I blinked with confusion. “Aren’t I going to meet Brady this morning?”
“Yeah, later—that’s why we have to get you sprayed now. I pushed breakfast back to noon, by the way. So I guess it’s lunch. That should give you time to dry.”
Finally I understood. “Are we talking about a spray tan?”
He poked at the keys on his laptop. “What else would we be talking about?”
“But Haley’s kind of . . . pale.” On her early magazine covers, her skin was always a smooth and even brown, but I’d never seen her looking anything other than sallow.
“I know.” Jay hit a final key on the computer as if marking the end of a crescendo and stood up. “And Simone says that’s got to change, especially if Haley’s going to insist on wearing pastels. And that means you have to match. We’ve never used this tanning crew before—hope they’re okay. I’ve got the usual company coming to do Haley later.”
“Why not use the same company for both of us?”
His phone rang (sang). He pulled it out of his pocket and frowned at the display.
“Because it would be hard to explain why Haley Rush was pale in the afternoon when she’d been sprayed in the morning. I’ll call them back.” He hit a button on his phone and stuck it back in his pocket.
“But what if she comes downstairs while I’m getting tanned?” He snorted. “Sure. That’s going to happen.” It was nine o’clock in the morning.
“Anything special I need to know?” I asked.
He considered. “Just smile politely—a little shy, a little warm, but not too warm—and don’t say anything.”
I raised one eyebrow. “What? You don’t want me launching into a discussion of the importance of tanning to society?”
His eyes popped open. “Whoah!”
“What?”
“That thing you just did with your eyebrow—raising it. There was a director that wanted Haley to do that for a movie, and she just couldn’t make it work. She spent hours in front of the mirror. It’s just weird to see you do it.”
I flushed with pride. Haley could sing, act, and dance better than I could. And as Simone would never tire of reminding me, she was thinner. But I was the eyebrow-raising champion of the world. Go me.
Jay said, “Just make sure you don’t do that around the paparazzi. Or around the spray-tanning people. Or in public. Or . . . anywhere.”
I raised my eyebrow again, higher this time. “I’ll try to remember.”
It’s hard to say which part of the spray tanning was most unpleasant. To start off, there was the bikini issue. I was expecting to find one of Haley’s castoffs in the bathroom, but no: the suit still had its Target tags attached. Unfortunately, the tag said, “Size 2.” After feeling flattered for about a tenth of a second (“Someone thought I was a 2!”), I had to admit that, one: the suit had been bought for Haley and, two: it was going to be way too revealing in an entirely non-sexy way.
The suit was all white and just the tiniest bit see-through. It rode up so far and was cut so low, it bordered on obscene. There’ve been gynecologist appointments where I’ve felt less exposed. Plus, it was still February—not bikini season at all—and let’s just say I have some issues with unwanted body hair.
The spray tan people set up a curtained station on a concrete patch in Haley’s backyard, off by the pool equipment. Swathed in an oversized beige towel, I scurried out the bathroom, through the house and across the pavers. At least Jay stayed in the house: that was one thing to be thankful for. The thought of exposing my soft flesh to Jay was too mortifying to contemplate. Rodrigo, stationed with his laptop on one of the pool chaises, was a little too close for comfort, but I didn’t care as much what he thought about me. Not that I cared so much about Jay’s opinion, just—you know.
There were two “tanning therapists.” One was male, the other female, and both were extremely buff and incredibly—surprise!—tan. They wore form-fitting black pants and white T-shirts that said EVERGLOW. Their teeth were bright white, bordering on fluorescent. They both had light eyes, his hazel, hers green, which looked almost spooky against their dark skin. The tan boy was called Matthew. I couldn’t quite catch the tan girl’s name, but it sounded kind of like Couch.
Matthew said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Rush.”
Couch said, “Hey, girlfriend, we gotta get you some
color
.”
I blessed them with a half-smile and looked at the ground.
“If you could just remove your towel, Miss Rush.”
I nodded but continued clutching the terry until the very last moment, when I was surrounded on three sides by black vinyl curtains. I took the towel off and chucked it beyond the tanning station, onto the concrete, taking care not to meet Matthew’s or Couch’s eyes.
