Summer Blowout

by Claire Cook

  And that’s how I found out. Craig had been gone for less than a month. Sophia and I were out shopping together. I stayed in the car while she ran in to pick up some dry cleaning. Her cell phone rang. I picked it up without thinking and said hello.

  It was Craig. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to answer, and Sophia and I had always sounded a lot alike. “So, are we on for tonight?” he asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” I said. And I hung up.

  “How could you?” I asked when Sophia came back to the car.

  “What?” she said.

  “That was Craig.” My heart was beating like a maniac. I could hear blood pounding in my ears, and I wondered if Sophia could, too.

  She reached back and hooked the hangers over the handle in the backseat of her car, then turned around and put both hands on the steering wheel. She didn’t look at me. “No it wasn’t,” she said. “It must have been someone else.”

  I looked straight ahead. I reached into my bag and pulled out a lipstick, a sheer muted grape called Damage, and put it on in quick, ruthless strokes. “He told me,” I lied. “He said you’ve slept together at least twelve times.”

  “We have not,” she said. “It was only—”

  “Ha,” I said. I smacked my lips to blend the color. “Gotcha.”

  They’d both sworn up and down that nothing had happened until after Craig and I had split up. Oh, puh-lease. And it didn’t really even matter. A sister is still a sister, even if she’s a half sister, and a husband is still off limits to everyone who loves you, even if he’s on his way to becoming an ex. I thought these were basic rules everybody followed.

  Mario got me the name of a lawyer, and I called the next day. Massachusetts allows no-fault divorce based on irreconcilable breakdown of the marriage. There were no kids or property acquired during our marriage. So it was no fuss, no muss. A 120-day waiting period, plus about four more months, and I had my divorce papers. Piece of cake.

  I rolled down the windows and took a deep breath, hoping it might make me feel better. No such luck. Air was highly overrated. I pushed the lever that released my trunk. I opened my car door and jumped out. A car swerved around me, and the guy driving it leaned on his horn. I gave him the finger.

  I lifted the hood of the trunk and reached in and opened my case. It was starting to get dark already, so I had to root around to find Sean Ryan’s card.

  I’d been hanging around acting like a victim long enough, and a makeup kit seemed like it might be my best shot at some forward motion. Especially since, at the moment, it was the only thing I could think of.

  “HI,” SEAN RYAN’S VOICE SAID. Actually, according to his card, Sean was his first name and Ryan his last. But it was too late for that. He’d already become SeanRyan in my mind.

  “Hi,” I said. I felt that quick flash of relief I get when something happens so easily it’s clearly meant to be.

  “You’ve reached me, but I’m either off hang gliding in Argentina, or I’m not answering the phone. So leave a message.”

  I hung up without leaving a message. Why even bother. Sean Ryan was a man. Men sucked. Therefore, by definition, Sean Ryan would ultimately suck, too. All I really wanted from him was to find out how to make a kit of my own, and with my luck, he would probably turn out to be some kind of scam artist anyway.

  I was still parked on the side of the road, and I was leaning back against my car, a red Volkswagen bug with a black convertible top. Since I had dark brown hair and green eyes, I looked great in that car. People don’t think about that enough, in my opinion. Why buy a car in a color that doesn’t work on you? There’s nothing worse than seeing an otherwise attractive woman driving by in a drab gray car that saps the color right out of her face.

  Not that the right car seemed to be doing me much good at the moment, but I climbed back in anyway. I sat there until every single car coming at me had turned on its headlights. Then I sat there some more, until the flash of each passing light really started getting on my nerves.

  Finally, I started driving. Up and down the streets of Marshbury, going really slow so I could look inside the windows I passed. It was amazing how many people didn’t bother with their blinds. They just left their houses opened up like great big fishbowls. I passed people watching TV, people eating dinner, even one couple making out in an upstairs window. They were really going at it. They’d probably just met. They might think they had it all going on now, but just wait. Pretty soon they’d be driving around by themselves, too.

