Made For Sex (32 page)

A slow smile spread across Fran's face. “You can tell him about Fran, but set him up with a woman named Nicki. Let's begin her real life there.”

Carla took Fran's hand. “Done. And it's going to be wonderful. You know, I almost envy you. I remember my beginnings. The discovery is such a fantastic trip.”

Fran lifted her teacup in a toast. “To discovery.”

Carla touched the lip of her cup to Fran's. “To discovery.”

T
he two women spent several hours on Fran's ‘look.' The shopping bag that Carla had brought with her contained what seemed to Fran to be an entire cosmetic counter. To begin, the two women gave themselves facials and organic cleansings. Between bites of peanut butter sandwiches from the Devlins' kitchen, using Fran's face as a canvas, they experimented with foundation and concealer, contouring powder, eye shadows and liners, mascara, blush, and finally lipstick and lip liner.

“Not bad,” Carla said at about two
P.M
., gazing at her friend in the mirror. “Not bad at all.”

Fran was totally boggled. She looked really good. Whatever Carla had done had accentuated her deep blue eyes, made her small nose more prominent and widened her lips so they looked inviting, almost kissable. Carla had also made an appointment with Jean-Claude for the following morning. If makeup could do what it had done with her face, how much further could Jean-Claude take her. “Wow. That's fabulous.”

“Yes, if I do say so myself, you look terrific. We'll have to wait until after Jean-Claude does your hair to figure out wardrobe colors, earrings and such. It will depend on what color and style you end up with. And you need a scent. Go to Saks, sniff around and find Nicki's signature scent. Use it sparingly, but use it all the time so it becomes you and Nicki. And have your nails done.”

Fran looked down at her short, utilitarian fingernails and sighed. “I guess.”

“Did you know that in ancient Japan it was a status thing for a man to have a long pinky nail that was never cut? It was a mark of someone who never had to work. And Nicki never has her hands in dishwater.” Carla reached out and felt Fran's hands. “Good. I guess you don't often either.”

Fran's laugh was spontaneous. “I don't cook or do dishes. And I don't do windows either.”

“I'm for ice cream,” Carla blurted out, staring at Fran's face in the mirror. “This fantastic job we've done calls for ice cream in large quantities. Got some?”

“I've got just the half-gallon for us. I'm sorry, no chocolate though. Even chocolate ice cream is too much caffeine for me.”

“No problem.”

Giggling like schoolgirls, the two women scrambled into the kitchen and were soon sitting at the small table, spoons and bowls in hand. “I just love this,” Carla said as she plunged her spoon in a large bowl of cherry vanilla cheesecake swirl.

“I've got a question about this morning,” Fran said, licking her spoon. “I've just got to ask. Did you make one character small on my account? Were you trying to make a point?” Fran was surprised that the question hit a raw nerve.

“Not at all. I asked my friend to describe the two women and he did. One tall and statuesque, the other petite and trim.” Carla put down her spoon. “Listen, Fran, that call this morning was business. He's paying good money for his own personal fantasy. I wouldn't do something like that just to make you feel better.”

Fran grinned. “Thanks for that. I guess I wondered whether I was being had.” She plunged her spoon into the red and white goo in her bowl.

“Not at all,” Carla said. “And anytime you want to call this off, just say so.”

“No.” Fran's answer was so quick that it surprised even her.

“Okay then. Are you still up for a date with my friend?”

Caught off guard a bit, Fran blurted out, “I'm excited at the prospect. I'll probably be a nervous wreck in actuality.”

“Nervous isn't all bad. Let me give him a call later and I'll call you this evening. Any night this week off limits?”

“I've got nothing planned.” She giggled. “You know, I had a whole list of places to go and things to see. Now it all seems a bit pale.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Let's take one evening at a time, but I have a few ideas for later in the week and the weekend.”

“I'll just bet you do. What are your plans for the rest of the week? Will you be in town?”

