Happily Ever After? (7 page)

Then another piped up, “And you’ll never spend another Saturday night waiting by the phone.”

I stared at myself in the mirror. Oh, I was so ready for this. But three hours later, as Lauren blow-dried my newly blond
hair, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. I glimpsed in the mirror for the first time (I had refused to look until
she was entirely done) and saw myself—at age ninety. The hair wasn’t platinum, it wasn’t blond. It was white. I looked like
a cross between Barbara Bush and Albert Einstein. My hair had somehow quadrupled in volume. Terrified, I reached up to touch
it. It wasn’t hair. It was hay. I wanted to vomit.

“What the hell happened?” I whispered, commanding myself not to cry.

“I don’t know,” Lauren said, staring at my head. “I don’t know.” She attempted to pull a comb through the hair and I heard
it crackle like twigs on a bonfire.

I told her to change it back. Immediately. “I am not leaving this place until my hair is red and normal again. Do you understand?”

“Okay. Okay.” Everyone was staring now, all the other stylists, all the women in all the chairs, the receptionists, the boyfriends,
the UPS guy, the manicurist, the massage therapist. The woman in the chair next to me whispered, “It’ll be okay. She’ll fix
it. Don’t worry.”

An hour later, as Lauren rinsed the dye from my hair, I asked her, “How does it look?” I was afraid to look in the mirror.

“Well … it
is
darker.”

I sat up and stared into the mirror. My hair was now the color of the bridesmaid dress I wore to my sister Teresa’s wedding.

Mauve.

I felt my stomach lurch. It was almost 3
P.M.
I called Pete’s sitter and asked her to keep him until I got there. Lauren glopped on some more dye and stuck me under the
dryer. An hour later, my hair was the color of a dirty penny. I ran my fingers through it. My hair came out in wads. Wads
and wads and wads of dirty-penny-colored hair, as resilient as cotton candy. I started to cry.

“I don’t know what to say,” Lauren whispered, shaking her head. “I am so sorry, Val.”

I was sobbing now and I didn’t care who was watching. “I’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

Lauren gave me some kind of industrial strength conditioner and a plastic cap. She instructed me to put the conditioner on
my hair for an hour a day. “Your hair should be back to normal by Wednesday,” she told me.

I knew it was bullshit but I took the conditioner and the cap anyway.

It is now 11:17
P.M.
and I’ve had the conditioner on my head for six hours. I’m praying that tomorrow my hair will be stronger. I don’t even care
what color it is. I just don’t want to lose my hair.

’Til next time,

V

When I woke up this morning, the plastic cap was filled with hair. The conditioner hadn’t helped. I touched my head tentatively.
My hair felt like wet wool but was still as weak as cotton candy. I had flashbacks of the hours I spent in Lauren’s chair,
the way I looked when I caught the first glimpse of myself in the mirror, the way my hair felt when I reached up to touch
it. I started to cry again. I couldn’t let Pete see me this way. I put on a baseball cap and pulled out the phone book. I
found Jan Wilson’s number. Jan had a salon in her basement. She was famous for resurrecting ruined hair. I heard about her
through one of the Mushroomheads.

It was 7:15
A.M.
I was crying when she answered the phone. I apologized for calling so early and, in between sobs, spilled out my sorry story.
She took pity on me and agreed to see me at 8:15. I roused Pete, took him to Lynette’s, and sped over to Jan’s house.

She walked around me, examining my hair. She tugged at it and it came off in her fingers. She examined it some more. “Honey,
your hair is dead,” Jan finally pronounced. “There’s nothing we can do now but cut it off.” She tugged at it again. “I think
we can save about a half inch off the scalp. It’s going to be short.” I started sobbing again and Jan kneaded my shoulders.
“I know. I know,” she murmured.

“Just do it,” I told her. “Just cut it off.”

Twenty minutes later, I looked like a chemo patient. All the money in the world couldn’t get my hair back.

I staggered out of Jan’s salon and drove to the bagel shop for a cup of coffee. I was dumping sugar into my cup when someone
came up behind me.

“Could it really be? Valerie Ryan?”

It was Michael Avila. Just my luck. “Yup,” I said, turning slowly to face him. “It’s really me. The hairless wonder.”

