Kill the Competition

by Stephanie Bond

  Libby gritted her teeth. “Glen said I was going to have to get a part-time job to pay off my credit cards.” She sniffed and bustled in, carrying a pink overnight case. She was dressed in cropped white pants that hugged her generous hips and showed off her tiny ankles. Her blouse was big and flowing, her hair poufy. She raised her hand, witness style. “I swear sometimes that man makes me so damn mad, a red haze just comes over me, and I think how nice it would be to just shut him up once and for all!”

  The woman was shaking and her voice was so hysterical that Belinda had a vision of a news video showing a Bloomingdale’s-dressed woman in handcuffs, with a reporter in the foreground saying, “The police are calling this murder a crime of passion.”

  Belinda spoke carefully. “Both of you are stressed, things will settle down.”

  “I told him about our book, and he laughed at me! He had a big old belly laugh at the idea of Libby Janes being an author!”

  Belinda wet her lips. “Well, Libby, you have to admit the odds of getting the manuscript published are rather slim.”

  “This book is going to be great,” Libby insisted, her eyes bulging. “I’ve been working on it at night. It’s going to be more than just DOs and DON’Ts. I bought a book on getting published, and I tell you, the four of us could be like Margaret Mitchell.”

  Belinda lifted her eyebrow but kept her thoughts—that the idea of four carpooling office workers reaching the authorial status of Margaret Mitchell was indeed laughable—to herself. On the other hand, considering the amount of time they spent in traffic, the odds of them suffering a vehicular death like Margaret were pretty darn good. Instead she said, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Coke?”

  “I have Diet Pepsi.”

  Libby sighed, then nodded, her anger spent. “Oh, I’m just in a mood. Keep your fingers crossed that I get that raise.” Then she conjured up a big smile. “So, this is your place.” She circled in the foyer, then followed Belinda into the kitchen. “It’s really…bare.”

  “I haven’t had time to do much decorating. I didn’t have a lot of furniture, and my plants didn’t survive the move.”

  “Still, it has potential,” Libby said, tapping her finger against her chin. “Your couch will look great next to that bay window. And I’ve got enough stuff in my upstairs hall closet to decorate this whole place. You like dried flowers, don’t you?”

  “Well—”

  “Oh, and you need a wallpaper border—I put a magnolia border in my foyer, and I have tons left over. It’s removable, so your landlord won’t have a conniption.”

  “Okay.” Belinda opened the refrigerator and withdrew a can of soda.

  Libby passed on a glass, cracked open the can, and chugged half of it on the spot. “Not bad,” she said. “Although the way my nerves are acting up this morning, I don’t need the caffeine.”

  No, she didn’t, considering she would soon be brandishing shears. Belinda tapped her watch. “Carole and Rosemary will be here soon, so maybe we should get started.”

  “Okay, where do you want me to set up?”

  “The bathroom upstairs is bigger than the one down here.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  When they turned the corner, Downey sat on the bottom step like a sentry with a blue satin guard pillow by her side. The pillow looked worse for cat wear, already torn and stained.

  Libby cooed. “I didn’t know you had a kitty.” She set down the overnight case and the soda, then scooped Downey into her arms.

  “Careful, she’s not very friend—”

  Downey licked Libby’s chin.

  “—ly.” Belinda frowned at the hairy little traitoress. Maybe she liked the taste of Aqua Net.

  “What an adorable little fuzzy-wuzzy,” Libby sang, pressing her nose against Downey’s.

  “She bites,” Belinda offered.

  “No, she’s a pretty little kitty-witty. Yes, you are.” Downey purred and rubbed her ear against Libby’s cheek. “Too bad Glen is allergic,” she said, setting down the satisfied feline. “Otherwise, I’d have a houseful. Have you had her long?”

  Belinda climbed the stairs. “About a year. Vince adopted her from a humane society drive. I inherited her…afterward.”

  At the top of the stairs, Libby pointed to the room on the right. “Spare bedroom?”

  Belinda nodded. “I was thinking I’d turn it into an office.”