Couch stepped into the semi-enclosure and wrapped my big blond hair with something like Saran Wrap. Or maybe it was Saran Wrap. Then she stepped back and studied me (which was mortifying). “Straps, girlfriend.”
“Huh?”
“We don’t want you havin’ no tan lines.” She reached around my neck and undid my bathing suit tie.
I managed to catch the top just in time.
“Now turn around,” she instructed, after which she tied my top straps below my arms. It almost (
almost
) would have been better to go topless and just admit that everyone could see everything, anyway.
Matthew was in charge of the application. With a hose and nozzle attached to a bottle of dark liquid, he reminded me of the Terminix guy who sprays the Motts’ yard for bugs every three months.
“Just spread your legs a little there . . .” God, that sounded obscene.
He started with my shoulders and worked his way down. I must have looked tense because he said, “Nothing to worry about. We’ve got moisturizers in the tanning solution, some alcohol and plant extracts. All natural—there’s even walnut extract for a more natural brown.”
I thought:
natural if you’re a tree
.
Next to me, the pool pump, which was on a timer, switched on, emitting a loud whirring noise. I tensed.
“Relaaaax,” Couch said from just outside the curtain.
Shut uuuuuup,
I thought.
I liked Matthew better. “What makes your skin change color is DHA. That’s a natural sugar.” He spoke loudly to be heard over the pool equipment. His voice had a singsong quality, as if he had memorized this “here’s what we’re doing” speech. Which he probably had.
He said, “The DHA reacts with the proteins on your outermost layer of skin. It’s that reaction that causes the color change. The DHA works with your natural pigments. So, it’s all natural. You can put your arms down now.”
I did.
Matthew examined my arms with a puzzled expression. “You did exfoliate this morning, didn’t you?”
Huh? I shook my head. I’m not sure I’ve ever exfoliated in my entire life. I certainly hadn’t done it this morning.
Matthew froze. “This is not—maybe—didn’t you read—you were supposed to—I guess someone didn’t tell you—” So much for the singsong tones.
“The tan might be blotchy,” he said.
Clearly, that required some kind of response. “Ugh,” I grunted.
“No, it looks good!” Couch piped up from the outer confines of the stall. “Just from looking, I would have guessed you had exfoliated!” She was a terrible liar.
The spraying felt okay, like a slightly damp tickle. The only pain was psychological. Matthew did my shoulders and back, arms, torso, and face (I held my breath). And then it was on to the nether regions.
“In the future?” he said to my hip. “You should probably shave or wax twenty-four hours before your treatment.”
Oh, my God. Could I be any more humiliated?
Actually, yes.
“What’s really cool about the tanning?” Couch said. “Well, it makes you look all, like, healthy, but you already knew that. But it also minimizes any imperfections. Like blemishes. And, you know. Cellulite.”
For once, I was earning my money.
When Matthew was finally, finally done, I lunged for the towel, but he stopped me. “No! You’ll ruin your tan!” Remembering his place on the food chain, he added, “Miss Rush.”
I must have looked puzzled (or panicked), because he said, “You have done this before, haven’t you?”
Until recently, Haley had been known for her perma-tan. I nodded.
“Okay, so um . . . It’ll take eight hours for the tan to fully develop. Don’t shower until then.”
I eyed my brown body with confusion. How much darker was I going to get?
“That’s just the guide color,” Matthew said, pointing to my (blotchy) brown arm, which, come to think of it, looked more spray-painted than tan. “It’ll wash off. The real color needs time to react with your pigment.”
Wait a minute. I was going to meet Brady Ellis with the completely fake tan that precedes the kind-of-fake tan?
“Make sure you wear loose clothing today,” Matthew said. “But you know that already, right?”
I nodded and tried to control my agitated blinking. Rodrigo was still camped on the pool chaise. Jay was outside now, too, sitting at the big round table, working on his laptop. The table was on the way to the door; there was no way to get inside without passing him.
