Working It

Book 3: It Girls

by Leah Marie Brown

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Falling in love is always in fashion…. With her trust fund and coveted job at Christian Dior, Fanny Moreau believes she has it all. But when her best friend finds a fulfilling new career abroad—and a dreamy relationship with a great guy, Fanny’s fabulous life suddenly feels empty. Inspired to find her true purpose, she trades her cushy lifestyle in San Francisco for an adventure in the Alaskan wilderness. Everyone thinks Fanny has gone off the deep end.  What’s a girl with a Ph.D in Prada doing teaching in an Inuit village? Even Fanny is wondering, especially when she comes face to face with Calder MacFarlane. The Scottish search and rescue pilot is everything Fanny is not—selfless, heroic, and used to living on the edge. He’s also the man who once loved her best friend.  Yet something in Calder’s sexy gaze has her believing that she’s a woman capable of great things—a woman who might just find her own happily-ever-after, in a place where she least expects it… “Leah Marie Brown has a wily way of bringing her stories to life with sharp dialogue and drop-dead sexy characters.” —Cindy Miles, National Bestselling Author “When it comes to crafting clever, intelligent, wonderful escapist fiction with a heroine every woman wants to know, Leah Marie Brown is a new voice to watch.  Prepare to fall in love!” —Renee Ryan, Daphne du Maurier Award-Winning Author

Release date: June 7, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 224

Sample

Moonlight as a Tranny Hooker

 

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Help! I am wrapped in an unfashionable cloak of ennui. Bored with my job, my nonexistent love life, myself…San Francisco isn’t the same since you left.

 

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Girl, you need to shake up your life like a snow globe.

 

“What is that ghastly stench?”

Several of my subordinates perform discreet pit checks, sniffing their shoulders, but I keep my gaze fixed on my boss. I am the offender, and I know it. It’s only a matter of time before my boss knows it, too.

My boss, Nicola Salupo, is the Executive Vice President for Aurèle L’Heure, Inc., North American Division. She’s chic, clever, driven, and a complete salope—that’s French for bitch. She thrives on humiliation—not her own, mind you, but on the utter mortification of her subordinates. Nicola feeds on humiliation the way vegans feast on tofu burgers.

She begins walking around the Lucite conference table, slowly, like a vulture circling road kill. People shift in their seats, a timid intern dabs beads of perspiration from her upper lip, but I keep my chin lifted and my gaze fastened on the vulture in couture.

“Someone reeks of”—she lifts her cosmetically sculpted nose high in the air and sniffs—“dimestore desperation.”

She stops walking directly across from me and pierces me with her glacial blue gaze.

“Mademoiselle Moreau?”

“Oui?”

“Either you’ve been moonlighting in the Tenderloin or you have grossly neglected your personal hygiene this morning.” She sniffs again and wrinkles her nose as if catching a whiff of a putrefied cadaver. “What is that stench?”

“Kitty Kat’s Purrfect.”

“Kitty Kat’s Purrfect?” She looks around the conference table with wide eyes. “Did I miss the memo? Has L’Heure Cosmetics created a line of fragrances for tranny-hookers?”

Salope.

I consider telling her my miserable tale—about how a snotty kid on the bus dropped his backpack on my foot and broke the transparent heel of my thirteen-hundred-dollar Dior calfskin pumps, how I had to superglue the heel while standing at the cosmetics counter in Walgreens, and how the salesgirl spritzed me with Purrfect—but Nicola is more of a bullet points person.

“I had an unfortunate collision with an overeager salesgirl in Walgreens this morning.”

“Walgreens?” Nicola gasps. “I always thought your makeup looked a little… I had no idea you purchased your cosmetics at Walgreens.”

Salope. Salope. Salope.

“I don’t purchase my cosmetics at Walgreens.”

“Anyway,” Nicola continues as if I haven’t said a word, “it is a violation of corporate policy to wear competitor’s fragrances.”

I snort. “I would hardly call Kitty Kat a competitor of Aurèle L’Heure.”

The nervous intern chuckles.

Nicola narrows her gaze.

“You have violated corporate policy. I have no choice but to draft a formal letter of reprimand and attach it to your personnel file. In the meantime, you are relieved of your duties today.”

“But, I am presenting my projection report to Monsieur Henri this afternoon.”

“I’ll present your report.”

Of course you will.

Monsieur Henri Bousson is a veritable god in the L’Heure Universe. Impress Monsieur Henri, and your future in fashion is as solid gold as Louboutin’s lock on the luxury high heel market. Since he is based out of Paris and rarely makes it to California, this might be my only opportunity to impress him.

“I worked hard on my presentation. I conducted independent market research, gathered supportive data for my forecasts….”

