by Nancy Thayer
“Don’t talk to me about younger women!” Alice growled. “I’m working with one since my company’s merged, and she’s about as respectful of my seniority as a Shetland pony is of a Clydesdale. In meetings, I feel like a Clydesdale—enormous, plodding, and fat-assed, while she frisks around on her pretty pony legs, shaking her fancy mane.”
“Ladies.” The waiter appeared with their orders: salads or broiled fish for three of the women, chocolate cake for Shirley. Alice, Marilyn, and Faye stared at the dessert with surprise.
“Well,” Shirley pointed out, “you are all enjoying alcoholic drinks! I need some indulgence!”
“Is it as good as it looks?” Marilyn asked.
Shirley took a bite. A look of utter bliss crossed her face. “It is,” she purred.
Three hands shot up in the air. “Waiter!” Alice called.
After they’d ordered their own cake, they concentrated on eating for a few moments, then Faye said, “Alice, about the woman in your office. She can’t help it if she’s young and pretty and energetic. We were all that way once, too.”
“True. But we weren’t able to walk right into positions then that young women hold now. Women of our age broke through the glass ceiling by bludgeoning their own heads against it. Now young women just swim upward without any problem, yet they don’t even notice those of us who made it possible. Worse, they want to get rid of us so they can have our jobs.”
“Is that what’s going on with you?” Shirley asked.
“I’m afraid so.” Alice nodded grimly and waved for the waiter. “Take my fish away and bring my cake, now.”
“Me, too,” echoed Marilyn and Faye.
“And I’ll try your chocolate decadent pie,” Shirley told the waiter. She caught the others’ glances. “Hey, chocolate’s good for you! Scientists have discovered three foods that keep you young. Fruit, alcohol, and chocolate. And I can’t do alcohol!”
Marilyn’s brow was furrowed. “You know, I have a problem with a young woman.”
“Tell us,” Alice urged.
Marilyn squirmed. “Because of Theodore’s patented inventions, our family has, um, a fair amount of money. My son Teddy is a brilliant scientist, as his father is, and he’s kind and good and funny. But he’s not what you’d call conventionally handsome.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Shirley countered. “Women aren’t fussy about men’s looks.”
“I think you’re right. But my sister Sharon, who visited recently, told me she doesn’t believe my son’s fiancée really loves him. Sharon’s afraid Lila’s marrying him for his money.” Tears welled in Marilyn’s eyes. “I don’t know how to find out the truth! I’m better with dead bugs than with people!”
Shirley and Faye blinked.
“Maybe you’d better elaborate,” Alice suggested.
“I mean I’m a paleobiologist. I study trilobites, bugs that lived millions of years ago.”
Alice grimaced. “Uh-huh.”
Faye shuddered.
The waiter set desserts before them. Everyone dug in, murmuring ecstatically.
“Now that I think about it,” Faye said, pressing her napkin to her chocolate-rimmed lips, “a younger woman’s playing havoc with my life! Or rather, with my daughter’s.”
“Tell us,” Alice demanded.
Faye licked chocolate from her lips and put down her fork. “My daughter, Laura, has been married for two years to a wonderful young man, Lars Schneider. He’s a lawyer, and absolutely adorable. Laura and Lars were meant for each other, you can tell by their names, for heaven’s sake, and they’ve been so happy together. But then Laura had her baby four months ago, and now it seems that Lars is having an affair with a secretary in his office. Although I can’t believe it of him.”
“Maybe he’s not,” Shirley said hopefully.
“Maybe he is,” Alice said cynically.
“Oh, dear,” said Marilyn. “That’s very sad.” She took the last bite of her cake. “What else is on the dessert menu?”
They called the waiter over and ordered a chocolate brownie sundae each.
Faye turned to Shirley. “No younger women clouds on your horizon?”
“Nope. Just got the same old hassles—looking for a decent man and trying to pay my bills. Actually,” she continued after another bite, “I do have a dream, and I suppose my predicament is, I’m afraid it will never come true.”
