Bikini Season

by Sheila Roberts

  And, as it turned out, they were. They worked great. The first day she took them her appetite vanished. And she had sooo much energy.

  “And I’ve lost three pounds already,” she bragged to the Bikinis.

  “Wow, that’s great,” said Erin. “I need some of that.”

  “I’d read the fine print first,” Megan said. “You don’t know what kind of side effects these could have. Ever hear of fen-phen?”

  “But these pills are herbal,” Angela said. “Totally safe.” She took a little sandwich bag containing one of the miracle pills from her purse and shook out the pill, then popped it into her mouth and washed it down with some diet pop.

  Megan took another celery stick and dipped it into her feta cheese dip. “Well, I guess if it’s working for you, but I think you should proceed with caution.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not taking any more than the bottle says to,” Angela assured her, finishing her pop.

  Megan shrugged. “I wouldn’t trust any diet product that labeled itself a quick fix. I don’t think there is such a thing.”

  “Me, either,” Kizzy agreed as she set out pulled pork and cabbage salad. “That type of thing’s been around since I was your age, and this just sounds like good, old-fashioned speed to me.”

  Angela frowned. “It can’t be speed. It’s herbal.”

  “Just because it’s herbal doesn’t mean it’s good,” Megan said. “Marijuana is an herb.”

  Angela shrugged. “Well, this isn’t marijuana, so I’ll be fine.”

  And she was fine until she woke up at one A.M. with the sweats and a racing heart.

  “Oh, my God. I’m having a heart attack!”

  Eleven

  “Brad, Brad, wake up!” Frantic, Angela shook her husband hard enough to rattle every tooth out of his head.

  “Wha?” He raised his head from the pillow and tried to focus on her.

  “I’m having a heart attack,” she wailed.

  He shot up. “What?”

  “My heart’s pounding like it’s going to come out of my chest. Oh, God, Brad. Who’s going to raise my babies?”

  He bolted out of bed. “I’ll call 911.” He rushed out of the room and Angela sat there in bed, willing her heart to stop this frenzied beating. She was too young to die.

  He returned, phone to his ear. “What are your symptoms?”

  “My heart’s racing so fast and I can’t make it stop.”

  “Her heart’s racing,” Brad reported. “Dizziness?” he asked her.

  Dizzy? Did she feel dizzy? She fell back down, her head landing on the pillow with the thud. Yes, she decided. She felt dizzy.

  “Yes,” Brad said. “Sweating?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she cried. “I feel all shaky.”

  “She feels shaky,” Brad reported. He sounded as shaky as she felt. “How fast can you get here?”

  Maybe not soon enough, maybe she’d die right here in Brad’s arms. She felt chilled now. And shaky. And scared. Oh, God!

  He rattled off their address, then sat down on the bed and hugged her. “They’ll be here in just a few minutes. You’re going to be all right.”

  Maybe she only had a few minutes left. “Brad, if I die I don’t want the girls to grow up without a mother. You have to remarry.” But not Rachel. Dear God, please don’t let him marry Rachel. Never mind that. Please don’t let me die!

  It felt like forever before the aid car arrived, its flashing light splashing the dark night with red. Red. Blood. Oooh.

  “I’ll let them in,” Brad said, and dashed out of the bedroom.

  And then he was back and the bedroom was filled with paramedics and equipment, and a stranger was asking her all kinds of questions and fishing around in her ratty old sleep tee, sticking disks connected to wires all over her boobs. She felt like the Bride of Frankenstein, about to get zapped to life.

  She didn’t care. Just let me live.

  It was the longest night of her life, and the most embarrassing. After testing her on his fancy machine and grilling her with all kinds of questions, the paramedic pulled the Dr. Frankenstein stuff off her, leaving sticky goop on her boobs, and gave her the good news that she was going to live. “But you should still set up an appointment with your doctor,” he said. “Get checked out. And meanwhile you might want to lay off the diet pills and caffeine. That was probably what caused the problem.”

