Made For Sex

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  “Do I really? I can’t really stand tall, since I’m not tall.”

  “Tall is as much being proud of the way you look as it is stature. But you’ll learn that. But from now on, think about what you said about me. Try to put yourself together. Use a pin or a belt. Wear jewelry, and junky is fine. Scarves are great. I have an article I cut out of a woman’s magazine about scarves and how to tie them. I’ll bring it on Wednesday. How about same time, same place?”

  “Sure. Sounds great. I’ll talk to Eileen, too.”

  The two women walked to the front door. In passing, Carla blew a kiss to the statue. “Remember, Nicki’s a kisser. And she always touches any man she’s with.”

  “Touches?”

  “Touches. Try to lay your hand on a man’s arm, or brush his shoulder as you pass his chair in a restaurant. Just lightly and it can even seem accidental. A woman never touches a man accidentally, but he doesn’t have to know that.”

  Fran laid a hand on Carla’s arm and kissed her on each cheek. “It’s been a great day.” She strode to the elevator and pressed the button.

  “Yes, it really has. And thanks for everything.”

  The elevator doors slid open and Carla winked. “Right on, baby.” And with that, like a statuesque whirlwind, she was gone.

  Fran walked around the apartment, tidying up after herself. Then she went into the bedroom and put all the cosmetics on the dresser. Every time she passed a mirror she was startled to see the nice-looking woman who looked back at her.

  The following morning at eleven Fran arrived at Jean-Claude’s midtown beauty salon which was known only as The Studio. Carla had told her that Jean-Claude was the hottest thing in town, but nothing had prepared her for this. The Studio was all done in off white with touches of dusty-blue. The female operators all wore tightly fitted, charcoal-blue smocks with beige leggings and the men were all in skin-tight blue tee shirts and beige slacks. Jean-Claude kept her waiting almost a half an hour, and when he arrived, she was astonished.

  Jean-Claude was only five feet five, with a shock of yellow hair that stood out from his head in random spikes surrounding his round, well-tanned face. He looks like a black-eyed susan, she thought.

  As Jean-Claude took Fran’s hand a woman bustled out of the back of the studio and kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re a genius, Jean-Claude. A miracle worker.”

  “Jean-Claude is delighted that you are pleased,” he said, referring to himself in the third person in a thick French accent. It was all that Fran could do to contain her laughter.

  “Well, I am most definitely pleased.” She fluffed out a haze of fine black curls around her moon-shaped face. If anything the hairstyle made her look even rounder. I’m supposed to trust this man?

  He blew her a kiss as she hustled out the front door. He leaned over and whispered into Fran’s ear. “Isn’t that just awful? She came in with a picture of some fourteen-year-old ingenue and insisted that I create the look for her. Jean-Claude couldn’t talk her out of it. And she thinks I’m a genius.” He grinned and shook his head. “And she paid a fortune.” He held Fran’s hand. “Come into the back and let’s discuss the new you.”

  They walked through the organized chaos of sixteen stations for haircuts and comb-outs, twelve sinks and more than two dozen hair dryers, most in use by dusty-blue-covered women with their faces buried in fashion magazines. Jean-Claude opened the door to his office and led Fran inside. As they settled on overstuffed beige tweed chairs, Jean-Claude said, with a very New York accent, “How is Carla? She’s such a fabulous woman.”

  “She’s wonderful and she has such wonderful things to say about the work you do.” Without meaning to, Fran’s gaze rose to his hair.

  His grin was infectious. “This is for appearances. It’s Vaseline and washable dye. Someone said I had to create an image, and that it can’t stay the same for long, so I do something outrageous every week.”

  “How do you think of new things to do?”

  “I have a supply of pictures from trendy magazines and hairstyle journals. I pick women’s styles mostly and then just have fun. Except when I’m showing a client her new self in a mirror I don’t have to look at me.”

  “Your accent has slipped a little,” Fran said.

  “Actually I’m from the Bronx,” he said in unaccented English. “Kingsbridge to be specific. This is all a front. Everyone knows I’m American, but I’ve got cachet and for as long as it lasts I’ll play along. And, in truth, I’m very good at what I do.” He studied Fran’s face. “Carla tells me you want a new look. Something European and very sexy.”

