Izzy As Is
Page 2
At first Zane looks startled (and maybe even a little terrified) by my relocation of his hands, but he quickly pulls it together, saying, “This is a first. I’ve never been invited to touch the Ds before.”
It’s true. We’ve been friends for almost four years (ever since we met on a photo shoot for a hair removal product), but there’ve never been any benefits involved in our relationship because I’m not Z’s type (he gravitates toward soft-spoken, anemic-looking waifs who have an artistic side like he does) and vice versa (no muscles, no bad boy vibe, no Izzy).
“This is your lucky day then. And they’re Cs, not Ds, but I’m happy to hear that they appear larger.” Best news I’ve had all day actually. “Go ahead and give ‘em a squeeze.”
Nacho snickers behind me. “Maybe you two should get a room.”
“¡Cállate!” I toss back over my shoulder. “This is strictly business. I’m asking for Zane’s professional opinion.” Staring him directly in the eyes, which are this unusual goldish-brown color that’s a bit mesmerizing, I ask, “Do I still have the goods to be a swimsuit model? Would you hire me? I mean, if you were an actual photographer, not just the assistant to one.”
“Mmmmmm . . . I don’t know,” he murmurs noncommittally as he gives my breasts a perfunctory fondle, then drops his hands and slumps back in his chair. “Probably not. You’re a little top-heavy for my tastes.”
I can tell from the glint in his eyes that he’s teasing me, probably as payback for saying he’s not a full-fledged photographer. Okay, two can play this game.
“That’s right. I forgot. You like flat-chested girls who can only fill out a bikini top with a double set of chicken cutlets,” I retort, with a smirk.
Zane smiles back at me, showing two rows of straight, white teeth. “Touché.” He dips his head down, acknowledging that my jab was a direct hit. “All jokes aside, don’t let the stupid ageism of the modeling industry make you doubt your worth. Anyone with eyes can see that you’re a woman in her prime. If advertisers and designers would rather have inexperienced, barely legal airheads promoting their products instead of a beautiful, sophisticated woman who knows what she’s doing, that’s their loss.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Topaz raises her mojito-filled glass, and the rest of us follow suit, clinking drinks, then taking generous swigs of our cocktails.
“Thanks, guys.” I’m starting to feel better, probably because of the very potent Rock Coconut Rum in my drink. Also, it’s nice to have the support of my friends. Screw Marty and all those twenty-year-old bimbos who are taking my jobs! I’ll find something even better to do with my life. The question is: what?
“I need a new career, something as fun and glamorous as modeling.”
“Okay, what’s your passion?” Topaz queries. “If you’re going to spend the next thirty-plus years doing something, it should be something you love, like how I feel about designing jewelry. My work is so interesting and fulfilling; I don’t even think of it as a job.”
“Ditto. I have a crazy schedule and work a lot of long hours, but I don’t care because I enjoy what I do so much. Hey, there’s an idea! Why don’t you become a makeup artist like me, Iz? You could apply all the things you’ve learned about style, color, and design from modeling to painting faces. Of course, you’d have to go to beauty school and take some courses, then get your certif—”
“Woah,” I hold up a hand in front of Nacho’s face, “stop right there, Señor Loco. I barely survived four painfully boring years of college. No way am I going back to a classroom.”
“What was your degree in anyway?” Zane wonders as he brings his mojito glass to his mouth.
“I had a totally generic major called ‘arts studies.’”
Zane does a spit take.
“Ew!” I gaze down at my bare arm, where most of his spewed cocktail landed, and crinkle my nose with distaste.
“Sorry,” he picks up his napkin and uses it to blot up the wetness on my skin, “but you took me by surprise. You’re like the last person in the world I would expect to have any kind of art degree. When I mentioned Rembrandt to you last week, you told me that Crest 3D Luxe is a much better whitening toothpaste.”
I shrug. “It was a liberal arts curriculum, which was pretty wide-ranging and included easy classes like music appreciation, film history, and sociology. Still, I almost didn’t graduate because I had so many incompletes the last two semesters.”