He stared at my head. “I love it.” He seemed sincere. “I think you look beautiful.”

“You do?”

He was still staring, now at my mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“I don’t lie.” He was looking into my eyes now. “Where have you been?”

“In court.” I told him that I’d finalized the divorce settlement.

“Actually, I’ve heard. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. How did you know?”

“It’s a small town. News travels fast.”

Michael’s pager trilled. He checked the screen. “Crap. I’ve got to run.” He looked sad. “Any chance I can take you out this
weekend? To celebrate?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Call me.”

“You got it.” And with that, the handsome detective was gone. Maybe my hair wasn’t so bad after all. I didn’t feel bald anymore,
I felt sassy and edgy and chic.
But Michael never called me. I’m trying not to think about it.

’Til next time,

V

I called Lynette today. I had to know what the Rosens’ car was doing in front of her house on Saturday morning. She finally
admitted that Wade and Melanie had spent the night. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Lynette, what happened?”

There was a long pause. “Sex happened,” she said, then giggled.

“Excuse me?” I was sure I’d heard wrong.

“Sex happened,” she repeated. “And it was incredible.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Melanie and Wade were incredible. Funny, happy, sweet. We had a little wine, then a little more, then
Wade offered to give me a back rub and Melanie started kissing me and Curt was kissing me and the next thing I knew, we were
all in the guest room. In the bed. Naked.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Is this something you plan to do on a regular basis?” I knew I sounded judgmental.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe.”

Michael Avila still hasn’t called.

’Til next time,

V

He didn’t call me today, either. I knew he was lying about liking my hair.

I feel vindicated!

I just heard through my new friend Donna Gold who heard from one of the Mushroomheads that C.J. Patterson pulled her kid off
Jerry Johansen’s team. No details, but it had something to do with “inappropriate behavior.” On the assumption that C.J. doesn’t
despise me anymore, I called and left a message on her machine.

“Call me if you want to talk about any of this business with Coach Johansen.”

She hasn’t called yet.

Neither has Michael Avila.

’Til next time,

V

I found a message on my machine today. Three words. “You’re a bitch.” A woman’s voice. I didn’t recognize it. I replayed the
message again. I held my ear against the answering machine. I checked Caller I.D. The call that came in at 9:20 was marked
“blocked.”

The phone rang and I snatched it up at once. “What do you want?” I snapped.

“Hey, baby. Calm down. It’s just me.” It was Diana.

“Oh. Diana.” I let out a long breath.

“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m stopping at Provence for takeout. How does mushroom pâté sound to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite, Diana. Can I get a rain check on this?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. We’re going to celebrate.”

Diana arrived with a bottle of sparkling cider and a brown shopping bag from Provence, a tiny take-out place on Union where
the counter help is haughty and a loaf of bread costs six dollars. Her mouth dropped open as she noticed my hacked-away hair.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”

“No, I’m not dressing up as Peter Pan for Halloween,” I answered. “And I’m too fat to be a Holocaust victim.”

“You silly goose.” Diana reached out to run her palm
over my crew cut. “I mean, does this new hair signal a shift in, shall we say, your romantic inclinations?”

“Am I suddenly a lesbian? No.”

“Pity.” Diana shucked off her shoes and padded ahead to the dining room in perfectly pedicured feet. She unpacked a crusty
baguette, mushroom pâté, tortellini, and two dense slices of chocolate torte. “Incidentally, Valerie, you’re not fat. You’re
delicious.” She pinched my ass. I swatted her hand away. I still don’t understand why Diana plays with me this way; surely
there are enough gay women in this town to keep her busy.

Diana moved through my kitchen quickly, pulling out plates and wineglasses, silverware and napkins. She knew exactly where
to find everything and I remembered with a shudder how she had insinuated herself into our family as Roger’s “research assistant.”
“Tell me the truth, Diana,” I started.

“Of course, darling,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “What is it?”

“When you were working with Roger, were you actually working?”