  “I guess. It’s for a party I have to attend.”

  Jean-Claude cupped Fran’s chin and turned her face toward the light. “You have great skin and your makeup’s really well done. Did you have someone do it this morning?”

  “Carla and I spent all of yesterday working on it and I spent quite a while this morning practicing.”

  “Well, you did a first-rate job.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “You need some body here, and this gray just has to go. This light brown will highlight beautifully with lots of blond streaks instead of the gray. I would leave it shoulder length so you can blow it dry in a fluff, slick it back or wear it up. Your hair has to make a statement every time you are seen.”

  “A statement,” Fran said dryly.

  “Listen, that’s not just hairdresser talk. You’re short. If your hair is ordinary, you can enter a room and no one will notice. But if your hair says, ‘Notice me,’ then your entrance will be dramatic. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  A smile spread over Fran’s face. Jean-Claude had her pegged and so, why not let him just do it. “It’s exactly what I want. Go for it. And can someone do my nails, too?”

  “You’ve got the entire day, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  By two o’clock Fran had luxury-length nails polished in a deep wine. Every time she looked down she was startled by the look. But they were certainly sexy. She could imagine one of the characters in her stories raking those nails down the back of some naked man.

  It was almost three when Fran got a first look at her new lighter, body-waved hair and the love affair began immediately. She looked years younger, airier, brighter. He hadn’t blown it dry yet, but just the color was a lift. “Now,” Jean-Claude said, walking up behind her chair in the main studio, “let Jean-Claude show you how to arrange it.”

  For the next two hours, Jean-Claude combed and styled. He slicked her hair back in a dramatic French twist, then restyled it into a soft French braid from which soft curls artfully escaped. He combed it close to her face, curling against her jaw, piled it on top of her head with three dozen pins, and finally blew it dry in soft waves around her ears. “For evening, you can even add combs or wind some pearls through it.”

  Almost speechless, she murmured, “It’s wonderful.”

  “Didn’t Jean-Claude promise you?” he said, his French accent thick. “But there’s something more that you need.” He bent over and licked a slow path up Fran’s neck to just behind her ear. Then he sucked her earlobe into his mouth and nipped at it slightly. “You need to look like a sexy woman, and now you do.”

  Totally bemused, Fran looked into the mirror. Her gaze was slightly hazy and her eyelids were lowered. “That’s the look,” Jean-Claude said. “Keep that one.” He grinned and squeezed Fran’s shoulder. “Now refresh your makeup and you’re ready for anything.” He cocked his head to one side, gazing at her in the mirror. “You know, I see you and I think, ‘If only I had met you….’”

  Fran giggled. “I’m sure that line gets you the biggest tips.”

  Jean-Claude leaned over and whispered into her ear in clear English, “It sure does, lady. But in your case I actually mean it.”

  Remembering Carla’s comment about touching, she placed her hand on top of the one Jean-Claude rested on her shoulder. “Thanks, Jean-Claude. That’s so good for the soul.”

  Half an
hour later, and several hundred dollars poorer, a new Fran Caputo walked out of Jean-Claude’s studio. Or was it now Nichole St. Michelle? Yes, Fran thought, I’m certainly closer to being Nicki.

  The weather had suddenly become mild as New York will in the early spring and, enjoying the air, she started to walk the ten blocks to her apartment. On a whim, she wandered into a small restaurant and was seated at a tiny table just inside the large plate-glass window. She glanced at the menu, ordered a plate of cheese and fruit and a glass of Chardonnay. She had a book in her new purse but, although she usually read while she ate, tonight she was content to gaze out of the window and watch the passersby.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said.

  Fran’s head snapped up and she gazed at a moderately attractive man with owlish eyes who stood beside the table. He was wearing the midtown New York uniform, charcoal-gray pinstriped suit with a white shirt, and his conservative gray tie had a small white and red figure on it. Clean shaven, he had shoulder-length hair the color of milk chocolate that curled over his collar. His eyes were deep brown and his smile was warm and friendly.