“Okay, so your education isn’t really going to help you, and you’re not passionate about anything in particular,” Nacho recaps our conversation so far.
“I didn’t say that. There is something I’m really passionate about, and that something is money. I like receiving it and I like spending it.”
“Then what about being a personal shopper?” Topaz suggests just as our waitress arrives with a tray full of appetizers. My mouth waters as I watch her set down plates piled high with some of the tasty Cuban dishes Larios is known for—bacon-wrapped maduros (sweet plantains), croquetas de bacalao (cod croquettes), and tamales de cerdo (pork tamales served in corn husks)—and I breathe in the rich, spicy flavors.
We all dive in, and my cheeks are stuffed with a fried fish fritter smothered in sweet Caribbean sauce when Topaz asks, “So, how about it? Personal shopping—you could do that, right? You know all the trendiest places in town to buy everything from purses to perfume.”
“True,” I lick some sauce off my thumb, “but do I really want to spend my days tracking down the perfect bat mitzvah gift for someone’s niece or trying to find a skirt that will flatter a lady who has a muffin top and cankles?” I shake my head. “I’ll just stick with what I’m best at—shopping for myself.”
“But you can’t shop if you don’t have money coming in to pay for your purchases,” Zane reminds me.
“I’m pretty sure that’s why credit cards were invented.” I give him a saucy wink and pop a plantain in my mouth.
“Credit cards do have limits, and last I heard, you’d reached yours on three different cards.”
“Only two, thank you very much. I sent in the minimum payment on my Discover card last week, so now I’ve got some wiggle room on that one.”
Zane frowns, making a little divot appear between his brows. “You know you’re just paying off the interest when you send in a minimum payment, right?”
“Wow, that’s eerie, Z. I could have sworn I just heard my father’s voice coming out of your mouth. Major turn-off, by the way.” I steal the untouched croqueta sitting on his plate.
“Hey, that was my only one!” he protests. “And you’ve already eaten two.”
“I’ve had a rough day, which requires the comfort of fried, highly caloric food.” I sink my teeth into the croquette’s crunchy, breaded exterior before he can get any ideas about trying to reclaim it.
Realizing he’s fighting a losing battle, Zane reaches for a tamale instead. Just as his fingers touch down on the corn husk, his phone buzzes, so he retracts his hand and pulls the device from the rear pocket of his black jeans. Quickly scanning the incoming text, he says, “Misty just left work and is headed over to After Dark for open mic night. She wants me to meet her there, so I’ve gotta roll.”
Misty. That would be Zane’s waif-of-the-moment. She eats like a bird, has an annoying habit of whisper-talking, wears nothing but neutral-colored boho not-so-chic clothing from Anthropologie (where she works as an assistant manager), and fancies herself a singer/songwriter. She’s always going to open mic nights at different cafés and clubs around town so that she can try out new material. (I use the term “new” loosely because all of Misty’s stuff sounds the same—acoustic guitar, plaintive lyrics about some guy doing her wrong. Think early Taylor Swift minus the potential.)
“Fine,” I exhale the word, along with a dramatic sigh. “Abandon me in my hour of need. Great friend you turned out to be.”
Zane winces, clearly feeling guilty. Sticking his hand in his other back pocket, he extracts his wallet, pulls out a t
wenty dollar bill, says, “Here,” and slaps it down on the table, next to my plate. “Have another mojito on me. Does that get me off the hook?”
I pick up the money and examine it closely for a few seconds before declaring, “You’re good,” then I stuff Andrew Jackson down my halter top, where he disappears into my cleavage. “Have fun at After Dark. Don’t forget to bring your ear plugs.”
“She’s not that bad,” Z mutters as he pushes his chair back and stands.
“They say love is blind. Guess it’s deaf, too,” Nacho snarks, and we all laugh, even Zane.
When he’s gone, I exchange my empty-except-for-the-ice mojito glass for his half-full one. Never let a good cocktail go to waste, I always say. Now I won’t need to order another one, and I can use the cash Z gave me to get my chipped nail repaired. See, I am smart with money despite what my friends and family say!