I don’t bother saying that impressing Monsieur Henri is just one more step in my climb up the career ladder toward a position at my dream house, Christian Dior, and I would shank Nicola with L’Heure’s Divine Eyeliner before I would let her knock me off my wrung.

Nicola stares at me coldly, unmoved by my appeal.

“What about my sketches?”

“Email them to me along with your presentation.”

Putain!

In the last few months, I have logged over two hundred unpaid overtime hours, working on sketches of shoes, purses, coats—original designs—in the hopes of impressing Monsieur Henri enough to offer me a position on his Parisian-based design team. Now, a stupid Walgreens employee and her tawdry perfume sample are threatening to knock me out of the running as I make my final lap toward the finish line. A promotion at L’Heure would pretty much guarantee me a position at Dior, and working at Christian Dior’s head offices in Paris has been my dream since I was old enough to play dress up in my grandmère’s closet.

“Go home and clean up, Mademoiselle Moreau.”

“This is ridiculous. It was one spritz.”

“Be gone, Mademoiselle.” Nicola waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Be gone.”

I consider snapping my translucent heel off my shoe and repeatedly jamming it into her eye socket until she stops looking at me with her patronizing expression, but I have sacrificed too much to risk an assault and battery charge. So I gather my notebook, stand, and walk out of the conference room with my head held high.

 

Cunning Linguistics

 

Thirty minutes later, I have returned several phone calls, drafted a memo, and grudgingly emailed my presentation to Nicola. I am standing outside the sleek frosted glass Aurèle L’Heure Flagship Store in Union Square, staring up at a vertiginous network of scaffolds. The ten thousand-square-foot store is still under construction, but when it opens later this year, it will contain luxury items from one of the most iconic couturiers in the world.

It’s a jewel box of a building, and it’s my job to fill it with treasures to delight discerning fashion-savvy consumers.

I shift my gaze to the crane hoisting a shiny gold “L’Heure” sign onto the roof, and a coagulated lump forms in my throat.

What is the matter with me? Why am I letting Nicola Salope and her petty maneuverings get in my head?

Because you worked your ass off to become the Regional Director of Aurèle L’Heure Boutiques and she just marginalized you in front of your new staff.

And because, deep down, you’re not as happy as you thought you would be.

My Blackberry begins vibrating. I pull it out of my trench coat and stare at the small photograph above the words Incoming Call from Vivian. The image is of my best friend standing in a stream in Scotland, the water spilling over the tops of her pink Wellies, a beaming grin plastered across her pretty freckled face. The lump in my throat thickens.

“Coucou, Vivian.” I have always called her Vivian because I think she is as glamorous as an old-time movie star and Vivia Perpetua is just not glam. “Comment ça va?”

“What’s wrong?”

“En français, Vivian!”

“Que pasa?”

“That’s Spanish.”

“Merde!”

“Voila.” I try to laugh, but the lump makes it come out as a croak. “Now, you’re speaking French.”

“French-schmench. What’s up? You sound sad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bull merde. You don’t fool me—”

The line crackles and I lose some of her words.

“—about your presentation. Chill, girl. You got this one. You got this one like Andrew Neiman had ‘Caravan.’”

“Yeah, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Whiplash.”

“Whip what?”

“Whiplash.” She exhales audibly. “Academy Award-Winning film about Andrew Neiman, an ambitious, talented young drummer attending a prestigious music school who is harassed by his professor.”

“Ooo-kay.”

“The professor kept making Andrew play this difficult piece of music—‘Caravan’—and even though he mastered it, the D-bag rode the kid like Kim Kardashian riding Kanye in the Bound2 vid.”

I shake my head and blink my eyes. I feel as if I have just tumbled down the rabbit hole and am lost in Wonderland. It’s a sensation I experience often when I listen to Vivian speak. I head west down Post Street, toward Union Square Park.

“Fanny? Are you still there?”

“Oui,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I am trying to get my bearings in this conversation, but I fear I am hopelessly lost, way back on Andrew Newman.”

“Neiman,” she sighs. “I am saying you have mad skills, girlfriend. You pick up those drumsticks and bang your little heart out because you got this one. Okay?”

“Thanks, but…” My voice catches and I pause to swallow the ever growing lump.

“What’s going on? You’re starting to freak me out.”

I enter the park, take a seat on an empty bench, and tell my best friend about my mangled heel, the rancid spritz girl, and Nicola’s bitchy attack.

Vivian whistles. “Man, I was on target with my Whiplash analogy. You’ve got a Fletcher.”

“No more movie analogies, Vivian, s’il vous plâit.”