  “She will,” Brad said, and gave her a stern look as he escorted the paramedics out of the bedroom.

  “No more of those pills, Ang,” he said when he came back. “I want you to promise me.”

  “But they were working so good.” How sad. She’d finally found something that worked and it turned out not to be good for her.

  “Yeah, they were working good at trying to kill you. No more. I mean it.”

  She nodded and slipped down under the covers. Quick Fixx would go in the garbage first thing in the morning. She wanted to lose weight, but she didn’t want to wind up as a skinny corpse. Back to losing weight the hard way, she thought with a sigh.

  “It may be hard, but it’s still the best way,” Kizzy told her the next time the Bikinis met.

  “You’re right. And you were right about the pills,” Angela told Megan. “I asked my doctor about them and she said anything that speeds up your metabolism like that isn’t good.”

  “I rest my case,” said Megan. “I’m just glad you didn’t do serious damage to yourself.”

  “Me, too,” said Angela. “It wouldn’t do any good to get hot if I didn’t live to see it.”

  “You’re going to get there,” Kizzy told her. “We all are.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” quipped Erin, raising her glass of Diet Coke.

  “Me, too,” said Angela, and grabbed for a water bottle. “Just not with anything that has caffeine.”

  The Bikinis had been working on their new bodies for a month and making progress, but now Valentine’s Day, diet death day, was breathing down their necks. And the e-mails were flying.

  From Angela: I WANT CHOCOLATE. This sucks.

  From Erin: Okay, confession time. I already bought one of those mini-Valentine candy boxes and ate the whole thing.

  From Kizzy: I forgive you, my child. Now get back on the wagon with the rest of us!!!

  From Erin: The worst day is going to be the day after VD, when all that chocolate goes on sale. I’ll need a twenty-four-hour armed guard. Who am I kidding? I need a twenty-four-hour armed guard every day. Things are going great with Adam. So why am I cheating like this?!!

  From Kizzy: You can still eat, just try and find things that aren’t so bad for you. Pistachios are great.

  From Erin: Nuts. Yuck.

  From Megan: Remember, nothing tastes as good as thin feels.

  From Angela: Except chocolate. DIETING SUCKS!!!!!

  From Kizzy: Don’t worry. I’m serving something this week to make all your taste buds happy. And it will be almost guilt-free.

  From Angela: Is it chocolate?

  From Kizzy: LOL. Yes.

  From Erin: Guilt-free chocolate. I’LL DRINK TO THAT!

  From Kizzy: ALMOST guilt-free.

  From Angela: Almost is close enuff 4 me.

  Megan read the exchanges and smiled. Now that she’d cut that stuff out of her diet she was finding she didn’t have the cravings for it like she used to. She’d lost another two pounds—and a ton of negative feelings. That was the best.

  Pamela had actually thanked her for the card. “But I’m still going to make partner before you,” she’d warned.

  “The verdict’s not in yet,” Megan had replied.

  Another e-mail popped up in her mailbox. This one from Angela : “If Brad gets me chocolates I’m going to throw them at him. It will be too much, too late.”

  Brad Baker seemed like a nice enough guy, but you never knew. Poor Angela—if Brad was cheating on her, Megan would make sure she got the best divorce lawyer available.

  Angela threw one of Brad’s shirts
into the washing machine. No hint of perfume on it. No lipstick—as Megan would say, no evidence. Maybe they hadn’t done it yet. They were still brushing hands when they passed paperwork back and forth, enjoying an accidental boob graze here and there. She thought of Brad pulling an accidental boob graze on Rachel the puttana and her jaw clenched.

  And then an even worse thought came into her mind. Maybe the reason she wasn’t finding any evidence was because they were staying late at the office and going at it bare naked on top of Brad’s desk. Anyway, even if she didn’t have that kind of evidence, she had other proof.

  “I know he’s cheating on me,” she said into her phone headset. “I found the cell phone bill. He’s made a ton of after-hours calls to Rachel’s cell.”

