Lucky Love (2 page)

"Jaz? You sound terrible."

"What do you expect when I’ve ingested enough wine to fill the Pacific ten times over? Who is this anyway? And why are you ringing me at this ungodly hour?"

I know it’s Nat but her perkiness at this hour annoys the crap out of me.

"It’s your long lost best friend who you’ve been ignoring lately. How about a raw egg Bloody Mary, then we hit the shops?"

I groan and clutch my head as I wriggle out from under the duvet and struggle into a semi-upright position. "Piss off."

She laughs. "Drag your lazy ass out of bed. It’s a beautiful day and you’ve already slept for half of it."

I pull the curtains back a smidgen and squint at the bright sunshine. "What time is it?"

"Eleven. I’ll be around in fifteen minutes."

"Do I have to?" I complain like a recalcitrant child, knowing I can’t wait to catch up with Nat. It has been ages since we’ve had a girlie day together. She’s too busy spending all her time with Marlon the Magnificent.

"See you soon."

I grimace at the receiver before hanging up. Slave driver. However, the thought of coffee, retail therapy and girlie gossip is a huge incentive and I roll out of bed, trying to ignore the beating drums in my head.

“
I’m never drinking again
…
I’m never drinking again
…” Maybe if I repeat my mantra often enough I might start to believe it.

My mouth feels like the inside of a toilet, Black Sabbath, Guns’n’Roses and Bon Jovi have joined the jam session in my head and the dark rings under my eyes make me look like a raccoon. No more after-work Friday night drinks. The post-pubescent, barely twenty-year-old crew is a bad influence on me. I must learn to say no. And mean it.

I’m in the shower when Nat arrives. You’d think she’d know me by now. I’m
never
on time. Ever. Punctuality isn’t a strong point. If people want to be regaled with my presence, they have to wait for it. I’m important enough. Just ask all those guys who never ring.

"Aren’t you ready yet?" Nat whines after I let her in.

"Does it look like I’m ready?"

She frowns, her scrutinizing gaze sweeping over me from head to foot. Easy for her: perfect skin, thick wavy hair hanging half way down her back, huge blue eyes. And the body … petite, curvy, bombshell. All she had to do was throw on a sack to look good.

"You look like shit." She takes the hairdryer out of my hand and proceeds to blow-dry my thin hair into some semblance of gorgeous sleekness. "Meet any men last night?"

"Only boys," I mumble between bites of dry toast. It’s all I can stomach at this point. "The usual dregs of the bar scene. Young, dumb and full of c—”

"Hey, it’s too early for that kind of talk. What’s with you lately? Haven’t seen you in ages."

I roll my eyes. "You’re the one wrapped up in marital bliss while I’m left alone. Why do you think I get so drunk? I’m drowning my sorrows."

Hurt flickers in her baby-blues. "You really feel like that?"

I swat her arm. "You know I’m jealous as hell of what you and that dolt Marlon have. I’m just looking for a scapegoat for this monster hangover I have. Come on. Let’s hit the shops."

We chat for hours, scouring the mall for bargains and stopping occasionally for coffee. It was during one of these pit stops that I saw him.

"Uh-oh. Look who just walked in.” I grab Nat’s arm and gesture toward the door with my head.

"Who?" Nat is subtler, casually directing her gaze in the general vicinity of the door.

"That’s Vaughan, the guy from work I was telling you about."

I saw her give him the once over. "Not bad. Nice abs. Didn’t know you were still hung up on him though. Hasn’t he got a wife?"

"Ex-wife." I wince at the memory of how that came about.

Nat, an astute lawyer, pins me with a probing glare. “Spill. What happened?"

I sip my cappuccino, scalding my tongue in the process. Hope I haven’t done any lasting damage. I have plans to attend a housewarming party tonight. I have a month to hook up with a guy for longer than a night and may need to do some impressive smooching to reel him in.

Before I have a chance to answer, Vaughan looks up and sees me. He smirks, waves and struts out the door, clutching a double decaf. I know this because it’s his usual and I used to be dumb enough to grab him one on the way to work.

"I’m waiting?" Nat raises an elegantly plucked eyebrow.

I shrug, torn between telling her the whole sordid story and scalding my tongue again so I won’t have to. The need to unburden wins.

"We had a thing for a while. I fell for his lonely act after he raved about his wife leaving him. A week later, we bonked our brains out, he told the other guys at work and his wife did leave him. For real, this time."

