Hand-Me-Down. Lee Nichols
was almost as galling as if he had.
Wren was fixing the window when I returned.
“Very avant-garde,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She laughed and turned back to the mannequins, sorting them out with efficient, professional motions.
“It was a popular triumph,” I told her. “The people loved me.”
“But not critically acclaimed. Jenny isn’t happy.” She straightened the plaid mini. “Who’s the guy?”
“That’s Khaki Cords.” I kicked the mannequin. “I hate him.”
“The guy at the Coffee Bean.”
“Oh, him. Ian. My sister’s ex.”
“They’re back together?”
“Not Emily’s— Charlotte’s.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“What?”
“He’s gorgeous.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I guess, if you like the blond, blue-eyed…gorgeous type. Oh! Speaking of which— I need a date for tonight.”
“Your sister’s book thing?”
“Yeah. I was gonna go stag, but…”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded knowingly. “Ian’s going?”
“Well, I sort of accidentally invited him.”
“You have a crush on Charlotte’s ex.”
“I don’t! Not a crush. But I, um…”
“You what?”
“Let’s just say I did something really stupid, once. I wouldn’t want him to think it ruined me for guys ever since.”
“What’d you do?”
“I invited him to a party,” I said.
“I mean last time,” she said.
“That’s what I did last time, too. I don’t know what it is. I see him, I invite him somewhere inappropriate. It’s Pavlovian.”
“Because he makes you salivate.”
I ignored her. “Anyway, I need a presentable date, fast.”
“My brother would do it for ten bucks.”
Her brother is thirteen. “I’m looking for clean-shaven, not pre-shaven.”
Jenny suddenly loomed. She edged between me and the nearest mannequin, as if afraid I’d go for its throat. “You’re back,” she said.
“With bells on!” I told her, smiling gaily as if nothing had happened.
“We have to talk,” Jenny told me.
“Anne needs a date tonight,” Wren said. “She’s got nobody to take to her sister’s party.”
For a moment, I was pissed at Wren. How could she tell Jenny I needed a date? Then I realized it was a perfect distraction. Jenny was a little starstruck by Charlotte, so there was no need to mention the party was for my other sister.
“Your sister?” Jenny considered. “Well, there’s always Billy.”
Billy was one of the Banana boys. Wren and I both had crushes on him—he was a young Brad Pitt—but Wren was the absolute worst flirt you’ve ever seen. As a rule, she was competent and pretty and perfect—but when flirting she flipped a switch, and a stuttering Elmer Fudd took over her body.
“He’ll go out with anyone,” Jenny said.
“Even Anne?” Wren asked.
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
Jenny shrugged. “Why not? I’ll get him to teach you how to use the register. Then you can ask.”
“The register!” I said. That was even better than Billy.
“There’s got to be something you can do around here.”
It turns out she was right. I was a cash register genius. Born to ring. After an hour behind the counter, hitting Sale, No Sale, Taxable and Return while trying to be fascinating, I turned to Billy with a smile. “You have plans tonight?”
He grinned and shrugged. His expression said, make me an offer.
“There’s a party,” I said. “My sister wrote a book. It’s sort of a publication thing.”
“A book party?” He sounded dubious.
“There’ll be booze. Well, wine…”
“Wine?” More dubious.
“Um, yeah.” Time to swallow my pride. “And it’s at Charlotte Olsen’s house in Montecito.”
He straightened slightly, in awe. “You know Charlotte Olsen?”
“A little.”
“The swimsuit model?”
“Is there another Charlotte Olsen?”
“Not in my life,” he said.
Mine either.
CHAPTER 03
Early evening. I sprawled across the bed and painted my fingernails with Charlotte’s blue polish.
“Not that,” Charlotte said, from her palatial walk-in closet. “It’s so last season.”
“It’s Hard Candy. I like it.”
She shook her head, but didn’t push me. Charlotte never did. “Well, on you, it still works.” She rummaged in the closet and held up a satin blouse and velvet jeans in a gorgeous powder blue. “Here, these’ll match.”
“I don’t think so, Charlotte….”
“They’re Gucci.”
My jaw tightened. I loved Gucci. She knew I loved Gucci. But I had my principles. Or at least I had my single solitary principle: not to wear my sisters’ hand-me-downs. “Why don’t you wear it?” I said, with a straight face.
She was eight months pregnant, and a honker. She was wearing a black tank top, a long knit skirt and a belly like an overinflated beach ball. “Because it’s not a size seventy-two.”
“Give it to Emily then.”
Charlotte snorted. “God knows what she’ll show up in. I wish she’d let me take her shopping.” She held up a cream linen dress. “How about this?”
I ignored her. I was sticking to the white blouse and jeans I’d bought with my discount at Banana. “Speaking of Emily.” I screwed the cap back on the polish. “Guess who we ran into today?”
“Ian Dunne. She said you invited him.”
“Well, it sort of popped out….”
“She also said you were putting on quite a show dressing the mannequins. You know, if you want to dress models I can introduce you to a stylist.”
I looked at Charlotte. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not, Annie.” Her natural pregnancy-glow doubled in wattage. “And I know just the woman. She dressed me for my calendar.”
“I meant, you don’t mind that I invited Ian. And it’s exaggerating to say you were dressed for your calendar.” Charlotte was America’s favorite swimsuit model. She’d won the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue two years in a row. Her calendar sold a zillion copies and I’ve seen her naked looking more modest than she did in some of those swimsuits.
“Why