Hysterical Blondeness (5 page)

“Am I gorgeous?”

“Almost. Need makeup. Need new eyes, need new clothes. You’ve got to class your act up.”

“For crying out loud, do I need new boobs?” Patricia asked.

“No, you’ve got plenty there, but we’ll have to lift and separate them.”

“I always wondered why that sounded appealing to women.”

“You do realize we’ll have to hit the lingerie department and face Lizbeth for that one.”

“Yuk. That will take all the wind out of my sails.”

“Let’s see if she even recognizes you. This will be great.” Pinky actually rubbed her hands together and looked like a mad scientist.

She leapt up and cleared the rest of the table.
“Come on, you know how this goes, we clean if he cooks, and we have to get altering. I have to drag my sewing machine out of the closet and set up shop. As a matter of fact, you’re on K.P.” Pinky clattered the dishes into the kitchen and took off.

Patricia set herself to work on the kitchen cleanup and stared at the beautiful dining room table across the room. Okay, she just needed a strip job, sanding and refinishing and a coat of wax.
Then
she’d be fabulous.

Then Brett would fall madly in love with her. Then Paul could be best man at their wedding, and her sisters could be bridesmaids. She’d beat them
both
to the altar. Ha. Too bad she’d have to talk to her parents again when she got engaged.

Oh yes, her parents, who disapproved of everything she even
thought
of. But how could they disapprove of her marrying a high-powered guy like Brett, with old family money and good looks and the whole package? They couldn’t even say their favorite phrase—
Why can’t you be more like your sister?

Which
sister had become irrelevant. Carol the
Perfect, the dental hygienist engaged to a handsome dentist, or Heather the Cute One, still in college, still cheerleading, majoring in Husband Hunting.

Oh sure, they’d disapproved of her literature degree and told her she needed library science or a teaching degree, which she didn’t do, which earned her the
We told you so
when she couldn’t get a job after college. And of course they announced they wouldn’t pay for grad school since she hadn’t listened to them so she better save up for it herself.
That
was going extremely badly; she probably had a total of two hundred bucks in her savings after five years.

Patricia slammed the dishwasher door closed. Thank God for Nordquist’s and her stupid job that got her out of their Mercer Island house of Total Control Freakiness.

And thank God for Pinky, who spotted a kindred soul across the lunchroom table, and for Paul, who had already found fellow New Yorker Pinky, although she was a Brooklyn girl and he was a Bronx boy. And for how he took them both in as downstairs housemates five years ago. Gosh, five years went fast.

So here they were, the Three Musketeers, years later, and this was the first time Paul had looked at her with lust and hunger in his eyes.

What was it with being blonde anyway?

Paul took off his apron, wadded it up, and threw it in his bathroom hamper. He stalked over to the bedroom stereo, put vintage Dylan in the CD player, and moved the track list to “Tangled Up in Blue.”

These women today, they were out of hand. Patricia should listen to him. Patricia needed to embrace the wisdom of a man and stop making crazy decisions.

Why, if it weren’t for him, they’d be eating frozen lasagna out of their microwave instead of his homemade spinach ricotta and portobello mushroom lasagna. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t know eggplant from okra.

He was just getting no respect in his own home.

Back in New York men were multitalented. They cooked big Italian meals and were known for their kitchen skills. Back East being a handbag buyer was a respectable profession. Men
understood leather and the entire garment world permeated large portions of Manhattan. Which didn’t keep his brothers from giving him shit, of course, but they were obligated by virtue of him being the oldest, he figured. Revenge of the younger brothers.

At least they had respect for him, anyhow, even if his mother always mentioned what a good husband he’d be, and how he should settle down and get married to a nice girl hopefully of the Catholic persuasion, and that she should live to see grandchildren by these boys of hers, shouldn’t she? They all looked up to him as the oldest male.

And even though his mother ran her family with an iron Italian hand, keeping her three sons and husband on track, his father would occasionally lay down the law. No matter what, that was it. Mom would busy herself with something in the kitchen and he and his younger brothers would know there was not a chance in hell she would stand up for them or cross their father.

But Patricia, she was out of hand.

Man, life was going to get weird, he just knew it. His buddy Patricia had just morphed into a
butterfly—the kind that you can’t stop thinking about because they flutter through your head all the time.

