Pink Slipper Page 9

  I studied the picture more closely, slack-jawed and probably drooling. Judging from the expressions Hank and Candy wore, their thoughts were headed in the general direction of mine—unfettered lust.

  "Hot, isn’t he?" Hank asked.

  Candy nodded. "And apparently at least a little interested in Leesa?"

  I shrugged. "He remembered me from the seminar. And then he took me out for piroshkis. He just wanted to follow up, sort of a post seminar thing."

  "You’re too modest," Candy said. "I doubt he’d bother ‘following up’ with an ugly old guy, especially one who smelled like you did at that point." She held her nose and grinned.

  "Very funny. Anyway, a guy like that can’t be available." Although I really wished he was. Doubt was such an ugly thing.

  Hank flashed us a smug smile. "Oh, he is. We checked his Facebook page. Single." She arched her brows.

  "Not everyone tells the truth on Facebook," I said.

  "It doesn’t matter. A man is fair game until he’s signed the marriage license. Sometimes even after." Hank winked at Candy.

  Candy shot her a bundle of hostility packaged in a look. She turned to me. "If he seems even the tiniest bit interested, you should go for it."

  I took another look at Ryne’s picture. Candy disappeared and returned with a pair of scissors, grinning. "This boy is going onto our wall of fame."

  She pulled the magazine from me and expertly snipped his picture out.

  "Wall of fame?"

  "Come on," Hank said, "In the kitchen. I’ll show you."

  Sure enough there on the kitchen wall was a bulletin board I hadn’t noticed before, covered with beefcake clippings from every imaginable source. Plus a few snaps of real guys. And Seattle’s hottest firefighters calendar.

  "Wow!" I said.

  Hank hung Ryne at the top. "For Leesa. In the place of honor," she said. "They start at the top. We move them down as we find others we like better."

  "Until they fall right off the bottom," Candy finished. "You can come visit him anytime." She held the scissors, her gaze flicking between me and them. "When was the last time you had your hair cut?"

  The way her eyes glinted, it wasn’t hard to guess she had a makeover on her mind.

  "Here," she said, "Let me show you our wall of fashion."

  She pointed to the opposite kitchen wall where a ribbon photo board hung loaded with fashion photos, makeup hints, and fabric swatches. I explained how I was just about to get the works done when Cara pink-slipped me. And then I had to cancel because although I loved both my stylist and colorist, I just couldn’t spend a hundred and fifty dollars on a haircut and foil in my current financial circumstances. As soon as Howard made me that offer—

  "Look at this one." Candy pointed to a photo. "I can give you that look."

  Hank came over and looked at it. "Perfect, sis. She does have sort of a heart-shaped face. You have the eye!"

  "I’ll just get my good scissors and my cape and be right back."

  Cape? What was she—super fashion girl?

  "Maybe another time. Now that I’m finished here, I think I’ll just be on my way and let you enjoy your new light." I inched toward the door, but Hank blocked my path.

  "Nothing to worry about." She took my arm and led me, somewhat forcibly, to a chair in the kitchen. "Candy knows her way around a pair of scissors. She’s a hair styling genius. You should have seen what she used to do with her fashion head Barbie."

  Now that was reassuring. I remembered all too clearly what I used to do with my fashion head Barbie.

  Candy returned with a beauty shop in a box, complete with combs, brushes, lethal-looking scissors and a professional hairstylist’s cape. While Candy snipped, we talked about all kinds of girl things. We bitched about men. And I learned how Candy was let go from her last job for sleeping with the owner-boss who turned out to be married.

  "But he partied like a bachelor," she said.

  Candy had a lot to learn. "First rule of bosses, and coworkers," I added, "Never sleep with them. Ever. Not if you value your job."

  She sighed. "Now you tell me. But everything would have been fine, except that bitch of a wife of his made him try to fire me. Fire me! When the sex had nothing at all to do with my job performance. And I was the victim as much as she was—"

  "Yeah, you two should have banded together and cut his cojones off," I said.