As we’re polishing off the last of the appetizers and I’m starting to feel a pleasant buzz from the rum, our conversation is interrupted by a familiar voice. “Izzy! Topaz! Nacho! Oh, my gosh, I haven’t seen you guys in forever.”
I turn to see Silvana Diaz, fellow model, friend (more like rival since we’re Latinas in the same age group and have always been sent up for the same jobs), and . . . I quickly take stock of the wealthy-looking, pudgy, salt and pepper-haired gentleman whose arm she’s clinging to . . . new member of the Sugar Daddy Matchmakers service?
“Yeah, it’s been a while. What have you been up to?” Besides hanging out at a plastic surgeon’s office. The once noticable bump on the bridge of her nose is gone, and her lips have doubled in size since the last time we crossed paths.
“Oh, you know, just spending time with my man.” She strokes Middle-Aged Murray’s suit-clad arm and gazes at him adoringly. “He proposed on Valentine’s Day!” Silvana shoves her left hand in my face.
“Woah!” I jerk back in surprise when I see the size of the rock on her ring finger. Has to be at least three carats, and its platinum band is studded with sparkly diamonds, too. “That is quite a ring. You have great taste,” I compliment her fiancé.
“Only the best for my little mango.” He grins up at her. Yeah, that’s right, Silvana is a head taller than her hubby-to-be.
“He calls me that because I’m sweet and exotic,” Silvana explains, and I try not to gag.
“We’re all really happy for you, Sil,” Topaz says kindly. “Have you set a date yet?”
“No, but it will have to be later this year since I’ll be busy through the summer.”
I sit up straight in my chair, suddenly on high alert. “You’re going to be tied up all summer? Did you get a national campaign or something?” Silvana is only six months younger than me, and she’s not nearly as pretty even with all her new cosmetic enhancements, so she’d better not have booked some big job, or I’m going to start flipping tables Real Housewives-style.
“I’ve retired from modeling. I don’t really have time for it anymore since Harry has to travel to Asia for business every few weeks, and I go with him since we can’t stand to be apart. Plus, it’s not like I need the money anymore.” She holds up her left hand and wiggles her fingers to remind us once again how well-off her intended is and giggles.
So, Silvana no longer has to work and by the looks of things, Harry (ew, I hope that’s only his name and not an adjective that could be used to describe his back) is providing her with a very nice lifestyle that includes international travel and some very impressive bling. Hmmmm . . .
“Good. Then, you’ll be able to afford me on your wedding day. Bridal makeup is one of my specialties as you may recall.” Never one to miss an opportunity to pimp himself out, Nacho pulls a business card from the pocket of the flamingo print shirt he’s wearing and reaches across the table to hand it to Silvana.
“He really is good,” she murmurs the words to her fiancé as she passes the card to him.
“And my weekends are booked up months in advance. So, let me know as soon as you’ve decided when the big day will be.”
“You’ll be hearing from us,” Harry assures him. “We should get to our table, love. Nice meeting you all.”
“Byeee!” Silvana gives us a wave and what looks to me like a smug, aren’t-you-impressed-with-how-well-I’ve-done-for-myself smile before leaving.
“Well, there’s my answer,” I declare.
“What was the question?” Topaz mumbles because she just shoved a big chunk of tamale in her mouth.
I sigh irritably. “What have we been talking about all night? My next job! I can’t believe it took Silvana to show me the way. It’s totally obvious now that I think about it.”
“It is?” Nacho and Topaz exchange a confused look. It’s a good thing they’re both pretty because neither of them would get very far on brain power.
“Trophy wife!” I exclaim. “That’s the next, logical career move for someone like me who’s always made her money off her looks. I can be some rich guy’s missus, travel with him, host his parties, boss his servants around, whatever, and he can lavish me with all the nice things I deserve—a bayfront house, designer clothes, a Porsche convertible—,” I start ticking off items on my wish list.
“And where are you going to find all of these rich, marriage-minded men?” Nacho raises one artfully manscaped eyebrow.