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get all tangled up in blonde.

The fool doth think he wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

Shakespeare

“Well, hush my mouth and call me
a ringtailed skunk.” Pinky elbowed Patricia in the ribs. The minute they’d entered the lab waiting room, the jig was up. A strange assortment of people sat reading year-old copies of
Better Homes and Gardens
or
Smithsonian
magazine. All four of them had blonde hair. Not just your average coincidental Summer Blonde, Born Blonde, Golden Blonde, but Drug X Blonde, which was a particularly interesting shade of wipe-out-your-old-color-and-start-over.

“You, too?” An older woman, who definitely must have been a brunette before, spoke to her.

“Yes, apparently.” Patricia was shocked and hardly knew what to say. Several people started talking. “
One week?
” “
But lost weight
”—little phrases caught her.

The receptionist, even though her midriff was covered this time, started to look worried. She pushed some panic button and tried to look calm, but her gum-chewing became faster. Dr. Bender himself came out quite quickly.

“Hey, Doc, what’s the deal? Are we going to lose our hair?” one person called out.

“Now, folks, we don’t want you contaminating the study by talking to each other. Let’s get all of you into rooms and I’ll talk to each and every one of you individually. Don’t worry, everything is going to be fine.”

Pinky whispered to her. “Boy, this guy is tap-dancing as fast as he can, isn’t he?”

“Shhh. Let’s see what he has to say.” Patricia followed him, Pinky in tow, to a sort of locker room, same as last time. She got undressed in one of the small dressing rooms and changed into a gown, then made her way to the numbered
room he’d assigned her. Pinky followed like a guard dog.

Time passed. Much time. Pinky was getting antsy.

“La, la, la, I’ve read every stupid magazine in here, now. I can tell you how to slim down your thighs in a week and cook drek food for five in thirty minutes. Remind me not to have children, because damn, what a pain in the ass they are. See here, Barbara Jean Wolinksi is writing in asking how to keep her five-year-old from torturing her three-year-old. What ever happened to the good old spanking? The thing that worked with our parents is that once in your life they whacked your butt for a very good reason and for the rest of your childhood they just threatened to repeat the original spanking, which worked because you still remembered that handprint on your ass.”

“Pinky, I believe they have found some alternatives now.”

“Parenting is useless without the fear factor.”

“Just wait till your little cherub looks up at you with big brown eyes.”

“Since it will be immaculate conception, that
will be the Second Coming and I figure he’ll need a strong hand.”

Pinky stared at a picture in a magazine of a happy couple. She’d like to meet someone, she would. She should have paid more attention to the guys in college and nabbed herself a nice accountant major or something. But somehow she’d just known she wasn’t ready, and whoever Mr. Right was, she hadn’t met him yet.

Besides, who says a woman has to be married and all that to be happy? She could launch her own line of apparel and revel in the life of a businesswoman instead.

But deep in her Irish Catholic roots she felt the longing for a husband and children. Like Jo in
Little Women
, finally finding the professor. It must be some subliminal programming her parents had slipped in there.

And she wanted that for her friend, too. She looked up at Blondie and smiled. Patricia wanted it even more than she did. Their biological clocks were no doubt kicking in. And the ticking was getting very loud.

Dr. Bender finally opened the door and Pinky sized him up for husband material. Oh man, she was slipping into that whole mating game
mind-set. She put down the magazine and looked him in the eye.

“So, Doctor, exactly what have you done to my friend here?”

“Well, from what we can figure the drug kicks in some dormant albinism gene in a certain type of person, and wow, weren’t we surprised.”

Dr. Bender went on to delivered a longwinded explanation that included the fact that they had high hopes for reversal of pigmentation after the final week when the drug departed her system, but maybe it altered more than the fat gene so I hope you like your new look because you might be stuck that way, and my, how nice blue looks on you now and don’t forget you signed that paper and can’t sue us.

“Are my eyes going to turn pink?”

“Highly unlikely. It seems to be limited to hair follicles, but please report anything unusual such as, um…mood changes or behavior changes, besides just the physical stuff.”

“More unusual than my hair turning platinum blonde?”

“Sorry about that, it didn’t show up in pretrials at all. But as long as your physical statistics stay stable, I’d say it’s a temporary anomaly.”