  “Yes?” Fran said.

  “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t usually accost women,” he said, “and I’m sorry if I’m interrupting, but I’m feeling kind of down today and…”

  He was trying to pick her up. Holy mackerel. Her new look? Her new attitude? Her good luck? She wasn’t going to let him, of course, but it was nice to be asked. Startled, she remained silent.

  “I’m so sorry.” He turned and headed back to the small bar area.

  This was too good to pass up. She could indulge herself for just a moment. “Did you have a bad day?”

  He turned but didn’t close the distance he had created. “Listen. I’m really sorry.” He looked genuinely miserable. “You looked a bit lonely so I thought I’d give it a try. I’m not very good at this.”

  “You’re just fine at this,” Fran said. “I’m not waiting for anyone so if you’d like to sit for a few minutes, I’m sure we could find something to talk about.”

  He looked at her, then a slow smile lightened his face. “If you’re sure it’s okay.” He grabbed his glass of red wine from the bar, walked back to the table and sat across from her. “My name’s Clark, and no, I don’t rip open my shirt to reveal the large S on my chest. Clark Rothstone.”

  “Hi,” Fran said and, after a heartbeat, she added, “I’m Nicki. Nicki St. Michelle.”

  Clark put his wineglass down and stretched his hand across the table. “Nice to meet you, Nicki. What do you do for a living?”

  “Actually I’m here on vacation. From the Midwest.”

  “Really? You look so New York chic.”

  Fran thought about the few extra minutes she had spent that morning finding a soft gray scarf and tying it, ascot-style inside the neck of her white blouse the way Carla had the day before. She’d also stopped in a little boutique and bought a large pin for the lapel of her jacket. “Thanks. That’s a wonderful compliment.”

  Over their wine, the two discussed movies and television, two passions they shared, his interest in sports, families and friends. Fran learned that Clark was the controller of a medium-sized corporation and was divorced with three children who all lived in suburbia with his ex-wife. He also had a wonderful, spontaneous sense of humor and a quick smile. An hour later, they ordered dinner and continued to find things they had in common over veal chops, rice pilaf and mixed vegetables. Dessert consisted of the sweetest rice pudding she had ever tasted. “You know,” Fran said, “this pudding is so sweet it curls my teeth. The rest of the meal is really good, but this…”

  “I know. It’s like they doubled the amount of sugar. Maybe they think I’m not sweet enough already.”

  Fran looked at her watch, startled to see that it was after nine. She put her spoon down and sipped her tea. “This has been fun, but it’s getting late.”

  She could see him hesitate, then make some internal decision and plunge forward. “I would really like to see you again. This has been such an enjoyable evening. Could I call you?” When she paused, he said, “I’m sorry. This is probably too sudden.”

  “No, it’s not that at all,” Fran said, putting her cup down. “It’s just that I’ve heard so many horror stories about New Yorkers that I’m a bit reluctant to give out my phone number. And it’s not my phone anyway.” When Clark looked crestfallen, Fran said, “Let’s do this. Why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you?”

  Clark’s face lit up. “Really? That would be fine.” He took out a business card and scribbled something on the back. “Here’s my office number, my beeper, my cell phone and my e-mail address. I’ve put my home number on the back.”

  “Phew. Technology.” She took the card and put it carefully in her wallet. Whether or not she’d use it was another matter. As Clark signaled for the check, Fran looked again at his tie. “You know, I’ve been admiring your tie. But I can’t quite make out that tiny design.”

  His laugh was rich and full. He held out the end of the tie so she could look at it more closely. “I don’t believe it,” Fran said, a grin spreading across her face. “It’s a tiny white dog peeing on a red fire hydrant.”

  “Very few get to know that. It’s me thumbing my nose at this corporate thing.” When the waiter arrived with the check, Clark put down his credit card before Fran could even take a breath.

  She decided to be honest. “I’m a bit uncomfortable with you buying dinner. I’d prefer to pay my share.”

  “I’ve enjoyed this so much that I’d like to treat.” He hesitated and looked at her carefully. “Okay. If it makes you uncomfortable…”

  “It does.”