“A dream!” Marilyn licked her lips. “How wonderful to have a dream at your age.”
“Hey, come on!” Shirley said defensively, “I’m not dead yet. Listen, modern nutrition and medicine are prolonging our lives and improving the years we will have. If we keep active, we’ll be leading healthy, happy lives in our eighties and nineties.”
“Use it or lose it,” Alice said.
“Exactly,” Shirley agreed.
“Use it or lose it,” Marilyn echoed dreamily. “I wonder if that’s true about sexual desire.”
“Honey, you can get it back,” Shirley told her. “You just have to get in touch with yourself again.”
“So to speak,” Alice quipped dryly.
Marilyn blushed and quickly turned the attention back to Shirley. “What’s your dream?”
Shirley sat up straight and adjusted the scarves around her shoulders. “I want to create my own little retreat. I’m a certified masseuse, but I’ve also studied and read about other kinds of alternative health possibilities, and I’m fascinated by the connection between body, mind, and soul. I want to create a place where people can come with all kinds of problems, from serious health issues to depression to the sort of thing you’re talking about, Marilyn, the loss of sexual appetite. We’d work up each person’s chart individually and create a program just for them, of massage, aromatherapy, hypnosis, yoga, dance, spiritual explorations, and so on.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Faye said.
“It is a great idea.” Shirley smiled, then sighed. “But, unfortunately, it will never happen.”
“Why not?” Marilyn demanded.
“Because I don’t have the money. Furthermore, I can plan the retreat, but I’m hopeless at things like legal contracts and bank loans and malpractice insurance. My eyes just cross when I try to read financial documents.”
“I think,” Alice announced slowly, thinking it out as she spoke, “there’s a way we can help one another.”
“Really?” Marilyn took off her glasses and stared.
“I need a piece of paper.” Alice dug in her purse, retrieving a small leather notebook and a Mont Blanc pen. “And another round of chocolate.”
Only one other chocolate dessert was listed on the menu, a chocolate raspberry torte. “Let’s each get one,” Shirley suggested.
“All right,” Alice announced, her pen flashing as she wrote, “we’ve got four problems. Faye, you want to know whether your son-in-law’s having an affair with a secretary at his law firm.”
“Right. Jennifer D’Annucio.”
“Fine. Shirley, you need help with legal and financial matters.”
“Right.”
“Third, I want to find out whether the little brat in my office is after my job. And fourth, you, Marilyn, want to know whether or not your son’s fiancée—”
“Lila Eastbrook.”
“Lila Eastbrook?” Faye interrupted. “She can’t be after your son for his money. I mean, the Eastbrook Clinic and Spa are famous!”
“Yeah, and the U.S. government once had a surplus.” Alice kept scribbling. “Look, we can each solve someone else’s problem. Let’s consider the possibilities.”
“Oh, this is fun!” Faye cried, fishing an ice cube out of her water glass and rubbing it along her neck, which had suddenly turned red. Seeing the others look at her, she explained, “Hot flash.”
“That’s it,” Alice said. “That’s what we are, the Hot Flash Club.” She speared a piece of chocolate cake on the end of her fork and lifted it into the air. “A toast, to the Hot Flash Club.”
The other
three stabbed up a piece of chocolate cake. Tapping them together, they echoed, “To the Hot Flash Club!”
“Ladies”—Alice grinned roguishly—“let’s plot.”
10
Saturday night, Alice, Shirley, and Faye had ordained that before Marilyn could execute her assignment for the Hot Flash Club, she had to change her image. Completely.
Faye had agreed to shepherd Marilyn through Parts One and Two of her transformation. Shirley and Alice both had to work and weren’t able to come along, which was fine with Marilyn, who found Faye, of the three other women, most like herself. Shirley, with her violet eye shadow and spangles, was rather startling, while Alice, beautiful, arrogant, and outspoken, terrified Marilyn a bit.
But she trusted their judgment, and so here Marilyn was on Monday morning, sitting in the ophthalmologist’s chair, holding her ancient tortoiseshell glasses in her hands while she gazed at her reflection through her new contact lenses.