  Libby made a face. “Forget that, you’ll be working all the time.”

  Belinda smiled, walked across the landing, and pointed left. “My bedroom.”

  Libby stuck her head inside. “I wouldn’t have thought you for leopard-print bed linens. Nice.” Then she frowned. “Did you and your ex split up the pillows, too?”

  “Hm? Oh, long story.”

  “I’ve got time,” Libby said cheerfully. “I love to talk while I’m cutting hair.”

  Belinda arched an eyebrow—surprise, surprise. From her bedroom, she led Libby into the connected bathroom that was also accessible from the hall.

  “It’ll take me just a minute to set up,” Libby said, humming with approval at the chair Belinda had placed in front of the vanity.

  “Shall I get a towel?”

  “No, I brought a poncho, just sit yourself down.”

  Belinda took a deep breath and did as she was told. In the wide mirror hanging over the vanity, the differences in their reflections were sobering. Libby, in her bright clothes and shiny makeup, was a neon sign, and she, with her J. Crew gear and scrubbed face, was a signpost. Maybe she could use a new look to go with her new outlook.

  “Now,” Libby said, fluffing Belinda’s limp hair and peering over her shoulder into the mirror. “Do you have any last requests?”

  Belinda swallowed hard. “Nothing startling.”

  Chapter 14

  Belinda watched with morbid curiosity as Libby opened the overnight case, then removed a pink cotton smock for herself and a plastic poncho with a stand-up lip, which she settled around Belinda’s shoulders.

  The woman’s preparations were a far cry from the piece of Scotch tape her mother used to put on her bangs for a trim with her sewing scissors.

  Within a couple of minutes, the vanity was littered with colorful spray bottles, combs, and clips. Libby filled one of the spray bottles with water from the sink.

  “So, do you ever hear from Vic?”

  Belinda closed her eyes in preparation for being squirted—and for other reasons. “You mean Vince?”

  Libby put her hand on Belinda’s brow, then sprayed until water trickled behind Belinda’s ears. “Vince, right. Look down for me. Do you ever hear from him?”

  Belinda thought about the card sitting on the table downstairs and formed the words in her throat to tell her new friend about it—and about everything—before swallowing them. “No.”

  A comb sliced down the center of her head for a clean part, then Libby circled, combing her hair straight down. “It was his idea to split, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  Belinda turned the question over in her heart. “Sometimes.”

  Libby picked up a pair of shears. “Was there another woman involved?”

  Belinda’s scalp tingled in anticipation of Libby’s scissors touching down. “Not that I know of.”

  “Is he gay?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Money problems?”

  “No.”

  “Disagree on having kids?”

  “No.”

  “So what was his reason for the breakup?”

  Belinda shrugged carefully. “He honestly didn’t say why he left.”

  Libby gaped at her in the mirror, scissors poised near her earlobe. “And you didn’t ask?”

  Belinda stared at the scissors. “At the time, I was too disoriented.”

  “I take it you didn’t see it coming?”

  “No.”

  Then, quick as a snake striking, Libb
y sliced a hank out of Belinda’s hair. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry.”

  Belinda stared at the air where her hair had been. “That’s okay. I guess I’ll get used to it.”

  Libby squinted. “Hm? No, your hair is going to be fabulous. I mean I’m sorry you got your heart broken.” She removed another hefty slice of hair, then smiled. “But Vince’s loss was our gain.”

  “That’s nice of you to say.”

  Libby kept cutting. “Between the traffic reporter and the cop, it doesn’t look like you’re going to be spending too many lonely nights.”

  Another careful shrug. “Julian is fun.”

  One last cut severed Belinda’s tie to long hair. “What about Officer Goodbody?”

  Belinda studied her new, less-hairy reflection. So far, so so. “He has too much baggage.”

  “I think you like him. You were all splotchy last night when we got in the car.”

  “Thanks for noticing, and what does that have to do with anything?”

  “The man is under your skin.”

  “Maybe I’m allergic to his cologne.”