“You mean I’ll wake up brunette again just as quickly?”

“Oh no, I can almost guarantee it will be gradual. This is similar to a medical condition called alopecia areata. Although how we managed to duplicate that condition is still a mystery. But fear not, we’ll keep a close eye on you. I want to see you twice a week for the rest of your trial.”

Dr. Bender had been tapping his cheek with the non-ink end of his pen the whole time he was talking, with thoughtful looks and carefully chosen words.

“Thank you, Dr. Bender. I’ll try and keep all this in mind,” Patricia said.

Dr. Bender patted her hand. “You are filling out all your journal entries, right? The initial weight loss is the highest as far as we’ve seen. It should be more gradual after that.”

Patricia nodded, and after a few vital statistics were taken, like her blood pressure and other odd samples, including one of her hair, Pinky stood up to say goodbye to Dr. Feelgood.

“It’s nice she has a good friend keeping track of her like you, Miss…?” Dr. Bender asked.

“McGee.” Pinky smiled and stuck out her
hand, shifting her red Kate Spade bag to her other arm, hating herself for doing the flirt thing. The
flirt
thing. She needed lunch.

“Nice handbag.”

“Our landlord is a handbag buyer.” She blushed. “We get samples.”

“Well, tell her she has good taste.” Dr. Bender let go of her hand and nodded—with a smile.

Pinky didn’t bother to go into the whole handbag he/she explanation, but smiled back.

As soon as he was gone, she turned to Patricia and blurted out her thoughts. “He’s cute, isn’t he? In a kind of nanotechnology mad science way, I mean.”

“What’s this? You like the white-coated type? I’m shocked, Pinky. I thought you were holding out for an Irish nobleman.”

“They’re too moody.” Pinky shrugged. She snapped open her handbag and slipped Dr. Bender’s card from the desk display into her wallet. Just in case she wanted to lose twenty pounds and have her hair turn platinum blonde. Yeah, that was it.

“Okay, next stop, One Hour Contacts, or wherever we can find you some quick new eyes.” Pinky grabbed Patricia’s arm and headed her
for the locker room. A nice blue would go with that blonde.

Patricia stood alone in the waiting room of Brett Nordquist’s fancy seventh-floor executive office. She’d been too nervous to eat lunch, so her stomach was growling. Great. Her arm was draped with NFL ties. Pinky had stayed up late and altered a vintage slate blue dress with a sweetheart neckline and draped accents off the hip insets. It was very forties. Blue dress, blonde hair, new blue eyes, she was ready—on the outside anyway.

She’d glanced at herself in the large mirror so many times her neck was starting to get a kink in it. Also her new contacts were sort of not exactly right, so she kept trying to adjust her eyesight before she ran into a wall.

Patricia saw the secretary smirk at her from her big mahogany desk. She was going to glare back at her, but the intercom buzzed and Patricia was escorted in. She felt like Dorothy going to see the Wizard. The great and powerful Brett.

Brett was talking into his headset and absentmindedly waved at her to sit.

“How about Friday, then? That’s an entire
week. Isn’t that enough for you?” He sounded slightly whiny.

Strange, thought Patricia.

His eyes grazed her direction and stopped. He looked at her carefully. Patricia sat up a little straighter and smiled a big smile.

“Look, we’ll continue this talk later. I have company,” Brett said. He removed the headset and set it aside.

Patricia could swear she heard a female voice screeching through the microphone until Brett cut the phone with a swift punch of a button.

“Hello, Mr. Nordquist, I’m Patricia Stillwell. I work in the catalogue department. You asked to see me regarding the memo I sent regarding the tie promotion?” Patricia realized she’d overdone “regarding,” but it was too late. She stuck out a tie.

Brett had been staring at her as she stumbled along, his chin resting on his hand, his elbow on his desk in a thoughtful pose of examination. She felt like a bug pinned to a microscope slide.

“I don’t remember seeing you before. How long have you worked here?”

“Almost five years,” Patricia answered, leaving out the whole I-used-to-be-a-fatter-brunette deal.

“And to think I didn’t notice you before. I must have been blind.” He finally detached from his pose and took the tie she offered. “I liked your idea. Great Christmas gift. We’ll have to move fast.” He got up and came around to her side of the desk. “Of course, we’ll have to have a few meetings about this. You and I, that is. Such as lunch? Have you had lunch?”