  Okay, before I turned into a certifiable Peeping Tom, I had to find something else to do. I really didn’t want to go home and face all the worried messages everyone had probably left for me. Mario, for sure. And most likely Angela and my father. Possibly one of the stylists. And maybe even Tulia, though she was pretty self-absorbed. I didn’t usually fall apart that way in front of people. I wasn’t the one who ran out of a room. I was the one who made the other person run.

  When we were first together, I used to think Craig and I were like complementary colors. I was orange and he was blue, or maybe I was red and he was green. In any case, we each made the other stand out. Because I was opinionated, Craig appeared even more laid-back. Craig thought first, then acted. I acted and reacted immediately. In the early years, our differences created both excitement and balance. But when we started to drift apart, it was as if we didn’t even speak the same language. The more he detached, the more I pushed. The more I pushed, the more he detached. We were still exactly the same people, except somehow now our colors clashed.

  Before I ran out of gas, I had to find somewhere to go. I tried to think of a friend who might be home on a Friday night, someone who might not have anything to do tonight either. Most of Craig’s and my friends had been couples friends. I’d always been independent, but I was flattered that Craig wanted to be with me all the time. He had enough of a problem with me spending so much time with my family, so I kind of let my female friendships slide while I was married. I hadn’t quite had the energy yet to figure out how to start rekindling those. Do you just show up one day and say, Hi, I’m ba-ack?

  I was probably halfway there before I realized I was driving to my mother’s house. As much as I loved my mother, this was a sad way to spend a Friday night on so many levels. First and foremost was that sympathy was not my mother’s strong suit.

  I turned off the main drag into my mother’s gated townhouse complex. I’d never seen anyone in the guardhouse in the two years since she’d moved there, so I really didn’t know what that was all about. Maybe they kept meaning to get a guard, like I kept meaning to get on with my life. Maybe by the time they got a guard, I’d be ready to date him.

  The buildings all looked pretty much the same from the outside, and I always forgot whether my mother lived in Building B or D. I pulled into the Building C parking lot, so I wouldn’t have to drag myself too far if I guessed wrong the first time. As soon as I got out of the car, I remembered it was Building B. Definitely. I’d have to write it on my hand so I’d remember next time.

  Inside the tiny lobby, I pushed the buzzer marked M. O’NEILL. I waited. My stomach growled. I pushed it again. Great. Even my mother had a life. I slid down to the floor of the lobby and called her cell phone.

  “Hi there,” her voice said after the fourth ring. “I’m either out saving the world or just plain having too much fun to answer my phone. So please leave a message at the tone.”

  I hung up. What was the telephone world coming to? Was I the only one who still had my default greeting? I applied some ChapStick Medicated Classic to my parched lips. I looked at my phone for a long moment, then dialed my voice mail. I punched in my password, then pressed three to change my personal options. Then I pressed one to change my greeting. I was thoroughly exhausted from all that effort, but I somehow managed to record a new message.

  “Hi, I’m either off skinny-dipping in Corsica with my hot new boyfriend, or out screwing my ex-husband’s brother. But, hey, feel free to leav
e me a message anyway.”

  Then I checked my messages so I wouldn’t have to do it later.

  Not a one.

  6

  THE RING OF THE PHONE WOKE ME UP FROM A DEAD, depressed sleep. I rolled over an empty container of ice cream on my way to answer it. A chocolate-swirled puddle leached out from the crushed container and onto my pillowcase. I circled my finger around in it and licked it off. My standards must really be slipping if I’d left that much in there.

  “What,” I said when I found my phone.

  “Hey,” Mario’s voice said. “Don’t take it out on me. I’m just calling to make sure you remember you’ve got a wedding. Hair and makeup for the whole bridal party at nine. Bride, mother of bride, matron of honor, three bridesmaids. The wedding starts at two, so don’t be late.”

  I kicked my way out of the covers. “You know, a little sympathy would go a long way.”

  Mario paused, never a good sign. “Sophia was really upset,” he said finally. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You were a little rough on her, don’t you think?”