  “You know for sure it’s Rachel?” asked Erin.

  “Oh, yes,” Angela said grimly. “Believe me. I checked.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Erin said. “He could be calling her about business.”

  “The kind of business that gets done while somebody’s on her back.” Oooh, she’d kill him dead.

  “Maybe you should follow him,” Erin suggested. Angela heard a muffled voice in the background. “We need to get on that right away,” Erin said to the mystery person. Then to Angela, “Okay, I’m back.”

  “I shouldn’t be calling you at work,” Angela said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’re there for each other. Remember?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for listening.”

  “No problem. I still don’t think Brad would ever cheat on you, though. Really.”

  That was what Angela’s mother had said, too. Mom had not been at all understanding. She’d informed Angela her husband was NOT cheating on her and concluded with the advice that Angela not do anything foolish, but instead concentrate on making her husband happy on Valentine’s Day. And they said mothers were supposed to give you good advice. Ha!

  “I never thought he would cheat, either, not until he started acting so guilty.” Angela slammed the lid down on the washer.

  “Innocent until proven guilty, that’s what Megan would say,” Erin advised.

  “I know Brad. Something’s going on,” Angela insisted.

  “Geez, I hope you’re wrong. As far as I can see you guys have got a perfect marriage. Don’t go bursting my bubble.” Erin lowered her voice. “Here comes Gregory. I’ve got to go.”

  “And so do I,” decided Angela. It was time to do something.

  She arranged an after-preschool play date for Gabriella, then took Mandy over to her mother’s. She didn’t tell Mom what she was up to. Mom would have just given her a lecture about trusting her husband. Maybe Mom had forgotten about Grandpa Grigoni cheating on Grandma, but Angela remembered the story of how Grandma clocked the woman with her purse right in the middle of a busy restaurant. Sometimes a woman had to take action.

  On the way into the city Angela called Brad on her cell phone. “Were you busy?”

  “No, just about to go into a meeting. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that dinner might be a little late. I have to run some errands this afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  “I guess you’ve got a full day, too,” she said, fishing. She wasn’t quite sure what she was fishing for, but she knew she’d recognize it once she caught it.

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve got to go, Ang. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay.” She rang off, and tossed the phone on the car’s passenger seat.

  She drummed her nails thoughtfully on the steering wheel. What did she know so far? Brad was still at the office. He hadn’t gone out to lunch. If he was having an affair with Rachel they’d probably find a way to do lunch, among other things. She’d stake out the loan center and wait. When they came out, she’d follow them.

  She parked across the street and down a half block from his building and drummed her fingernails, watching as people came in and out of the big, gray building and cars sloshed by on the rainy street. After an hour and a half she had a problem. Brad could be coming out any minute and she had to go to the bathroom. This never happened to detectives in movies. She told her bladder to be patient.

  But her bladder wasn’t listening. When it had to go, it had to go.

  She got out of the car and ran across the street. There was a bathroom off the main lobby, far enough away from Brad’s office that she could get in and out without him seeing her.

  But wait. Marion the receptionist would see her. And she’d tell Brad.

  Now Angela really had to go. What was she going to do? Inspired, she put her purse up to the side of her face, like a criminal on trial trying to avoid the cameras, and slipped into First National’s loan center.

  She was halfway down the hall when a female voice called, “May I help you?”

  Marion! The jig was up.

  Thinking fast, Angela dropped her voice a notch and said, “I was hoping I could use your bathroom. My car had a flat tire,” she added, just to add some urgency.

  “Right down the hall,” said Marion. Her tone of voice made it sound like she thought Angela was completely whacked. Hopefully Marion wouldn’t call security.

  Angela hurried into the bathroom and did her business. Then, she opened the bathroom door a crack and peered out to make sure the coast was clear. She didn’t see anything, but coming from down the hall she heard voices—a couple of men’s voices, a woman’s voice. One of the men’s voices laughed. Brad! She’d know that laugh anywhere. That meant the female voice had to belong to Rachel.

