Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) (4 page)

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 an 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.

Anyway, these
three made me get up on my kitchen step stool like it's some pedestal. They
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, who then ducked 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.
"Jesus, 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."

CHAPTER THREE

He locked his
eyes on me like a laser from across the room. Tall, well built, thick black
hair and dark eyes to match. Rugged face, nice smile, dimples running the
length of his cheeks. Probably about my age. Dark slacks, starched white French
cuffed shirt with gold links, red tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Shoes
shining like mirrors, something my late father always told me to notice. Looks
like he stepped off a wedding cake.

Another
"total package" as Ariel would say. Can't say I'd argue.

He started
weaving his way through the bar traffic and headed for the chair next to me
that was left purposely empty by my friends.

"Remember
what we talked about, Wing Girl," said Serena.

I nodded, downed
a bit of wine, and smiled as he reached the table.

He placed his
hands on the back of the empty chair, obviously waiting for permission to sit.
Good.
Polite.
Looked right at me.
Big smile
.
"You're the girl on TV."

"
Woman
on TV," I said. Serena jabbed an elbow into my
ribs. "Ow."

"Right,"
he said. "You did that great story the other night on the State Senator.
Nice that we have people like you to keep politicians honest."

"They're all
a bunch of scum. Next week—" I was interrupted by another elbow.
"I mean, thank you, I appreciate the compliment."

Ariel reached one
long leg under the table and pushed the empty chair out a bit. "Maybe our
new friend would like to join us."

"Uh,
right," I said.

"Thanks,"
he said, sitting down. "I'm Vincent Martino."

"Belinda
Carson," I said.

"Yeah, I
know." Serena, Ariel and Roxanne introduced themselves since I'd forgotten
to do it, my mind too busy going over the directives they'd given me.

Serena widened
her eyes as she looked at me and gave me a gentle kick under the table.
Say
something. Anything.
"So, uh... I'm
sorry, what did you say your name was?"

The guy smiled.
"That's okay. Vincent." Roxanne rolled her eyes then threw down the
rest of her drink.

"Right,
Vincent." I remembered the orders I'd been given.
Ask him about
himself. Nothing too serious.
"So,
Vincent... are you married?"

"
Madonne
," said Roxanne, as the man's face tightened.

"No,"
said Vincent, who looked at me as if I were a space alien. "Did you think
I'm some married guy out cheating on his wife?"

"Uh, no, I
was... you know.... just making conversation."

Serena snorted,
stifling a laugh.

"That's one
hell of a pick up line," he said.

"Sorry."
My pulse spiked as the checklist in my head got jumbled. My armpits grew damp.
"Do you... uh... what do you do?" I smiled and exhaled.
That was
pretty safe.

"I'm work on
Wall Street."

"So, you
work with some shady characters."

The man shook his
head and turned toward Roxanne. "Jesus, Rox."

I furrowed my
brow. "What's going on?"

"Vincent's
my cousin," said Roxanne, cocking her head toward him. "I asked him
to be our test subject tonight."

"So you
weren't really going to hit on me?" I asked.

"I
did
hit on you. At least I was trying to. I would have
even taken you out if we'd hit it off because Rox said you're such a great
person. They weren't going to tell you it was a set up if things went well,
but..."

"So,
Vincent," said Serena, who then took out a legal pad and put it on the
table. She clicked her pen in the air. "If you wouldn't mind giving us
your first impressions for the record."

He looked at me,
his eyes seemingly asking for permission. "What the hell, go ahead,"
I said.

"Would be
nice if she remembered my name ten seconds after I told her," said
Vincent, who turned to face Serena. "And asking me if I'm married?
Seriously? I would have beat my feet right after that one." He turned back
to me. "Listen Belinda, no offense, but Rox said you guys needed a man's
point of view on your, you know, dateability."

I shrugged and
looked down. "I'm not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire
away, I'm a big girl."

"You
sure?"

"Hey, I take
on politicians all the time. I'm not afraid of anything. Don't hold back."

"Ohhhh-kaaaay,"
he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. "Well, here goes. You're not
approachable."

Ouch.

"People come
up to me all the time."

"Because
you're a celebrity," said Ariel.

"I meant
you're not approachable as a potential date," said Vincent.

"Fine,"
I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. "Tell
me why I'm unapproachable."

Vincent leaned
forward on his forearms.
Usually they lean back when the death stare makes
its first appearance. Interesting.
"Well,
first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you're some militant
feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which is
beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it's the
overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You're sitting there on your hands, all
hunched up. And the outfit."

My face
tightened. "What's wrong with the outfit?"

"Rox said
you're hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick
glasses. Those shoes look like you're going hiking. You look like you want to
be anywhere but here. There's probably a serious babe under all that but I
can't be sure."

He reached across
the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. "Whoa!"

"Relax,
would you?" he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.

He reached toward
my face and gently removed my glasses. "Wow," he said.

"What?"
I asked, as my view of Vincent morphed into a Monet painting.

"You've got
spectacular eyes. I mean, they're like emeralds, such a vivid green. You could
do eye makeup commercials."

"If she
actually wore makeup outside the studio," said Roxanne, as I snatched my
glasses back from him and put them on.

"Look,
Belinda. Roxanne tells me you're a beautiful girl with a big heart, but as a
man looking for a date I would have no idea if any of that's true. If you
weren't famous I doubt if any man would come up to you, and if anyone did he
wouldn't stay long."

I bit my lower
lip and felt my eyes well up a bit.
No! This isn't happening! A man cannot
make the Brass Cupcake cry!
"I'd like
you to leave now," I said softly.

"Hey, I'm
sorry, that was a bit harsh, but you told me not to hold back—"

"Just!
Go!"

He put up his
hands in surrender. Vincent got up, kissed Roxanne on the side of the head.
"Thanks, cuz," she said, patting him on the shoulder. He shot me an
apologetic look with sad eyes but I turned away. He headed for the door.

"So," I
said, when he was out of earshot. "Whose brilliant idea was that?"

"Mea
culpa," said Serena, putting her wrists out as if she were waiting to be
handcuffed. "I plead no contest."

"And the
rest of you were okay with it?"

"We thought
it was a great idea," said Ariel.

"A great
idea? Having some guy insult me like that?"