“Umm …” She slid the pâté onto a plate and licked her finger. “Yes. Sort of.” She looked at me. “Roger didn’t have a lot of
work for me. But he knew I needed a job. Mostly we just talked. The more he talked, the less I liked him. He bitched about
you. Bragged about his latest conquests. Talked stocks.” She plopped the tortellini into a bowl. “That’s how I knew about
the
gold. Roger loved talking about money. And he loved spending it on everyone but you.”

I was surprised to feel my eyes sting with tears. Diana looked at my face. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You’re still tenderhearted.”
She brightened. “Hey. Look who’s crying now. Your ex is still in the slammer and he doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

“How do you know he’s still in jail?”

“He called me, the jerk. He asked me to bail him out. I told him forget it. I told him that he should sit there and think
about the mistakes he’d made and get right with his Higher Power.” Diana grinned at me and poked me with her toe.

She told me that Roger couldn’t pull his bail money together. His father wouldn’t bail him out. None of his siblings would
help either. And once he gets out in a week or two, he’ll be homeless and without a job. He’s not trained to do anything except
sponge off his parents, and it’s unlikely he’ll score big with another play. He can’t even get himself hired to teach because
of Alyssa’s sexual harassment charges. Diana thinks he’ll probably move back in with his parents. “What a loser,” she said,
spearing a tortellini with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “Wait! I almost forgot.”

She topped off my glass and then her own, then raised it toward me. “A toast to Valerie Ryan. The sweetest, sexiest, and
wealthiest
woman I know. You deserve everything you want and more, baby. Here’s to you.” She clinked her glass against mine and took
a sip.
I gulped down my cider, wishing it was wine. “So tell me,” she asked, “what are you worth these days?”

I took another sip, stalling. “Oh, a few million bucks, I guess.”

“How many is a few, pray tell?”

“Sixty-three million dollars. Give or take.”

“Wooo-eeee!” Diana slapped the table. “So what are you going to do with all that money?” Diana asked. I told her I had no
definite plans, but would probably buy a winter house somewhere warm and quiet. She offered to serve as a financial consultant.
I told her I’d pass.

“I understand completely,” she said, wiping her mouth. “It’s not like I’ve got a sterling reputation. If you need help, the
offer stands. And when you buy that house, promise you’ll invite me.”

I looked at Diana. Her dark hair framed a heart-shaped face and tumbled down around her shoulders. She wore stretch khaki
pants that accentuated her flat belly and long, lithe thighs. Her black ribbed turtleneck clung to her slim arms and jutting
breasts. She was pushing forty but had the wild beauty of a teenage boy. I fleetingly imagined what it might be like, being
with her. I thought of Lynette and the Rosens. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed the images away.

“You know,” she began, and I had the eerie feeling that she was reading my mind. “It’s not so bad on the other side. You ought
to try it.”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you had enough of men by now?”

I tried to explain to Diana that I didn’t think sexual orientation was a choice, that I have always been interested in men,
that even after Roger I am willing to try my luck with men again. “In fact, there’s someone I’ve got my eye on right now,”
I said. “He’s tall and strong and nice and cute—and single.” Thinking of Michael made me feel happy and giddy. I wanted to
talk about him.

“Is that right?” Diana asked, restraining a frown. “And who is this Prince Charming that has you so captivated?”

“His name is Michael and he’s a cop.”

“Michael Avila?” Diana asked, her eyes popping wide.

“You know him?”

“Not exactly. But I know
of
him.” She looked away. “Ready for dessert?” She stood up and started clearing the plates.

I grabbed her by the elbow. “Get back here,” I demanded. “What do you know about Michael Avila?”

Diana threw up her hands. “Nothing. Nothing. I mean, I know he’s a bachelor. I know he’s a detective. I’ve seen him around
and I know he’s mighty handsome.”

“You know a lot. What else do you know?”

“That’s all.”

“Come on, Diana. Don’t bullshit me. Is he a psycho?”

“No.”

“Is he a philanderer?”

“No.” “Is he a liar? A serial killer? A rapist?” “No, no, no!” Diana spun around. “Look. I really don’t know him. I’m sure
he’s a great guy.” She grabbed her glass and tilted it toward me. “I’m sure you’ll make a lovely couple. But I’m still hoping
you’ll change your mind about men. I would never hurt you, Valerie. And I give the best back rubs.”