  The voices got closer and she drew back inside the bathroom. They were on their way to lunch, probably walking to the steak house down on the corner. She’d let them get out the door and then she’d follow them.

  The voices were right by the bathroom now. Give them time to get by. She’d count to ten, slowly. One, two …

  The door opened, and she turned away and pretended to be looking for something in her purse. A woman walked past her to a bathroom stall and she got a look at who it was in the mirror. Rachel!

  Rachel went into a stall, and Angela slipped into the one next to it. She stayed there until she heard Rachel leave her stall and wash her hands. She forced herself to remain hidden until she heard Rachel exit the bathroom, then she bolted out of the stall and ran to the door.

  She cracked it open and looked out. She didn’t see anyone. The coast was clear. Okay, go! She hurried down the hall, keeping her purse to the side of her face. She was halfway to the door when she heard Brad’s voice again. She whirled around and raced back to the bathroom.

  Safely inside, she leaned against the door and tried to calm her breathing. That had been a close one.

  Suddenly the door moved and she jumped away.

  “Miss, are you all right?” Marion poked her head around the door. At the sight of Angela her eyes popped open wide. “Angela?”

  Angela could feel her cheeks sizzling. “Oh. Hi, Marion.”

  “Are you all right?” Marion asked.

  “Um, yeah. I was going to surprise Brad.”

  “He just left for lunch. If you hurry you can catch him.”

  “Okay,” said Angela. “And Marion?”

  Marion looked at her expectantly, maybe hoping for an explanation of her weird behavior.

  “Don’t tell Brad I was here. Okay? Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  “Okay,” Marion said slowly.

  “Thanks,” Angela said, and left, trying to act like she hadn’t a care in the world.

  She got outside the building just in time to see Brad walking down the street with two other men. And Rachel.

  Well, at least they weren’t going to lunch, just the two of them. Hope seeped into her heart. Maybe Brad hadn’t gone over the edge yet. Maybe she could still keep him safe at home.

  But then the two men got into a car parked at the curb and drove off down the street and Rachel and Brad kept walking. Oh, Brad. How could you?

  “I’ve
got to lose weight faster,” Angela said as the Bikinis dished up from their latest diet smorgasbord on Kizzy’s counter.

  “If you lose too fast you won’t keep it off,” said Megan, spooning some of Erin’s Mexican veggie soup into a bowl.

  “If I lose too slow I won’t keep my husband,” said Angela, making Kizzy frown disapprovingly. “I gained back half of what I lost on the diet pills,” she added miserably.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m not doing well, either,” said Erin with a sigh.

  “Maybe we need some kind of reward to help us stay motivated,” Kizzy said. “A trophy or something that we can pass around. You know, whoever does the best in one week gets to take it home with her for that week.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Erin said. “What should we call it?”

  “The Skinny Minnie Award,” suggested Kizzy.

  “The No-fat Nobel,” cracked Megan.

  Erin snapped her fingers and pointed to Megan. “The No-belly.”

  “The No-belly award. I like it,” said Kizzy.

  “There’s a trophy shop not far from my office. I’ll go there and find us something tomorrow on my lunch hour,” Erin volunteered. “You know,” she added thoughtfully. “Most athletes win a trophy and get some money, too. What if we each kicked in twenty-five dollars and the person who lost the most weight by bikini season got the pool as a reward?”

  “Ooh, I like that,” Angela said, perking up. “A hundred dollars would buy a new bikini and then some.” She could already see herself in that bikini, strutting past Brad. Then out of the bikini as Brad made mad, passionate love to her.

  “A new dress,” said Kizzy.

  “And shoes,” added Angela, getting up. A bikini and high heels, just like Miss America wore—she would be magnifica. She grabbed her purse and fished out a twenty and a five and slapped them on the table. “Okay, ladies. Ante up.”