The Balance Thing (7 page)

I looked up at him, and at this point I admit to being dazed because I said, “You're the Lord of the Manor.”

He patted my hand comfortingly. “Do you know—I rather think I am.”

S
ir Charles Shipley. I kept saying the name to myself as I was taken to an urgent care ward, pronounced fine (except for a bump on the head, a twisted ankle, and a dress torn beyond repair), and discharged. Sir Charles Shipley. He was a friend of Ian's family. It was at Sir Charles Shipley's estate in the country, Lakewood, that Connie and Ian were to be married. Sir Charles Shipley was—in a very real sense—the Lord of the Manor.

He was perfect.

He had been the one to pack me off to the emergency room. It was against his tall, trim, impeccably tailored frame that I leaned for support as I hobbled to the waiting car. His car, with his driver. Sir Charles Shipley's.

Sadly, it was Vida who greeted me when I came back out to the waiting room after my examination. She's my best friend, but she's no knight in shining Armani. “Where is he?”

“How are you?”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Where is he?”

“Becks!” Vida started to look a little freaked. “How bad is the bump on your head? What are you talking about?”

For the first time, I said the magic words out loud. “Sir Charles Shipley.”

“Oh, he's gone. He…” Her voice trailed off as she took in the look on my face. “
Oh
.”

 

VIDA TOOK ME BACK
to the hotel and tucked me in. She'd been with Ian and the famous Phillip when I'd taken the tumble. Ian's first thought had been to keep Connie from finding out.

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “It's not like I was hurt or anything.” I rubbed the golf ball–sized lump behind my left ear. “I wouldn't want to spoil her good time.”

Vida fluffed my pillows and made a clucking sound. “It wasn't that,” she said. “Ian's just as afraid as we are that Connie's going to lose it before the wedding. If you'd been really hurt, I was supposed to call him, but since it's just a little bump—”

I gave her an injured look.

“—there's no reason to give Connie anything more to stress about.”

I sighed. “Fine. She was in the middle of a meltdown anyway—” I froze.

“What's wrong?”

“The pearls!”

“What pearls? Oh, the pearls you dropped.” Vida said. “What were you carrying them around for anyway?”

“Where are they?”

“I don't know. Someone probably picked them up.”

I groaned. “Connie's going to kill me.”

“Oh my God.” Vida's eyes widened. “They were Connie's pearls.”

I winced, and not because of my head. “Ian's grandmother's pearls,” I corrected.

Vida spent about three seconds looking worried, then she dismissed the problem. “It doesn't matter,” she said firmly. “Connie won't be mad when she finds out what happened.”

I leaned back into the pillows. “Yeah, right. It's been nice knowing you.”

“Meanwhile.” Vida ignored my melodrama. “Phillip Hastings.” She gave me a highly significant look.

I arched my eyebrow, not without a little pain. “I'll see your Phillip Hastings,” I said. “And I'll raise you one Sir Charles Shipley.”

 

WE SLEPT IN
to the decadent hour of eight
A.M
. That's when Connie started banging on the door. Vida let her in with a stoic sigh and was practically trampled to death by a size-six bride in a marabou-trimmed dressing gown trailing her bleary-eyed intended behind her.

“Becks!” she shrieked. “Ian just this minute told me what happened to you last night! Are you all right? Where are you hurt? How bad is it? Where did you fall? What happened? Why didn't you tell me?” The last was barked somewhat viciously to her beloved. Then back to me. “What's broken? Can you walk? You're not going to have to limp down the aisle, are you? Oh, God, you're going to limp down the aisle. You won't be able to wear the shoes, and the dress will be too long. And I don't know a seamstress here, and the dresses are
already at Lakewood anyway, so I wouldn't know what to do about the measurements, and it's just going to be a disaster, a complete disaster!”

“Con, hang on a minute—”

But she was incapable. “And what about your head?” She grabbed my face and started an examination. “Where's the lump? Oh, God, it's big. Can you wear your hair the way Roger wants you to? Will he be able to use the extensions? Where's Roger?” Again she turned on Ian. “We need Roger here right now and—”

“Hold it!” I yelled.

