Eye Candy

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "Mother"—I swallowed—"you've just told me you're selling my childhood home."

  "Lydia, we've—"

  "That house has been in our family for seven generations."

  "I know, gumdrop—"

  "I think I'm due a little cheesecake."

  I speared at the cheesecake to emphasize my point, but I was a little overeager. The fork slipped and I knocked the remains of the treat onto the floor. All my dreams of peanut butter-chocolate-creamy bliss landed with a wet plop on my beige and ivory scroll rug. That's gonna stain.

  I'll have to leave a note for Danielle, cleaning woman and stain miracle worker.

  The loss of the cheesecake helped soften the loss of my home. I took a calming breath, picked the plate and fork off the pile of sludge, and carried it to the kitchen.

  "Okay," I said as I found a cleaning rag under the sink, "I'm calm. Please explain."

  On my hands and knees over the cheesecake, a scary look into my psyche surfaced as I briefly wondered if I could, in good conscience, eat the cheesecake off the rug. Realizing the level of desperation I threatened to sink into, I grabbed up the pile with the rag before I could reconsider.

  "Your mother and I have decided what we want to do in our retirement," Dad explained.

  I carried the cheesecake-filled rag to the kitchen sink and rinsed my bliss down the drain. "Oh, and what's that, Dad?"

  "You know how much we love to travel," Mom said.

  "Uh-huh," I answered absently.

  Watching the creamy water swirl down the drain, I had a thought. An untouched pint of cotton candy ice cream sat in the freezer. My day suddenly brightened.

  Spoon and ice cream in hand, I returned to the chofa to dig in.

  Dad cleared his throat before saying, "We are going to buy a sailboat."

  I nearly dropped the whole pint.

  "To sail around the world," Mom finished, in case I couldn't guess.

  No amount of candy-flavored desserts would get me through this shock to my ordered world. I needed the real thing. Staggering into my bedroom, phone clutched tightly in my fist, I sank to the floor next to my bed and pulled out the plastic shoebox labeled "Emergencies Only" and pried off the lid.

  I plucked one delicate white confection from the box and carefully removed the cellophane wrapper. Setting the white chocolate and coconut Raffaello on my tongue, I closed my mouth and savored the exquisite flavor.

  "Okay," I said, a gourmet treat-induced calm settling over me, "tell me everything."

  Sinking into the bath an hour later, only forty-five minutes left to get ready, I let the refreshing peppermint bath revive me. I lit a dozen candy cane candles and allowed the day to soak away.

  On the bright side, what more could possibly go wrong? I sank my career. My parents went off the deep end. And my favorite cheesecake stained my favorite rug right next to the stain left by a giant blob of my favorite ice cream that flew to the floor when Mom told me they already had a buyer for the house and planned to set sail in two weeks. Really, my day had gone as badly as it possibly could. Nothing worse could happen.

  Ring, ring.

  As a bad omens and jinxes expert, I chose to sink beneath the water rather than answer the phone. Let voicemail catch this problem. That way I can listen to the message tomorrow, and the next bad thing won't really happen today.

  After I held my breath as long as possible, I sat up and climbed out of the tub. Wrapped in an Egyptian cotton towel around my chest, I proceeded to my bedroom and flung open my closet doors.

  Passing over all the sedate DKNY suits and J. Crew sweaters, I headed for the stash at the back. Maybe the hot pink Betsey Johnson knit dress? Or the white Marc Jacobs minidress? Or the black D&G corset bustier and red leather skirt?

  Courage was needed to wear these wild outfits I can't stop buying. Instead, I pulled out a simple lavender Ann Taylor sheath dress and matching Stuart Weitzman slingbacks. You can take the girl out of Westchester but you can't take Westchester out of the girl.

  My cell phone launched into "Lollipop, lollipop" from the other room. I ignored it. If it was one of my girlfriends canceling our standing date, I didn't want to know. They had to show up at Sweet Stuff—our Chelsea haunt an equal cab ride for me from the Upper West Side, subway ride for Fiona from Prospect Park, and bus ride for Bethany from SoHo.

  Backing out tonight was not an option.

  After the day I’d had I needed a night out with the girls and cosmic amounts of alcohol.

