Bikini Season

by Sheila Roberts

Angela looked disappointed. “It doesn’t?”

  “The woman who told you that, what did she look like?” asked Megan.

  Angela’s cheeks turned frosting pink. “Um.”

  “I rest my case,” said Megan.

  Angela shrugged. “It sounded good.”

  “You know, what you said a minute ago about respecting yourself really resonated,” Megan told Kizzy. She dropped her gaze. “I could sure think more highly of myself.”

  “Top ten percentile of your class, up for partner at your firm? How can you not think highly of yourself?” Kizzy wondered.

  Megan gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “It’s pretty easy, especially on a Saturday night when it’s only me, my sudoku puzzle, and a DVD.”

  “That has nothing to do with being a good lawyer,” Erin insisted.

  But everything to do with life, thought Kizzy. A woman could have all kinds of successes, but if she didn’t feel good about herself everything else rang hollow.

  “It has a lot to do with becoming a partner,” said Megan. “A big firm like mine wants partners who can bring in clients. I’m no rainmaker. I’m not exactly the queen of the cocktail party; I suck at working a room.”

  “Once you start feeling better about yourself, don’t you think that will all change?” Kizzy suggested.

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  “You’re a smart woman,” Kizzy said. “You’ll find your way. If you can learn to work a courtroom I bet you can learn to work a living room. After all, you do fine here with us.”

  “That’s because you guys always make me feel so welcome.”

  “Maybe you just have to see yourself as welcome wherever you go,” Kizzy told her. “Because you are, I’m sure.”

  Megan spooned up some carrot salad. “I guess.”

  “No, you know,” corrected Erin.

  Megan almost smiled. “You’re so full of it.”

  “Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader, I guess,” Erin said. “But really, Kizzy is right. You have to have a little faith in yourself. You can do whatever you set your mind to. We all can.”

  Megan nodded and drifted out to the dining room.

  Kizzy sure hoped Erin was right. At fifty-five she needed to get serious about taking care of herself.

  “So,” Angela said once they were all assembled. “What books did you guys find?” She pulled out two from the shopping bag at her feet and held them up one at a time. “I’ve got Dr. Phil, and this cool exercise book.”

  “I can top that,” said Kizzy. “Look what I found at the bookstore.” She held up a book titled The No Sweat Exercise Plan. “How’s this for good?”

  “I want to borrow that when you’re done,” said Angela. “I hate getting all sweaty.”

  Next Kizzy took out a cookbook. “And this is great. The good news is they even have some dessert recipes in here.”

  “Is that pizza I see on the cover?” asked Angela, leaning forward.

  “It sure is,” said Kizzy. “They claim the plan is flexible and I’ll never feel deprived.”

  “I need that,” said Angela. “I’m already feeling deprived. I wish someone would invent a chocolate diet.”

  “And a no-exercise diet,” Kizzy muttered. “Has anyone started exercising?” she asked.

  “Erin and I already started,” Angela bragged, “and I’ve got our exercise plan in my car. Do you want to try it?”

  “Is it hard?” asked Kizzy. “I was planning on easing into the exercise thing.” After all, she didn’t want to drop dead of a heart attack before she’d barely gotten started.

  “It’s very fun,” Angela assured them. “I’ll go get it.”

  “Okay, is this really fun or is it some weird thing. Angela thought up?” Megan asked Erin after Angela had rushed from the room.

  “It’s nothing Angela thought up, and I think you’ll like it.” Erin assured her.

  Angela brought in the equipment and Erin helped her set it up.

  “I’ve seen this,” said Megan. “They played this in Music and Lyrics. It looked dumb,” she added under her breath.

  “It’s not dumb,” Erin assured her. “It’s fun.”

  And it was. After their food had settled, they took turns hopping around the DDR mat while the others sang along with the songs and laughed at every misstep. Megan surprised them all by catching on quickly and keeping up the best.

  “You’re a natural,” Angela told her. “You could probably dance your way to skinny.”

  “That would be a lot of dancing,” Megan replied. Like Kizzy, she had a lot of weight to shed.

