The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) (4 page)

“What kind of vacation spot are we talking
here?” Lucy asked. “Or does he get to choose that?”

“Your island sounds pretty cool,” Betty
said.

Fawn leaned back into the steaming water and
stretched out her arms, a smile growing on her face. “My mom won’t
get on an airplane, so it has to be within driving distance. I’m
looking at an eco-resort in Mendocino that specializes in
restorative, unpretentious, transformative ceremonies. It would be
totally relaxing, spiritual, rejuvenating, wonderful.” She glanced
around. “What do you think?”

They saw the desperate eagerness on Fawn’s
face. None of them was evil enough to disappoint her. “It sounds
wonderful, Fawn,” Krista said. “Any time between the second week of
June and the third week of August is great for me.”

“Is there wireless there?” Betty asked.
“Because if so, I could stay longer. Like, a few months if you need
me. A year, if necessary.” She grinned, twisting the stud in her
lip between her thumb and forefinger.

Fawn turned to Lucy. “Well?”

She did like the idea of free, that was true.
And Mendocino was beautiful—if the pot growers didn’t shoot you.
Lucy imagined what their week-long wedding would be like. Huge,
probably, given how many people they knew. Huntley was a sociable
guy in his thirties with a rich, powerful family and tons of
connections. Fawn had friends all over the world.

It would be a buffet of eligible partners she
might never have access to again. But while a week was a long time
to be at a wedding, it wasn’t a lot of time to pick out a spouse.
Not enough time to talk to each one, get a sense of temperament, of
goals. And, as her friends had pointed out, her own judgment in men
was flawed.

The Erasure song suddenly stopped blaring on
the other side of the pool; the water aerobics class was finishing,
the other women climbing out on the ladder and making their way to
the spa.

Lucy turned to Fawn. “I’ll do it on one
condition.”

“You’ll have to wear the bridesmaid dress I
pick out for the ceremony. That’s non-negotiable.”

“I suppose I can live with that. It might
even help. You see—” Lucy bit her lip and looked into Fawn’s
shining, heat-flushed face. “You’ve convinced me that I misjudged
Dan. For a really long time. And since I didn’t really date a lot
of guys before him—”

Fawn snorted. “I was about to set you up with
Betty.”

“Please,” Betty said. “One bad haircut
doesn’t make her a lesbian.”

Her friends doubled over laughing but Lucy
couldn’t stop now. She put a hand on Fawn’s arm and squeezed.
“Since I didn’t date much, and you know me better than anyone else
in the world”—she took a deep breath—“I want
you
to pick out
the next one. My new guy.”

Laughter fading to smiles, her friends looked
at each other.

“And whoever he is,” Lucy went on, “I’ll
marry him.”

The last week of July, when the rest of the
country wore tank tops or sweltered in business clothes, when the
national media ran daily news features on how to stay cool and
which sunscreens lived up to their SPF claims, San Franciscans
zipped up their North Face parkas and laughed at the
teeth-chattering, shorts-wearing tourists standing in line for the
cable cars.

It was freezing. The sun hadn’t pierced the
ceiling of fog since Memorial Day, and though he loved the cold
nights for sleeping, Miles was starting to resent the lack of
vitamin D.

Riding his motorcycle over to Berkeley to his
clubhouse brought a little relief; the East Bay had sun in the
afternoons, though the wind was fierce, and only teenage girls wore
summer clothes, because when else could they wear them? But a
little sun was better than nothing and Miles was glad he’d invited
Huntley to meet him at work instead of in the city.

Since Felicia had dumped him, Miles had
become a little defensive about his humble lifestyle. Huntley had
earned more from investments by his first birthday than Miles would
earn in a lifetime. Maybe his rich best friend would agree with his
ex that a two-bedroom condo in the Mission was unsuitable for a
thirty-four-year-old man who’d once attended Stanford.

Even if that attendance had been rather
brief.

No, better to meet him at the clubhouse, his
pride and joy, something he really cared about.

And it would give Miles the opportunity to
hit him up for a donation. While he would never ask for anything
for himself, he’d happily prostrate himself to beg for his kids.
Not as if Huntley would miss a million bucks. Hell, he probably had
that much in change under the seats of his Porsche.

