finally found my calling: fantasy matchmaker.” She looks incredibly pleased with herself.
Though the Duffy fortune ensures Wanda will never have to work, she’s obsessed with finding a worthwhile vocation. Her worst fear is turning into her mother, whose idea of a hard day’s work involves shopping on Melrose and sushi with the girls. Of course, Wanda’s not pedestrian enough to go out and apply for a job that already exists. Instead she’s forever inventing new careers, most of which lose their shine after a few weeks, at which point she discards them without comment in favor of some new pursuit.
My eyebrows arch. “Okay. Fantasy matchmaker. Explain.”
“You remember Mimi Foster, Sarah Copeland’s cousin? Anyway, I had this fascinating conversation with her at a party last week about how much she loves dressing up in anime costumes and getting spanked. Needless to say, she was wasted.”
“Random,” I comment.
“People have a right to their proclivities,” she tells me with a pious air. “Anyway, the next night I met this banker dude at another party, and guess what he just happens to mention?”
“Don’t tell me—he likes getting spanked, too.”
“Not getting spanked,” she corrects, “He likes to spank. And he happens to have a thing for hentai.”
“Which is?”
“Japanese porn—but like, comic-book porn.” She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to get off track. “So I fixed him up with Mimi and kapow! They hit it off.” Kapow is one of Wanda’s favorite words. God knows why.
“A relationship based on comic-book porn?” I can’t help looking skeptical.
She downs the rest of her drink and signals the waiter for another round. “Okay, so they might not live happily ever after, but they had an amazing night together. And it got me thinking: all these matchmaking websites, they focus on compatibility in the most conventional sense—you know, like hobbies, religious beliefs, income levels. They don’t even touch on the most powerful factor of all.” She pauses, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“Which is...?” I prompt obediently.
“Your secret self. Your fantasies. The dirty little wish list you don’t dare type into a form on eHarmony. When your fetish matches his, that’s a powerful bond. I consider it a public service.” She squints at me with a sly, conniving look. “And you’re going to be my first big project.”
“Oh, no! Come on. Again?” I’m forever Wanda’s test subject, as evidenced by the “fantasy photography” session last summer. Admittedly, I got some ego-boosting shots out of that, one of which is now indelibly burned into the dirty little minds of my coworkers. God. How will I face everyone Monday?
The waiter brings us another round, which I resolve to sip very slowly for once.
Wanda drains half her glass and leans toward me, her turquoise eyes a little bloodshot and dead serious, all the more so because she’s tipsy. “You need to let your inner minx out.”
“My ‘inner minx’?” I repeat, my tone dubious.
“Yes!” She bangs her fist on the table so hard the platter jumps, scattering a couple of bones. “You’ve got a bombshell inside you begging to be unleashed. Until you let her out, you’ll be stuck.”
“Whatever you say, Sparkle.” I use her nickname in the hopes of diffusing some of her intensity. People around us are starting to stare.
“I intend to unstick you.” She looks determined, but her credibility is slightly compromised by the streak of ranch dressing in her hair.
Chapter Three
Window Dressing
That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, obsessing. Everyone at work saw that nasty picture of me, legs spread in a wide, domineering stance, my hand gripping the riding crop above my head, my nipples practically visible as the corset pushes my breasts up, forcing them so high they nearly spill over. I recall the way Dylan’s eyes dipped down to my cleavage when he came over to give me shit about it, the thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he leered.
It’s not as if I’m all that concerned about what Dylan Mackintosh thinks of me. I don’t even respect him; why should I care if he thinks I’m a slut?
That’s when it occurs to me: I’m not lying awake because I’m worried about my reputation. I’m lying awake because I’ve inadvertently awakened the bad girl in that picture. In spite of the person I’ve become for work, the pathetic office drone who tries to please Felicity at any cost, there’s still another me alive and well. A retro sex kitten. An old-fashioned vixen.
And she’s stirring.
I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Nero, my cat, opens one eye and glares at me from where he lies half-buried under the duvet. He’s named after Nero Wolfe, the grouchy, obese detective from Rex Stout’s mysteries. The resemblance is striking; like his namesake, my Nero is about twice the size of a normal cat. He’s also cantankerous, condescending and brilliant. Unlike the detective, though, who dines on only the finest culinary masterpieces, my Nero is a crazed omnivore. He’ll eat anything: banana peels, coffee grounds, plastic bags. I bought the cutest bonsai tree last month, but he chewed it down to a nub. Now he follows me to the kitchen, paunch swinging, and blinks up at me as I make myself a mug of chamomile.
“I’m jonesing for a cigarette,” I whine. Nero looks back at me as if to say Give me some kibble and we’ll talk.
I smoked in college, quit a few years ago; it had to be done, though I still miss cigarettes like a lover I can’t quite get over. My nana died of lung cancer the year I graduated from college, and after that I was filled with self-loathing every time I lit up, so I forced myself to quit. Now all my drawers and purses carry an arsenal of nicotine gum. I pop a piece in my mouth, even though it doesn’t exactly go with chamomile.
The fog’s rolled in and I feel a draft, so I go to my closet for another layer. Flinging open the doors I’m struck by how segregated it is. On one side there’s my work wardrobe. Everything in that clump is boring and bland. Felicity’s given me such a complex about my failure to fit into a size two, my work clothes now operate as a kind of camouflage. I’m an elephant among tigers and panthers. My best bet for survival is to blend in with the furniture. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obese, but I’m buxom. I’ve got a huge rack and hips you could land helicopters on. I flip through my work clothes listlessly. Just looking at that side of the closet makes me feel a little sick.
And then there’s my other wardrobe—my secret wardrobe. Most of the clothes in that side of the closet I inherited from my nana. She pretty much raised me. Mom got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and she was totally unprepared for a kid. Dad was never in the picture. So Nana brought me up, and though she was hardly a conventional parent, she did her best. She was a nightclub singer in her youth, a feisty vixen who didn’t get married until late in life—thirty-four, which was “last call” for her generation. She always had a cigarette burning in one hand and a story about the good old days spilling from her lips—some yarn about a gangster she used to date, or a movie star who sent her flowers back in 1958. I loved her. She was colorful, eccentric and just a bit crazy. In the end she became a wheezing