“Fletcher, the brutal professor,” she says, ignoring my heartfelt plea. “Nicola the Salope is a Fletcher. She’s abusing her power to subjugate and humiliate you, because she is secretly threatened by your brilliance.”

“Or she’s just a salope.”

“Or she’s a salope. A soulless plastic-nosed über-salope who probably spends her free hours cruising the Tenderloin in Forever 21 daisy dukes. Mama’s gotta pay for the Botox somehow, right?”

“Ouch. That’s brutal.”

“Sorry, nobody fucks with my best friend. You’re Type-A, got it all together, competitive, self-contained Fanny. It’s freaking me out to hear you so…”

“So what?”

“Vulnerable.”

I inhale and square my shoulders. “I am not vulnerable.”

“You sound vulnerable.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Yes, I am.

“Yes, you are,” she astutely argues. “You worked your size-two Armani-clad ass off on your Monsieur Henri presentation because you hoped it would gain you the recognition you deserve, and your boss just took that hope, squatted down, and shat all over it. You’re allowed to be sad, Fanny.”

And that, Mesdames et Messieurs, is why Vivian Perpetua Grant is my best friend. Her colorful, free-flowing language, often peppered with random pop-culture references, and open, affectionate nature is in complete contrast to my reserved speech and manner. Vivian views every stranger as a potential friend and every friend as family. She smiles, laughs, and hugs freely. She has a bonhomie that is infectious. I grew up in an affection vacuum and am, by nature, more reserved. Vivian is the yin to my yang.

“I’ll be fine.” I glance at my watch. It’s only 8:46. What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day? “That is, if I can figure out what to do now.”

“Where are you now?”

“Union Square Park.”

“Ooo! I know!” Vivian half murmurs, half moans into the phone. “Go to Bitchin’ Baklava!”

“What?”

“Bitchin’ Baklava, on Balboa. They make the best dark chocolate almond baklavas. One bite and you will forget all about Nicola the Salope.”

“Do you know how many calories are in baklava?” I stretch my legs out in front of me and flex my calf muscles. “I don’t want to be miserable and fat.”

I have never told Vivian that I was overweight as a child, that the girls at my boarding school called me Éléphanny, and made stomping sounds whenever I walked by. Boom. Boom. Some secrets must be kept hidden away, like a bad boob job, even from best friends.

“Okay, no baklava.” Vivian sighs. “You could go to Tuescher Chocolatier and have one-eighth of a champagne truffle.”

“I could go to the gym. I think they offer a noon-time Body Combat—”

“Boring,” Vivian interrupts. “Go see the new Colin Farrell movie, hang out in that music café near Leaning Tower of Pizza, or get a massage so you’re nice and relaxed for your date tonight.”

“Putain! I forgot about my date. I am going to cancel.”

“You can’t cancel this late. It would be rude.”

“Look, Vivian, even on my best days I am woefully inadequate when it comes to small talk.”

“True, but meaningful relationships start with small talk. Luc and I started out talking about fast food and cowboy movies.”

Vivian is engaged to her dream man, Jean Luc de Caumont, a witty, kind romantic literature professor and former Tour de France cyclist. We met Jean-Luc on a bike tour through Provence and Tuscany. Actually, it was supposed to be Vivian’s honeymoon, but her priggish ex-fiancé dumped her after he found out she had lied about her virginity. Vivian is the only woman I know who could go from jilted bride to long-distance lover in two weeks. She’s the absolute master at flipping the script, and I envy her for it. She is overdramatic—über-dramatic is the word she would use—and moans about every setback as if it were fatal and final, yet she always manages to turn it around.

“I wish you were here” —I sigh—“or I were there. I miss France.”

“What? I thought you loved California.”

“I loved it when you were here and we could get into mischief.”

“You mean I got into mischief and you got me out.”

I laugh because Vivian has never said a truer statement. She does have a penchant for misadventure.

“It will all work out, Fanny. I just know it. You are too organized, talented, and driven not to succeed.”

“I don’t feel driven.” I lean back against the park bench and exhale. “My internal drive mechanism seems to be malfunctioning. You think I have it all together. I thought I had it all together. But I am not so sure anymore. I don’t know what I am doing with my life.”

“You could always move back to France. I’ll bet Philippe would hire you as one of his bike guides.”

We laugh. Philippe is Jean-Luc’s brother, and he owns a thriving bike tour company.

“Enough about me. How are you? How’s nearly-married life? Get the minivan yet?”

“Ha-ha. Actually, I bought a zippy little Fiat convertible…”

I only half listen as Vivian tells me about the article she is writing for her magazine column, her hunt for the perfect “muffin top-concealing” wedding gown, and her struggle to adapt to life in France, because I am brainstorming ways to make the store’s grand opening the most successful in L’Heure history. That would surely net me another shot at impressing Monsieur Henri.