At least I got her attention.

“Connie, calm down for one minute, will you? I'm fine. It's a tiny twist to the ankle and a little bump on the head, both of which will be fine by the wedding. We've got more than a week, for heaven's sake.” She was still verging on hysteria, so I took both her hands in mine. “Everything will be fine. I'll be fine. The wedding will be perfect.”

She took a deep breath, nodded, and burst into tears.

“Um,” Ian said hesitantly. “Tea. I think I'll go sort out a pot of tea.”

He fled.

Vida rolled her eyes and sat on the bed. We spent a while saying things like “There, there” and “Let it out, sweetie,” but we were worried. Either this was just a good cry that would leave Connie feeling better once it was over, or it was the beginning of the end.

“Connie?” Vida said after a while. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She did.

“Everything's falling apart.” She sniffed. “Everything.
Trinny got in from Lakewood last night and she says the flowers aren't in bloom yet.” Trinny, Ian's sister and the missing maid of honor. Presumably she'd been doing reconnaissance work at Sir Charles Shipley's estate. I allowed myself one brief tingle of excitement at the thought of Sir Charles Shipley, then tuned back in to Connie's anxiety attack.

“And I haven't even met the stupid English wedding planner who's down there, but so far she's completely useless. I mean, her brilliant suggestion was to just have masses and masses of cut flowers—which is so not the point of a country wedding—and on top of everything else, it may
rain
.” The tragedy of that possibility was etched into her face. “Can you think of anything worse in the world? I got a huge tent, just in case, because I'm not an idiot.” She sounded momentarily like the old on-top-of-everything Connie. “But I never really thought it would happen. I mean, my wedding in a soggy old tent, everything smelling musty, and God—what if there's a leak? I handled a wedding once where the tent leaked and buckets of water came in and ruined the cake and it was a disaster, a complete disaster, and I'm a wedding planner, for God's sake!”

Now she was starting to get angry. “I throw the most fabulous parties on the entire West Coast and now I'm stuck in some stupid town where I don't even know the caterer and I'm expected to pull off the social event of the damn season? I mean, I'm good.” She wiped her eyes defiantly. “I'm very good. Am I not the woman who found the single bridesmaid dress in the world that flattered a pregnant woman, a dwarf, and an androgynous lesbian?”

I nodded seriously. I'd seen the wedding pictures. The dress had been amazing.

“Am I not the woman who had Chinese acrobats tum
bling
down the center of the tables
when WiredGlobe threw the party to announce its new Beijing offices?”

Vida squeezed her hand. “You are. It was fabulous.”

“So why the
hell
can't I organize one fucking English country wedding?” she demanded. “I mean, it shouldn't be hard. A few flowers, a string quartet, and you're done, right? So what's my fucking problem?”

“Connie,” I said, as gently as I could, “it's
your
fucking wedding.”

She stared at me.

Vida put it more diplomatically. “Look, Con, how many times during the course of a wedding does the bride go totally nuts on you? Like once a week, right?”

Connie sniffed. “More.” She wiped her eyes. “I hate brides.”

Vida nodded. “Well, this time you're the bride. And you've got no one to go nuts on except yourself.”

Connie took a deep breath. “I guess I am going a little nuts.”

A little?

“It's just all these stupid parties. I shouldn't even be taking time to have a meltdown because I have to get ready for brunch and—Oh!”

She stopped. I should have been grateful, but I saw the look in her eye and knew what was coming.

“Where are the pearls?”

At this point all I can say is that Trinny Hastings is an angel sent from God. Seriously. Because at that exact moment there was a knock on the door.

Vida opened it and the angel sent from God stuck her head in. “Is this a private party or can any bridesmaid join in?”

She was poised and polished, with honey-colored hair pulled back into a simple neat twist and one of those classic English beauty kinds of faces.

Connie instantly began using my sheets to dab at her eyes while she made the necessary introductions.

Trinny's good breeding showed. She ignored the evidence of Connie's recent crying jag and perched primly on Vida's unmade bed.

