are, and
I’m
sexy.”
“It’s a matter of environment,” Faye explained. “Looking
appropriate
for your environment. For TransWorld, you need to look alluring, but elegant.” She stepped back, appraising Marilyn. “Well, hey! You look
great
in that. You’re so lucky to be so slim.”
“Your shoulders are hunched,” Shirley told Marilyn. “You need to work on your posture.”
Something in Marilyn snapped. “Well,
you
have a whisker on your chin!”
“I do?” Shirley nudged Marilyn aside, to get closer to the fitting room mirror. “Jeez Louise, will you look at that, I do have a whisker. Does anyone have tweezers?”
Faye dug in her purse and handed Shirley her tweezers. Shirley bent toward the glass.
“I thought you said we grew less hair as we grew older,” Marilyn reminded Shirley accusingly.
“True,” Shirley answered, without moving her lips, concentrating on catching the whisker. “Less hair where we want it. But we do start getting whiskers where we don’t want them.”
Alice laughed. “I found a whisker on my left breast last week.”
“Eeek!” Marilyn cried, lifting the silk top so she could survey her breasts.
“Don’t take that top off,” Faye cried. “It looks fabulous on you!”
“I agree.” Alice looked at her watch. “Marilyn, if you buy those four trousers, and those four tops, and those four jackets, you’ll be able to mix and match them any way you want, and look great every time.”
“You’re right!” Faye flipped through their selections. “Aren’t we all clever!”
“Wait!” Shirley cried. “Buy this, too, Marilyn.” She handed her a long swath of lime green. “Toss this over your shoulders. It will give you flash.”
11
The Eastbrook mansion towered on a hill in a bucolic suburb thirty miles west of Boston. The drive, thick with pebbles white as snowflakes, led between stone pillars supporting stone urns, around the house to a fountain centered in a parking circle, and back around the other side of the house to complete the loop.
Down the hill, roof just visible from its shelter of birches and spruce, was the Eastbrook Clinic, with its three operating rooms, where wealthy clients paid fortunes to have their faces sculpted, their asses hoisted, and their tummies and backs vacuumed of fat. They recovered in the Eastbrook Spa, a cluster of low white buildings surrounding a courtyard where they could lie on long chairs listening to the melody of the fountain, smelling the multitude of flowers, always present, fresh every day. Elsewhere on the grounds, secluded among trees, were garages for various cars and quarters for some of the staff.
It was in the elegant white French Provincial mansion that Eugenie Eastbrook had her own office. She’d suggested during their telephone conversation that Faye drive around to the back of the house, which would make it easy for her to come to the staff entrance at the back hall. Accordingly, it was there, on Thursday morning, Faye knocked.
Eugenie Eastbrook herself greeted Faye at the front door. For one icy instant, Mrs. Eastbrook scanned Faye up and down. Faye held her breath. Then Mrs. Eastbrook delivered a frosty smile and invited Faye to follow her.
Down a narrow carpeted hall they went, through a door, into the front of the house, a world of pastels, gilt mirrors, chandeliers, and an atmosphere of such serenity Faye wondered if they’d found a way to distill Valium and steam it into the air.
Mrs. Eastbrook’s office opened on to the main entrance hall, with doors, discreetly camouflaged by murals, to the living room on one side and to the housekeeper’s office on the other. Like the rest of the exquisitely maintained home, this room was decorated, carpeted, and draped in a luminously floral plush luxury Marie Antoinette would have appreciated.
“Beautiful room,” Faye murmured.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Eastbrook settled behind the delicate ivory desk whose curved legs, inlaid with gilt rosettes, supported
I’m
sexy.”
“It’s a matter of environment,” Faye explained. “Looking
appropriate
for your environment. For TransWorld, you need to look alluring, but elegant.” She stepped back, appraising Marilyn. “Well, hey! You look
great
in that. You’re so lucky to be so slim.”
“Your shoulders are hunched,” Shirley told Marilyn. “You need to work on your posture.”
Something in Marilyn snapped. “Well,
you
have a whisker on your chin!”
“I do?” Shirley nudged Marilyn aside, to get closer to the fitting room mirror. “Jeez Louise, will you look at that, I do have a whisker. Does anyone have tweezers?”
Faye dug in her purse and handed Shirley her tweezers. Shirley bent toward the glass.
“I thought you said we grew less hair as we grew older,” Marilyn reminded Shirley accusingly.
“True,” Shirley answered, without moving her lips, concentrating on catching the whisker. “Less hair where we want it. But we do start getting whiskers where we don’t want them.”
Alice laughed. “I found a whisker on my left breast last week.”
“Eeek!” Marilyn cried, lifting the silk top so she could survey her breasts.
“Don’t take that top off,” Faye cried. “It looks fabulous on you!”
“I agree.” Alice looked at her watch. “Marilyn, if you buy those four trousers, and those four tops, and those four jackets, you’ll be able to mix and match them any way you want, and look great every time.”
“You’re right!” Faye flipped through their selections. “Aren’t we all clever!”
“Wait!” Shirley cried. “Buy this, too, Marilyn.” She handed her a long swath of lime green. “Toss this over your shoulders. It will give you flash.”
11
The Eastbrook mansion towered on a hill in a bucolic suburb thirty miles west of Boston. The drive, thick with pebbles white as snowflakes, led between stone pillars supporting stone urns, around the house to a fountain centered in a parking circle, and back around the other side of the house to complete the loop.
Down the hill, roof just visible from its shelter of birches and spruce, was the Eastbrook Clinic, with its three operating rooms, where wealthy clients paid fortunes to have their faces sculpted, their asses hoisted, and their tummies and backs vacuumed of fat. They recovered in the Eastbrook Spa, a cluster of low white buildings surrounding a courtyard where they could lie on long chairs listening to the melody of the fountain, smelling the multitude of flowers, always present, fresh every day. Elsewhere on the grounds, secluded among trees, were garages for various cars and quarters for some of the staff.
It was in the elegant white French Provincial mansion that Eugenie Eastbrook had her own office. She’d suggested during their telephone conversation that Faye drive around to the back of the house, which would make it easy for her to come to the staff entrance at the back hall. Accordingly, it was there, on Thursday morning, Faye knocked.
Eugenie Eastbrook herself greeted Faye at the front door. For one icy instant, Mrs. Eastbrook scanned Faye up and down. Faye held her breath. Then Mrs. Eastbrook delivered a frosty smile and invited Faye to follow her.
Down a narrow carpeted hall they went, through a door, into the front of the house, a world of pastels, gilt mirrors, chandeliers, and an atmosphere of such serenity Faye wondered if they’d found a way to distill Valium and steam it into the air.
Mrs. Eastbrook’s office opened on to the main entrance hall, with doors, discreetly camouflaged by murals, to the living room on one side and to the housekeeper’s office on the other. Like the rest of the exquisitely maintained home, this room was decorated, carpeted, and draped in a luminously floral plush luxury Marie Antoinette would have appreciated.
“Beautiful room,” Faye murmured.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Eastbrook settled behind the delicate ivory desk whose curved legs, inlaid with gilt rosettes, supported
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