smiled a wry smile. ‘You’re such an optimist. And a born romantic.’
‘I know you think that, but I’m not really. I’m actually a down-to-earth realist.’ Michele put down her empty coffee cup. ‘I’m also snowed under at work, so I’ll have to love you and leave you shortly. I only have this week to complete the campaign outline for Femme Fatale’s new line of perfumes. Did I tell you about that?’
‘No. What about it?’
‘Remember the girl my boss brought to my wedding?’
Lucille nodded. Who could have forgotten the striking creature on Harry Wilde’s arm that day? Cropped black hair. Big violet eyes. Seriously sexy dress.
‘Her name’s Tanya,’ Michele was saying. ‘Anyway, she was the mystery heiress who inherited Femme Fatale. You know? The sexy lingerie company? You don’t know?’ Michele asked when Lucille looked blank.
‘I’ve heard of Femme Fatale, but I know nothing of any mystery heiress.’
‘I thought I told you. Amazing story. It goes like this. The previous lady owner was killed in a car accident and left her controlling interest in the company to her nearest female relative, who just happened to be Tanya. Anyway, she was the girl Harry wanted the beauty salon for a while back. Remember, I asked you if you knew of a place where you go in a bag lady and come out a supermodel?’
Lucille did remember. She’d recommended Janine’s, a local and very expensive beauty salon where a woman could indulge herself in every treatment known to mankind. She’d treated herself to a day there after her divorce papers had come through, and continued to use their services on a regular basis. A girl had to have some vices, other than a penchant for doughnuts.
‘Some bag lady she turned out to be,’ Lucille said drily. ‘That girl was supermodel material from the word go.’
‘Well, I did warn you that Harry wouldn’t be seen dead with a real bag lady.’
What playboy did? Lucille thought caustically.
‘Anyway, apparently she’d been brought up in the bush and didn’t have too many clues on how to dress and present herself. Harry had her made over and voilà!’
‘Good enough for advertising’s Superman-about-town to take to bed, I presume,’ came Lucille’s tart comment.
‘It’s more than just sex. Neither of them have said anything yet, but Tanya’s sporting an enormous sapphire ring on her engagement finger. I’ve also seen Harry with her, and he’s not the Harry of old. He’s different. Gentler. Kinder.’
‘Another playboy changing his spots, Michele?’
Michele shot Lucille what supposedly passed as a killer look. But the girl didn’t have a real killer look in her repertoire. Lucille, however, could freeze a person at ten paces if needs be.
Chastened that she’d provoked her friend into even a semblance of fury, Lucille muttered, ‘Sorry,’ and dropped her far too expressive green gaze into the last dregs of coffee in her own cup.
‘And so you should be,’ Michele chided. ‘That cynicism of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Lucille. What is it with you and playboys, anyway? From the little you’ve said, I gather your ex was just an ordinary Aussie guy. What have you got against men like Tyler and Harry? Why do you hate them so much?’
Lucille blinked. Hate? She didn’t hate them. She just didn’t trust them, with their too handsome faces, their flash cars and their corrupting bank balances. Having their way in life was as natural to them as breathing. Women fell for them in droves, invariably compromising their own moral standards and allowing themselves to be shamelessly used, either as temporary girlfriends or trophy wives.
This always struck a nerve with Lucille, perhaps because she hated the thought of any woman being used. She wasn’t sure if Tyler was consciously using Michele, but it worried her that he might be.
She could hardly say that.
‘I don’t hate Tyler,’ she said carefully. And, really, she didn’t. He was a very charming, very likeable man. ‘I…I just think it’s difficult for men like him to settle down to being husbands and fathers, that’s all. You’re my best friend, Michele. I want you to be happy.’
Michele’s face softened. ‘But I am happy. As for Tyler settling down… Please don’t worry about that. He’s a wonderful husband and he’s going to make a wonderful father. You know, Lucille, beneath the hype, playboys are just ordinary people, like you and me. They have hearts and feelings. They can fall in love. And they can change. Love changes them.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll try to keep a more open mind in future.’ Not to mention a shut mouth! ‘And I promise to consider saying yes to the next suitable candidate who asks me out.’ Consider, then dismiss. Lucille felt confident there wasn’t man on this planet who could tempt her to go out with him, no matter how tall, dark and handsome he was.
‘Humph! You’re just saying that.’ Michele swept up her handbag from where it had been lying at her feet and stood up. ‘I have no doubt that, come Christmas, you’ll still be manless.’
‘Well, Christmas is only a couple of months away. Attractive, single foreign men don’t come along every day of the week, you know.’
‘I guess not. Oh, well, I tried. See you.’
‘I’ll give you a call if one shows up,’ Lucille called after her.
Michele grinned back over her shoulder. ‘You’d better, or you’re dead, girl.’
Lucille watched her friend hurry off down the street, the picture of confidence and happiness. Her head was held high, her stride jaunty, her shoulder-length brown hair blowing out breezily behind her.
Hard not to concede that marriage to Tyler Garrison suited her.
Or was it the sex?
Lucille stood up abruptly from the table. She wasn’t going to think about marriage, or sex. Or anything which made her feel down. She’d come a long way with recovering her self-esteem and she wasn’t about to start falling back into old patterns of feeling badly about all the years she’d wasted on Roger, or worrying about the fact she’d ended up frigid.
Who knew? Maybe Michele was right. Maybe her hormones were only sleeping. Maybe one day a man would walk into her life and change how she felt, both about the opposite sex and her own apparently lost libido.
Meanwhile, Lucille wasn’t going to hold her breath waiting for that to happen. She headed back towards her office with her own head held high, her stiletto heels clacking boldly on the pavement, her long honey-blonde hair blowing back from her exquisitely made-up face.
This time she did notice the male heads swivelling round for a second glance as she walked by. But this time her reaction to their ogling was pure satisfaction.
Not that Michele was right. She didn’t dress for men. She dressed for herself. To feel good. And to project the person she now was.
Not Mrs Roger Swanson, downtrodden doormat, but Lucille Jordan, a mature woman with a mind of her own, confident in her single status, her career