  Clark picked up the check and glanced at the total. “If you give me about thirty dollars that should do it.”

  Grateful that he understood, she handed him the money. “Thanks for not arguing.”

  They chatted while the waiter took care of the bill and gave Clark the receipt to sign. When he left, Fran sipped the last of her tea and stood up. “This has been a delightful evening,” she said. She glanced again at his tie. “You know, that tie might just have earned you a phone call within the next few days.”

  Clark took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “I hope so.”

  They walked two blocks side by side, then said good night and parted company as Clark walked west and Fran turned east. As she walked through the brightly lit streets of the east Fifties, she thought about the evening. Clark was clearly lonely, and in a city this size and this impersonal, she could relate. Hell, she thought, you can be lonely in Omaha. She thought about the business card, now safely lodged in her wallet. She might actually call him unless life got too complicated.

  When she arrived back at her apartment, the light was blink-blink-blinking on the answering machine beside her bed. She sat down and pressed play. “You have three messages.” The first was from Eileen. “I’ve got to make this fast, but I talked with Carla and tomorrow’s great. Can’t wait to see how you look. Make plans for time and stuff and I’ll meet you. Ciao. Isn’t that sooo Nicki?” The machine said, “Four-oh-five P.M.”

  The second was Carla. “Hi Fran, it’s Carla. I hope Jean-Claude took good care of you. I can’t wait to see your new look. I talked to Eileen and we’re on for tomorrow. I’ll be at your place at about ten, and we’ll call her and decide when and where.

  “Also, I talked to my friend. His name’s O’Malley. He has a first name but no one ever uses it. Anyway, he’ll call and you two can have dinner or something. I’ve got a PTA thing tonight so I’ll be out. See you in the morning. And have coffee ready.” Then the mechanical voice added, “Six-fourteen P.M.”

  The final message began with a warm, friendly male voice. “Hello Nicki, this is O’Malley.” A flash of panic ran through Fran’s body. This was the man who was going to seduce her, teach her
about sex. No. She couldn’t. She’d have a dinner with Clark and to hell with this all.

  “Carla Barrett suggested that I call. She told me a lot about you and I must admit that I’m intrigued. She says you are bright, witty and utterly charming. If you’re not, please don’t tell me yet. She also told me that you want to become…” There was a short silence. “Oh, how can I put this without risking your wrath. You want to become a woman of the world. I know that you can’t see it but I’m smiling. It sounds so delicious.

  “I’d love to take you to dinner tomorrow evening. We can meet in a public place and there’s no pressure. None at all. But, my love, I am looking forward to the wonderful things we can do together.” There was a slightly longer silence, then the voice said, “Now I’ve done it. I’ll bet I’ve scared you off and I can’t go back and change what I’ve already said.” Fran could hear a heavy sigh. “Please, I’m a really nice guy. Call me.” He finished with his phone number. “I’ll be up for at least two hours so, if you get in early, do call.”

  “Eight-fifty-two P.M.,” the machine said. Fran looked at her watch. Nine-forty. She reached for the phone, then jerked her hand back. She could call Clark. He should be home by now. She could suggest that they meet somewhere and have a drink tomorrow night. She didn’t have to call O’Malley.

  But she trusted Carla and she was interested. I’m a grown woman and I’m entitled to some fun. She had a sudden vision of O’Malley, looking like the quintessential New York cop, with ruddy cheeks, red hair and bushy eyebrows. They’d have dinner and go to some hotel room. He’d have large, workman’s hands and he’d touch her and lick her and make her want, just like the characters in her stories. But would she be able to do the same for him?

  She grabbed a slip of paper, replayed the last message and jotted down O’Malley’s phone number. Then she pulled the business card from her wallet and placed it on the table beside the phone.

  She dialed. “Hello?” a voice said.

  “Is this O’Malley?”

  She could hear a long exhalation. “This must be Nicki. I’m so glad you decided to call. You know I’m starting to understand what it must be like to be a high school girl, waiting for the phone to ring, hoping he’ll ask you to the prom.” He cleared his throat. “There I go again, talking too much.”