Brief Encounters. Suzanne Forster
making her way through the house and out into the gardens. It was quite a heady experience seeing so many enthusiastic faces and hearing the buzz of excitement about her new creations. Jan Hudson, the manager of La Bomba, rushed up to her.
“Wonderful party!” she said, clasping Swan’s hand. “We can’t wait for you to bring the show to the store. Everything is ready to go.” She glanced around. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
Jan clearly meant Lynne, but there was no time for Swan to explain. She was being summoned.
“It’s show time!” Gerard called, waving at her from across the wide expanse of neatly trimmed grass. He was climbing the steps to the stage and runway that he and his buddies had built.
“Good luck,” Jan said as Swan excused herself.
Swan silently rehearsed her opening lines as she headed for the stage. She wasn’t accustomed to public speaking, but the show had to go on, and she was the one who had to deliver it. Fortunately she had the organizer notes to back her up if she went blank. And this bold black dress as her shield.
Just don’t let me have to whiz, she prayed.
Gerard tapped the microphone with his hand. Three loud thumps assaulted the quiet night air. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “she is not only the designer of the hottest new line of male undies in recent memory—which will be sold exclusively through the La Bomba boutiques, I might add—she is also our master of ceremonies tonight. I give you Swan McKenna!”
Waving to the clapping crowd, Swan hurried up two creaky wooden steps to join Gerard at the podium.
“Swan McKenna!” he bellowed again. Gerard gave her a thumbs-up before disappearing behind the curtain of the makeshift stage. He’d also volunteered himself and his motley crew to run the slide show, lights and sound system.
“Thank you all for coming,” Swan said, still a little breathless. Her voice sounded loud and hollow as it came through the speakers. “Some of you may have noticed that my partner, Lynne Carmichael, isn’t with us tonight. She was called away on a business matter, but she sends her love and her gratitude for your support.”
Swan sucked in a breath and smiled. “And now, I would like to present a sneak preview of Brief Encounters’s first-ever line of male undergarments. This is our fall collection, and we have for your viewing pleasure our Romeo Underwear, our Hero Bodywear and our Machismo Activewear!”
On that cue, Gerard flipped on the sound system and the night erupted with Jerry Lee Lewis wailing out “Great Balls of Fire.” The audience applauded as three male models burst onto the stage and began their routine. Behind them, projected on a black silk screen, were huge color slides of other pieces from the fall line. The photos had been Swan’s idea, and it had cut down significantly on their need for models.
“Starting the show is our Romeo for tonight, Brad!” The applause was instantaneous as Brad took center stage. He wore an Armani tuxedo jacket and very little else. In one hand, he clutched a dozen roses, and in the other, a heart-shaped box of candy. His lower parts were encased in a snug-fitting thong that was glow-in-the-dark pink. But even Swan wasn’t prepared when the lights went out. For a few moments, all you could see was a disembodied hot-pink thong bobbing around.
Not unlike my dreams, Swan thought ironically.
The crowd howled and flashbulbs popped as photographers jostled one another for a better angle.
“The Romeo imprint is for the romantic at heart,” Swan said. “The man who knows how to sweet-talk and candy-walk his way right into his lover’s heart. Romeo gets his Juliet every time when he’s wearing a Brief Encounters design!”
As Brad left the stage, the second model came forward. He wore a traditional red fireman’s helmet and had a length of fire hose draped over his bare shoulder as he strode confidently down the runway. “For the damsel in distress, for the adventuress, and for all who love a man in uniform, bring on the heroes!”
This round of applause was even louder than the first. Swan noticed that a few of the women in the audience were actually getting to their feet to get a better look at Sam the Fireman. Sam’s formfitting briefs were fire-engine red with black suspender-like straps attached. When he got to the end of the lighted runway, he stopped and yanked the hose from his shoulder, pointing the nozzle at the audience.
“What do you think, ladies?” Swan asked cheerfully. “Is he hot enough for you? Should we hose him down?”
Sam dazzled them with a raffish grin before bowing his head. As he turned, the audience got their first good look at his tightly knotted buttocks, and the normally tranquil garden gave up a roar of approval.
“Whew,” Swan said, wiping her brow in exaggerated fashion. “We better cool things off.” There were loud groans of protest and Swan laughed. “You don’t want to cool off? Not even with a swim? How about a swim with the man who’s bold enough to wear Machismo?”
Model number three sprinted onto the runway in a black bikini swimsuit that left little to the imagination. Atop his head was a black swimming cap and goggles. Tall, tanned and sleek as a panther, he made his way down the runway.
Swan gave her spiel on the Machismo line and allowed the raucous response to build as she waved all three models back onto center stage. “This is only the preview,” she shouted, trying to be heard over the noise. “The entire line can be seen tomorrow night at the La Bomba boutique on Melrose. Again, thank you all for coming!”
With that, she grabbed her organizer from the podium and descended into a throng of well-wishers. Her sense of relief outweighed everything else, but the success of the event began to dawn on her as she was swept into one embrace after another. Her guests, professional and otherwise, seemed thrilled by the program—and happy for her. Maybe it was safe to say that the fashion show was a hit. She only hoped the line was, too.
The press rushed over with questions about the show, and there was a line of people waiting to extend their congratulations. Swan held out through most of it, savoring the sweetness of Brief Encounters’s first victory, and wishing Lynne had been here to share it. She had to find Gerard to thank him, too. But finally, she had no choice. The need to excuse herself was becoming more urgent every second.
“Brava!” someone called out as Swan hurried into the house. Some of the guests had moved inside from the garden, and she smiled, waving as she sailed by them. The closest bathroom was in the hall, under the foyer staircase. She turned the knob, grateful that she had made it. Locked! From inside someone said, “Out in a sec.”
But Swan didn’t have much more than a second. She trotted down the hall and ducked into one of the guest rooms. The bathroom door was open and the light was off. Empty.
In record time she had her ruffled skirt hiked up and her panties and panty hose down to her ankles. She’d worn panties because her new Tanga Totally Nude panty hose were quite risqué without them—and also because of the problem that had brought her to the bathroom. A psychologist friend had told her that her sense of urgency was nothing more than a reaction to stress. Swan didn’t disagree, but tell that to her bladder on a night such as this.
It hit her suddenly how exhausted she was. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity, but she had made it through, and she had made it through on her own. It had not only gone well, it had gone better than she’d dreamed it might—the perfect day, really.
Lord, she was tired. She could go to sleep right here.
Letting her eyes drift shut, she reached for the toilet tissue. A few seconds later she heard a creaking noise and she slowly opened her eyes again. A few seconds? Swan blinked several times. It must have been long enough for her to have fallen into a deep sleep—because she was now dreaming that there was a man in her bathroom—a very tall, angry-looking man holding a big gold badge.
“Swan McKenna?” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
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