I ducked back into the curtained enclosure so Jay couldn’t see my mouth move. “Do you have a robe?” I whispered.
“What?”
“A robe. Something loose. Just to get me to the house.”
“No. Sorry.” Matthew looked genuinely sorry.
“You don’t need a robe, girlfriend!” Couch piped in. “You look hot!”
“How’d it go?” Jay took off his sunglasses for a better look. It’s not like he leered or anything, but the gesture still made me feel naked—which I practically was.
I skittered around to the far side of the table and stood behind a chair. “It was okay. Fine. Good. I should probably get dressed.”
“Maybe it’s just the light . . .” he said finally. “But the color . . .”
I glanced at my arm. “The tan takes eight hours to fully develop. This is just the temporary color. It’ll wash off. But for now it does look a little . . . fake.”
“Oh,” he said. “Shit.”
I can’t explain why that made me feel better, but for some reason it did.
“I’m not usually around when Haley gets sprayed,” he admitted. “And she doesn’t go out much, so it’s not usually an issue.”
“They didn’t say anything when you scheduled?” I asked.
“Rodrigo made the call last night. He always schedules Haley’s tans.”
Rodrigo was still stationed on a lounge chair next to the pool, hunched over his laptop. I said, “He knew about my date with Brady.”
Jay raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, my appointment.” I cleared my throat. “I’m surprised he didn’t realize the timing would be a problem.” Maybe he was so excited about his career news that he hadn’t thought about timing problems. Or maybe . . .
“Rodrigo’s a prick,” Jay muttered.
That seemed unnecessarily harsh.
I edged away from the table. “Okay, then. I’ll go change. What should I do with the suit?” It was now more brown than white.
“Just throw it in the trash.”
So that explained the tags: Haley would never wear a cheap bathing suit unless it was disposable.
“I didn’t think Haley would wear Target clothes,” I said.
“She wants to.” Jay slipped his sunglasses back on. “She tries to. Or, she used to, anyway. She’d put on a disguise—a wig and sunglasses and a sweat suit or something—and sneak off to a strip mall in Encino. Then, when she wasn’t looking, Simone would go into her closet and haul everything away.”
“That’s terrible!” I put my hands on the table and leaned forward, my emotions so intense I forgot that I was practically naked.
Jay slipped his sunglasses down on his nose and peered over the rim at my breasts. “Nice.”
I straightened and crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah—if you like orange boobs.”
Brady got to Fred Segal first. When I arrived at the blocky, ivy-covered building, wearing the denim dress and shaking in Haley’s pink cowboy boots, he was sitting at a shady outdoor table, reading the newspaper and drinking from a tall glass. I stopped in the parking lot, a few paces away, and stole a moment to study him.
His hair was dark brown, almost black, a mass of perfectly messy waves that bordered on ringlets. His skin had a hint of gold just uneven enough to be real. His nose was straight, his lips full, his cheeks clean-shaven. His shoulders were so square they were almost pointy. His forearms, darker brown than his face, were roped with muscle and the tiniest hint of veins.
The hostess stand was outside, under a giant magnolia tree. I didn’t even have to say anything: the girl recognized me immediately.
“Right this way.” She led me across the brick patio to Brady. Diners glanced up, pausing just long enough to register me as Someone Worth Noticing before going back to their meals.
As I approached the table, Brady looked up from his paper and smiled. My entire body went warm. I’d seen his dimples on TV, of course (that’s what the pause button is for), but that was different. Right now, those dimples (the one on the right slightly deeper than the left), his eyes (a bottomless almost-black), and that smile (there are no words . . .) were all directed at me, Veronica Czaplicki!
Well, okay—at me, Haley Rush. But still. I could only hope that no one caught my expression, because there was no way I was looking “over” Brady Ellis.
He put the paper on the table and stood up, staring so intently I dropped my gaze to his muscled-but-not-bulky calves and his brown leather flip-flops.
Brady was shorter than I expected, maybe five foot seven. That meant he was three inches taller than me—perfect dancing (or kissing) height.
Ahem.
“Hey, Hale!” he said. “You look great. I mean that. Thanks for coming.”