Читать книгу The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy - Nic Tatano - Страница 7

Most interventions are surprises, hitting the target when he or she least expects it. In most cases, the focus is on someone with a drug or alcohol problem. Friends get together and confront the person, hopefully forcing that person to take action and deal with the problem.

So I was surprised when I walked into Ariel’s impeccably decorated apartment on Saturday afternoon and found her and my two other closest friends sitting in a circle next to a whiteboard on an easel. It kinda stuck out amidst all the antique furniture.

“Let me guess,” I said. “This is either an Amway meeting or you haven’t noticed this whiteboard clashes with your decor.”

“Wing Girl, we need to talk,” said Ariel, patting the empty space on the dark-brown leather couch next to her.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“It’s an intuhvention,” said Roxanne Falcone, the short but buxom raven-haired sister from Brooklyn I never had.

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said.

“No, you have a man problem,” said Serena Dash, the tall, doe-eyed brunette lawyer who, despite average looks, manages to spend her nights looking at more ceilings than Michelangelo.

My jaw hung open. “So, what are you guys gonna do, list my bad qualities on the board?”

“No, sweetie,” said Ariel. “We’re taking you to charm school.”

My face tightened. “Charm school? Are you implying I am without charm?”

All three looked away from me, at each other, then down at the hardwood floor.

And then I heard Harry’s voice in my head. Absolutely no social skills.

“I’ve had boyfriends in the past,” I said, in what I knew was a lame attempt at defending said charm.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Again with the college professuh.”

“He was nice,” I said.

“He was an illegal alien who wanted to marry you for a green card,” said Ariel. “And don’t even bring up that fling with the student in that career day class you taught who just wanted a job at your station.”

I felt my lip quivering. Serena noticed, got up, put her arms around me and gave me a strong hug. My eyes narrowed as I bit my lower lip, trying to keep my emotions in check.

Serena pulled back and looked at me. “Let it out, Wing Girl. For once, just let it out.”

“The Brass Cupcake doesn’t cry,” I said, standing up straight, arms folded. “There’s no crying in news.”

“Great, now she’s channeling Tom Hanks,” said Roxanne.

“You’re not an investigative reporter when you’re with us,” said Ariel. “You’re our dear friend, who we know has a huge heart. The problem is, no man can see it. It’s locked away in some journalism vault by this Brass Cupcake alter ego who thinks that if she lets it out her career will dive headfirst into the shitter.”

“Let it out,” said Roxanne.

“There’s nothing to let out!”

“We want you to be happy,” said Ariel.

“I am happy,” I said. “My career—”

“With your life! Ariel got up and tapped me on the head with one knuckle. “Hello! McFly! There’s more to life than work.”

Serena took me by one hand and led me to the couch. “Honey, if you keep going the way you’re going you’ll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies.”

I sat down on the soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled men. And I did like cats an awful lot. “Fine,” I said. “So what’s the deal with this charm school?”

“First,” said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker, “we’re going to start with what you’re looking for in a man.”

“Pffft. I’ll settle for breathing at this point,” I said.

“Be serious,” said Serena.

“Give us the qualities you’re looking for,” said Ariel.

***

Ten minutes later we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light on my problem.

Serena furrowed her brow. “Guys, I’m not sure he exists.”

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Roxanne. “The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow.”

I shrugged. “So I have high standards.”

“You have unreal standards,” said Ariel. “Your problem is that you’ve spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a European vacation.”

“Fine,” I said. “So I need to lower my standards.”

“You don’t have to lower them,” said Serena, “you just have to learn to accept the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you want.”

I nodded, realizing they were right. “Okay. So I become more open minded about men. There, we’re done. Let’s go to dinner.”

“Not so fast,” said Ariel. “And not dressed like that. You’re not going out in those outfits anymore.”

I looked down at my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater. “What’s wrong with this?”

“It’s fine if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot,” said Roxanne.

“I always attract men,” I said. “That’s why you call me Wing Girl.”

“The Brass Cupcake attracts men,” said Serena. “Belinda needs to learn how to keep them.”

“Really?” said Ariel. “Pants and flats for a Saturday night?”

“They’re comfortable,” I said.

“Men want heels and skirts,” said Serena. “We know you’ve got great legs under there. We’ve been to the beach with you.”

“And the hair,” said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.

“What?” I asked.

“The bun is done,” she said.

“You’re blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel,” said Ariel. “Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that green.”

“I can’t see without glasses.”

“As a reporter you should know there’s been a fabulous new invention called contact lenses,” said Serena. “Maybe you’ve read about it.”

“So you’re giving me a total makeover.”

“Yep,” said Ariel.