"You mean she was still around when he asked you out?" Nat’s eyes widened to saucer proportions. I’m sure she thrived on my tales of woe.

"Yep, the jerk. They were on the rocks but …"

"Tell me."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "We were working late one night. Got carried away on his desk and something must’ve hit the redial button. Next thing we hear this screaming over the speakerphone and Vaughan tells me it’s his wife. Not ex-wife at this stage. His
wife
. I get out of there after giving him a verbal flaying and his wife becomes what he told me she was all along. An ex."

Nat glares, radiating disapproval. "You’re a bum magnet." She pronounces it like the queen bestowing a grand title.

"Tell me something I don’t know."

She leans over and hugs me. "Didn’t mean it as a reflection on you. It’s a simple fact. You’re attracted to the wrong type of guy and we need to do something about it."

I sit back and fold my arms. "Excuse me for being a skeptic but what’s the solution? Turn me into Miranda Kerr?"

"You’re every bit as gorgeous as her."

Chalk up a Brownie point for BFF loyalty. Nat paused, tapped her bottom lip. "How about online? Speed dating?"

I wrinkle my nose. "No way. Those things are for desperadoes.”

Considering if I didn’t do something more proactive than hitting clubs I’d be jetting to corny Love in a month, maybe Nat had a point.

“I prefer to meet guys the normal way."

"Over the photocopier?" Nat had this haughty tone she used to perfection. Usually reserved for clueless clients in court and used to put me back in my place.

"Vaughan was a momentary lapse in judgment."

"What about Grant, Pete and Will? Were they lapses too?"

The thought of my boring exes makes the coffee in my gut sour and I hold my hands up in surrender. "What’s with the interrogation?"

Nat folded her arms. "How about you try it my way for a while? What have you got to lose?"

"Pride. Dignity.” I stood and gathered my bags. “Besides, I’ve got someone lined up and I want to see how that pans out first."

She must’ve believed me for the interrogation stopped. Almost. "What’s he like?"

"Who?"

"This new man."

I was a lousy liar; could never sustain it.

"Can we talk about him later? I don’t want to jinx it before it starts, you know?" Lame, but she bought it.

"Fine. Just don’t forget to tell me all the juicy details. You know I live my life vicariously through you. I’m an old married hag now."

Yeah, yeah, rub it in
.

So I do too. "Actually, last night was pretty cool. Flirt central. You know the guy on the phone commercial? And the new spokesman for Calvin Klein?"

"You’re kidding?" Envy was etched into every line of her beautiful face.

I smiled, reveling in the glories of being a single woman in the face of my best friend’s matrimonial happiness. “Fantastic night, real perv fest. You’d have loved it. Wall to wall hotties. Pity Marlon doesn’t let you out much."

That was a low blow and totally untrue but I couldn’t help it. I was on a roll.

"Enjoy it while you can, Jaz. Things do change when you’re married." Her wistfulness got to me and I was instantly contrite.

"Married? I’m going to be the oldest spinster in Sydney. You’re lucky." And I meant it. Another Flo-ism: the grass is always greener on the other side and I wished I were a cow, a very happily married cow.

"Want some help picking out an outfit for tonight?"

I held up the various bags in my hands. "I think you’ve helped enough."

That was another thing we shared; Shop-aholics Anonymous could have a revolving door for us. If we could tear ourselves away from the malls long enough.

"Okay, though perhaps dress down a bit tonight? Don’t think those black boots, fishnets and mini I saw strewn around your room this morning would be right for Amanda’s housewarming."

"What’s wrong with my fishnets?"

"They’re so Rocky Horror."

"Frank N. Furter was the coolest." I give her a quick rendition of the Time Warp, complete with pelvic thrusts.

"Yeah, about thirty years ago. Move into the twenty-first century and get the Moves Like Jagger." Nat loved Maroon 5 though refuted it. Personally, I thought Adam Levine was hot too.

"Whatever. I’m going home to get ready."

"Call me tomorrow at work, okay?"

Nat loved our post-party conferences when we traded theories on why the man of my dreams who I’d met the night before hadn’t called.

"You’re working on Sunday again?"

"Few big cases coming up and I’m way behind on prep. Crims don’t sleep. No rest for the wicked and all that crap."

I love how my hotshot lawyer best friend struggles with forensics and precedents while I struggle with finding rhyming words for love: schmove, dove, shove … as in off.