Her traitorous stomach growled loudly. “No, I guess I haven’t had lunch,” she answered, rolling her eyes.

Brett laughed. He laughed a sort of executive laugh. Patricia tried not to think about the fact he was laughing at her stomach.

“Well, neither have I. Let’s go. We’ll call this a working lunch. Do you mind if we eat downstairs at Via’s?”

“That would be lovely,” Patricia answered. She felt like she was in a robotlike shock. Thirty seconds and Brett had danced around the desk, asked her to lunch, and removed all the ties from her arms. He took her hand and sort of pulled
her out of the chair. They were out the door before she could think, which was probably good.

“Dianne, I’ll be out to lunch for an hour. Downstairs at Via’s.”

“No problem. Shall I let that be known, or keep that quiet?”

What an odd question, Patricia thought.

“Let it be known.” Brett flashed her a smile and took her elbow. Patricia felt slightly naked without her NFL ties, her Zucchino Chocolate Fendi handbag (one of Paulie’s best samples,) or any little thing to cling to. Brett stared at her. She gave him another smile with her Angelina Jolie lips done in burgundy red by Pinky this afternoon.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Pinky, spying. Patricia cocked her head and behind Brett’s back made the hysterical female face at Pinky. The face that said,
Save me but not really!
They both knew it well.

Pinky was lurking about, talking to one of the secretaries, probably waiting for her. She was far from her main department, the men’s floor, with the many inseams and cuffs that needed altering for all the various men with short arms
or long legs or vice versa that made up her days. She looked out of place.

They got on the elevator; Patricia waved a tiny wave to Pinky.

“Friend of yours?” Brett asked.

“Yes.”

“She’s kind of an odd duck, isn’t she? I’ve had her do some alterations on my suits.”

“Odd but lovable. She’s my roommate,” Patricia replied. She wasn’t going to sell out her pal in the first five minutes of her sorority rush with Brett.

“Ah,” was all Brett said. “Well, now, tell me all about yourself.”

Patricia figured anytime a guy wanted to know all about you he really just wanted to tell you all about himself.

“Oh, I’m just an average gal. I grew up around here, just like you. I went to the U. How about you?”

“I went to Stanford. I wanted to go to the U, but my parents preferred to spend their college money elsewhere, so where their money went, so did I.” Brett laughed.

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Patricia replied.
She glanced at Brett and thought how young he was, really. He couldn’t be more than one or two years older than her, maybe early thirties. And here he was, manager of the flagship store of the West Coast chain of Nordquist stores.

The elevator dinged and they stepped out onto the sixth floor. Sixth floor: china, housewares, customer service, Java Jive Coffee Shop, Via Restaurant—Patricia did Pinky’s elevator operator imitation in her head to distract her from thinking about beautiful Brett. He had on an interesting dark blue serge suit, which blended nicely with her dress.

As she walked slightly behind him, letting him lead the way, she pretended they were shopping for housewares. She pretended they were filling out their wedding registry in her head.
Oh Brett, how about the Portmeirion? Too flowery? The Dansk would work for everyday, wouldn’t it? Oh, I prefer sterling myself, darling, and yes, you are right, the Royal Doulton has more class. Did you even know Donna Karan had a line of tableware? Oh yes, I adore the Flora Danica, dear, but it’s just too expensive. What? Oh, you are the most generous fiancé I’ve ever had.

Patricia rattled on in her head as they passed
the various china patterns. She paused on the Flora Danica and feasted her eyes on the beautiful pattern. For some reason, expensive china gave her a pang of longing unlike anything else. This one was way out of her ever-lovin’ reach, even with her employee discount. A cup and saucer went for five hundred bucks. Patricia sighed.

“Window-shopping?” Brett asked.

Sheesh, she didn’t think it was that obvious. But, of course, what she was really shopping for was…him. She put on her new, more deceptive face and smiled. “Pretty china always calls to me.”

Brett actually paused and looked at the Royal Copenhagen display behind the glass case. “Quite lovely, isn’t it?”

“Divine,” Patricia answered, referring to both the china and the man.

“You have expensive taste.”