The Blonde Theory (4 page)

“And all I’d have to do is act like a dumb blonde?”

“In every dating situation,” she confirmed with a nod. “On dates. At bars. At parties. Wherever.”

All three of them were looking at me eagerly.

“Fine,” I said finally, nodding. I took a deep breath and smiled at my friends. “I guess I’m in.” The contents of my stomach shifted as I said it, and I felt vaguely queasy, but I tried to ignore it.

A cheer went up from our little table, and Meg proposed a mimosa toast. As I raised my glass and looked back and forth among my three maniacally grinning friends, I wondered momentarily what I had just gotten myself into. What if the theory didn’t work and the only thing that I discovered was that men didn’t like me no matter what?

“We start tomorrow night,” Meg said ominously as we all downed our orange-juice-spiked champagne. “Mark it on your calendars, ladies. May twenty-third. The day that Ditzy Harper will be born.”

Chapter Three

D
-Day was May 23, the day that a new and infinitely more datable Harper Roberts would hit the streets of New York, the day that all my luck would change.

Right?

I sure hoped so. Because the alternative would be that I’d spend the next two weeks acting like a complete idiot for no reason whatsoever.

Oddly enough, that did not exactly appeal to me.

Having already established that naïveté and empty-headedness wouldn’t go over very well in the law offices of Booth, Fitzpatrick & McMahon, I had received “permission” to act like my normal self at work, where I was operating under the assumption that the corporate attorneys, engineers, and chemists that I dealt with on a routine basis as a patent attorney would be less than enthusiastic trusting their financial futures to a half-wit. Elsewhere, in all other situations, I was to become a vacant Barbie doll. Well, a Barbie doll without the 39–21–33 to-scale measurements, of course. Mine were 34–29–36. More Raggedy Ann than Barbie. But I digress.

I was thankful that I could at least act normally at work, because it was the only place in the world where I truly felt at home. I know, that’s a sad statement, right? But they say home is where the heart is. And due to my conspicuous lack of any guys worthy of giving my heart to (okay, or any guys who actually stuck around long enough to consider such heart giving), I had thrown all my energy—and all my heart—into my job, which I really, truly loved.

I once read that only 1 percent of Americans had what they considered a “dream job,” a job that made them excited to go to work every morning and let them leave entirely satiated at the end of the day. I knew without a doubt that I was one of those lucky few. I had become a patent lawyer because I couldn’t decide between chemical engineering (which I loved because of the fascinating interaction between chemicals, but I won’t go into the details...I’ve been told that when I start rambling about ionization and the periodic table, I’m a really dull conversation partner) and rhetoric (I’ve always loved talking circles around people by using logic and spinning my thoughts into cohesive, convincing phrases). So after earning my bachelor’s in chemical engineering and graduating summa cum laude from Ohio State in just three years, law school felt like a natural fit. I graduated at the top of my Harvard Law class then went on to study for the patent bar, because chemical engineering and law were inextricably wed in my mind. And patent law was the best way to combine my two loves.

Little did I know that the marriage between chemicals and legal terminology would be the only successful wedding I’d personally experience in my first three and a half decades of life. But again, I digress.

I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, because I got to do something different every day. Okay, it probably sounds boring to you, but I got such a rush out of hearing a chemical engineer at 3M tell me, his eyes shining excitedly, about a new adhesive he’d discovered to make tape seven times stickier. Or a pharmaceutical engineer at Mabry tell me about the new compound she’d engineered that would make headache medications work up to three times faster. Or the chemical engineer at BakersGrain tell me about the new preservative that would double the shelf life of cornflakes.

Seriously. It was awesome because I
understood
it all. And I loved helping engineers and chemists secure patents for their developments. I loved knowing that I played a small role in all sorts of new products and designs that made differences—however subtle—in the world. I loved the intellectual stimulation of being surrounded by both scientists and lawyers, tickling both the creative and logical sides of my brain. I loved arguing cases in front of the patent board, convincing them that my clients weren’t infringing on other patents and should have full rights to their ideas. I loved it with all my heart.

But loving your job wasn’t cool. At least not when your job involved complicated chemical formulas and legal intricacies and netted you three hundred grand a year. Nope, then it was just intimidating. In terms of dating, I’d be much better off with just a high school diploma.

