I love you,” she said.

  Later, they sat across a tiny table in a small Italian restaurant in the east Fifties. They had spent the better part of two hours talking about everything and nothing, but the subject of her visit, even the name Nichole St. Michelle, had not come up so far.

  Eileen finished telling her the latest publishing joke, then said, finally, “Okay, it’s time to do a bit of semi-serious planning. The apartment is only a few blocks from here. You can take a few days to get used to the city, visit the museums and such, or we can get this Nicki thing started now. What’s your pleasure? But just remember that we have only three weeks to create Nicki. Actually two, since I told Sandy you’d be arriving on the 12th. She wants to see you as soon as you’re settled, which will mean lunch probably that Monday.”

  “I hate deceiving her.”

  “I know, but it’s all an illusion. Let’s talk about how you’ll present yourself when we get closer to the date. So what’s it going to be?”

  “You know I’d love to crawl into the apartment and curl into a little ball, but I can’t.” She took a deep breath. “If I’m going to do this, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Good girl.” Eileen squeezed Fran’s hand and stood up. She looked at her watch. “I told Carla I’d probably be calling around two o’clock and it’s just two-fifteen.” She grinned. “I’m not half bad. I’ll be right back.” Eileen walked quickly toward the front of the restaurant, fumbling in her purse. As she reached the coat check, she brandished a coin and grinned back at Fran.

  As she waited, Fran thought, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

  Eileen arrived back at the table and said, “She’s on her way over. You’ll love Carla. She’s actually got some time free and she’s anxious to give you a hand with everything.”

  “Tell me about her. Is she an old friend of yours?”

  “I’ve known Carla for about two years, since she sort of moved into a brownstone next door to my building. We started running into each other at the cleaners, the supermarket and we just got to talking. She’s actually from Bronxville, widowed with three great kids, all boys. I took a day off last fall and we all went to the Big Apple Circus together. I thought the kids would be jaded, there’s so much on TV and all, but we were all delighted, dazzled and amazed.”

  “Does she have a husband?”

  “Not anymore. He died several years ago.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. What does she do for a living? Or is she wealthy?” Inwardly, Fran winced. Am I going to be tutored by some rich New York socialite who’s deigning to educate some small-town hick? I don’t think so. She brought her mind back to Eileen. “I mean it must be tough raising three boys and having two homes.”

  “It’s a long story and I’ll let Carla tell you all about it. Oh, and wait until you see her brownstone. It’s got all sorts of unusual amenities.”

  They chatted for a few minutes and then Fran noticed that Eileen’s attention had strayed toward the front door. Just inside, handing a camel colored coat to the coat check woman, stood a statuesque woman in her late thirties. She was immaculately dressed, wearing a pair of pale beige wool slacks and a soft deep-gold blouse with a medium-brown wool vest. She wore heavy gold earrings and a matching neck chain. She might be a bit overdone for midafternoon, Fran thought, but it’s so put-together. I know I’m going to hate her and then how do I get out of spending time with her. Eileen’s already set all this up. I feel like I’ve just seen my blind date and I can’t stand him.

  Eileen waved and the woman walked over and took the third seat at their table. She hugged Eileen warmly, then turned to Fran. “You must be Nicki. I’m Carla Barrett. I read your book and, well, wow. I’m a devoted fan.” Her smile was wide and warm and Fran couldn’t help but be warmed by it. “I can’t put two coherent English sentences together without them sounding like a breakfast cereal commercial.”

  “Actually my name’s Fran Caputo. Nicki’s an alter ego and not really me at all.”

  “I know that,” Carla said, “but Nicki’s the woman who’s going to win The Madison Prize.”

  Eileen added, “And Carla’s just the person to help you become Nicki. I can guarantee it.”

  “Look,” Carla said. “This is really awkward for both of us. So let’s just chat for a while, and I’ll tell you what I think I can do to help. If you think you want to let me, that’s great. If not, well, I’ll understand. I don’t want you to feel pressured in any way.”