  2

  Q: What kind of bug comes out at night?

  A: A nightling bug.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #132

  "That's your ex?"

  I looked up from the engrossing occupation of swirling ice in my Lemon Drop to find Fiona clutching GQ to her chest. One grape-lacquered finger stabbing at the cover.

  Next to Fiona I always felt like the worst sort of invisible person. No style. No flare. No taste.

  Tonight she wore a dark-washed denim pencil skirt over Limeade green fishnets with a silver sequined tank and metallic silver Badgley Mischka sandals. With her exotic looks and flare for fashion, everyone noticed when she enters a room.

  "Nice to see you, too," I replied, thinking it's not really so nice if the conversation was heading where I thought it was heading.

  Not in the mood to launch into conversation #3,527—not that I'm counting—I downed the remains of my drink and signaled Bartender Barbie to bring another. Conversation #3,524 had gotten me into enough trouble today and I didn't need any more bad JuJu.

  "No, really," Fiona exclaimed, dropping her corduroy satchel next to the bar stool and lifting herself up onto the seat. "This is the man who broke your heart?"

  I turned my best Westchester glare on her, but Fiona is a force of nature and proceeded without pause.

  "He's gorgeous, babe. And rich. And successful. And—"

  Gee, all things I didn't already know about him, having been engaged to the man for nearly six years. "Thanks, Fi. That makes me feel much better."

  Bartender Barbie set another Lemon Drop in front of me and gave me a look resembling pity. Great, my life was complete.

  "The article gushes on about how he's this hotshot investment banker at Castile and Tatum, the youngest ever to make upper management."

  Didn't Fiona notice my head banging desperately against the polished wood surface of the bar? Too engrossed in the details of my former—though I prefer to call him my late—fiancé, she didn't even care that I lost several strands of light brown hair to the sticky surface.

  And, typical of the way my day had gone, I was not even lucky enough to knock myself unconscious.

  "Why is Lydia already passed out?" a lilting Southern voice asked.

  Bethany! Thank you Mr. Goodbar, I was saved.

  Fiona peered over the magazine, surprised to see my face stuck to the bar. "Don't know," she mused, returning her attention to GQ.

  Some girlfriend.

  "I'm stuck," I managed to say, sounding even more pathetic than I felt, if possible.

  "Let me help you, honey." Beth set her Cole Haan purse carefully on a stool before grabbing me by the shoulders and yanking.

  That girl is stronger than she looks.

  "Thanks." Cheek burning, I was now the only woman in the history of skin care to be exfoliated by a sticky bar counter. But at least I was upright.

  Beth smiled before climbing gingerly onto the stool and smoothing out the wrinkles in her Laura Ashley sundress. "What's the matter, sugar?"

  Bartender Barbie brought her a Mojito before she had a chance to order. I tried to forget that Barbie never remembered my drink order, even after two years of Friday nights.

  Bethany looked like the typical southern belle. Tasteful but flirty floral sundress, sweet high heel Mary Janes, hose. Her long blonde hair meticulously curled and sprayed yet touchably soft. Guys jump to be chivalrous for her. Everywhere she goes doors open before her, chairs get pulled out beneath her, and men fall to their knees beg
ging for marriage.

  But she does have that steel magnolia edge. She owns and operates a very successful shop in SoHo, and a sweet gal doesn't last long in the city without learning to bite back.

  "Oh my heavens," Beth exclaimed as she got a good look at the magazine in Fiona's clutches, "that's Gavin!"

  "Yeah," Fiona answered, dropping the magazine to her lap. "Hot, huh?"

  Beth will defend me. We've been friends since freshman year at Columbia, since before Gavin and I started dating. She knew his true nature—the sour, sticky core at his center.

  I was wrong.

  Beth nodded, taking a sip of her mojito. "Grade A Prime."

  "I wouldn't mind rolling over to that the morning after." Fiona got a dreamy look, glitter-glossed lips grinning, that reminded me how much steamier her love life was than mine.

  The conversation turned dangerous. In my experience, no woman is safe even fantasizing about Gavin Fairchild. I had to interject before someone got hurt. "Too bad he's such a Sour Apple Blow Pop."

