she’d signed on with the network, otherwise she might have reconsidered…but she doubted it.
Frankie made a moue of understanding. “I do wish they’d lay off the makeup and the eighties hairstyle. You’re gorgeous without all of that.”
Her lips curled with droll humor. “I’ll be sure and pass your suggestions along.”
Not that they’d be heeded. None of hers certainly had. Evidently the male demographic liked sophisticated meals prepared by trashy-looking women. Red lipstick, electric-blue eye-shadow, false eyelashes and big-ass hair seemed to be the perfect combination. Carrie snorted. It invariably took her half an hour to remove the paint and get the various gels, sprays and tangles out of her hair.
Other than the regular trim to remove dead-ends, Carrie didn’t have what one could call a hair regimen. She washed, she dried, she brushed. Occasionally she’d braid, but that was the extent of her hair concerns.
As for makeup, she didn’t like the feel of it against her skin—too sticky—and other than a sheer gloss on her lips and the rare swipe of a mascara wand upon her lashes, she didn’t fool with it. Sitting for a full hour and a half while the hair and makeup people on set painted and poofed her was an excruciating waste of time.
But her friends had been right—it was definitely preferable to working for Martin. Calmly giving that sanctimonious, controlling, petty, ball-less bastard her two-week notice had been, unquestionably, one of the high points in her life.
Had his restaurant not enjoyed world-renowned success, she would have never tolerated his maniacal abuse for as long as she had. But despite his notoriously bad temper, or perhaps as a result of it, Chez Martin’s had been the best game in town and she would have been foolish to quit before something better had come along.
Thankfully it had, and she’d happily quit. Martin had gaped like an out-of-water guppy for a full ten seconds before he’d exploded in anger. After everything he’d done for her? How dare she?
Ha.
Other than joyously giving her a hard time for the past several years, she’d like to know just what it was in particular he thought that he’d done for her. Was she supposed to be thankful for the constant criticism? The unpaid overtime? The snide comments about her looks?
Supposedly beautiful people were given preferential treatment in today’s society, but all Carrie had ever gotten for her so-called “blessing” was grief, and any time she’d ever shared that—usually in her own defense—she’d been given the whole mockingly snide poor-little-pretty-girl spiel. Not from her real friends, of course. They knew her better.
Still…being attractive wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Men habitually hit on her, underestimated her, and assumed that being pretty somehow made her stupid. Women tended to dislike her on sight, were threatened by her. She had the same insecurities and hang-ups as anyone else. To think that she somehow had it easier simply because of the way she looked was retarded. Hell, everyone had problems.
Furthermore, Carrie had technically been on both sides of the fence. As a child she’d been plagued with a weight problem. Growing up all over the globe with her traveling doctor parents had made it somewhat tolerable—frankly, in her experience people of other cultures were less inclined to make fun of her—but the first time she’d set foot in a U.S. public school, in the latter part of her junior year of high school, had been a different matter altogether.
She’d been taunted, teased and ridiculed until the idea of carrying one extra pound on her frame had been intolerable. She’d gone on a strict diet, had started an exercise regimen, and by the time she’d entered her senior year, she’d shed more than fifty pounds.
Then the “pretty” problems started. She couldn’t win for losing.
At any rate, Carrie knew she was healthier and, learning to take control of her food instead of being ruled by it had led to a love of cooking which had steered her into her chosen career path. Who knew who or what she might have been otherwise?
It was ironic really, Carrie thought, idly sipping her drink. Her entire adult life she’d wanted to be taken seriously as a chef. Out of the limelight, in the kitchen—the back of the house, as those in her profession liked to say—letting her food speak for itself, and yet here she was capitalizing on the very thing that she’d always tried to avoid—her looks.
The show had been a huge success, the powers that be were ecstatic. Furthermore, though they’d primarily been targeting the male demographic, recent polls indicated that she was doing well with the female viewers as well. By all accounts, everything about it had been a resounding coup…and if she murmured one word of discontent she’d be that “poor little pretty girl” again, only this time they could add “famous” into the mix. Carrie sighed.
In truth, she didn’t give a damn about either—she just wanted to cook.
April Wilson-Hayes slid onto a barstool next to her and gestured to the enormous pile of gifts accumulating on the table beside Zora. “Good thing Frankie made sure the guys were here, otherwise we’d have a hell of time getting all of this stuff loaded into Zora’s car.”
Another perk to hosting the shower in the bar. Carrie’s gaze slid to one of the pool tables on the other side of the room. Ben, Ross and Tate—the proud papa—were currently engrossed in one of many informal tournaments. Though Ben was the newcomer—Ross and Tate had been friends for years—he’d been easily welcomed into the fold. Evidently being married to a CHiC founding member formed an instant commiserating bond of friendship between them.
Carrie could still remember the first time April had brought Ben to one of their weekly get-togethers. Once the pleasantries were over and the first round was finished, Tate and Ross had smoothly summoned Ben aside, presumably to give him a few lessons regarding the care and feeding of a Chick In Charge. Carrie felt a smile tease her lips.
“They’re good for lifting heavy objects,” Carrie conceded.
And in her opinion, that was about it.
Aside from one serious but soured relationship she’d had in culinary school, she’d yet to find a guy who was genuinely interested in anything beyond her immediate packaging.
Admittedly being the last CHiC without a rooster—Frankie’s nickname for the guys—seemed a little odd and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t envious—hell, who didn’t want to be loved?—but until she found the right one—one who would want to look beyond the surface, who wouldn’t be intimidated by her skill and shared some of the same interests—she wasn’t settling. Life was too short and despite wishing she could host her show fully clothed, she was too content to settle for anything less than the best.
Her parents had provided an excellent example—forty years, a few bumps, yet their commitment to each other had never wavered. That’s what she wanted, Carrie thought. A love that would endure. They were presently in Africa—along with her younger brother who had also joined the organization—but Carrie couldn’t begrudge them their calling. So long as there was a place in the world with little to no medical service, she knew her only sibling and parents would be there.
“Still enjoying the house?” April asked.
“Oh, God yes,” Carrie told her. April’s husband Ben had been looking for a buyer for his house around the same time she’d inked her Negligee contract and she’d wanted out of her claustrophobic apartment and into a home with a roomy kitchen.
The