“I've got some school stuff for BJ and Mike tomorrow, but I'll be back in town on Wednesday. Maybe we can do some more clothes shopping. I need a few things and by then we'll have a better idea of what kind of jewelry will go with your new haircut. Maybe we can get Eileen to play hookey from work and the three of us can see whether we can injure a few credit cards.” Carla got up, put her dish in the sink, wandered back into the bedroom and got her coat.

“What about all this stuff?” Fran said, pointing to all the makeup and skin care products.

“It's yours. Consider it a late Christmas present. I've got lots more where that came from. I love shopping for makeup of all kinds and I can afford to indulge myself. And,” she said leaning closer, “I deduct it all from my income tax as a cost of doing business.”

“You pay taxes as a prostitute?”

“Not as a prostitute but as an escort. We always go to dinner first, and I decided when I started this that I couldn't worry about the IRS looking over my shoulder.”

“But don't they get suspicious? You make a lot of money for an ‘escort.'”

“That's not really their concern. I probably could slip some of it under the rug, but it's just not worth the Maalox to me.” Carla slipped her camel wool trench coat on and neatly tied the belt. “Give my love to Jean-Claude.”

“I will.” As they walked toward the front door, Fran said, “How do you do it? You're wearing jeans and you really look wonderful.”

“Smashing. That's Nicki's word.”

“Right. You look simply smashing, so, oh I don't know, put together,” Fran said.

“That's because I take some time to select my clothes and, even more important, the accessories. Like this scarf,” she said, fingering the square of paisley silk inside the neck of her shirt. “And jewelry, too.” Fran now noticed the large silver hoops in her ears and the silver bracelet that hung low on her hand. “I also stand straight. I actually took a few modeling lessons to learn how to carry myself. You've got no problem there,” she added. “You carry yourself wonderfully. You stand tall and walk like a confident lady. I'm really glad of it, too, because Nicki would and that's a hard thing to teach in just a week or so.”

“Do I really? I can't really stand tall, since I'm not tall.”

“Tall is as much being proud of the way you look as it is stature. But you'll learn that. But from now on, think about what you said about me. Try to
put yourself together
. Use a pin or a belt. Wear jewelry, and junky is fine. Scarves are great. I have an article I cut out of a woman's magazine about scarves and how to tie them. I'll bring it on Wednesday. How about same time, same place?”

“Sure. Sounds great. I'll talk to Eileen, too.”

The two women walked to the front door. In passing, Carla blew a kiss to the statue. “Remember, Nicki's a kisser. And she always touches any man she's with.”

“Touches?”

“Touches. Try to lay your hand on a man's arm, or brush his shoulder as you pass his chair in a restaurant. Just lightly and it can even seem accidental. A woman never touches a man accidentally, but he doesn't have to know that.”

Fran laid a hand on Carla's arm and kissed her on each cheek. “It's been a great day.” She strode to the elevator and pressed the button.

“Yes, it really has. And thanks for everything.”

The elevator doors slid open and Carla winked. “Right on, baby.” And with that, like a statuesque whirlwind, she was gone.

Fran walked around the apartment, tidying up after herself. Then she went into the bedroom and put all the cosmetics on the dresser. Every time she passed a mirror she was startled to see the nice-looking woman who looked back at her.

The following morning at eleven Fran arrived at Jean-Claude's midtown beauty salon which was known only as The Studio. Carla had told her that Jean-Claude was the hottest thing in town, but nothing had prepared her for this. The Studio was all done in off white with touches of dusty-blue. The female operators all wore tightly fitted, charcoal-blue smocks with beige leggings and the men were all in skin-tight blue tee shirts and beige slacks. Jean-Claude kept her waiting almost a half an hour, and when he arrived, she was astonished.

Jean-Claude was only five feet five, with a shock of yellow hair that stood out from his head in random spikes surrounding his round, well-tanned face. He looks like a black-eyed susan, she thought.