“Right now?”

***

As my friends took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn’t sure how this makeover thing was gonna come out. I mean, I’ve got three women who are all very different and the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.

Ariel is my oldest and closest friend. She’s a tall drink of water from a wealthy section of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a blanket under which a man becomes powerless.

Always impeccably dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she’s the proverbial blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you’ve got a girl who could probably be a model if she wanted to.

Serena is an attorney from California who learned early on that male members of a jury can often be distracted by a lawyer who dresses as if she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender. Her short hemlines are legendary in New York courtrooms, as she’s known for “skirting the issues” when it comes to closing arguments.

She’s not a stunner by any means, but she’s kinda pretty and makes the most of what she’s got. In a sea of New York women obsessed with black, Serena has a closet full of red, so she always stands out. Her big, shoulder-length hair harkens back to the eighties, framing an angular face and a cute pug nose. She’s got these devilish hazel eyes that always make her look like she’s up to something. Probably because she is, either in the courtroom, bedroom, or both.

Serena loves the law so much she carries that “lawyer-talk” out of the courtroom and often works it into everyday conversations. (I’ve picked up a little myself, as I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she’s an excellent lawyer and could easily win her cases dressed in burlap.

Roxanne is my gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who’s a hairstylist, or, as she calls it, “hairdressuh.” But she’s not just any salon gal; she’s sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy, who no doubt endure her wicked accent because she’s a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She’s blessed with natural wavy hair, big light-green eyes and a great rack. Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever could in a boardroom.

She’s about five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you’d want in a foxhole because Roxanne doesn’t take shit from anybody. She’s a tight package: tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.

They made me get up on my kitchen step-stool like it’s some pedestal and then walked around me looking at the total package.

“Let’s start at the top. The hair’s comin’ down,” said Roxanne, who reached up on her tiptoes to unleash the bun.

I leaned away. “I like my hair up.”

“Men like it down,” she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of the Gordian Knot. “Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing.” My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers through it. “Gawd, it’s like straw. But I can work with this. Women would kill for this color, you know.”

“They can get it out of a bottle,” I said.

“Yeah, but the carpet won’t match the drapes,” said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.

Serena had been rummaging through one of my closets. “Where the hell are your heels?”

“I don’t have any,” I said. “I’m five-five, that’s tall enough.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” she said. “Is it therefore your contention that you do not own one single pair?”

“Have you ever seen me in heels?”

She sat down on the floor facing me. “Now that I think about it, no. Do you even know how to walk in them?”

“I tried a pair in high school. Made my feet hurt.”

“What size are you?”

“Six. Narrow.”

“I’m a nine. Rox?”

“Sorry,” said Roxanne. “I got pancake flippers for feet.”

“Ariel?”

“Eight.”

“So much for tonight.” She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in closet. “What’s the dress situation?”

Ariel stuck her head out of the closet and shook her head. “Nada. No dresses or skirts. Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a battle with a spray can and a weed whacker.”

“Those are my cleaning shorts,” I said.

“I’m assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,” said Ariel. “You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting.”

I looked around my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt containers. “Fine, I’ll get a cleaning service.”

“A snow shovel would be quicker,” said Roxanne.

“Seriously,” said Serena. “You don’t have a single skirt?”

“What can I say, I like pants.”

“Do you even bother to shave your legs?” asked Ariel, ducking back into the closet.

“Of course,” I said, then shrugged. “Well, not every day.”

“So,” said Roxanne, “besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?”

Serena was making notes on a legal pad. “You ever try contacts?”

I nodded. “I had them in high school.”

“Did you like them?”

“Yeah, but they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses.”

“Figures,” said Serena, who made a check mark. “After the contacts, we need shoes and an entire new wardrobe.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m starting a pile for Goodwill,” yelled Ariel, still in my closet. “Geez, it looks like Hillary Clinton lives in here.”

I saw one of my favorite pantsuits fly out of the closet. “Hey!”

“Shaddup and take your medicine,” said Roxanne. “Meanwhile, put your hair back up.”

“I thought you said men like it down?”

“They do, but I’ll need half a day to fix that mess and our dinner reservations are in an hour.”

I stepped off the stool. “So, I’m deemed okay to be seen in public with you guys this evening? I won’t embarrass you?”

Serena got off the floor and gave me the once over. “It will have to do, but we are going to change one thing tonight.”

“What’s that?” I asked, folding my arms. “I’ve apparently got no shoes, no clothes, my hair is a toxic waste dump and I can’t ditch my glasses or I’ll end up going home with someone who looks like Alan Greenspan.”

“That, right there. Your attitude,” said Serena. “Tonight, charm school begins.”