  Hank and Candy both looked at me like I was a little crazy in the homicidal sense. Maybe that was too vengeful. "Figuratively, of course," I amended. "So what did you do?"

  She grinned. "Worked alone to take away his masculinity, the macho jerk. If he fired me for cause, I wouldn’t get my unemployment. So I had a lawyer friend send a letter threatening to sue. Then I offered to withdraw the suit if he told the Employment Security people that I was laid off due to a business slowdown. And I forced him to give me a year’s severance."

  "Wow! So I guess I won’t be crossing you any time soon."

  She laughed. "And the best part, Annette, another girl in the office, told me that when the bitch found out, she went ballistic and smashed up his new truck with a sledgehammer. But they’re still together. Go figure.

  "So I’ve been out of work three months now. But I’ve still got plenty of time."

  "Yeah," Hank added. "And she sold a watch he gave her and that’s how we got our new chandelier."

  Candy laughed, regarding her handiwork, and me, closely. "Anyone ever tell you that purple isn’t your color?"

  That’s when I spilled about my house fire, omitting my current insurance problems, and told them about having to wear Julie’s clothes. They were sympathetic and I think they finally believed I wasn’t a smoker.

  Candy handed me a mirror so I could inspect her handiwork.

  "Wow! This is an absolute perfect haircut!" I primped, admiring myself in the mirror. "You should be in the business. Ever thought of beauty school?" I couldn’t gush enough.

  She shrugged. "Cutting hair is way too easy."

  "Not for most of us, believe me," I assured her.

  "I need a challenge. I want to be a professional. Sit in a chair, not stand on my feet all day."

  "Suit yourself," I said, "but I think you’re missing your calling and the world is missing out on a lot of potential beauty."

  She beamed. "You think?"

  I just grinned at her in the mirror.

  "Next time you come, we’ll do your foil. I need to plan ahead for that and make a trip to Sally’s Beauty Supply first."

  I generally despised the beach blonde type of girl, but Candy and Hank turned out to be all right. We bonded, you might say.

  As fun as it had been, I eventually had to head home. They were so happy with their chandelier installation that when I begged Ryne’s photo off them, they gave it to me without too much hesitation and very little ribbing. Sure, I could have printed his picture off his website, but that one wasn’t nearly as hot.

  Maybe it was all the fun of making new friends that caused a hallucination, or maybe just a misidentification, but as I pulled out of their parking lot, I could have sworn I saw Cara’s car tearing away, too.

  * * *

  Back at Dad’s, Ethel was just loading her vacuum into her van. Dad had a vacuum but she said men never chose the right models. Too concerned about high power and not enough about drapery attachments and bag emptying ease. These days she was glad to have a bagless machine with an HEPA filter. Dad’s vacuum was built in the dark ages. I gave her a hand loading up her gear.

  I’d known Ethel a long time. She’d been cleaning for us since just after Mom died. So I didn’t feel funny asking her a strange favor.

  "Ethel, ask me to describe the dress that I wore to my first high school dance, will you?"

  She opened her mouth to speak—

  "No, wait. When you do, look at my eyes and tell me which direction they go."

  She shrugged and did as I asked.

  "And now ask me what the moon looked like last ti
me I visited it."

  "Since when did you visit the moon? Are you on some crazy kind of antidepressants?"

  "No, of course not. This is research."

  She rolled her eyes. "I just finished cleaning the house. I got another client to do still. This research of yours doesn’t involve explosions, eruptions, or chemical burns, does it? Because I got no time for that today."

  Make a few slipups, some minor miscalculations with a junior chemistry set or two, and possibly have a science fair project run amok, and you never live it down.

  "This one isn’t messy. I swear."

  She looked skeptical. "To the right."

  I wasn’t reversed. Five percent of the population evidently had reversed eye movements, according to my NLP references. Just like a certain percentage of the population is left-handed. I wasn’t one of them. Which meant that anyone with a little NLP training could read me like a picture book. Someone like, oh, I don’t know, Ryne!

