Isn't She Lovely (10 page)

However, there’s no way I can leave Stephanie to get through this makeover unescorted. I had a hard enough time convincing her that the makeover was necessary in the first place. In the end, I had to whip out my phone and show her pictures of my mom, in pearls. My dad, in a suit. My family home: marble, granite, a winding staircase, and a professional chef.

She got it. One doesn’t mingle with the Price family in combat boots.

And damn, in the light of day, I don’t know why she’s mingling with the Price family at all. As far as ideas go, this is pretty much the worst one since someone decided to skimp on the
Titanic
’s lifeboats.

The real kicker is that it’s my own fault. Her snotty implications about me not pulling my weight on the project got under my skin, and I watched all those stupid movies, half out of boredom, half to prove her wrong.

And those damn movies caught me at a desperate time. A couple of weeks ago my mom caught me off guard by inviting Olivia to brunch. Surprise! A few days after that Olivia
happened
to be playing tennis when my dad invited me to play doubles. It didn’t take a genius to see that my parents were playing matchmaker.

I’d been all set to tell them that Olivia and I were done. But then they went and arranged for me to take Olivia out on the boat—alone, like it was some special treat. There was no fucking way.

But neither could I bring myself to tell my parents the truth. It was too humiliating. So I did what any pathetic chicken would do: I told them I had other plans. With a new girlfriend.

Like I said, not my best idea. And I wasn’t joking when I told Stephanie that there were surprisingly few females in my social circle who would work. This is the kind of messed-up shit that happens when you grow up in New York. I don’t care how many people live in this city.

When it comes to the rich—when it comes to the Prices and the St. Claires and the Middletons—the social circles are tight, and the sexual circles tighter.

Which brings me to … I look up from the luxe leather chair where I’ve been staring unseeingly at some trashy magazine.

Stephanie Kendrick.

The hairdresser has already put the black cape around Stephanie’s shoulders, emphasizing the black shit around her eyes and the dark attitude.

“So what am I doing here?” the hairdresser asks, scooping up the length of Stephanie’s hair before letting it drop around her shoulders.

My throat goes slightly dry at the memory of what that hair felt like against my fingers the other night. So damned soft for a girl with rough edges.

And then there was that kiss …

“Yeah,
babe
, Maddie here wants to know what we’re doing,” Stephanie says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“Ethan, does your mom know you’re here?” Maddie asks, turning to give me a look.

“Nope, and I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t tell her.”

Maddie shrugs. “I didn’t tell her that it was you who messed with my dye trays back when you were six and turned her hair copper, did I? Not gonna tell her that you’re bringin’ a girl around now.”

I give her my best smile, ignoring Stephanie’s look of disgust. I haven’t seen Maddie in years, probably since that time she mentioned when I accidentally-on-purpose messed with the color tray. I seem to remember being irritated that my mom was having a “root crisis” on the same day as my basketball game and dragged me to the damned hair salon while the rest of my friends were headed to get pizza and soda.

More than a decade later, my mom is still coming to Maddie for root crises. Too bad she hasn’t shown my dad the same loyalty she shows her stylist.

I push the thought away.
I’ve gotta stop dwelling on this shit, or I’m going to turn out all bitter and mean like Stephanie
.

“So, Maddie,” I say, “Stephanie here’s a low-maintenance kind of girl, but she said she wanted to spruce herself up. I think she’s trying to impress me,” I say with a little wink for Maddie.

“Spruce myself up?”

“So what are we thinking?” Maddie asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Well, to start, I was thinking we could get rid of the dark. Take her back to her natural color,” I say, hoping I’m using the right terminology. I’m pretty sure I am. Olivia had talked about her hair. A lot.

But both Stephanie and Maddie are staring at me, so clearly I’ve said something wrong.

“You know … lighter?” I say, feeling a little less confident

“Well, if I’m not mistaken,” Maddie says, setting her mug aside, “we’re dealing with the real thing right here.”

It takes a second to register, and I look at Stephanie’s hair in surprise.

“That’s your real hair color?”

Stephanie gives me a flat look. “I can tell you think it’s pretty.”