“I don’t know.” I toss a mojito-flavored ice cube in my mouth and crunch down on it. “I’m sure it won’t be that difficult. Silvana managed to snag Harry, didn’t she? And I’m way hotter than she is, so I’m sure I can do better and find a guy who’s still young and virile enough to perform in the bedroom without having to pop a blue pill.”
“Yeah, the whole Viagra thing is a bummer. Totally ruins the mood when you have to wait a half-hour for the drug to take effect.”
“TMI about your sexual inadequacies, Nacho.”
“I wasn’t talking about me!” he hastens to clarify. “I was just remembering that silver fox I dated last year, Juan Pablo.”
“His name was Juan Pedro,” Topaz interjects. She’s always done a better job at keeping Nacho’s flavors of the week straight than he has. Mine, too, come to think of it. Just last week she stopped me from texting Raoul to see if I’d left my Hanky Panky pink leopard print thong at his place when it was Raphael I’d been playing strip poker with the night before. Ooops.
“Are you sure?” Nacho purses his lips thoughtfully as he tries to remember back to like twenty boyfriends ago.
“Yep. Juan Pedro was your Cuban Anderson Cooper. Juan Pablo was the towel boy you met when you and Juan Pedro were getting a hot stone couple’s massage at—”
A funky beat and the sound of clapping start to emanate from my phone followed by Joe Jonas wailing, “Oh no . . .,” (love that “Cake by the Ocean” ringtone!), which means I’ve got an incoming call. I look down at the display screen to see who it is.
Pilar. She’s the sister I actually like (don’t get me started on that judgmental beeyatch Ana!) and normally I’d pick up, but I’ve got more mojitos to drink (yeah, I just signaled the waitress to bring me another one) and the rest of my life to figure out, so . . . I tap the red “Decline” button on my phone.
Nacho and Topaz are looking at me questioningly. “Just my sister.” I satisfy their curiosity as to who the caller was. “I’m sure it’s nothing important. Back to me and my genius plan to live a life of luxury that I don’t have to actually work for.”
“That sounds more like a dream than a plan, Iz.”
Nacho nods in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t think this is something you can just wing. You’re going to need a solid plan with like steps and stuff that will get you from Point A to Point B.”
Unfortunately, making plans has never been my strong suit. I like to fly by the seat of my short shorts and see what happens. Before I can tell my friends this, my phone dings with a text. I glance down and see that it’s Pilar again. ¡Que fastidio! I just sent her call to voicemail. Why can’t she take a hint?
‘SOS Really
need to talk to you. Urgent!!!!!!!!’
And this is the least dramatic female in my family. I roll my eyes at the phone before picking it up to text her back.
I return the phone to the table. “Sorry about that. So, where should I start with this plan?”
“You should probably hit the computer and do some resear—” Topaz is once again interrupted by the dulcet tones of Joe Jonas.
“¡Hijo de puta!” I exclaim with frustration. Jabbing the green “Accept” button on the phone’s screen, I bring it up to my ear and bark, “What?”
CHAPTER 3
“Mrs. Romero broke her leg! She was bustling around the kitchen, cooking dinner for her family, when she caught her heel on a plantain skin that had fallen on the floor—”
“Ha! That’s like the Cuban equivalent of slipping on a banana peel. Who’s this Mrs. Romero anyway?”
“The children’s nanny for the last three years,” Pilar tells me in an admonishing tone as if I’m supposed to remember the names of her household staff. Please. She’s lucky I remember the names of her kids—Nate, Gabi, and . . . what’s she planning on calling that bun she’s got in the oven right now? I seem to recall her mentioning a few names she was partial to last week when she found out the sex of the baby, which is . . . oh crap, I really should pay more attention to my sister, but she has this bad habit of yammering on and on about things. Honestly, I don’t know how her patients ever get a word in edgewise! FYI: she’s a psychologist, which isn’t nearly as cool as it sounds. It’s not like she can prescribe good drugs or save a choking person’s life with a couple of straws and a ballpoint pen—I saw a medical student do that on a commuter train in a YouTube video and it was awesome!