  * * *

  Ryne, Ryne, Ryne! Somehow I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Staring at that picture Candy and Hank had given me wasn’t helping the cause. Somehow it had found its way into being taped to the inside of my armoire door. I think that photo had a teen idol complex. It certainly had me acting like a love-struck schoolgirl.

  I kept thinking about Candy’s advice to go after him, and Ryne’s e-mail, "stay in touch." And his admonition to call him if I ever needed help. And the confusing way he’d backed off so suddenly at the park yesterday when I was sure we’d had a connection.

  I did need help—help figuring him out, and help blowing off a stupid interview I didn’t really want. I dug his card out of my purse. It listed both his office number and his cell. I glanced at my watch. Five in the afternoon. He was probably still at his office. But just in case, I dialed his cell. He picked up on the third ring, his voice sensuously sleepy.

  "Ryne? Leesa Winsome here. You sound groggy. Caught you napping, did I?" I tried out the flirty voice.

  "Full out sleeping actually."

  "At the office?"

  "At my hotel."

  "Hotel?"

  Uh- oh.

  Where are you?" I asked, suddenly wary.

  "London."

  London! I didn’t recall London being on his schedule.

  "Oh, sorry! Sorry! I had no idea. You were just here yesterday."

  "I flew out last night. Took the six p.m. British Airways flight." I heard him yawn.

  "What time is it in London these days?" I had a sinking feeling it was middle of the nighttime.

  "One in the morning. These days." He sounded amused, in a sleepy way.

  I felt myself blush with embarrassment. Why did I always make a mess of things? And what if he wasn’t alone?

  "I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you and, um, anyone else. Especially when you were actually sleeping and not wide awake with jetlag. Let me just call you back later, say in seven or eight hours when I can interrupt you in the middle of a stewed tomato and sausage breakfast—"

  "Don’t hang up, Leesa. It’s all right, really. I’m all alone and now that you mention it, I think I feel jetlag setting in. I’m definitely awake." He was lying about the awake part. I could still hear sleep in his voice. But he sounded friendly and amused, and that was good. "It’s no imposition. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway."

  I laughed nervously, pleased he was alone and even more pleased he didn’t want me to go. And absolutely delighted with the naughty image that came to mind. The idea of Ryne in bed made for a fabulous mental picture. Tousled hair. No shirt. Why, oh, why hadn’t I Skyped him?

  "So what’s up? Nothing bad I hope?" He spoke in a husky just-woken voice.

  "No, nothing horrible." I paused. "I feel a little silly now that I’ve woken you. It’s no big deal really. This is actually more of a call-for-advice-in-the-afternoon kind of a problem than a wake-someone-out-of-a-deep-sleep emergency."

  "I do either kind. I’m listening. Spill it," he said.

  I sighed. "I have an interview tomorrow and I’m not feeling great."

  "You’re sick?" He sounded concerned.

  "No, I mean great as in breaking through to greatness. I thought, well, I hoped, you’d talk me through some things. Give me a quick greatness refresher course so I can feel confident tomorrow. But this can all wait until another time—"

  "No, no, I’m awake now." I heard sheets rustle as I presumed he sat up or maybe perched on one elbow and ran his hand through his hair. "Remember, the key to greatness is giving others what they want. In this case, the interviewer wants a terrific employee."

  "Yes, but that’s the hard part, isn’t it? Everyone has a different definition of terrific. I hardly know anything about this company." Or you. "I’ve only talked to them once on the phone. I have no idea what kind of a person they’re looking for. What should I be in the interview? Bold? Take charge? Laid back?"

  "Just be you, Leesa." He cleared his throat and launched into a discussion of interviewing techniques, punctuated by a yawn and a pause or two here and there.

  I tried to concentrate, I really did. It was the least I could do after waking him in the dead of his night. But somehow his sultry voice distracted me into some extremely pleasant daydreams. I couldn’t help imagining him in bed. And I definitely didn’t picture him as the kind of man who wore pajamas.

  "Leesa? Leesa, you still with me?"

  "Yes, I’m following," I said, trying not to sound startled as I came out of my dream world and back to reality.