  Fran felt herself relax. She had a way out. But did she want to take it? This woman wasn’t at all what she had expected.

  Eileen leaned forward. “Carla, how are the boys?” To Fran she added, “They’re all teenagers.”

  “They’re teenaged boys.” She shook her head. “BJ’s fifteen now and so damn precocious I can’t stand it. Since he started high school he’s got girls calling him at all hours. He has his own phone so at least I have some peace.”

  “And Tommy?”

  “Please,” Carla said, rolling her eyes, “it’s Tom. Tommy is for children and, at thirteen, he’s all grown up. At least according to him. He’ll be in high school next fall and he’s already impossible. Thank heavens for Mike. At twelve he’s my baby, and he never changes. He’s still a jock. Softball, tennis, swimming. Even though my mother does a lot of the chauffeuring, it still seems I am in the car from the time school is out to dinnertime and often after. I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait until BJ can drive and help out. Fortunately my darlings are all otherwise occupied for the day.”

  “Do they look like you?” Fran asked, thinking about how handsome they must be.

  “BJ does, but Mike and Tom look more like their father.”

  “I gather you’re a widow,” Fran said. “It must be difficult.”

  “Sometimes is it, but my folks help out a lot. My husband’s been gone for a lot of years and I’ve gotten very used to being the boys’ only parent.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” Carla said. “My husband was not a very nice man and it was actually a relief when he was killed in an accident.” She waved a carefully manicured hand. “Past history.”

  “It must be nice to have a place in the city. You can see shows and visit friends.”

  Carla giggled and looked at Eileen. “How much have you told her?”

  “Actually, nothing. I thought your lifestyle was yours to tell.” Eileen stood up. “Listen ladies, I have things to do and places to go. Why don’t you get to know each other and then I’ll meet you two at your place, Carla, at say…” She looked at her watch. “…six-thirty? Then maybe the three of us can have dinner and afterward I can show Fran the apartment. Or do you have plans Carla?”

  Carla winked. Some secret joke? Fran wondered. Carla said, “Actually I do have plans for the evening, but before then I would love to have some time to get to know Fran. Why don’t I take her over to my place and explain a few things? Six-thirty works well since I have to be uptown around eight.”

  Fran felt a bit pressured again, but brushed the feeling away. Somehow she knew that she could tell Carla that she didn’t want to spend time with her and Carla wouldn’t be insulted.

  “That okay with you, Fran?” Carla asked.

 
; Carla was a nice enough person and what harm could a little chatting do? “Of course.” To Eileen she said, “You go and do your errands and we’ll see you at six-thirty. I suspect we’ll have a much better idea of future plans by then.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you a bit later,” Eileen said, blew the two women a kiss and hustled off. A kiss into the air. That’s so New York, Fran thought.

  As Fran fought down a moment of panic Carla waved at the waiter and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of extremely gooey pastry. “Have something,” she said.

  “I’m still on Omaha time and I was up at six to make an eight-thirty flight. I think I left my stomach somewhere over Pennsylvania.”

  “More coffee then?”

  “It’s tea, and yes, I’ll take some hot water.” Fran reached into an outside compartment of her backpack and pulled out a plastic bag filled with tea bags. When she saw Carla looking at her, she said, “I carry my own herb tea. I can’t have caffeine. It gives me migraines.”

  “Nasty. But you seem well prepared. That sounds like a wonderful little affectation for Nicki.” Carla cocked her head to one side. “I cannot abide caffeine,” she said in a deliberately lowered voice. “It does such terrible things to the system.”

  The two women laughed while the waiter served them. As Carla buried her fork in a mountain of whipped cream, she looked seriously at Fran. “Tell me a little about yourself. Eileen tells me you are divorced.”

  “Eric and I split several years ago. I’m not sure whether it was over or whether it never really started. We had known each other since high school and drifted into marriage because everyone, including us, expected us to.”

  “Kids?”

  “No, thank heavens.”