She was excited and terrified. She felt like a tiny gastropod being swept away from the sheltered cove of her tidy life in a flash flood of enthusiasm toward—what, exactly? She had no idea. But she’d always enjoyed the challenge of research and discovery, so she tried to think of her own life as a research project, and this gave her courage.
Blinking, she tucked the glasses in her purse and went out to the parking lot where Faye waited, as she’d promised she would be, in her dark green BMW.
“You look great! Your beautiful green eyes look huge now!” Faye told her, as Marilyn slid into the car. “How do the lenses feel?”
“Fine, I guess,” Marilyn said. “It’s amazing, how little I notice them, and I can see perfectly well.”
“Good. On to the hairdresser’s.” Faye steered the car out of the lot and out into the flow of traffic. Her silver-white hair was caught up in a simple chignon.
“I’m a little anxious about changing my hair,” Marilyn confessed meekly.
Faye glanced over with a smile. “Only natural. How long has it been since you’ve had your hair styled?”
Marilyn cringed as she admitted, “Um, I don’t think I’ve ever had it styled. I used to try to curl it, decades ago—”
“Well, who cuts it?” Faye asked.
“I do.”
“You do!”
“I just pull it over my shoulder and snip off a few inches with my desk scissors whenever it seems to be getting too long.”
“Oh, my. Ricky’s going to love getting his hands on you.”
But the first thing the hairdresser did when Faye and Marilyn walked into the salon was to clap his hands against his face in a gesture of horror.
“¡Madre de Dio!” he cried, circling Marilyn. “Where have you been hiding, under a rock?”
All the other people in the shop turned to gawk at her, but Marilyn liked that he said rock, as if he’d received a subliminal message about her profession and passion. “Um, yes, in a way.”
Clad in tight black trousers and a black silk shirt open to the waist, Ricky vibrated slightly, like a flamenco dancer ready to spin her off in a tango. And he did take her by the shoulders to guide her, through a haze of perfumes and a glitter of mirrors, into a pink chair. Settling her there, he began to pull out the bobby pins and rubber band that anchored her bun to her head. As her hair fell down around her face, he ran his hands through it.
“Look at thees hair!” he scolded. “Look at thees split ends!” He seemed about to weep. “And look! Eet’s all jagged!” Frowning, he demanded, “Have you been cutting your own hair with desk scissors?”
Marilyn nodded, chagrined and yet pleased he was so perceptive. She appreciated professional acumen.
“Aiieeyy,” the hairdresser moaned, waving his hands.
“Ricky.” Faye intervened, stepping forward. “Marilyn is a professor. She teaches at MIT. She’s well respected and very intelligent, and she’s never needed to look anything but academic for years. But now she wants to change. That’s why we came to you.”
Ricky patted his chest, calming down. “Thank God you did!” He ran his hands through Marilyn’s hair again. “You have nice thick hair,” he decided. “We can do something weeth eet.”
“Color it,” Faye told him.
“Yes, of course. And I’ll style eet. Something easy to care for, I assume?”
“Absolutely,” Marilyn agreed.
“Look,” Faye said. “I’m going off to do some shopping. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Fine,” Marilyn said. She allowed herself to be led off to a cubicle to change into a pink smock. Then she lay back with her head in a sink, closed her eyes, and surrendered herself to the ministrations of strangers.
As Ricky and his elves flitted around her with their bottles, elixirs, brushes, foils, and clips, Marilyn drifted into a reverie, remembering years ago, when her hair was still a deep natural auburn. Theodore had told her to stop wrapping it around fat plastic rollers, trying to make it curl or bounce. “You’re just wasting your time,” he’d said. “Don’t try to look glamorous. You’re not the glamorous type.”
He hadn’t meant to be cruel, simply factual, and back then, when Teddy was an energetic toddler and Theodore worked late at his lab and Marilyn was struggling to write her doctoral dissertation on Light Isotopes in Phosphatic Fossils, she’d been so overwhelmed, exhausted, and occupied that she’d received Theodore’s verdict with, if not pleasure, certainly relief. It was easy to yank her hair back into a rubber band and skewer the bun to the back of her head where it stayed as she chased after her little boy, and cooked, and cleaned, and did laundry, and sat up late at night bent over her books.