“Normally I wouldn't dream of intruding this early, but I saw Ian down in the breakfast room and he told me where you were.” She looked brightly from Vida to me. “Are you coming to Aunt Phoebe's brunch?”

I felt the lump on my head. “I think I'll have to skip it.” I grimaced for good measure.

Trinny smiled impishly. “You must be the bridesmaid who fell. I hope you're feeling better because it's you I came to see.” She opened her purse and pulled out a long velvet box. “I think you dropped these.”

Connie snatched the box and opened it. “The pearls! They're fixed.” She hugged them to her chest.

It happened so quickly that I might have imagined it, but I swear Trinny winked at me. She was an angel sent from God. Or possibly Mary Poppins.

 

VIDA AND I WENT BACK TO BED
after they left. I woke up around noon and found a note.

“Well done, Vida.” I applauded, and headed for the shower. When I got out, I took a good hard look at myself in the mirror. Then I pictured Sir Charles Shipley standing next to me. Then I picked up the phone and dialed another room in the hotel.

“Roger? It's Becks. I need you to make me gorgeous.”

I
'm a terrible flirt.

When some women say that, they mean they're incorrigible, batting their eyes and tossing their hair at anything in pants. But I mean I flirt terribly. Badly. Really. I understand that to some extent it's a skill, and therefore like any other skill it can be learned—at least to a reasonable level of proficiency. I'd just never made the effort to learn it.

But then, I'd never had Sir Charles Shipley supplying the motivation.

I quickly formed my plan. I'd use my twisted ankle as an excuse to skip whatever parties I could for the next couple of days in London and get Max and Vida to teach me everything they knew. Connie would actually be a better coach, but I hardly thought I'd be able to talk her into joining us. By the time I arrived at Lakewood I'd be an old hand at the hair toss, the half-smile, the “I want you” look, and whatever else might be required to make a knight of the realm fall madly in love with me.

But first things first—I had to get gorgeous.

 

“BECKS!” ROGER GREETED ME.
“You've made me so happy!”

In the ten minutes since I'd called him, Connie's hairdresser had been burning up the phone lines. Now he sailed into my room, clipboard in hand.

“You're getting waxed first. Then you have a facial at one-thirty, a sea salt scrub after that, and then a mani-pedi,” he said triumphantly. “You have no idea how many names I had to drop in order to get you in. Seriously, Becks, you'll be a new woman!”

I had one question. “Waxed?”

“You won't feel a thing,” he assured me, “and, oh, do you need it.” This was added after a brief inspection of my upper lip. “It's not too bad,” he said in a tone that clearly indicated he was lying. “I've seen worse, but oh…”

“What about my hair?” I asked. “I was really thinking in terms of a haircut—”

“Don't think.” He held up his hand. “Just relax and trust me.”

“I may not be too good at the relaxing part.”

He waved away my apprehensions. “I've sent Shayla out for supplies. Have you met Shayla yet? No, I didn't think so. I know you've been avoiding me, but that's all about to change, isn't it Becks?” He beamed. “I'm just so happy!”

“I'm happy for you, Roger,” I told him. “Who's Shayla?”

“My assistant.” He seemed slightly embarrassed. “She's here to help out because on the big day I won't be able to deal with Connie and the three of you and the mother of the bride and Ian…” His eyes widened. “Forget I said that. Connie didn't mention Shayla?”

“I suspect Connie didn't want me to use the word
entourage
.”

“Probably not. But I really did need someone. She's also doing the makeup for those of you who need help.” He moved in for another inspection of my face.

“It's okay, Roger. I know I need help.” For anything beyond slapping on tinted moisturizer and a quick swipe of lipstick, anyway.

He beamed again. “Becks, this day is going to change your life!”

It certainly changed my understanding of what beauty queens go through.

 

ROGER HURRIED ME
to the hotel spa, where I discovered billowing white curtains, fluffy white towels, comfy white robes, and a kind of pain I had never dreamed existed.