  I shut my eyes. “Ohmigod. Is everyone else taking her side, too?”

  “We’re just trying to see both sides, Bella. You and Craig were already separated when they started dating.”

  “Oh, stop. Everybody always says that.” I pushed myself out of bed and started aiming for the coffeemaker. “We have no idea how long it was really going on. I mean, why else would Craig have left me?”

  “Bottom line, you should feel lucky. Craig’s an idiot.”

  Of course, I was out of coffee filters. I pulled off a hunk of paper towel from the roll and tried to fold it into a cone. “So what,” I said. “He was my idiot.”

  I opened my freezer and grabbed the coffee and started shaking it on top of the paper towel. Then I added tap water and pushed the On button.

  I opened the refrigerator next and grabbed a tube of Sephora Fresh Gloss, which had a clean, minty scent that worked well with my toothpaste. I was amazed at how many women didn’t know enough to keep their lip gloss in the refrigerator. Not only does it keep it from melting in the summer, but it lasts longer that way.

  The cool sensation on my lips was almost enough to make me feel human again. A quick fix in a life where there are no others.

  I traded the lip gloss for a yogurt and managed to find a clean spoon.

  “Love happens, Bella,” Mario said into the phone that was still attached to my ear.

  “Love happens? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  I took a spoonful of yogurt, then spit it into the sink and rinsed out my mouth. Belatedly, I looked for the expiration date, which was covered with a price sticker. Why did everything always have to be so complicated?

  “Bella?”

  I poured some coffee and took a gulp to get rid of the sour yogurt taste. “Yeah, I’m here. It’s the Harborside Inn, right? What’s the bridal party’s name?”

  “Right, the Harborside. They’ve got the wedding suite. I’m not sure about the name. The bride’s father came by the salon. Twice. The first time he said it, it sounded like Psilocybin, and the second time like Silly Siren. But he paid for everything up front, in cash no less, so we’re good to go.”

  “Silly Siren?”

  IF THE BRIDE DIDN’T STOP dry heaving, I was seriously going to burn her with the curling iron. Of course, this might be her best shot at being a hot bride. She had baby fine hair and a fishlike mouth, and the cords of her neck stuck out every time she started up again.

  “She always does this,” one of her bridesmaids said. “You should have seen her before the engagement party.”

  I’d already finished doing airbrush makeup and hair on the matron of honor, who looked like an older version of the bride, minus the dry heaves, as well as the three bridesmaids. Now they were throwing things all over the bridal suite and getting dressed in cornflower blue tea-length taffeta bubble dresses with shirred bodices and empire waists that didn’t do much for any of their body types.

  Normally, I would have done the mother of the bride next, but she was huddled in a corner, and she waved me off when I approached her. So I figured I’d get the bride out of the way and then go back to her.

  As if things weren’t crazy enough, there were two wild little kids in shorts and striped polo shirts running around screaming. And on top of that, a tiny yippy dog kept nipping around my ankles. The dog was also wearing a cornflower blue taffeta bubble dress, but it was cut a bit shorter than tea length—probably so the tiny yipper wouldn’t pee on it—and pinned in the back with a sparkly brooch.

  “Is this hotel pet friendly?” I asked. We’d never had dogs growing up, and I still hadn’t quite managed to grasp the point of them.

  “Stop being so high maintenance, Precious,” the bride said between bouts. “Next time I am so getting a Peekapoo.”

  Precious ignored her and kept nipping at the air around my ankles. The bride picked her up and threw her on one of the beds. No wonder the poor dog had no manners.

  The bride’s father had been pacing in the hallway when I’d stepped off the elevator and headed for the bridal suite. He was tall and old-fashioned-looking, with wavy gray hair slathered with hair pomade. He had the oddest accent, and he introduced himself as Mr. Something or Other without shaking my hand. Mario was right. It could have been either Psilocybin or Silly Siren. Or even Silver Sighting.

  Now he pushed the door to the bridal suite open. He averted his eyes, walked in far enough to hand the bride a cell phone, then turned around and walked back out again. This was probably a good thing, since two of the bridemaids were in the process of exchanging bras.