The years had flown by. Teddy grew into a brilliant, curious, optimistic boy who loved playing with microscopes, just like his parents. Theodore taught at MIT and worked on his private research. Marilyn was awarded her Ph.D. and offered a tenured position in the paleobiology department at MIT, and even though Theodore, over in the molecular genetics department, insisted she was given the job in order to keep him happy, she ascertained through the way the other professors treated her that she was respected in her field. Certainly her papers were published in scientific journals as often as Theodore’s. And her courses were always packed with students. In fact, this year she’d taken a sabbatical from teaching, simply to allow herself time to catch her breath and concentrate fully on her own laboratory work with her own fossils.
Ricky’s voice brought her back to the present. “Ees okay now to open your eyes.”
The tone of his voice telegraphed his delight. She opened her eyes.
At that moment, Faye swept into the salon, a shopping bag in each hand. “Oh, my heavens!” she cried. “Marilyn, I never would have recognized you!”
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Marilyn was startled into speechlessness. Her new glossy, coppery hair fell about her face in a shaggy jumble ending just below her ears. Bangs covered up the wrinkles on her forehead. Her eyes looked bigger, her cheekbones more pronounced.
“You look twenty years younger!” Faye exclaimed. “Ricky, it’s a miracle!”
“Yes,” Ricky agreed, modestly clasping his hands in front of him. “Eet ees.”
Faye bent over Marilyn. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. It’s so different.”
“Now,” Ricky announced with a flourish, gesturing toward another cubicle, “for the makeup!”
“Oh, no, please,” Marilyn pleaded. “I never could comprehend cosmetics.”
“Eet will be simple,” Ricky promised. “A little mascara, a little blusher, some leepstick.”
“Think of it as a scientific experiment,” Faye suggested.
It was after six when Ricky finished. As Faye drove toward Legal Seafoods, Marilyn flipped down the visor and stared into the mirror, completely fascinated by her new self.
“You are pleased, aren’t you?” Faye asked. “I do hope you are. I know it’s unsettling, looking so very different, but trust me, the change is marvelous.”
>
Marilyn nodded.
Still, as they entered the restaurant and walked through the crowded room toward the other two women, already seated at a table, Marilyn felt people’s eyes on her. This was new, and unsettling. She was afraid she’d trip over her own feet or clumsily bump into a table. The desire to be invisible resurfaced from her adolescent years as powerfully as ever.
Shirley jumped up, crying, “Jeez Louise, Marilyn, look at you!”
Marilyn wanted to shove the other woman under the table out of sight—and crawl under there with her.
“Don’t make a scene,” Alice hissed, yanking Shirley back into her chair. “But the change is awesome,” Alice continued, as Faye and Marilyn sat down. “And I use that word deliberately.”
The waiter arrived, took their orders, and left.
“Let me see what shades of lipstick you bought,” Shirley told Marilyn.
“Um, all right.” Marilyn brought out her cute little pink-striped cosmetic bag, which, she discovered to her surprise, excited the interest of the other three women as much as a collection of crustaceans would a scientist.
“Those shades are perfect for your complexion,” Alice said. “You look beautiful, Marilyn.”
“Oh, well, maybe not beautiful.” Marilyn squirmed, uncomfortable with compliments; they’d been so rare in her life. She missed having her tortoiseshell glasses to fiddle with and gnaw on.
“The way you look now? I guarantee Barton Baker will come on to you,” Alice said.
Marilyn chewed her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe I do look better. But I still don’t know how to attract men. The very thought of trying to flirt makes me break out in hives!”
“You don’t have to flirt, honey,” Shirley assured her. “Just be friendly, and interested, and caring.”
“Just listen to him,” Alice continued. “He’s new to Boston. The company’s a minefield since the merger. He might want to talk about Alison Cummings.”