  "Any questions?"

  "A few." But they had nothing to do with interviews. "Interviews can be so challenging and confusing. Companies leading you on and then not committing. Pulling back at the last minute." I laced my voice with plenty of double entendre.

  There was a pause on his end. I think he felt at a distinct disadvantage being only half awake, and not being able to read my eye movements and give me that intense stare of his.

  "There could be legitimate reasons for that behavior. Companies don’t always have it altogether," he said at last. I thought from his tone he’d gotten my message. "Sometimes they need time to figure out how a potential employee will fit into the larger scheme of things. Patience is the key."

  "I’ll keep that in mind," I said. "Well, hey, I’ve kept you long enough. Thanks for the tips. I owe you one. If you ever need any engineering advice, give me a ring. Day or night."

  He rattled off a website that contained a bunch of helpful interview tips. "Check it out and good luck."

  We disconnected.

  Chapter 11

  Job-free days: 41

  July Unemployment Log

  Bank account level: $100 Paid the bills.

  Interviews: One scheduled for ten at Hawk corporate headquarters in Redmond.

  Goals: Add to the others:

  1. Determine whether Hawk Engineering’s job is beneath me.

  2. If it is, make sure that I absolutely, positively, don’t get an offer.

  3. Practice my patience because it really is a virtue, although ultimately it could lead to some not so virtuous behavior.

  Thoughts for the day: I woke with a smile on my face. Let’s just say I finally did dream a new reality. A very romantic, happy ending type reality. Sigh.

  * * *

  Interviewing at this stage of the unemployment game is tricky business, a delicate balancing act that requires real finesse to manage. Howard is going to give me the perfect job. But with no formal offer yet, I have to keep looking for work so I can collect my unemployment. An almost-offer doesn’t count with those guys. So I have to keep applying and I’m required to "make every effort to obtain suitable employment." Or I lose the weekly pittance.

  Which means that I have to go to interviews when people ask me for them. Because if those employment insecurity guys find out I’m skipping out on interviews, I lose my unemployment. Finally, if I get a reasonable offer, reasonable as defined again by the slippery standards of the employment insecurity peop
le, then I have to accept it or lose my unemployment.

  I didn’t want to get another offer, unless it out-fabuloused Howard’s, before Howard’s came through. Because then I’d be stuck accepting a substandard job. Or stringing them along in an endless negotiation process.

  So the trick was to look like I was seriously looking, while I was actually stalling. And do it with subtlety. That was my plan as I headed out to screw up, I mean, make every reasonable effort to obtain suitable employment. All that interviewing greatness stuff with Ryne was really just a ruse.

  I met Joe at the Hawk Engineering offices at ten, supremely prepared for my interview. Before leaving the house, I’d gone online and studied the site Ryne suggested, as well as dozens of others, for pointers on how to "avoid" a bad interview. I’d memorized the list of the ten worst interviewee responses ever recorded. Now, I didn’t plan on confessing to being an ax murderer, or an embezzler. That was probably over the top. But armed with this info, I felt confident in my ability to throw any interview, no matter how well it appeared to be going.

  Hawk Engineering occupied a small corner of a warehouse-type building in an unimpressive industrial strip. Dark offices, small cubicles, and office furniture that should have been replaced years ago. Low budget, and definitely in need of a new interior designer.

  I wore one of Julie’s summer weight linen suits with a pencil skirt, and Julie’s color coordinated three-inch heels.

  The admin called Joe out and he showed me back to his office. As I walked past lab benches and stares, I had the distinct impression the heels had been a mistake.

  Joe was fiftyish and the company president. He introduced me to Herbert, the VP of engineering, and Eugene, the sales manager who waited for us in his office. Both of them appropriately named thirtyish geeks.

  They offered me a beat-up chair with a tear and questionable stains in its green vinyl cushion. I hesitated before I sat, hoping I wouldn’t get anything on Julie’s skirt because I was probably in enough trouble over her still fishy smelling blouse. Not to worry, I’d given it another squirt of Febreze before heading out.