  “What the heck? You’ve got nothing to lose,” said Angela.

  “I wish.”

  By the time the party broke up everyone was pumped and ready to take down the weight giant. “Okay, ladies, same time next week?” asked Kizzy as they gathered up their salad bowls.

  “I’m in,” said Erin. “Thanks for not breaking up the club and abandoning us,” she added, giving Kizzy a hug. “This is going to be great.”

  The other two echoed her. “And let’s wear workout clothes next week and do some more fun exercising,” said Angela.

  “A DDR sock hop,” joked Kizzy.

  “That sounds good to me,” said Erin. “And tomorrow I’m hitting the gym.”

  “I’ll make it in on Monday,” Angela pledged.

  “I’m walking on Monday before I go to the shop,” vowed Kizzy.

  They all looked expectantly at Megan, whose face turned pink. “I’ll … think of something.”

  “Do they have a gym in the First Orca Trust Tower?” asked Kizzy.

  Megan looked like Kizzy had just threatened to shove her off the First Orca Trust Tower. “I … couldn’t.”

  Angela grimaced. “The pencils are there, aren’t they?”

  Megan bit her lip. “That gym, it’s just not me.”

  “How about joining Curves? I’ve heard it’s pretty nonthreatening,” Kizzy suggested.

  Megan nodded slowly.

  “There’s probably one not far from where you work downtown. You could hit it on the way home,” put in Erin.

  “I’ll check into it tomorrow,” Megan decided.

  Kizzy nodded. “Good. We’ve all got a plan. Let’s work it.”

  A plan. It was a good beginning, she thought as she waved good-bye to her guests.

  She shut the door and went to the kitchen to finish cleaning up while waiting for Lionel to come home from his bowling league. That might have been a mistake. She walked past the fridge and heard something call to her from the freezer compartment. Kizzy. Kiiiizzzzy.

  It was the Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, locked in there and wanting to come out, of course—Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, her favorite, which Lionel had dragged home a few days ago.

  No, she told herself firmly. That is not the way to get healthy.

  But there was only a little left, no more than a dab.

  She could almost feel a tiny angel with wings poking out of her warm-ups, jumping up and down on her shoulder. “Don’t do it! You got such a great start tonight.”

  Of course, for every little angel, there’s a little devil, and a chocolate one popped up on her other shoulder. “Like you said, there’s only a dab left. How fat are you going to get on a dab? All you had tonight was salad, so you can afford a dab. And a little taste of something sweet now and then will keep you from feeling deprived. That will actually help you stay on your diet.”

  She moved toward the fridge, the little angel shouting, “No, no, steer away. Danger, danger!” while the devil snarled, “Shut up, will you?”

  Kizzy opened the freezer and pulled out the container.

  “Just take one bite,” suggested the little devil.

  She opened the container and looked inside. There really wasn’t much there. And she’d been so good. She’d eaten salad and exercised. Just a bite, that was all she needed.

  She got a spoon out of the drawer and dug in. Just a bite turned into two and
then three.

  “What are you doing?” screamed the angel.

  She looked in disgust at the last remaining quarter cup of ice cream. It was almost ten o’clock. If she ate that it would go to bed with her and start a new fat settlement on her waist as she slept. This was no way to get healthy, no way to respect herself and treat herself right. She set her jaw in determination and slapped the top back on the container.

  “Oh, come on. There’s still some left,” said the devil.

  She forced her feet to march to the garbage.

  “You’re not going to throw that away, are you? That’s wasteful,” cried the devil.

  “Better wasteful than waistful,” Kizzy told it, and tossed the last of the ice cream.

  She could almost see the little devil wailing, “I’m melting,” and sinking into a brown pool. Hopefully, soon it would be her fat that was melting.

  She smiled and dusted off her hands. There. Took care of that. And she couldn’t believe how empowered she felt by that one small victory.

  Jazzed, she got out her Aretha Franklin CD. She put it on full blast and started dancing. Gus wagged his tail and gave her an encouraging bark.

  She was still dancing when Lionel came home. “Check it out,” he said. “It’s a party.”