  Fiona was undeterred. "Does he have an agent?"

  "An agent? Fi, he's a stockbroker."

  "Yes, but he's a stockbroker on the cover of GQ."

  I really shouldn't have been surprised. Fiona was a talent agent at Famous Faces, after all. Representing the most delicious hunks on the planet was her daily duty. Which was great, so long as this was one delicious hunk she stayed far, far away from. For all our sakes.

  Just as I opened my mouth to say as much, a realization struck: What did I care if Fiona represented Gavin to supermodel stardom? I didn't care about him. He was nothing but an anomaly in my otherwise normal dating record. He was the past. Good riddance to stale candy.

  What I did care about was how everyone still treated me like I’d lost the winning lottery ticket. Gavin Fairchild was not my one and only chance at happily ever after.

  Too bad I didn't realize this sooner. Like this afternoon. Like before Jawbreaker brought him up in conversation and I freaked. I freaked and now I was in such a tight fix that conversation #3,527—not that I'm counting—seemed like a shopping spree at Dylan's Candy Bar.

  My groan, followed by the loud thunk as my head hit the bar again, must have caught Fiona and Beth's attention because each grabbed a shoulder and hauled me back up.

  "What's wrong, sugar?"

  "Tell us," Fiona urged.

  "We can help," Beth promised.

  "No," I said, recalling every appalling word of the conversations #3,524—not that I'm counting—and #3,525—not that I'm—oh, who was I kidding, I'm counting, "you can't."

  Beth smiled. "Try us."

  Resigned to the fate of relating every horrifying detail, I began my tale. As the words came out they picked up speed, and soon I was babbling about Jawbreakers, KYs, Southampton, and my desire to be a barnyard animal.

  Fiona and Beth smiled and nodded and I could tell they wondered what in Hershey's name I was talking about.

  The vodka in my Lemon Drops—plural—must have been getting to me. But confection is good for the soul and I couldn't stop.

  "I just had to shut her up," I continued between gulps of lemon-flavored alcohol. "I mean there's only so much ex-hashing a girl can take." Closing my eyes I pictured Jawbreaker, hip-length platinum hair twisting around one finger as she fantasized about Gavin right before my eyes. "So I told her I had a new guy."

  Without looking, I felt them both shrug.

  "I told her I had been dating this guy for several months and we're really getting serious. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Shows Gavin is forgotten and I'm moving on with my life, love and all. Until the unthinkable happened. Jawbreaker insists I bring him to the Summer Sail Away next weekend."

  "Summer Sail Away?" Fiona's brow crinkled.

  "The company function of the season at her yacht club in Southampton." I groaned at the thought of losing my coveted promotion to a KY. "If I show up without this dream guy, my career is history."

  "Why?" Beth inquired. "It's just a date."

  "Jawbreaker would relish any excuse to humiliate me." And promote one of the KY Clique in my place. The bonds of Barnyard sisterhood are hard to break.

  "We can find you a guy, no problem," Fiona announced.

  "Oh yes," Beth added. I heard the excitement in her voice as my datelessness became her new project. "There's a guy in my building, Harvard grad, gorgeous to boot. He's perfect for you."

  "No," I interjected adamantly. "I don't want a smart, gorgeous, lovable guy. No one interested in a relationship."

  I was one busy Marshmallow Peep. My life was too full and too complicated already, without the added attachment of a guy.

  Unfortunately, everyone in my life interpreted this independent streak as evidence of my pining for Gavin.

  Beth smiled sadly. "It's been two years, sugar. Time to move on."

  "I know. And I am," I insisted. "I have. But not right now. I have too much going on at work right now to get emotionally involved with anyone. I do not need a relationship."

  Somehow, I can't bring myself to say that I don't want a relationship. Rotten emotional longing. Stay under cover where you belong.

  A look passed between my friends that I chose to interpret as concern, and I also chose to ignore it.

  "Forget it. I'll just show up stag and weather Jawbreaker's interrogation."

  "No, no, let us help." Resolve hardened Fiona's exotic features and I knew argument was futile.

  I turned to Bethany, the face of a true steel magnolia.

