“No, he goes to someone closer to where we live in the Hollywood Hills.”
“There might be some tingling.” A taut fingertip pressed between her eyebrows. “A little sting, and that’s it. The results are very natural.”
Was that a dig? Rochelle looked up, but the woman’s expression remained calm, focused on her work.
“Close your eyes, please.”
Damn, what she did in the name of beauty ! Her eyes still burned from the extender that puffed extra fibers into her lashes while her mascara was still wet. She couldn’t put it on without getting stray fiber on her cheeks or in her eyes. Now this.
The procedure proved painless, the way a mask felt when being peeled from the face. This woman—wasn’t her name Elizabeth?—was good. Why hadn’t she thought to do this sooner? But she knew why, of course. What woman, what star, wants to admit she is so old she has to have hereyebrowsdyed? And why were brows so different from hair? Because everyone, every age, dyed their hair, that’s why.
“I got some new contacts, so I need a better match with the brows,” Rochelle said.
“I mixed taupe and brown. If you want it darker, I can do another application.”
The process was over in minutes. Just the warm application of a cloth, no odor whatsoever, and Elizabeth said, “That’s it.”
“I hope you did a good job.” Rochelle used her best haughty voice, but it fell a little flat in the small room. She was better in front of a camera, or would be, if she could ever get in front of one again.
“Take a look and let me know.”
The woman lowered a hand mirror at an angle that knocked off ten years from Rochelle’s chin alone. The eyebrows curved and gleamed. Take off another five years, and that got her down to—what? Twenty-five, maybe? She’d lied so long she could no longer do the math in her head.
“It’s great. I mean, I’m great.”
“Guess you’ve got to be, right?”
“What do you mean?” Rochelle slammed the mirror on the table and spun around, facing her. “Are you talking about the television interview Friday?”
Their gazes held for a moment, then the older woman smiled. “One moment,” she said.
She’d never been treated with this kind of disregard in the past. Just a year or two ago, the woman would be slavering, comping her the job, just so she could boast that she had Rochelle McArthur for a client.
She picked up the mirror again, looking directly into her face this time, seeing her bumpy chin, her eyes of distrust. Only the eyebrows perfect, as if she’d borrowed them from someone else, pasted them on. In spite of her rudeness, the woman, Elizabeth, had done a good job. Now, if Rochelle could just force the rest of herself to match.
This was how it began. The people who were supposed to serve you began to sneer, first behind your back, then to your face. It spread from bottom to top, up and out. Then, unless you had the luck of someone like Julie Larimore, you were history. She’d dealwith it the same way she’d dealt with everything else, head first and balls out.
Rochelle yanked off the terry-cloth wrap, pulled on her blouse and was ready to get out of there. She almost collided with Elizabeth at the door to the lobby.
“I left the money on the table,” she said.
The bitch didn’t budge.
“You have a problem?”
“No, my dear.” The woman handed her a newspaper and smiled again. “But maybeyoudo.”
She did have a problem. The reporter from the party, Rikki Fitzpatrick, had written an article so damning Rochelle felt faint just reading it. The bitch had labeled the three of them, Princess Gabby, herself and Tania Marie, the Perfect Fit, the Near Fit and the Misfit, and that was just the beginning. Rochelle could barely walk outside to find a cab. But she didn’t need a cab. Jesse sat in the Lexus at the curb. She jumped in and waved the paper at him.
“You’re not going to believe this.”
He didn’t look at her, sharp features pointed straight ahead as he drove. “Oh, I believe it, all right. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
She looked down at the article again. “What can we do about it?” She began to read it aloud, trying to convince herself the words weren’t as horrible as they sounded. “Julie Larimore may be missing, but that hasn’t stopped Killer Body, Inc. from recruiting her replacement. Not a replacement, exactly, says Killer Body founder and former Mr. Universe, Bobby Warren. ‘An enhancement.’”
“I read it,” Jesse said. “At least it makes it clear you’re in the running.”
“Yes, but as what? ‘The Near Fit’?”