  He sidled up to her and started dancing, too. “What are we celebrating, Kizzy girl?”

  “Feelin’ good,” she said, still grooving.

  “Yeah?” Now he was in back of her, running his hands up her arms. “You should feel good more often. Were you thinking about your daddy coming home?”

  “No, I was thinking about that ice cream sitting in the garbage instead of on my waist.”

  Lionel stopped dancing. “In the garbage? You threw out the ice cream?”

  “There wasn’t much left.” She kept rotating her hips and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Come on, Lion, celebrate with me.” She bumped him with her hip.

  “That stuff ain’t cheap, you know.”

  She turned around and faced him and did a little bump and grind against him. “Do you really want to talk about ice cream right now?”

  He didn’t, and half an hour later they both went to bed feeling good.

  Yeah, but can you keep it up? taunted a new little devil.

  Kizzy folded her pillow over her ears. She was going to win the battle of the bulge or die trying.

  Die. She sobered. She had to stay serious about this if she wanted to live a long, healthy life. Her kids weren’t even married yet. She wanted to stick around to meet her future son- and daughter-in-law and her grandbabies. Oh, yes. She could keep it up.

  Angela returned home stoked. She was going to be so hot that the office hottie would look like warm leftovers compared to her. She would be beautiful … bella, bellisima—worthy of the long line of Italian beauties in her family. Of course, she’d have to e-mail Oprah about their diet club. Maybe they’d all get flown to Chicago to go on Oprah. That would be so awesome.

  The kids were in bed when she came in and the house was quiet, all except for the sound of laughter coming from their home office. She wondered how long Brad had been in there working. The poor guy worked a ton of overtime, both at work and at home, but being salaried, he never got paid for it. Which was totally unfair if you asked her. Not that he ever asked her, but she told him anyway.

  She kicked off her shoes and padded down the hall. She’d sneak up on him and surprise him with a kiss on the back of the neck, remind him what a happily married man he was.

  “No, she doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  Her husband’s words floated out into the hallway like some evil genie, stopping Angela in her tracks and squeezing her heart. Hard. This wasn’t right. She had to have heard wrong, or walked into the wrong house.

  But no, that was Brad’s voice saying, “You’re the best.”

  Who was the best? She’d always thought it was her.

  “Ang’ll be home any minute. I’d better get off.”

  Well, he wasn’t going to get off with her!

  She marched into the office. “What don’t I suspect? Who were you talking to just now, Bradley?”

  He jumped at least two feet off his chair. “Ang. You scared the shit out of me.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her and drummed her fingertips. “What don’t I suspect?”

  “What makes you think I was even talking about you?”

  “Woman’s intuition. And you said you had to get off because I’d be home any minute.”

  “You misheard.”

  There was nothing wrong with her hearing. She pointed a finger at him. “You’re having an affair. Right in front of my back.”

  He looked like she’d just accused him of being an axe murderer. “What? How can you even think a thing like that?”

  She glared at him. “Easy after hearing what you just said.”

  He left the desk and came and put his arms around her. “Look, I wasn’t even talking about you. We’re planning a surprise party for someone at work who’s retiring. That’s all.”

  “Then why did you have to get off the phone because I was coming home?”

  “When you’re planning a surprise, the less people who know the better. I thought you might accidentally let something slip.”

  How dumb did he think she was? “If you don’t want me to know, why aren’t you doing all your planning at work?”

  “We just had something come up that needed to be dealt with tonight. No big deal.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “We who?”

  Brad’s face got red.

  She pulled out of his arms. “Ha! It’s Rachel. I knew it. You were talking to Rachel.”

  He threw up his arms. “Okay, I was talking to Rachel. So what?”

  So that was the end of their marriage. She didn’t even have time to get skinny because the other woman had already won. She burst into tears. “You’re having an affair. With Rachel!”

  “Oh, baby.” He drew her back to him and cradled her head against his chest and started stroking her hair and she tried not to think about how good it felt. “I’m not having an affair. I promise.”

  Angela was really crying now. “That’s what every man says when he’s lying.”

  He cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “When have I ever lied to you?”

