The Balance Thing by Margaret Dumas

and headed for the shower. When I got out, I took a good hard look at myself in the mirror. Then I pictured Sir Charles Shipley standing next to me. Then I picked up the phone and dialed another room in the hotel.
    â€œRoger? It’s Becks. I need you to make me gorgeous.”

Twelve
    I ’m a terrible flirt.
    When some women say that, they mean they’re incorrigible, batting their eyes and tossing their hair at anything in pants. But I mean I flirt terribly. Badly. Really. I understand that to some extent it’s a skill, and therefore like any other skill it can be learned—at least to a reasonable level of proficiency. I’d just never made the effort to learn it.
    But then, I’d never had Sir Charles Shipley supplying the motivation.
    I quickly formed my plan. I’d use my twisted ankle as an excuse to skip whatever parties I could for the next couple of days in London and get Max and Vida to teach me everything they knew. Connie would actually be a better coach, but I hardly thought I’d be able to talk her into joining us. By the time I arrived at Lakewood I’d be an old hand at the hair toss, the half-smile, the “I want you” look, and whatever else might be required to make a knight of the realm fall madly in love with me.
    But first things first—I had to get gorgeous.
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    â€œBECKS!” ROGER GREETED ME. “You’ve made me so happy!”
    In the ten minutes since I’d called him, Connie’s hairdresser had been burning up the phone lines. Now he sailed into my room, clipboard in hand.
    â€œYou’re getting waxed first. Then you have a facial at one-thirty, a sea salt scrub after that, and then a mani-pedi,” he said triumphantly. “You have no idea how many names I had to drop in order to get you in. Seriously, Becks, you’ll be a new woman!”
    I had one question. “Waxed?”
    â€œYou won’t feel a thing,” he assured me, “and, oh, do you need it.” This was added after a brief inspection of my upper lip. “It’s not too bad,” he said in a tone that clearly indicated he was lying. “I’ve seen worse, but oh…”
    â€œWhat about my hair?” I asked. “I was really thinking in terms of a haircut—”
    â€œDon’t think.” He held up his hand. “Just relax and trust me.”
    â€œI may not be too good at the relaxing part.”
    He waved away my apprehensions. “I’ve sent Shayla out for supplies. Have you met Shayla yet? No, I didn’t think so. I know you’ve been avoiding me, but that’s all about to change, isn’t it Becks?” He beamed. “I’m just so happy!”
    â€œI’m happy for you, Roger,” I told him. “Who’s Shayla?”
    â€œMy assistant.” He seemed slightly embarrassed. “She’s here to help out because on the big day I won’t be able to deal with Connie and the three of you and the mother of the bride and Ian…” His eyes widened. “Forget I said that. Connie didn’t mention Shayla?”
    â€œI suspect Connie didn’t want me to use the word entourage .”
    â€œProbably not. But I really did need someone. She’s also doing the makeup for those of you who need help.” He moved in for another inspection of my face.
    â€œIt’s okay, Roger. I know I need help.” For anything beyond slapping on tinted moisturizer and a quick swipe of lipstick, anyway.
    He beamed again. “Becks, this day is going to change your life!”
    It certainly changed my understanding of what beauty queens go through.
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    ROGER HURRIED ME to the hotel spa, where I discovered billowing white curtains, fluffy white towels, comfy white robes, and a kind of pain I had never dreamed existed.
    To start things off, my eyebrows, upper lip, chin, underarms, and legs were forcibly denuded of hair. At first my eyes stung with tears, but then