  “Whatever you say.” Libby fluffed Belinda’s hair again. “I’m thinking a few wispies, and some blunt tips so the ends will fly.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “It’s the latest style, and it’ll be marvelous, you’ll see.” Libby combed Belinda’s overlong bangs in front of her eyes. “Carole and Rosemary will eat their words.”

  Belinda’s nose tickled something fierce. “Those two seem very close.”

  “Oh, yeah. They argue constantly, but they’re real protective of each other, sort of like mother and daughter.”

  “Carole seems like such a free spirit.”

  “She’s a little kooky sometimes, but I think she grew up in a bad way, just because of things she says occasionally, like that crack she made about having been in the back of a cop car before.” She made a rueful noise. “Which is probably why she falls for all that psychic mumbo jumbo and those green card grooms. But she’s been good for Rosemary—they spend a lot of time together outside of work.”

  Chunks of hair were secured with biting clips. Then the shears started singing and snapping, and Belinda tried not to think about what was happening on the other side of her bangs. “Rosemary”—She spit out bits of hair—“doesn’t have children?”

  “No. Said she and her first husband tried, but couldn’t. She was too old by the time she married her second husband—he died in his sleep. Stanley was her third husband, and since he died two years ago, she just hasn’t been the same.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Yeah, except to be honest, I never thought she was in love with the man.”

  “Maybe they were happy companions.”

  Libby grunted. “Between you and me and the fence post, I think she married him because he was loaded. Then his illness drained their finances—they had to file bankruptcy.” She made a wry face. “That’s why she’s always after me about my spending habits. And I think the painkillers for her back cause mood swings. Some days she seems kind of out of it—and she was packing away the martinis the other night.”

  Belinda had noticed.

  “I’m afraid something’s wrong, health-wise. Since Stan died, every couple of weeks she bows out of the car pool for a day, and all she’ll say is that she has an appointment after work that she can’t miss.” She sighed and loosened a clip. “And I worry about what might happen if Rosemary loses her job—she’s right about Margo having it in for her. The worst part is that she’s made an enemy out of Margo by taking up for the rest of us. Oh, dammit!”

  “What did you do?” Belinda asked, visualizing a bald spot.

  “There I go again, bad-mouthing Margo. I told myself that even though I hope that pygmy dies a slow, painful death, I won’t drag you in the middle.”

  “Um, thanks.” Belinda squeezed her eyes shut as the blades of the shears liberated her bangs.

  “I mean, just because Margo makes working at Archer a living hell for the rest of us—”

  “Libby.”

  “Right. Okay, I’m finished cutting. Let me clean you up a bit.”

  Belinda winced against the tickle of a soft-bristle brush.

  “Do you have any mousse?”

  Belinda opened her eyes. “I don’t suppose you mean the chocolate kind?” Because she might need large amounts of it to get used to the new do.

  Libby waved her hand and unzipped the hair-laden plastic poncho. “I brought some with me, just in case.”

  White airy balls of mousse went into the irregularly shaped mass, then Libby made Belinda hang her head upside down while she blew her hair dry. When Belinda was right side up again, she looked in the mirror and held on to the counter to keep from falling off the chair. “I’m a redheaded troll doll.”

  Libby laughed. “It’s not done, pet. Drying it upside down gives you volume.”

  Belinda swallowed and watched with much trepidation as Libby manipulated her hair back down to a reasonable height, flipped up the ends, and arranged her abrupt bangs. A cloud of hairspray followed, then Libby stood back.

  “Ta-da! What do you think?”

  Belinda moved her head side to side, trying to absorb the style that made her look as if a perpetual fan were blowing in her face. A good look if she was on a modeling shoot, but a little forced, since she was sitting stock-still in her bathroom. She reached up to touch the crunchy ends. “I think it’s, um—”

  The doorbell rang, saving her from having to respond. “Thanks, Libby. It’s great. Really.”

  Libby took a bow.

  Belinda returned the best smile she could manage. It was only hair—it would grow back. Eventually. “That’s probably Carole and Rosemary.”

  “You go ahead, I’ll clean up in here.”