“No. Yes. I mean, sure, but it’s so dark.”

Stephanie glances at Maddie. “Do you have my purse handy? I’m going to see if I have a gold star in there I can give Mr. Observant here.”

“Oh, calm down. I guess I just thought, given your penchant for all things dark and dreary, that you’d dyed it.”

“A man without stereotypes. Refreshing.” Stephanie’s tone is light, but she looks pissed.

Shit
. Somehow I expected this to be easier. That Maddie would work her magic, turning this dark gremlin into a soft, blond sweetheart.

“So, what are our options, Mad?” I ask, trying to ignore Stephanie.

The hairdresser studies her client for a moment, picking up stray pieces of hair and letting them fall to the shoulders. “We should keep it long. It suits her. But some layers would do a world of good. Maybe add some long bangs to emphasize her eyes?”

As if Stephanie’s eyes need emphasizing. They’re big and bright and blue.

And not at all fucking relevant right now.

“Okay, whatever you think,” I say, suddenly desperate for some space. “Sweetie, you good if I go grab us some coffees while Maddie does her thing?”

“I’m good, love bug dumpling.”

Her words are all sugar, but I know even after turning away that she’s shooting daggers at my back.

I smile at the receptionist on the way out, and she gives me a smile that clearly invites conversation. I almost bite at the offer. She’s tall and slim, with wavy sex-kitten hair. Exactly the type of girl my parents would expect me to bring home. I need Stephanie to look like
that
, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a few face-framing layers. More like a personality transplant.

This was your idea, dude
.

I still don’t know what planted the seed, or what compelled me to show up at her ex-boyfriend’s door like the perviest kind of stalker. I was changing my mind even as I knocked on the door. But she was looking all miserable and fifth-wheel, and I found myself wanting to stick around.

Then I went and fucking
kissed
her, which mostly was meant to be a way of shutting her up for, like, five seconds, but instead it was kind of … hot. Not exactly what either of us needs.

I take my sweet time getting the coffees, even pretending to window-shop on Fifth Avenue because it’s a lot less terrifying than the estrogen-filled monstrosity that is the hair salon. I have no idea how long these appointments take, so I duck into a bookstore for some air-conditioning, finishing off my coffee before I start drinking Stephanie’s just because it’s there.

Forty-five minutes later I make my way back to the salon. Stephanie is sitting in the waiting area, clearly pissed that I’m late.

“Check your texts much?” she asks.

I pull out my phone, and sure enough, I have about fifty texts from her, all with increasingly violent threats if I don’t get my “preppy ass” back to the salon. But I’m having a hard time concentrating on the fact that Stephanie wants to kill me, because she looks … pretty.

I didn’t understand crap about whatever Maddie had been mumbling, but the woman knows her stuff. Stephanie’s hair is still the shiny dark brown I’ve gotten used to, but instead of hanging like a shield around her face, it falls in tousled waves around her shoulders and is pretty much begging to be spread out on someone’s pillow.

Not mine. But someone’s.

And it’s pretty hard to tell with the glare and the raccoon eyes, but I think there
might
be a babe under all that angst.

“No coffee?” she asks.

I give a wan smile, and to my surprise she doesn’t throw a fit.

“Whatever,” she says. “You always get my order wrong anyway.”

True.

I pull out a credit card and approach the curious receptionist. I didn’t have to do much coaxing to get Stephanie to let me pay. Not only does she not have the money, but if we are really going to turn our little adventure into a shitty screenplay, I have to be the one driving the makeover, Pygmalion style.

Which isn’t a problem. I’m evolved. I can tolerate a makeup counter and a women’s dressing room.

But I didn’t anticipate the extra hurdle of keeping my motivations focused. I’m here to create a version of Stephanie that will fool my parents. Not a version of Stephanie that appeals to
me
.

I glance over at her as she’s punching something on my phone and give her a thumbs-up at the haircut. She narrows her eyes and gives this little head wiggle as if to say,
What?
before shooting me the bird.

So … never mind. Guess I don’t need to worry about falling for this delicate little
flower.

