"That sounds very considerate of you,” Charles Pendleton said with a hefty dose of sarcasm.
Georgina grimaced into the receiver. “I understand that a loan rollover is due shortly. The Relationship Manager responsible for your account discussed the market rates with me."
"I see. And may I ask, what direction did this discussion take?"
"A reduction of one half of a percent was mentioned. Of course, everything needs to be confirmed in writing by the Relationship Manager in charge of your account."
"I see,” Pendleton said dryly. “Thank you for your influence."
"I just asked them to make sure they were treating you well. That was the least I could do. I know you've been working very hard to get the legal status of Angelina Patissier resolved without unduly escalating the costs."
"I'll pass your thanks to the associate within the firm who is responsible for the case."
"I'd be grateful,” Georgina said. With a few more polite words, she wrapped up the call.
She lowered the receiver in triumph. If someone complained, they could play the tape a thousand times. Nothing she had said could be construed as improper. She had simply called to pass on the good news.
Georgina pressed the button on the intercom. “Annie? Can you come over?"
Annabel Fairfax appeared through the door. She was dressed in black Chanel, looking like someone who owned the bank instead of working there.
"I need a check from you for eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-three dollars for AVIS,” Annabel said, sitting down and resting a notepad over her elegantly crossed legs.
"The bank's supposed to be paying,” Georgina protested. “And that's a rip-off for three months rental. It should be much less than that."
"It's to buy your car."
"What? They told me it's not for sale."
"Well.” Annabel smiled and swung one shapely leg over the other. “You know that bastard I used to be married to?"
Georgina raised her brows and gave a cautious nod.
"He did some construction at the airport a couple of years back. Finished the AVIS lot on time and under budget. We took the top management and their wives down to Las Vegas for a celebration."
"So?” Georgina said.
"Well, I really hit it off with one of the regional executives and his wife. We've kept in touch. I gave him a call an hour ago and he fixed it."
"But I already spoke to the regional manager."
"You spoke to the regional
customer service
manager."
"Oh.” Georgina frowned. “I didn't realize.” She glared at Annabel. “The price sounds terribly low. Are you sure it's all above board?"
"It's the market value. Cars are cheaper in America. Don't meddle. Their accounting department would blow a fuse. They've already issued the invoice."
"Thank you.” Georgina leaned back in her seat. Up to now, she hadn't realized how much the car situation had worried her.
"I've got a couple of quotes for insurance,” Annabel told her. “You need to decide by Friday, so that I can start the coverage from next week."
"Thanks. Leave them with me. I'll look at them tonight at home."
"Was there anything else?” Annabel asked.
Georgina flicked over a perplexed glance. “No. I don't think so. Why?"
"You called me in."
"Oh?” Georgina frowned, then brightened up. “Yes. I wanted to ask you where you get your hair done."
Annabel's eyes twinkled. “I guess you mean where I
used
to get my hair done, when I could still afford it."
"Oh? I guess.” Georgina shrugged. “Whatever."
"I'll make an appointment for you one evening this week, if you like."
"Is it far? Is it difficult to find? Is there somewhere to park?"
"They'll send a limo to pick you up."
Georgina swallowed. “All right,” she said. “Tell them I want a cut and highlights."
Two days later, Georgina sat staring at her reflection in a row of mirrors. Her hair was covered in little parcels of foil that stood up from her scalp, like antennae erected to capture messages from outer space.
Four hundred dollars for highlights sounded a lot to her, particularly as she would also be expected to tip every person she came into contact with.
Perhaps it was the limo. Georgina pouted at her reflection. No point in worrying about the cost. It was an investment.
Upon arrival in the starkly minimalist salon she had discovered that they also did beauty treatments. She had made another appointment to come back the following day for a wax and a body wrap.
The colorist walked up to her and told her it was time to remove the foil. Georgina had been amazed to learn that the hair salon employed a team of people, each with their specialist occupation.
A stylist for styling. A colorist for coloring. She'd been relieved when shampoo and conditioner had been administered by the same person.
A loud scream came from somewhere in the back. The colorist, whose hair was a cap of skunk stripes gelled into spikes, paid no attention. Everyone in the salon was dressed in black. The different hairstyles were the easiest way to tell them apart.
"Somebody must have had an accident,” Georgina said. “Why isn't anybody doing anything?"
The colorist grinned and bent to whisper into her ear. “Not an accident. A bikini wax."
Georgina felt her mouth go dry. “Is it painful?"
"Sometimes women leave with one only side done, because they can't bear a second dose of the pain."
"Can't you do anything to stop it from hurting?"
"It's possible to numb the skin with ice, or with antiseptic wipes. That helps, but not much."
Georgina stared at her reflection in helpless terror as the foil was removed. Then the stylist came back and snipped the ends once more, twisting her head from side to side, as though it needn't remain attached to her neck.
By the time her hair had been blow-dried, she'd made up her mind, and after she paid and tipped everyone, she cancelled her second appointment. Project or no project, there were limits to suffering in the name of beauty.
The following night Georgina lolled on her bed, munching from a box of chocolates which had for some unfathomable reason been included in the price of her haircut. The limo driver handed it to her when he dropped her off at the Pacific Bank parking lot.
She raised a hand and ran it through her gleaming tresses. It had been worth every penny. The cut fell into a neat sweep before she even ran a hairbrush through it, and the highlights glinted like a sprinkling of sunlight.
Georgina pulled the flowchart out of the side pocket of her briefcase and unfolded it.
Means Goal
Highlights Flirting
Nice clothes Date
Sexy clothes Kissing
Displays of attributes Making out
Personal grooming Flowers
Learn about sex Nudity
Seductive behavior Sex
She'd done well on the ‘Means', but no progress on the ‘Goals'. Only one milestone achieved. She was two weeks behind schedule.