  Belinda stood and brushed herself off, then jogged down the stairs with Downey at her heels. Sure enough, the peephole revealed Carole, grinning. Belinda opened the door, and Carole’s grin disappeared.

  “Tell me that’s a wig.”

  Belinda tried to ruffle her hair, but her fingers got caught. “No, it’s all me. Libby says it’s the latest style.”

  “Alrighty then.”

  Belinda waved past Carole to Rosemary, who was sitting in her gray four-door Chrysler in the driveway. The window came down halfway. “Did Libby do that to you?”

  Belinda kept smiling, although her stomach had started to churn. “It’s just going to take a little getting used to.”

  Rosemary looked doubtful and rolled the window back up.

  Carole tore her gaze from Belinda’s head. “Don’t mind Rosemary, she’s in a funk today.” Then the young woman leaned forward with a conspiratorial brow wag. “Are you ready for your first Brazilian bikini wax? It’ll change your life.”

  Belinda’s smile slipped for a millisecond—she wasn’t sure how many more life changes she could endure.

  Hours later, Belinda unlocked her front door and turned to wave into the headlights of Rosemary’s car. The twin beams spotlighted the light rain falling. She maintained her smile until the car pulled away, then her shoulders dropped. Every inch of her throbbed, stung, or itched, and she was stone tired. If she’d had a couch, she would have stumbled into the living room and fallen onto it facedown. The carpet would do.

  “Downey, I’m home,” she called as she closed the door behind her.

  Nothing.

  She locked the door, dropped her purse on the living room chair, and checked her phone machine for messages. The number 1 blinked. Her heart rate picked up as she sorted through the possible callers and pushed the button.

  “Hello, dear, it’s Mother.”

  Of course it was.

  “I’ve been thinking about that red couch you bought.”

  Of course she had.

  “I found a catalog of slipcovers that I’ll drop in the mail before I leave town. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

  The beep sounded, and Beli
nda sighed. Some small part of her had hoped it was Julian, in Raleigh and thinking about her. Could they have dinner when he returned? Go to a movie? A ball game? Wade Alexander’s invitation came to mind, but she pushed it away. The man’s amazing grin notwithstanding, she didn’t have the strength to help him over his heartache—she needed time and space to lick her own wounds.

  She grabbed a pillow from the chair, tossed it on the floor and stretched out on the soft pile of the beige carpet where her wayward red couch would soon sit. A day of being girly was tougher than she’d imagined; after surviving Libby’s shearing, she’d arrived at the spa to be bound like a mummy in slimy seaweed, then hosed off and whisked away to the only experience that rivaled the mortification of being abandoned after six hours of marriage: a Brazilian bikini wax.

  Downey appeared and seemed to take the fact that Belinda was down on her level as some sort of concession. She sat down within arm’s reach and blinked.

  “A piece of advice, old girl,” Belinda muttered, rubbing a knuckle between the cat’s ears. “Any procedure described as ‘Brazilian’ means going places better left to a doctor or a thermometer.”

  Downey purred and bobbed her head against Belinda’s hand, then bit her finger. Belinda yelped, and Downey vamoosed nice and slow, her tail high. The cat hadn’t broken the skin, but she’d made her point—I still don’t like you.

  “He didn’t want you,” Belinda yelled after the cat. “He didn’t want either one of us!”

  She considered bouncing her cushion off Downey’s retreating behind, but she was too tired to retrieve it afterward. Instead she clicked on the TV remote control and was rewarded with a semi-clear picture of Mad About You in syndication. It was the episode where Paul accidentally gave his and Jamie’s bed to Goodwill. Turning on her side, she relaxed into the pillow. Reruns asked very little of the viewer. Reruns were comforting, predictable. Easy and familiar. The downside of starting over was that it left her with the unsettling feeling that her previous life was invalid. In the swirl of her new life, little bits of familiarity were balm to her soul.

  From the next room, Vince’s envelope called to her with the lure of reclaiming a piece of her former life, but exhaustion helped her resist. She smiled at the TV couple’s banter and felt her eyelids growing heavy. Last night’s missed sleep was catching up with her.