"So what’s Marlon doing with all his spare time? Isn’t he scared you’ll run off with some handsome John Grisham type?"

It was her turn to snort. "We trust each other totally. Why get married otherwise?"

"Tell that to guys like Vaughan," I mutter, hating how gullible I’d been.

"Speaking of hubby, better dash. Good luck." She hugged me, waved and eased into the crowd, a stunning figure dressed in black jeans and cobalt tank cutting a swathe through the late afternoon shoppers.

Her last words rang in my ears.
Good luck
. Despite the fact I loved Nat to death, I hated it when she said this before every date or night out. Who said luck had anything to do with it? I would arrive, I would check out the talent, I would conquer. Well, that was the theory. Shame the practice left a lot to be desired.

With the prospect of a plane trip to Love in my future, I did need luck; tonight I’d carry a rabbit’s foot, a four-leaf clover and a horseshoe, all tucked into the stunning new handbag I’d blown a week’s wages on.

I reached home in record speed, eager to start the preparation process. I tried on ten outfits, turning like a contortionist in front of the mirror. It always paid to check out all angles. Pity I didn’t have any; I was a beanpole, straight up and down without a curve in sight. I decided on skin-tight, black bootleg satin pants teamed with a red ribbed singlet top. My boobs looked great in the top; amazing what a push-up bra could do.

Lesson A in trying to land a guy; men loved cleavage. Being an average B cup I utilized every push-up bra on the market to enhance what the good Lord has given me. My latest triumph was a spa bra, the under cups filled with fluid: firm yet soft, cleavage without the silicon. I looked sensational in it. However, after a close call with a friend’s toy poodle wanting to sink its teeth into it, I didn’t fancy a flood at the next dinner party so I’d reverted to the trusty padded variety.

Lesson B consisted of preparing the temple for possible invasion. I could always live in hope. I showered, shaved my legs, loofahed, exfoliated, moisturized—and that was just my body. The face took much longer, plucking being the order of the day. My eyebrows hadn’t been waxed into shape for a while so I set my tweezers to work. Ten minutes later, I’d plucked enough to need an eyebrow pencil to fill in the gaps. Why do women do that, pluck out the hair to replace it with lead from a pencil? Weird, yet who was I to question the art of beautifying handed down over the centuries?

The singlet exposed a lot of skin so I needed a quick bronzing. My lily-white skin needed all the help it could get. I reached for the tube of self-tanning lotion, vowing to spend more time at Bondi this summer. Natural was best and besides, I hated the orange tinge the fake stuff left. I always looked like a Cheezel in the morning. The sheets I’d slept on looked worse.

Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m late for the party. Rather than doing my whole torso I tan my arms and chest. With my luck lately who’d see the rest of me anyway? My face looks strangely pale above its tanned counterparts so I complete a foundation and powder job in record time.

I decide to go for the understated vamp look, smudged kohl and dark eyeshadow with a smidgen of lip-gloss. The lippy ad promised ‘kissable lips he couldn’t resist’. Still waiting. The last minute pash as I left a nightclub two weeks ago didn’t count; he’d been a jerk. A jerk who didn’t call. As usual.

I glanced in the mirror. I looked sensational. How could any guy resist?

No way would I end up in Love.

Four weeks and counting.

I drove to Amanda’s new apartment, vowing not to drink too much. She’d said there’d be loads of eligible guys at the party and I wanted to make a good impression. All Amanda’s friends are classy and if she says there’ll be talent, I believe her.

Amanda’s my boss. A formidable forty-something, she uses her extensive connections in the Australian media to score rich and famous clients to plan weddings for. She gets rich off the A-listers and I slave over their lousy invitations. The sad fact is I still commute daily to work and Amanda has retired, occasionally dabbling in the company from a multi-million-dollar apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour. I’d like to be her when I grow up.

Though I sound jealous, I like her. She’s feisty, competitive and driven, attributes I’d like to possess and don’t. For some unfathomable reason, she seemed to like me too and had recently promoted me to assistant wedding coordinator.

I love my job. Where else would I get to rub shoulders with the snooty wealthy that try to outdo each other when it comes to matrimony? Not just in monetary terms either. The bigger the hairdo/gazebo/yacht, the better. I have no gripes about my work. Invitations are easy and I’ve been assigned to help coordinate the biggest celeb wedding this country has ever seen. Besides, I spend enough time lamenting my single status, if I complained about my job too I’d be a total loser.