CHAPTER TEN
As I started to unload the dishwasher, still steamy from its cycle, I checked in to see if there were any replies to my impulsive and possibly too revealing message session earlier. I didn’t have any flags or warnings, which was good.
I decided it was time to be a rule-following person, and stick to the shop guidelines more strictly from now on. There were three messages. One, from Don Juan Lothario (who did he think he’d attract with that name?), was clearly “flag for caution” material. He’d named his salary, his bonus, and the size of his…well, anyway, he’d broken more than one rule.
The next one was generic, but seemed harmless. Someone looking for a woman who could fulfill his needs, and understand the pressure people like him were under. Please. Filet mignon versus caviar-stuffed salmon for dinner was nothing like the pressure of having to clean your house after Hurricane Family had blown through.
Come to think of it, he probably had a maid to do his cleaning. All those people probably had maids. Maybe even live-in maids. I got lost in the fantasy for a moment before reading the third message.
There was a reply from the guy I’d been too honest with. “I, too, love Tolkien and Jong. I read Fear of Flying when I was fifteen and I’ve never been the same since. To have the courage to live like that is my dream, too. But…first, do I need the one ring to keep us from falling on our faces?”
I doublechecked to see if I’d gotten a woman who’d mistaken me (or not) for a man. Nope. Hammond Pierce the III was 6’2” of man.
I sent a quick reply, only realizing I’d gone off script again after I hit send. “Never mind fear of flying, I have fear of walking. Scattered toys are an unsung hazard to both hobbits and humans.”
To my shock, I got a reply instantly. “Toys? Do you have children?”
Oops. I quickly gave Serena a sister, with kids. “A niece and two nephews. They need a good nanny, and an even better housekeeper.”
I hit send and waited.
There was no quick reply this time. I wondered if I’d been too harsh. But then I shrugged. What did it matter? All I was assigned to do was weed out creeps. Hammond Pierce was passing the tests with flying colors. The assignment was done tonight, and my connection with Hammond would be no more.
Just as I opened a file to make notes for the shop report on these guys, my cell phone rang. I jumped, the sound was so foreign, a bugle rendition of reveille. I answered, wondering when Anna had changed my ring tone — and how much she’d charge me to change it to something less terrifying.
“Molly, don’t say no,” Sue began.
“Does that mean you’re about to say massage shop?”
Silence. A sigh. “The dating company is impressed with how much interest Serena is attracting. They’d like to extend the shop, so her profile can help weed out the less desirable folks.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
“I—”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“I— ”
“And never mind the massage, you’ll get the very next spa shop I have to schedule. Cross my heart.”
Five hundred dollars, and a spa shop. I’d be an idiot to say no to that. “Okay.”
“Great! By the way, do you need a new bra?”
“Why?”
“I have a quick bra shop in your part of town — not the mall, I promise.”
I looked at the time. I could do it before I picked up the kids. And I could use a new bra, since my youngest bra was probably eight years old. “The next two spa shops?”
“You got it.”
I looked at the guys interested in Serena. “You’ll just have to wait for me to get home tonight.”
I shut down the computer, promising myself that I’d make sure Seth chaperoned me on all future dates.
I’d said yes to the bra shop in a moment of weakness. This would be my first visit, ever, to a lingerie store. Lingerie was so far from my usual stomping grounds, I wasn’t sure I would know the lingua franca well enough not to raise the clerk’s suspicions.
I have a confession. I’m a mystery shopper who hates to shop. Really. I know a set of x chromosomes usually contains the genetic encoding for shopping. But one—or both—of my x chromosomes are defective. Price comparison gives me a headache. Looking through racks of bras to find the perfect 32AA (there is no such thing as far as I know) makes me crave nothing more than a cool dark cave. But this shop pays $20, plus reimbursement for the purchase. And I really could use a new bra.
Even more critically, my marriage could use a new bra. Not that Seth needs to see me in a lacy bra to feel attracted to me. I know some of my friends complain their husbands have lost interest in them. Not me. I could dress like a bag lady and Seth would still find me attractive. I don’t know why. But it wouldn’t hurt for me to make an effort.
Going through the job fair had reminded me sharply of just how much I’d given up on caring about my appearance. Sure, I changed out of my sweats for PTA, and mystery shopping. But at home I was more into jeans and t-shirts, with a sweatshirt for warmth.
Fortunately, for this shop I did not need to sound like I knew what I was doing. I only needed to ask three basic questions about the bras and check that the salesgirl would upsell the newest bust-lifting device of the month.
The store was nearly empty when I entered, so I was greeted quickly by a young woman with unnaturally jet black hair with a wide pink skunk strip. “May I help you?” Her voice was soft and sweet, almost wispy, not at all what I expected from the brow-pierced and nose-ringed woman. Maybe things were looking up.
“Hi. I need a new bra.” I wasn’t supposed to lead her by asking for a specific type, which was a very good thing, since I didn’t know any names of bra manufacturers.
She scanned me, politely, with no recoil of horror. “I know just the one,” she smiled and lit up brightly. “The Uplift.”
Good girl, she’d done the first step to upsell me and get a good report, little did she know. “I don’t really think I have anything to uplift,” I said honestly.
She laughed. “Wait until you try this one, you’ll never wear another bra in your life.”
She showed me the two models, and offered me the opportunity to try on the black lace version. “I don’t know about that one, it might be too hot for me to handle.”
She glanced at the wedding ring on my finger. “Best way to keep your man happy.”
Seeing that she looked about sixteen, I couldn’t help joking back, “Do you know that from experience?”