  “This is amazing,” one of them said. “Your B bra pushes up my C cleavage.”

  “And your C bra,” the other one said, “makes my A cleavage look like there’s something there.”

  I was about to call Maidenform to sign them up for a commercial, when the bride closed the cell phone. She really started dry heaving in earnest now. I was never going to get rid of this wedding party if I didn’t get her under control.

  “Go get some wine,” I whispered to the only bridesmaid left wearing her own bra. “Fast.”

  Then I turned on the TV to the Food Network. Even the wild little kids and the tiny yippy dog settled down. We all sat there and watched for a few moments, and I tried to learn about blanching, which was something I’d never fully understood either.

  “That was John,” the bride said between heaves. “He’s the groom. He couldn’t get me on my cell. I must have left it on vibrate.”

  “Shh,” I said. “Wait.” Precious came over and yipped and circled a few times, then peed on the rug. I was right about the dress. It stayed dry as a bone.

  The wild little kids screamed. They ran over to take a closer look at the pee. Precious jumped back up on the bed without being thrown. The mother of the bride dropped a towel on top of the pee and stepped on it, which made the wild little kids scream some more.

  The bridesmaid returned from the bar with an open bottle of white wine. She poured a glass, and the bride gulped it down.

  “They have to go back to Braintree,” she said when she finished. “They got all the way back with the tuxes, and they forgot to give them any pants.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “I like it. A Risky Business kind of wedding. You know, tux jackets with the shirttails sticking out, and all those sexy male legs.”

  The bride started to giggle. I grabbed a hunk of hair and got going on the rest of her corkscrew curls with the curling iron

  “Maybe we could find them some kilts and a bagpipe,” the C cup bridesmaid said. The bridesmaid with the wine handed her the bottle, and she took a big slug and handed it back.

  “They’re going to stop by the walk-in clinic and get a throat culture while they’re up there. John thinks he might have strep throat.”

  “He’s a total hypochondriac,” the A cup bridesmaid said.

 
“Guess who’s having a baby?” the bridesmaid in her own bra said. “Allison and Mark.”

  “Are they back together?”

  “They were for one night. Don’t tell her I told you.”

  I got the last curl nailed down without any hitches. That wine was really working. Now all I had left was the mother of the bride, who got up and went to the bathroom as soon as she saw I was ready for her.

  “What’s her problem?” I asked the matron of honor.

  The matron of honor shrugged. “She’s still not over my wedding. She thinks one of the makeup people insulted her.”

  The bathroom door opened. “I heard her say it,” the mother of the bride said. “She said, ‘I don’t do old eyes.’”

  “No she didn’t,” the matron of honor said. “She said to the other one, ‘Why don’t you do her. You’re better at older eyes.’”

  “Same thing,” the mother of the bride said.

  “It is not, Mom,” the matron of honor said. “Not even close.”

  I patted the stool in front of me. “Sit,” I said. “I’ll give you eyes so young the bartender will have to ask for your ID.”

  Like many women her age, the mother of the bride was the victim of serious eyebrow overplucking. I gave her a few drops of Visine, primed her, dabbed some concealer around her eyes and nose, and airbrushed her. Then I filled out her eyebrows with an angled brush and soft brown eyebrow powder and told her never, ever to use an eyebrow pencil on them again.

  I handed her my eyelash curler and let her do that part herself. I’d learned this the hard way when one of my clients sneezed while I was curling her eyelashes. I still cringed when I thought about that one. But curled eyelashes really make eyes of any age pop, so it was worth waiting for her to figure it out.

  Then I gave her smoky eyes, and to minimize her droopy eyelids, I added a bit of deeper brown on the saggy parts. Next I added some frosty white under her brows. If you’re careful not to overdo it, just a bit of frosted eye shadow there can really open up your eyes and make you look younger. I added some subtle false eyelashes and lots of Maybelline Intense XXL mascara in brownish black. I finished her off with Red Hot Mama lips.