Miles parked his bike in the narrow spot he’d
had painted just for him, right at the front door of the small
yellow cinder-block building in a semi-industrial neighborhood near
the bay. Lots of his kids lived in the neighborhood, though many
got a ride from all over Berkeley and Emeryville, Albany and El
Cerrito—kids with protective parents who wouldn’t let them play
outside, kids with parents who worked late, or kids without anyone
at all. The schools sent home flyers, the word got out, and they
came.

The Porsche Huntley kept in the Bay Area (one
in every port) was already there, parked in the red with a man—not
Huntley—in the passenger seat staring at his phone. Only a rich guy
would have a chauffeur who rode shotgun. Miles tucked the helmet
under his arm and strode into the clubhouse, rehearsing his speech
about self-esteem and physical fitness, male role models and the
devastating effect of the recession on charity coffers, but before
he could say anything, Huntley jumped out from behind the door and
dumped a bucket of ping-pong balls on his head.

“Heads up, coach!” his friend cried, running
past the foosball table into the gym.

Miles paused and took a deep breath. Stepping
carefully over the rolling balls, he made his way to the office
while he unzipped his motorcycle suit.

Ronnie turned from his computer and raised an
eyebrow, his forehead wrinkles cascading up his bald head. “What’s
with your friends throwing things at you?”

Miles pulled open his desk drawer and locked
his helmet inside. “I wish I knew.”

“He like kids? We could use him on Wednesday
night basketball. All that energy.”

“Peter Pan has a big trust fund,” Miles said,
stepping out of the suit. “I don’t think he’s ever had a job.”

“Some woman’s going to marry a guy who’s
never had a job?”

Miles snorted. “She’s never had one either.
Some kind of model. And once she marries Huntley, she’s set for
life. Whether she sticks with him or not.”

Ronnie leaned back in the old desk chair,
arched his back, scratched his generous belly. “Not too romantic,
are you buddy? That blonde did a real number on you.”

“She did me a favor.” Miles hung up his
armored suit and slapped Ronnie on the shoulder. “I’m going to see
if I can do the same for my best friend.”

“Turn him into a bitter old man?”

“Takes one to know one,” Miles retorted. He
looked out the glass wall of the office into the lounge where
Huntley stood, hands on his hips, grinning at him and waiting for
retribution. Blond, glossy, and expensive, he looked like a male
version of Paris Hilton—not a comparison Huntley relished, but it
was made so often he had to put up with it.

He was a numbnuts, but Miles loved him. “I’m
going to open his eyes before it’s too late.”

Ronnie swung back to his computer. “Well,
keep me out of it. And clean up when the party’s over.”

The old grouch worked for him, but Miles
said, “Yes, boss,” and sauntered out to Huntley. “You looking for
trouble, little man?”

Huntley whipped a ping-pong ball at him and
ran back into the gym. Miles waited two seconds before he grabbed a
basketball and strode after him.

But just as he stepped into the gym, another
ball nailed him in the forehead. Miles froze, weighed the heavy
basketball in his palm. “You are dead meat, rich boy.”

Huntley hooted and ran down the court. “Just
try and catch me.” He jogged in place and gave him come-hither
motions with his fingers.

Miles sighed, bounced the basketball on the
ground, regarded the ceiling. “Does your girlfriend know you’re a
total dipshit?”

“Not yet. That’s why I have to marry her
before she catches on.” He pitched another ping-pong ball and Miles
ducked, wishing he hadn’t bought them in bulk the week before. He
strode toward his friend and dribbled the ball like a
sledgehammer.

Eyes dancing, Huntley dropped into a
defensive stance. “Hey, I love it when you wear green. You look
like the Jolly Green Giant.”

“Ho ho ho.” Miles lurched forward with the
ball as though he was going to attack, then drew back at the last
second. Huntley flinched and drew up his hands to his face. Miles
grinned, faked him out again. “What’s the matter, little fella?
Afraid I’m going to
kick your ass
?” He lunged forward, only
inches away, but this time Huntley held himself still. So instead
of pulling back, Miles bopped him on the head with the ball and
laughed at Huntley’s shocked expression.

Unfortunately, Huntley had a black belt in
judo. He deftly grabbed handfuls of Miles’s green sweatshirt and
threw him down to the ground.

As pain shot through Miles’s hip, he thought
he heard one of his shoulders dislocate.