  Off the top of her head she couldn’t remember any specific time. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t. She caught up a sob and wiped her eyes.

  “I’m not cheating,” he repeated. “I don’t even know what would put that idea in your head.”

  That picture of Rachel that he’d brought home, for starters.

  “And frankly, it pisses me off that you’d think I am. I have never cheated on you.”

  That was a long time to be faithful considering they’d been together since high school. She bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze. She hadn’t meant to insult him. Still. “Well, what was I supposed to think when I heard you telling Rachel the puttana that I don’t suspect a thing?” she demanded.

  He made a face. “That I’m talking about someone else.”

  “Oh.” Well, that was a possibility.

  He smiled that tender Brad smile that always made her go gooey inside. “I love you, Ang. You’ve got to know that.” He gave her a long, sexy kiss, sliding his hands down her back to her bottom. Her big, fat bottom.

  “Even though I’m a porco?”

  “I don’t think you’re a porco,” he said, and kissed her again. This time his hands wandered up to her breasts. “I think you’re hot,” he whispered, and pulled her snugly against him.

  And there was the physical evidence. Hmmm. Maybe she’d been wrong.

  Next thing she knew they were in the desk chair naked and Brad was gladly showing her just how much he wanted her.

  Okay, she thought later as she went upstairs while he checked to make sure the doors were locked, maybe she had jumped to conclusions. In the bedroom mirror she gave herself a serious examination. Brown
eyes. They were okay. But her nose was too turned up. It made her look like she was twelve. Her lips were great, though. She knew that. The neighborhood kids had teased her about them when she was little, calling her monkey lips, but those monkey lips became an asset after puberty hit. Angelina Jolie had nothing on her.

  She made a face. Monkey lips were okay. A gorilla body wasn’t. She’d always been a little on the curvy side—when you grew up in a family that celebrated its Italian roots that was bound to happen. But now she had about as much shape as a pile of pasta.

  Rachel had a perfect body.

  Angela suddenly remembered Brad’s guilt-red face when she asked him who he’d been talking to. Why would he go all red like that if he had nothing to hide? She doesn’t suspect a thing. Angela’s postsex feeling of security vanished, stolen by a hottie with red hair. Now she wanted to cry all over again. She doesn’t suspect a thing because she’s a stupido porco.

  No, don’t go there, she told herself. Brad was still only on the edge of that slippery slope that led to the No-tell Motel. She had time to pull him back. And maybe he really was planning a surprise party for someone. Don’t go loaning trouble. Have a little faith in your husband. Have a little faith in yourself.

  She’d have a lot more faith in herself once she’d lost some weight.

  Eight

  Megan had managed a carb-free weekend, and she’d joined Femme Fit, a girls-only gym. Monday morning she arrived at the firm feeling like a woman who had just won the case of her life—on the inside, at least. But the day had gone steadily downhill from there. She spent the whole morning toiling away in her windowless office, reviewing a new stack of paperwork in search of that one important bit of information Tanner Hyde needed for Newton v. Owens and had gotten nowhere. She hated discovery. It was the bane of her existence.

  No, Tanner Hyde was the bane of her existence. He reminded her of her stepfather: impossible to please, rarely smiling. And when he did smile, it was sardonic. Of all the partners to be assigned to work under! Why was he so damned hard on her, anyway? Maybe he was resentful that he hadn’t been given one of the pencils. Well, she’d like to see Pamela come up with anything.

  She dug out the little plastic bag she’d filled with carrot sticks from her lunch sack, removed one and bit down violently. No one told you when you were in prelaw, dreaming of living a Law & Order life, that you would grow up to get buried in a windowless office with a pile of paperwork and told to spin straw into gold. And even if she managed that feat, it probably wouldn’t help her make partner. She needed to prove she could bring in clients. She needed to turn herself into a rainmaker. How was she ever going to do that cooped up here? How was she ever going to make partner? She closed her eyes and saw herself winding up working for someone like Vernon Black and Associates, the ambulance chasers who advertised on late-night TV. Her life couldn’t come down to that. It just couldn’t.