To start things off, my eyebrows, upper lip, chin, underarms, and legs were forcibly denuded of hair. At first my eyes stung with tears, but then the pain leveled out and it was the humiliation that bothered me.

When I thought I was done, the sadist in charge of the wax gave me an inquiring look.

“Bikini?”

I closed my eyes, thought of England, and nodded.

The facial, on the other hand, was actually rather pleasant. Lots of yummy-smelling creams being massaged into my ready and willing pores while I reclined comfortably. I was just starting to love being a girl when someone began poking my face with a sharp needle.

“Ow!”

“Extractions,” muttered the aesthetician, a woman whom I'd been (wrongly) thinking of as a kindly Eastern-European
aunt. “So many blackheads.” She clicked her tongue in profound disappointment and kept poking.

The sea salt scrub had something of an I'm-naked-and-stretched-out-in-front-of-a-stranger aspect to it, but the procedure itself was limited to a massage with bits of grit in the lotion. Not bad.

“Now you're beautiful,” the therapist said when it was done. Then she hosed me off and sent me on my way.

 

I MET ROGER
in the salon, where I was scheduled for a manicure and pedicure. These treatments were no strangers to me, and I was actually sporting a cheerful cherry red on my toenails already.

“Do you really think this needs to be redone?” I asked my spa Sherpa.

Roger recoiled. “Becks.” He rubbed his brow. “You can't seriously want the feet of a Spanish harlot on Connie's wedding day.”

“Oh.” I looked at my cheerful Spanish harlot feet. “Of course not.”

Roger brightened. “Look who's here!”

Vida. And not happy to be in a salon. “I can keep my fingernails clean without an intervention from you,” she announced loudly in Roger's direction, rather disrupting the whole blissed-out spa vibe. Vida turned to me. “He booked me an appointment without even asking, can—what the hell happened to you?” She had just taken in my spa attire and presumably glowing skin.

“I'm getting gorgeous,” I told her, keeping my voice low. “It's Phase One of my Sir Charles Shipley plan.” I barely
breathed the name, fearful that one of the women currently being filed, clipped, or painted might overhear. Vida had already drawn their attention and not a small amount of disapproval.

“You're already gorgeous.” Vida was perfectly matter-of-fact. “You don't need to spend a fortune on this junk.” She picked up a bottle of hot pink polish and set it down again dismissively. “I mean, look at me.”

I looked at her. She glowed with health. Her blond hair was held back in a clip, and she was wearing what for Vida passed as a good outfit—yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a zippered hooded jacket that all matched. She looked like the surfer and athlete she was, and like she didn't give a damn about nail polish.

However. “How are things going with Ian's brother?” I asked.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She looked at Roger, whose eyebrows went up in hope. She compressed her lips and nodded in grim determination. “Okay, but no pink.”

She made Roger's day.

 

IT BECAME OBVIOUS
in the time it took to soak our feet that in the theory and practice of flirting, Vida and I were the blind leading the blind.

“Have Max take you out tonight,” she suggested. “He's good at it.”

“Won't you come with us?”

“Ow!” Vida snatched her hand away from the manicurist and sent a look of loathing toward Roger, who was flipping
obliviously through a magazine in a chair near the door. “No, I'm going to the cocktail party. The plan is for Connie and Ian to go on to some chamber music thing afterward, with this guy who has a box. If Phillip ends up going with them, I'm tagging along.”

“Chamber music? You must really be crazy about this guy.”

“Seriously, Becks.” Her eyes lit up. “We had so much fun blading today. It was just the best time I've had with a guy in
ages
.”

“Do you think he's interested?”

“I think he likes me.” She winced, and I wasn't sure if it was from the nail file or the conversation. “But I'm not sure if he
likes me
likes me.”

I wondered if women who know how to flirt also know how to talk about men without resorting to junior high school phraseology. “What kind of woman does he usually date?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. That's not the sort of thing
Sports Illustrated
usually covers.”

“Try
People
. Better yet, Google him on my laptop.”

“Have you Googled”—she looked around to make sure nobody was listening, then mouthed the words—“Sir Charles Shipley?”