Thus, The Blonde Theory.

A
FTER A RELATIVELY
normal morning of using my man-repelling brain to write a quick brief and begin work on a series of contracts associated with a bizarre “miracle cream for breast enhancement” that one of my clients had brought me last week for patenting, I headed to the set of
The Rich and the Damned
to meet Emmie for a quick lunch. She had said she wanted to talk with me about The Blonde Theory, and I figured I had nothing to lose. Who better to take dating tips from than my friend who seemed to be a pied piper of men, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind her wherever she went?

“I only have an hour,” I said when she met me at the stage door, which she opened to let me in so that we could avoid the bleached-blonde, gum-snapping receptionist, who always took at least twenty minutes to issue security “clearance” to visitors, which consisted only of photocopying their IDs and giving them a visitor’s badge. “I have a mound of work to do at the office. Maybe we can grab something quick at the deli on the corner.”

“Oh, we’re not eating today,” Emmie said, grabbing my arm and yanking me inside. The stage door shut behind us, rather ominously, I thought.

“We’re not?” I asked suspiciously. Emmie was in full makeup for the show, as she often was when I visited her, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was being led down the hallway by an overly enthusiastic clown with a face full of matte pancake makeup and bright red lips. The only thing missing was a big red nose.

“No,” she said cheerfully.

“Then why am I here?” I looked at her blankly. “I thought you invited me to lunch.”

“No time for small talk. We have to get right to work,” Emmie said mysteriously, ignoring my question. “Follow me.”

Checking my watch and trying to shush my grumpily grumbling stomach, I followed her down the darkened hallways. Still holding my hand, as if she were afraid I would dart away if she let go (well, maybe I would have), she click-clacked in her high heels past doors decorated with actors’ names inside stars, then on past Sound Stage 1, currently set up to look like a hospital room.

“One of the characters is in a coma,” Emmie explained hurriedly as we passed by. Of course. One of the characters was
always
in a coma. Except during the times when one was
awakening
from a lengthy coma or returning from the dead or some such thing.

For two years now, Emmie had played the assistant to the devilishly handsome Dr. Dirk Doubleday on the soap, and she was convinced it was the first step toward her big break, the role that would lead to her being noticed and cast as a lead on a prime-time drama series, which would, of course, lead to her being cast as the lead in next summer’s box-office-breakout romantic comedy. She already had her sights set on the mansion next to Tom Cruise’s. Seriously. She had a photo of it pinned to the mirror in her dressing room.

Emmie turned down the hall leading to the makeup room with me following two paces behind, wondering where she was taking us. My nose told me we were leaving the general vicinity of the tempting buffet table.

“Wait here for a moment,” she said, pulling to a halt before we reached the dressing room she shared with several other minor characters on the show. Of course, I would never refer to them as minor characters.
Supporting actors,
Emmie called them.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she opened a door off the hallway.

“Shhhh! ” she hissed at me. “I’m just making sure the coast is clear.” She looked from side to side suspiciously, her blonde ringlets bobbing around her face, and slipped inside the room beside her dressing room.

I sighed and leaned back against the wall of the hallway, crossing my arms. I was hungry, and it had been a long morning. I didn’t have time for Emmie’s dramatics today. She was always making a bigger deal out of things than she needed to. I mean, I guess that was her job. But I’m the complete opposite: practical and sparse in my antics.

In a moment, an elated Emmie reemerged from the room, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside.

“It’s safe. C’mon,” she said. She flipped on the light, revealing a massive closet lined with racks and racks of clothes, shoes, wigs, and accessories. “Welcome to the Wardrobe Closet,” she said with dramatic flourish, gesturing around us grandly. I blinked and stared. It was what I’d always imagined Heaven would look like.

The room seemed to go on forever. The walls were lined with shelves six feet high, filled with every color, shape, and size of shoe I could imagine. Clear cabinets were filled with a sea of denim in every shade, and endless racks were lined with hangers full of shirts, pants, dresses, skirts, and jackets in every color, shape, and size ever created. Carrie Bradshaw would have a field day here. Well, she would if she weren’t a fictional character, anyhow. I gulped and tried to appear nonchalant, although my little shopper’s heart was beating rapidly.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, trying to sound grumpy instead of impressed. I refused to admit that I was trying not to salivate. “I’m hungry,” I said instead.