Georgina pushed the flowchart back inside her briefcase. She reached out for another chocolate and stuffed it into her mouth. The burst of creamy toffee over her tongue did little to console her.
Something had to be done, and she was the only one who could do it.
Rick Matisse maneuvered his truck around a minivan which had strayed into the fast lane. Using an adjustment of the rearview mirror as an excuse, he sneaked a sideways look at Georgina. She sat perched on the edge of the passenger seat, her back ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.
They hadn't spoken for a week. When he'd called to let her know he'd be picking her up at ten on Saturday morning, he'd got an answering machine. He'd left a message. Her office details were on the rental agreement, but he didn't consider it right to call her at the bank since she hadn't personally given him the number.
He stole another glance at her, secure in the knowledge that his dark glasses were opaque. There was a late heat wave, the last gasp of the passing summer. Sun baked down on the blacktop, and Georgina squinted against the glare.
"There's a pair of sunglasses in the glove box,” he told her.
"Oh.” Her voice sounded startled. The hands in her lap kneaded together.
He reached across and flipped the glove box open. Georgina shrunk back to avoid the brush of his arm.
Rick gripped the wheel tighter and rolled his shoulders to get rid of the tension that had started a week earlier, and had escalated each day. What was it about Georgina? He'd never met a woman like her before. She seemed to be made up of several different women, and he never knew which one he was dealing with.
There was the prim and proper spinster. She was the one he'd met on that first night when she burst into his apartment. Then there was the competent professional. That was the one who talked furniture through customs and got rental contracts altered.
Hiding behind those two was a woman so soft and vulnerable a man would lay down his life to protect her. He'd caught that one on the stairs when he'd stepped out of the elevator room.
And there was one more buried somewhere deep inside her. A passionate woman who'd give everything to the right man. He was convinced of that. She'd been in the bathroom with him last Saturday, and he had reached out to touch her, but the prim and proper one had stepped forward, pushing the other one out of the way.
Rick shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Christ, when she had told him she was wearing no underwear, it was like all air had been sucked out of his lungs. His heart had hammered and his blood had pounded in his ears. There had been two choices left open to him. To laugh like crazy, or do what he really wanted to do, which was to grab her by the waist, set her down on top of the washing machine, undo his jeans, lift up the edge of that flimsy little dress, and thrust himself inside her.
He had laughed like crazy. The thought that it might have been the wrong choice kept him awake at night.
"Why are we going north?” Georgina asked. “Andy said the shooting range is in San Diego."
This time he didn't need to hide the fact that he was looking at her. “It's a different place this time. Up the coast. Will give you a scenic drive."
"Oh."
And would keep his private life private, he could have added. It was one thing taking his daughter to the police range. If he took a woman, even once, for the next six months every time he went, a sly question would be asked and some smart-ass would crack a joke.
They drove on in silence. He found the place without trouble. It was a low windowless building that sprawled back from the road. He parked along the grey concrete wall, not far from the entrance.
"The car will get hot in the sun,” Georgina said.
"No choice. There's no shade."
"I don't mind a walk, if you want to park across the road."
"This is fine.” He killed the engine. By the time he got round to the passenger side, she had opened the door and was climbing down from the high cab of the truck. Rick tried to control the surge of irritation. She might refuse his help, but if she sprained an ankle, she'd blame him anyway.
"You could have waited,” he said curtly.
"For what?” Those big blue-green eyes sent him an innocent look.
"For me to help you down."
"Oh.” She blushed and looked awkward. “In England, men don't really do that."
"We're not in England."
"I know.” She gave him a nervous smile. “It would be raining, and the drive would have taken twice as long."
"Will you be all right in those shoes?"
She took the last little leap down and stood facing him. “Why? Do they have rules on footwear?"
"I meant to climb out of the truck."
She frowned at him, looking half-annoyed, half-confused. “I seem to have managed."
He shrugged and stepped away from her, but before he did, he had enough time to notice how the sun glinted in her hair, making it look like she was dusted with gold. He slammed the passenger door, troubled by how such strange thoughts were finding their way into his head.
Inside, the shed-like building boiled with heat. “Damn. I thought this place had air-conditioning.” He turned to her. “You sure you want to stay?"
"I don't mind. I'm dressed for hot weather."
His eyes skimmed her, just like they had skimmed her when she opened the door to him almost an hour ago. She was dressed in flimsy high-heeled sandals, and some kind of cropped pants that left her ankles bare. Her tight white shirt had sleeves which ended just past the elbows, as though it had shrunk in the wash. He'd bought something similar for his daughter, so he knew it was supposed to look like that. She appeared fragile enough to be made out of spun glass.
They checked in at the counter. He showed his license and bought another two boxes of 38 Specials.
"Any other weapon on you?” asked the attendant.
Rick tapped the two plastic cases on the table. “Just the Springfield and the revolver."
"All right. You're in lane four."
"Which way is that?"
"All the lanes are that way. It starts at number one at this end.” The muscular youth pointed ahead, making the mermaid on his forearm leap to life.
"Thanks.” Rick picked up the boxes of ammunition and the two cases that contained his handguns. “I thought this place had air conditioning,” he said to the young man.
"It should be back on soon. Someone's working on it."
Rick nodded. “I'll be using police clips on the Springfield."
"No problem. Enjoy your session."
Rick turned and addressed his words to Georgina. “Can you bring those?” He motioned at the two sets of eye and ear protection which the muscular youth had pushed across the table.
Then he strode over to the lanes, feeling edgy. He didn't bother to check if Georgina was keeping up. The whole goddamn idea struck him as crazy. How was he supposed to teach her to shoot a handgun? She was a scantily dressed woman in high heels with her toenails painted red.