“…Hello? Fanny? Damn mobile connection.”

“I’m here! The line just dropped off for a few seconds.”

“Thank God!”

I lied because I can’t exactly tell my best friend that listening to details about her happy life is making me feel worse, that I would prefer to talk to someone with a crappy life so I can feel better about my own.

“This call is going to cost you a fortune.” I look at my Blackberry screen. “We’ve been talking for thirty-six minutes already.”

“Shit! Are you serious? I better go, then. Cheer up and have fun on your date. Text me when you get home tonight, unless you invite him back to your place. If that happens, skip the text and send me selfies instead.”

“Vivian!

“Kidding.”

“Au revoir, Vivian.”

“Hasta la vista, baby!”

The line goes dead. Ten seconds later, I get a text.

 

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

I forgot to tell you. Fiona and Angus are coming to the wedding. If Calder comes, you could be his date. Think about it.

 

Fiona and Angus operate the sheep farm Vivian and I visited when we went to Scotland last year. Calder is Angus’s slightly sexy, completely arrogant brother.

 

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

So not gonna happen. He was into you, remember?

 

Balling

 

I arrive at Snob, an artsy wine bar not too far from my apartment, take a seat at the counter, and order a glass of my favorite red wine while I wait for Morph2Perfection, also known as Ethan DuBois.

I “met” Ethan in an online dating site’s chat room. He is a software developer with a “passion for rock climbing, fine wine, and foreign languages.” Apparently, he developed some unusual software program and is now Zuckerberg rich. He didn’t tell me that last part. I Googled him.

“Waiting for someone?” the bartender asks.

“A date.” Nerves tickle my belly. “First date.”

“Nice.”

“I met him online.”

He whistles. “Hope you don’t get catfished.”

I don’t watch a lot of television, but I get the reference. “Me too.”

The bartender smiles and moves down the bar to greet a new wave of customers.

Honestly? I’ve been so wrapped up in the fall-out of the Kitty Kat Purrfect debacle, I haven’t considered the possibility that Morph2Perfection might have lied on his dating profile. I am not a religious person, but I suddenly feel the need to pray.

Please, Higher Power and Goddess of First Dates, please don’t let Ethan be a catfish. Please no finger-sniffing, overweight, balding, middle-aged men.

I finish my wine and order another glass.

Nothing wrong with courage by Cabernet, is there?

We agreed to meet at seven o’clock. Ethan walks in the door at six fifty-nine.

Punctual. Score one for Ethan.

He looks just like his profile photo—tall, lean, with sandy brown hair that points in all directions, like he just ran his hand through it. He’s cute, in a slightly disheveled absent-minded professor kind of way. He doesn’t hesitate in the doorway but walks right over to me.

Confident. I like that. Score another point.

“Stéphanie?”

“Ethan?”

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Moreau,” he says, grabbing my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You’re even more beautiful in person than you are on your profile photo. How is that possible?”

Perfect French accent and charming compliment. Score two more points for Ethan.

“Merci.”

“Shall we move to a table?”

I pick up my glass and follow him to a small table situated in a partially-curtained alcove. He doesn’t pull out my chair.

Minus one for Ethan. Fortunately, he’s still up three points.

We spend the next fifteen minutes making polite chitchat. I use a trick I learned from watching Vivian in action and ask him an open-ended question about his job. People love talking about themselves, even on awkward first dates. Ethan is not the exception. Using technical programming jargon, he tells me about an exciting new program he’s developing for a government contractor that will revolutionize battlefield tactics.

“That sounds exciting. You’re a regular Q.”

He stares at me. “Q?”

“James Bond.” I smile. The head of research and development for MI-5.”

How can a geek not know that?

“Ah.” He leans back in his chair. “Except Q was an industrial scientist who developed hardware that could be used in the field, and I am a computer engineer who develops software. Not quite the same, technically speaking.”

“Right.”

An awkward silence stretches between us. Is he always a stickler for precise language?

“So you work in a clothing store?”

“Not exactly. I work for L’Heure.”

“Isn’t that a clothing store?”

“Boutique. Yes, but the phrase ‘work in a clothing store’ implies a sales position. I am a regional manager, responsible for several boutiques.” I grin. “Not quite the same, technically speaking.”

He continues to stare at me, and a wicked little voice in my head whispers, Does not compute. My playful jab simply does not register.

Sorry, Ethan. Half a point docked for inability to detect sarcasm. I am French. Sarcasm is an inherited trait. It’s in our DNA.

“So,” I say, changing the subject, “how long did you live . . .