“Har
per,
” Emmie said in exasperation. “Can you not think about food for, like, thirty seconds? We’re trying to get you outfitted for the Blonde Theory experiment.”

“Outfitted?” I asked suspiciously, my gaze finally drawn away from the endless rows, shelves, and racks of beautiful clothes. I focused on Emmie with some reluctance. “What are you talking about? We didn’t say anything about outfits.”

Emmie sighed, clearly exasperated with me.

“Harper,” she began slowly, as if she were talking to a child. “In acting, the first step to
being
the part is
looking
the part. And you’re not exactly going to
look
the part in
your
clothes, are you?”

I looked down at my body. I was dressed in a slim, pin-striped black Armani pantsuit over a crisp white blouse with Jimmy Choo stiletto pumps peeking out from beneath the slightly flared bottoms of the pant legs. I looked all business. My favorite necklace, a sterling-silver Tiffany heart on a slim silver chain, dangled in the cleft of my collarbone.

“I can see your point,” I admitted reluctantly. Although I loved my clothes.

“So I’ve taken the liberty of picking out several outfits for you,” Emmie announced. I just stared at her. She pulled out one of the sliding racks.

“Smart Harper,” she said, grinning at me, “meet Dumb Harper.” She gestured grandly to the rolling rack.

It was a veritable sea of acid-trippy tight pants, clingy dresses, halter tops, and shirts that looked suspiciously like bras.

Oh no. I could
not
wear any of this. No way.

“A tube top?” I asked skeptically, pointing to the first outfit that Emmie held up.

“Yep,” she said proudly. “And don’t worry; everything’s a label.”

I groaned. “Yeah, the label of ugliness,” I muttered.

She rolled her eyes. “No, look.” She pulled out one of the dresses, a short, white, nearly transparent one. “See,” she said, showing me the tag. “Versace. And this one,” she said, replacing the white dress and pulling out a little turquoise number, “is Stella McCartney.”

I quickly leafed through the rack, and indeed, nearly every item on it seemed to be from an expensive designer label. Not that I could imagine anyone spending that kind of money on these kinds of designs.

“Emmie,” I said flatly, turning back from the rack to face her. A slightly ill feeling rose inside me as I tried not to picture myself in some of these dresses. “I would never wear any of this.”

“Exactly,” Emmie announced triumphantly. “Harper Roberts, meet the new you.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, I was poured into a strapless fuchsia dress that was long enough to keep me from looking like a streetwalker but clingy enough in all the right places to leave little to the imagination. It followed the curves of my hips then flared out into a flowy tulip skirt that ended well above my knees. I frowned at myself in the mirror.

“I look like a prostitute,” I groaned, knowing very well that I didn’t. Actually, I was ashamed to admit that I looked a lot better in the dress than I had expected. Not that I would say that to Emmie. I wouldn’t want to encourage her.

“You’re exaggerating, Harper,” she said dismissively. “Besides, do you know any prostitutes who wear Dolce?”

“I suppose I’m supposed to wear this to the firm dinner tomorrow night?” I asked wryly, ignoring the fact that Emmie was right about the dress’s label as I turned to stare at myself in the mirror from another angle. No, this was definitely not working for me. “You know, the dinner I don’t have a date for yet?”

She laughed. She knew me well enough to know I was just trying to deflect attention from the real issue. It was my oldest trick.

“I wouldn’t exactly recommend wearing this to dinner with the other partners, Harp,” she deadpanned. “I think that falls into the category of time off from The Blonde Theory in the interests of keeping your job.”

“Great,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “Lucky me.”

Not that it mattered. If I couldn’t find a date—which was beginning to look like a distinct possibility—I’d be ostracized like a leper anyhow. Seriously. I had tried going stag before, and the stigma still hadn’t worn off. The implication, of course, when you showed up alone was that you were not actually capable of getting a date. In my case, this was true. But it’s not like I wanted my co-workers to
know
that. It was one thing to
be
an undatable loser. It was quite another to have the entire office
know
you were an undatable loser.

“Besides, stop changing the subject,” Emmie said, swatting me lightly as I turned to look over my shoulder at myself in the mirror. “This is about the dress you have on, not about your firm dinner. We’ll get you a date. And right now, you look hot.”

Okay, so I did look hot.