She blushed. It made a strange contrast with the pink stripe in her hair. “No.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.” I felt bad. I hadn’t meant to embarrass her.
She brightened. “Although I wore it for the first time Saturday night when I went dancing with my friends and I was surprised to see how many guys asked me to dance—at least twice as many as usual.”
I’d give her extra points for that—she seemed to be telling the truth, and making a point about the bra at the same time. The sign of a good salesperson. “Dancing. Guess the bra wouldn’t help for the on-line dating scene.”
She shook her head. “Some of my friends do that, but I like the face to face instead of the pixel-to-pixel myself.”
“I know what you mean.” I didn’t, really, I wasn’t good with face-to-face and preferred pixel-to-pixel myself. But not even a supermom admits such things to a lingerie saleswoman with a youthful glow and a flair for sales.
She showed me to the dressing room and I did a quick once over in the tiny space—no fingerprints on the mirror, no trash or extra hangers or tags on the floor. Not even any lint on the floor.
I didn’t need a new bra—in fact, I rarely even wore bras, one of the few perks of being anti-buxom. For some reason, the piece of black lace seduced me with its ephemeral promise of cleavage I’d never thought to possess. I tried it on and felt absurdly sexy—the miracle garment apparently managed to squeeze every ounce of fat from my back to my front, giving me two tight little bulges of flesh out of the top of the bra.
“What did you think?” The girl beamed at me when I came out of the dressing room, as if she was privy to the thought in my head: “Wow, I have boobs.”
I smiled. “Quicker and cheaper than surgery.”
Cleary, knowing a sale made could be lost with a slip of the lip, she merely smiled and raised an eyebrow.
I bought the bra. It was cheaper than surgery—but not by much. I’d made twenty plus fifteen dollars reimbursement for the shop and paid sixty for the bra. Net cost of my job was twenty-five.
Waiting in the carpool line, I finished up the paperwork for the shop before I forgot the details. But first I surreptitiously wiggled into the bra under my zipped up hoodie.
I’d succumbed to one of the dangers of mystery shopping—spending more than I made. Seth would not be pleased…or would he? I pulled my hoodie tight over the curve of my modest, yet well defined, bosom. Maybe this would be one confession I could make that would make mystery shopping just a little more interesting for both of us.
I settled the kids with homework, put dinner in the oven, and then glanced at the kitchen calendar. Oops. PTA meeting tonight, again. Curse you Bianca. Circled in red, and still I almost forgot. It was inhuman to schedule weekly PTA meetings and then go off to Paris for two weeks.
Fueled by the power of my new bra, I switched from visions of an evening dating with my husband as chaperone to visions of being a supermom among supermoms. I took a shower and changed into clean clothes.
Normally I brushed my hair, my teeth and considered myself good-to-go. But on a PTA meeting night, I tend to feel the need for a touch of mascara and lipstick. I have, depending on who’s running the meeting, also used the blow dryer on my hair. But tonight’s meeting will be run by VP Norma Baker, Elliot’s mom. A more down to earth supermom I’ve never met. She is at the same time laid back and soft-spoken and supremely clear-sighted.
Never one to be distracted by unexpected opposition to the color of the table cloths for the bake sale table, Norma cuts through to the best color for the theme-du-jour, acquires a consensus and moves on. She really should have been president, except that there was a quick whisper-campaign against her at the last minute right before the election. Apparently, being a partial home-schooling mom is suspicious activity among the PTA-voting parents.
Naturally, when the PTA president, Bianca Thornton is chairing, I break out the blow dryer. So, maybe I should be grateful she was in Paris for two weeks.
Seth had come home by the time I emerged primped and polished from the bedroom. His eyes immediately went to my chestal region, where the new bra had my girls looking perky. Did he have radar? And why did his attention make me feel sexy? Was the bra magic?
He smiled and nuzzled my neck. “You look nice. But dinner with the Dean isn’t until this weekend.”
Oops. I’d forgotten to put that little date on the calendar at all. “I know,” I lied, hoping he wouldn’t follow me into the kitchen and see the evidence that I’d forgotten. Not that he tended to consult the calendar.
“Are we having another Serena evening?” He followed me, the bra apparently acting like a magnet, and nuzzled my neck again as I stood staring at the refrigerator, trying to decide whether to mark the calendar while he nuzzled, or wait until he was busy elsewhere.
“Serena will have to wait.” I pushed him away, feeling slightly guilty about my spur of the moment exchange with Hammond. “PTA. Can you hold down the fort tonight? Dinner’s in the oven and the kids should be done their homework by now.”
He frowned. “How long will you be? I have some grading to do.” Big surprise. He did not like to be dad-in-charge.
I handed him plates and silverware and pointed to the table. “You can let Ryan load the dishwasher and then they can both watch a movie while you grade. We’ll probably go until 9 at least.”
While his back was turned to set the table, I jotted “dinner with the Dean” on the calendar and circled it in red. I’m going to need more than a fancy new power bra for that get-together.
“That’s later than usual. Are you planning to implement world peace tonight?”
“No. But you know how Norma is—thorough and willing to listen to even the kookiest grump on the committee.” Not like Bianca, who lays down the law as she sees it and suffers no complaint. Somehow, though, an hour meeting with Bianca in charge is much more stressful than a two-hour meeting with Norma running things.
He held out a glass for me to fill with wine. “Well then, if you don’t say anything to stir things up, the meeting will be over by eight.”
I savored the aroma of the Blackstone merlot—not an expensive wine, but decently fruity without any bitterness—and take his advice.
“Kids, dinner!”