“Not yet. He's only been on my radar for sixteen hours, and what with the hospital and the spa and all—”

Vida nodded. “I understand. You've been busy.”

 

“IT'S NOT LIKE
I'm some sort of troll, Max, I mean, I do take care of my personal hygiene on a regular basis.” I had
just met Max in the hotel lobby, and he was making entirely too much fuss over my new look.

“I'm sure you do, Becks, but if I can just say something?”

“What?” I prepared for the inevitable mockery.

He stepped back and considered me, put a thoughtful finger to his lips, and pronounced “Yowza.”

“You think?” I touched my caramel-and-honey highlighted hair, which was now “hip and swingy” instead of “hanging down pathetically.”

“I think Roger is a genius and you are a goddess.”

“I like the last part,” I told him. “Did you see my eyelashes? I'm wearing false eyelashes.” I closed my eyes so he could get a better look.

“Yeah,” Max said. “Now we just have to teach you how to use them.” He slung his arm around me and propelled me to the door. “I just hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make in the name of friendship.”

“I do,” I assured him. “Teach me everything.”

“You're in good hands, Becks. After all, if you're going to be a princess, you might as well learn from a queen.”

 

AT FIRST I WAS HOPELESS.
Max took me to a nearby bar—not a cozy, comfortable pub sort of place but a loud-music-and-hipsters bar—and made me sit at a high table out in the open instead of in a corner booth. Just instructing me on the proper way to perch on a tall stool took the better part of half an hour. Then we moved on to distance flirting.

“Okay,” Max said. “Now, when I'm at the bar, I want you to look across the room and give me your best ‘I'm interested' smile.”

I nodded. No problem.

He returned with two martinis and a pained look on his face.

“What?”

“Becks, are you suffering from gastric problems? You can tell me, I'm a doctor.”

“You're a dermatologist.”

“True, but that fleeting grimace that passed across your face seems like a clear indication that you need to consult an internist.”

“It was a grimace?”

He rolled his eyes.

“How's this?” I produced another hopefully seductive expression.

Max held up his hands. “You're scaring me.”

I had to admit, it hurt. I had assumed I'd just need to learn a few techniques, but now Max had me thinking I might inadvertently frighten small children in my attempts to attract the LOTM.

I thought I knew what the problem was. I'd spent my entire adult life trying to be taken seriously in the business world, always worried that male colleagues would think of me as a “marketing bimbo” or “booth bunny.” So I'd made it a point to never give them any reason to. Everything from the way I dressed to the way I carried myself had been part of a plan to look professional, intelligent, and competent. Not sexy.

Now I looked at Max helplessly. “Have I turned it all off for good?”

He took pity on me. “First, drink this.” He slid a martini toward me and I obeyed. “Trust me, that will help.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Here's the thing. We need to forget about the boardroom and get to the bedroom. How are you in bed?”

I blinked. “Reasonably competent.”

Max signaled for more drinks. “This may be harder than I thought.”

“Max—”

“No.” He stopped my protest. “Hang on. You're in marketing, right?”

“Yes. I mean, I was…”

“Okay.” He stopped me before I got into the whole career thing again. “So if you were marketing some hot babe, would you say she's ‘reasonably competent' in bed?”

I saw his point. I nodded and focused on the message my target market would want to hear. Then I spoke. “I'm phenomenal in bed.”

“Good!”

“Would I really say that to a guy?”

“Probably not. But you need to be thinking it while you talk about the weather. Now go.”

I did my best. “I know tricks you haven't even seen on the in-room porn channel.”

The waiter, who had approached me from behind, gave me a huge grin as he deposited the fresh round.

“Max,” I exclaimed when he'd gone, “I said something sexy and he didn't get scared away!”

“Well done, Becks, now drink that up like a good girl and we'll work on the smile. Oh, and how do you feel about a little shopping tomorrow?”

“For what?”

“God give me strength,” he muttered. “For clothes.”

I thought about my wardrobe. Then I thought about my credit limit. Then I thought about Sir Charles Shipley.

“Let's make a list.”