  "We'll find you the perfect guy," Beth promised.

  "A trophy date."

  "A date without a relationship."

  "A man without opinions."

  "Without emotions."

  "Without baggage."

  "Without a brain."

  Coming to the bottom of my—third—Lemon Drop, I began to see possibilities. A guy for show. One that looks good and thinks little. Easy on the eyes and short on the intellect.

  I grinned. "Eye candy."

  We three stared at our drinks, deep in thought. Fiona finally spoke. "I know a guy."

  "You know a guy?" I asked.

  "From the agency, one of the models." Fiona paused. "He's looking for some extra cash, and..."

  "And...?" I prodded.

  "He's gorgeous and sweet. A little light in the attic but heavy in the basement, if you know what I mean." Fiona waggled her eyebrows.

  I had no idea what she meant. But that might be due to the Lemon Drops, so I gave her a shrug-nod and signaled for another drink.

  "I'm sure he'd be willing to help you out," she continued. "For adequate compensation."

  Whoa! Compensation? Have I reached the lowest of the low? Do I have to buy a date? And Fiona was selling me one. "You're pimping your models."

  She shook her head, taking a sip of her Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against A Wall before continuing. "Just one model. Singular. And I'm not pimping, just arranging. Like a dating service where money changes hands."

  "Sounds like pimping to me," I grumbled.

  "Sounds like the perfect plan," Beth countered.

  Had I thought earlier my day couldn't get any worse? Mental Post-It: Always anticipate something even more horrific happening.

  "Sugar, this is everything you need," she persisted. "One gorgeous, boss-impressing hottie to get everyone off your back about Gavin and yourself out of the hole you've dug. One stringless guy who will accept your money at the end of the day and leave your heart intact."

  Barbie set the fresh Lemon Drop before me, but I decided I had enough. This plan was starting to sound like a good idea—that had to be an alcohol-induced opinion.

  "Look, give him a shot." Fiona drug her satchel off the floor and pulled out her hot pink Visor. A few taps of the screen and she announced, "He's doing an in-house shoot tomorrow. I'll talk to him and make all the arrangements. If he doesn't take, you can always publicly break up with him at the Sailboat Saga."

  "Summer Sail Away," I corr
ected.

  "Everyone will think you're hot stuff if you're too good for the likes of him." She flipped her Visor shut and shoved it back in her satchel.

  "I don't think..."

  "You're desperate. Take a chance."

  Tired and fed up with feeling like a spectator in my own life, I took a stand.

  "No."

  Fiona and Beth peered at each other, brows raised. Maybe it was the vodka talking. Maybe it was the culmination of my horrendous day. Maybe it was me finally deciding to have a say in my own life. Whatever the case, they looked surprised.

  But remained determined.

  "You'll change your mind," Fiona stated.

  With a groan, my forehead plunked to the bar.

  Reehn, reehn, reehn!

  "Uungh." I rolled over and slapped the alarm clock into silence. How dare it wake me up at 8:00 on a Saturday morning? Nine minutes later it started screaming again. Another slap. Another nine minutes later it started screaming again. This time, I pried open one desert dry eye and managed to find the off switch.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  "Nooo," I moaned.

  There was no way I was prepared to speak. I let voicemail pick up.

  My head felt like someone stuffed it full of gumballs—every movement sent the throbbing pain thundering to another side of my brain. My eyelids were stuck to my eyeballs, something I'm sure is supposed to be medically impossible. And my stomach—well, let's just say my stomach was seriously rethinking everything I had consumed in the last twelve hours.

  Having no desire to see any of that again, I sank into the softness of my feather-top and held a white downy pillow over my face.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  Even through the sound-baffling pillow I heard the phone.

  Guessing it might be my mother—and knowing she will not stop calling every sixty seconds until I pick up—I blindly grabbed for the cordless receiver on my nightstand.

  Fumbling the phone to my ear, still beneath the pillow, I hit the talk button. "Hewwo?"

  "Lydia, my God, are you alright?" my mother demanded. "You sound like you're under water."

  Tearing the pillow away, I answered, "No, Mom. I'm fine. Manhattan is not due to flood until this afternoon."