“So what now, a couple’s mani/pedi?” she purrs after we head back into the late morning sunshine.

“That’s nails, right?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well … getting rid of the tar you’ve smudged on your fingers is a given. But not yet.”

“Can we get a snack?” she whines as I drag her toward Bergdorf Goodman. A few Internet searches indicated that it’s the best bet for one-stop cosmetics shopping. And I’m
all
for one-stop shopping, not only for my own masculinity but also because Stephanie’s makeover stamina is proving to be dismal.

“Aren’t you hot?” I ask, glaring at her baggy black pants as I hold the door open for her.

She ignores me as she steps into Bergdorf’s. “I’m surprised they don’t charge an admission fee,” she says, staring around at the admittedly opulent decor.

Something in my chest tightens briefly, and even though I wasn’t totally paying attention to those stupid movies, the similarities aren’t lost on me. Her overwhelmed expression isn’t unlike Eliza Doolittle’s or that of the
Pretty Woman
hooker. She’s out of her league and she knows it. And doesn’t like it.

“Think of it as screenplay fodder,” I say, putting a hand on her back and guiding her toward the escalators. “Angry goth girl discovers Fifth Avenue.”

“I’ve been on Fifth Avenue before, fool,” she snaps.

She’s so lovely.

We arrive in the beauty department, or whatever, and for a second I’m paralyzed. There are so many fucking
options
.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Stephanie whispers, looking enormously pleased that she’s not the only one out of her comfort zone.

I drag her toward one of the counters where a logo looks vaguely familiar, and I smile at the icy blond salesperson.

“My sister needs a new look,” I say, showing her all of my teeth.

“So it’s sister now, is it?” Stephanie mutters.

“Just until you look presentable,” I say under my breath.

Her head jerks just a little, like maybe I’ve hurt her, but she rolls her shoulders and smiles tentatively at the salesperson.

Good girl. Do your part
.

Not that she’s doing it for noble reasons. She knows full well that she doesn’t get keys or even
directions
to my place until this day is over and she looks, well … Price worthy.

The thought is so fundamentally
dickhead
that I hate myself for a second before reminding myself that it’s all part of the game. A game she’s agreed to.

“Are we thinking just a new pop of color on the lips, or maybe a little bronzer, or …?” The salesperson is looking between the two of us.

I’ve gone Christmas shopping with my parents enough to know what comes next, and I pull my wallet out of my pocket and slide out a credit card.

“Everything,” I say firmly. “Whole new look. Something girlish and sweet. Less … dark.”

“Is that what you want, hon?” the woman asks Stephanie.

“Oh, yes. Girlish and sweet is just what I’ve
always
wanted.”

But the salesperson is too enamored with the sight of my credit card and the promise of a full makeover to catch Stephanie’s sarcasm, and she’s already rummaging around in all of these tiny little drawers pulling out dozens of minuscule containers.

“So, um, Kendrick …,” I say tentatively.

“Go,” she says on a sigh. “But not so long this time.”

I’m already sliding away, wondering if it’s too early in the day to grab a beer somewhere to get me through the rest of the day.

“By the way, you’re a horrible Pygmalion!” she calls after me.

What does she expect, that I’m going to weigh in on eye shadow colors? And besides, the guy in
Pretty Woman
just handed over a fat roll of cash for the transformation and told the girl to go shopping. My way is simply the updated version.

I do one better than finding a beer. I find a sports bar that is actually open before noon, and get lost in some European soccer match that I don’t care much about, but which beats watching a makeup application.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket without taking my eyes off the television. I glance down at the text and wince.

Stephanie has been done for five minutes and wants to know, quote, “where the fuck your fucking ass is.” Obviously I’m not the only one who needs a beer. I text her the location of the bar and ask the bartender for a food menu. Women always shop better when they’re fed, and we haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet: clothes.

Stephanie agreed to the hair and makeup adventure but drew the line at allowing me to buy her clothes—a line I’m about to erase.

A few minutes later I recognize a familiar smell of oranges, and am dismayed to realize that apparently I’ve come to recognize Stephanie’s scent. I know it’s her even before I turn my head.