As Jean-Claude took Fran's hand a woman bustled out of the back of the studio and kissed him on both cheeks. “You're a genius, Jean-Claude. A miracle worker.”

“Jean-Claude is delighted that you are pleased,” he said, referring to himself in the third person in a thick French accent. It was all that Fran could do to contain her laughter.

“Well, I am most definitely pleased.” She fluffed out a haze of fine black curls around her moon-shaped face. If anything the hairstyle made her look even rounder. I'm supposed to trust this man?

He blew her a kiss as she hustled out the front door. He leaned over and whispered into Fran's ear. “Isn't that just awful? She came in with a picture of some fourteen-year-old ingenue and insisted that I create the look for her. Jean-Claude couldn't talk her out of it. And she thinks I'm a genius.” He grinned and shook his head. “And she paid a fortune.” He held Fran's hand. “Come into the back and let's discuss the new you.”

They walked through the organized chaos of sixteen stations for haircuts and comb-outs, twelve sinks and more than two dozen hair dryers, most in use by dusty-blue-covered women with their faces buried in fashion magazines. Jean-Claude opened the door to his office and led Fran inside. As they settled on overstuffed beige tweed chairs, Jean-Claude said, with a very New York accent, “How is Carla? She's such a fabulous woman.”

“She's wonderful and she has such wonderful things to say about the work you do.” Without meaning to, Fran's gaze rose to his hair.

His grin was infectious. “This is for appearances. It's Vaseline and washable dye. Someone said I had to create an image, and that it can't stay the same for long, so I do something outrageous every week.”

“How do you think of new things to do?”

“I have a supply of pictures from trendy magazines and hairstyle journals. I pick women's styles mostly and then just have fun. Except when I'm showing a client her new self in a mirror I don't have to look at me.”

“Your accent has slipped a little,” Fran said.

“Actually I'm from the Bronx,” he said in unaccented English. “Kingsbridge to be specific. This is all a front. Everyone knows I'm American, but I've got cachet and for as long as it lasts I'll play along. And, in truth, I'm very good at what I do.” He studied Fran's face. “Carla tells me you want a new look. Something European and very sexy.”

“I guess. It's for a party I have to attend.”

Jean-Claude cupped Fran's chin and turned her face toward the light. “You have great skin and your makeup's really well done. Did you have someone do it this morning?”

“Carla and I spent all of yesterday working on it and I spent quite a while this morning practicing.”

“Well, you did a first-rate job.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “You need some body here, and this gray just has to go. This light brown will highlight beautifully with lots of blond streaks instead of the gray. I would leave it shoulder length so you can blow it dry in a fluff, slick it back or wear it up. Your hair has to make a statement every time you are seen.”

“A statement,” Fran said dryly.

“Listen, that's not just hairdresser talk. You're short. If your hair is ordinary, you can enter a room and no one will notice. But if your hair says, ‘Notice me,' then your entrance will be dramatic. That's what you want, isn't it?”

A smile spread over Fran's face. Jean-Claude had her pegged and so, why not let him just do it. “It's exactly what I want. Go for it. And can someone do my nails, too?”

“You've got the entire day, of course?”

“Of course.”

By two o'clock Fran had luxury-length nails polished in a deep wine. Every time she looked down she was startled by the look. But they were certainly sexy. She could imagine one of the characters in her stories raking those nails down the back of some naked man.

It was almost three when Fran got a first look at her new lighter, body-waved hair and the love affair began immediately. She looked years younger, airier, brighter. He hadn't blown it dry yet, but just the color was a lift. “Now,” Jean-Claude said, walking up behind her chair in the main studio, “let Jean-Claude show you how to arrange it.”

For the next two hours, Jean-Claude combed and styled. He slicked her hair back in a dramatic French twist, then restyled it into a soft French braid from which soft curls artfully escaped. He combed it close to her face, curling against her jaw, piled it on top of her head with three dozen pins, and finally blew it dry in soft waves around her ears. “For evening, you can even add combs or wind some pearls through it.”