Dating Dead Men by Harley Jane Kozak Page A

pork?”
    â€œDidn't I order pork?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? You just plowed through a carton of spicy broccoli. Here, get out of the direct sunlight, you're too white, it's frying your brain.” Fredreeq made Joey switch seats with her, then pulled up her own yellow midriff top to expose her dark brown abdomen to noonday rays. “Oh, good, here's UPS.” Fredreeq waved at the truck pulling into the lot. “It's that driver with the bad weave. Let's see what Wollie's wearing for Rex.”
    Each Dating Project subject was outfitted by Tiffanie's Trousseau. The national clothing chain sponsored Dr. Cookie's research, paying us five thousand dollars apiece upon the completion of forty dates, with an additional ten dollars per date for incidentals. In return, we wore the clothes they sent us, documented each outfit via Polaroid, and pasted it into journals, along with the vital statistics and our editorial comments on the men, which Tiffanie's Trousseau used for market research purposes. But the main benefit for Tiffanie's was its proposed advertising gimmick: when Dr. Cookie launched
How to Avoid Getting Dumped All the Time,
Tiffanie's would launch Hot Date fashions. The ad campaign would feature our journal entries superimposed over professional models wearing the corresponding outfit. Dr. Cookie, who couldn't possibly afford to pay the research subjects out of her own pocket, or even her publisher's pocket, called this a beautifully arranged marriage between science and commerce. Joey called it another sleazy example of corporate-infected media and Madison Avenue infiltrating our lives. Fredreeq called it a damn shame that the research subjects did not get to keep the clothes. Given the style of Tiffanie's Trousseau, I called that a blessing.
    â€œI hope they sent something black for tonight,” Fredreeq said. “Black and bare.”
    â€œTonight?” I said. “Did you say tonight?”
    â€œL'Orangerie with Rex Stetson, honey. Where've you been?”
    This was bad news. I couldn't do two hours of labored chitchat at L'Orangerie, not tonight, not until I'd talked to both P.B. and Doc. I signed the UPS invoice while Fredreeq tore into the Tiffanie's Trousseau box. She held up a dress the boutique considered suitable for sipping Pouilly-Fuissé on Saturday night, black spandex with a sweetheart neckline.
    â€œGorgeous,” she said. Joey gestured with a napkin, signifying assent and a mouthful of broccoli.
    â€œI can't wear that,” I said. “I'm having a big breast day.”
    Fredreeq snorted. “Like that's a negative? If Rex Stetson has his own list, you can bet that Big Breasts are headlining it.”
    â€œPMS.” The words caught in my throat. This was agony, lying to a friend.
    Fredreeq returned the dress to its box. “Did Golda Meir cancel the Six-Day War because it was the wrong six days? She did not. She took Motrin and laid off the sodium.” Moving the soy sauce out of my reach, Fredreeq squinted at me. “Although I have to say—girl, you're wrecked. Are you getting any sleep?”
    â€œI—” I turned to Joey for help.
    â€œShe had a rough night,” Joey said. “Go ahead, Wollie. Tell her about Dave.”
    It worked. Fredreeq had strong feelings about transportation (number four, Has Car) and the idea of Dave sending me home in a taxi so appalled her, she gave me the night off. “And you
have
had seven dates in the last eight days,” she said, reaching for her cell phone. “We don't want you burning out. Rex will just have to do brunch.”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    I LEFT OUR alfresco lunch to wait on a customer, and was restocking Easter cards when Joey joined me. “What was that about morgues?” I said. “You think I should call them?”
    â€œNo, I think I should. I'm a really good liar. You're really not.”
    I couldn't argue that, although in her case,