He stared at the metal pipes and exposed
ducts of the gym ceiling and wondered when Huntley would outgrow
this annoying compulsion of his to knock him over. It was hardly
reasonable, considering how often Miles had protected him when they
were growing up. Miles guessed it was like therapy to be able to
bring down the biggest guy around after having the shit knocked out
of you so often as a kid.

Huntley’s face came into view, grinning down
at him. “Timber!”

“One of these days I’ll actually fight
back.”

“You’re getting old, big guy.” He squatted
down, lifted Miles’s sweatshirt, and poked him in the stomach. “And
look at this flab! Soft in the middle.”

Miles slapped his hand away and growled,
“Watch it, Huntley.”

He tsked, jumped out of reach, and pulled his
T-shirt up. “Check this out.” He slapped his abdomen. “Fuck
six-packs. I’ve got a goddamn case.”

“I’m sure the other boys love to look at you,
honey.” Miles got up to his feet. “The rest of us work for a
living.”

“Excuses, excuses. I’ve been working for
years. I have a desk and everything.”

“How’s it going, working for Daddy?”

“It sucks, thank you very much. But it keeps
Puritanical assholes like yourself from giving me a hard time.”
Huntley grinned. “You’re just pissed I dropped you again.”

“Damn right. One of these days I’m going to
break something. It’s a long way down for some of us.” Eyes on the
floor, Miles stepped closer to his friend.

“Poor Jolly,” Huntley said, poking him in the
belly again.

Which gave Miles the excuse he needed to haul
his pretty ass into the air and hold him upside down by the
ankles.

“Aiiieeee, shit!” Huntley flailed around like
a fish on a hook and tried to grab Miles’s legs.

Miles just lifted him higher, shook him a
little bit. “You got any change in those pockets? Fancy-ass cell
phone?” He shook him harder. “Damn, your sissy jeans are too
tight.”

Laughing and swearing at the same time,
Huntley arched his back and lashed out with his arms. “You
can’t—last—forever!” he gasped. “Then—you’re—toast!”

A large voice boomed from the doorway. “You
need help, Mr. Sterling?”

“No—Eric—I’m—fine,” Huntley managed.

“If you’re sure,” the man said, and left.

Shoulders burning, Miles let Huntley down
just far enough for his hands to reach the ground, then pushed
forward so Huntley was forced to walk on his hands. Miles
wheelbarrowed him for ten feet, dropped him, and jumped away,
feeling a triumphant grin stretching across his face. “Truce.”

Huntley started to get up, then sank back
onto the floor. “Oh sure, now it’s a truce.” But he was smiling as
he flopped onto his back.

Glad for the chance to catch his breath,
Miles sat down on the ground and gazed at his oldest friend. “Since
when do you have a babysitter?”

“Not my idea.”

“I guessed that. Your mother’s or
father’s?”

He snorted. “Please. Dad thinks it’s
ridiculous but lets her get her way. Doesn’t like to argue.” Still
flat on his back, Huntley turned his head to gaze seriously at
Miles. “Guess I take after him in some ways.”

“What does your model friend think of
them?”

Huntley’s smile faded. “Don’t call her that.
It’s bad enough I have to put up with that shit from my
parents.”

“Maybe they see something you don’t. They
just want the best for you.”

“My parents only see what they want to see.”
Huntley jumped to his feet. “Which is usually money and other
people named Sterling.”

Wincing at the sudden pain in his shoulder,
Miles got up and went over to pick up the basketball. “Maybe
they’re afraid that’s all she sees, too,” he said softly.

“No. Not you too.”

“How long have you known this girl? Two
months?”

“Half a year next week.”

“Not even six months. Not nearly enough time.
What’s the hurry? Fine, she wants to get engaged. Get engaged,
then—I know how that is. But couldn’t you put things off a bit?”
Miles dribbled the ball. “God knows you’ve got the charm to
convince women of anything.”

All the playfulness gone, Huntley said, “It
was my idea to get married.”

“Yours?” Miles made a long shot for the
basket, missed. “You sure about that?”

Huntley looked like he wanted to knock him
down again. Normally he wouldn’t attack when he was angry, but he
looked like he wanted to. “Watch it. You want me to choose between
you and Fawn and it’s no contest.” He gave him a hard stare, ran
after the ball. “No fucking contest at all.”