A High Heels Haunting by Gemma Halliday Page B

I help you?” asked the Barbie doll behind the desk.  Jasmine.  Or as I liked to call her, Miss PP.  As in plastic parts.  Jasmine spent two thirds of her salary every month on cosmetic procedures.  This week her lips were collagen swollen to Angelina Jolie standards.  Last month it was new boobs, double D of course.  As usual, her bleached blond hair was moussed within an inch of its life, giving her an extra two inches on her already annoying height of 5’6”.  I’m what could be referred to as a petite person, topping out at an impressive 5’1 ½” on a good day.  I was lucky if I made the height requirement on half the rides at Six Flags.  
    “I’m here to see Richard,” I informed Miss PP.
    “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Howe?”  Her blue eyes blinked (with difficulty due to the brow lift two months ago) in an innocent gesture that I knew was anything but.  Jasmine’s sole entertainment here at Dewy, Cheatum and Howe was wielding the power of entry to the sacred offices beyond the frosted doors.
    I narrowed my eyes at her.  “Yes.  As a matter of fact I do.”
    “And you are?” 
    I tried not to roll my eyes.  I’d met Richard here for lunch every Friday afternoon for the past five months.  She knew who I was and by the tiny smile at the corner of her Angelina lips, she was enjoying this all too much.
    “Maddie Springer.  His girlfriend .  I’m here for a lunch date.”
    “I’m sorry, Miss Springer, but you’ll have to wait.  He’s with someone in the conference room right now.”
    “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I mumbled as I sat in one of the tan, leather chairs punctuating the waiting area.  Jasmine didn’t answer, smirking instead (which looked a lot like an Elvis lip curl in her new super-sized lips) as she opened what I’d guess was a game of solitaire on her computer and pretended to look busy.  I picked up a copy of Cosmo from the end table and began flipping through the pages of drool worthy designer clothes I could never afford.  Or fit into if I was actually pregnant.  Oh God.  What a depressing thought.   
    After what seemed like an eternity of listening to Jasmine’s acrylic nails click against her keyboard, Richard walked into the reception area.  Despite the anxiety building in my stomach, I couldn’t help a little yummy sigh at the sight of him.  Richard was six foot one and all lean muscle.  He was a religious runner, doing 10k’s for all the charities in his spare time.  Muscular dystrophy, autism, even the breast cancer run last April.  When we first started dating he tried to get me to run with him once.  Just once.  My idea of a cardio workout was elbowing my way through Nordstrom during the half-yearly super sale.  Running was something I didn’t do.  Besides, I figured if the heels were high enough, walking the two blocks from my apartment to the corner Starbucks burned almost as many calories as running, right?
    Today Richard’s blonde hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, a la early Robert Redford.  He was wearing a dark gray suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie.  He looked downright delish and I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms, unloading all my worries onto the shoulder of his wool suit.   
    Another man exited the offices with him, the two of them deep in conversation.  I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever it was had Richard’s sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern. 
    The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn with faded patches along the thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a form fitting black T-shirt.  His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that made you instantly think prizefighter.  A white scar cut into his eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion.  Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison tattoos.  I hoped Richard