The Hot Flash Club (8 page)

Shirley said, “Well, I’ll learn what kind of free time Jennifer has and what she’s doing with it.”

“Great.” With a flourish, Alice slammed her notebook shut. “We’re organized.”

“Dessert, anyone?” Faye asked.

“Not for me,” Alice said. “Not for any of us,” she added, checking her watch. “We still have to help Marilyn choose her new wardrobe.”

They left the restaurant and whipped to the other end of the mall to Lord & Taylor, which was open until nine. Alice led them to the Better Clothes section, where, it seemed to Marilyn, the other three women fell into a kind of trance, drifting along through the racks of dresses as if stoned on the store’s soft music and perfume.

“I feel like Margaret Mead visiting New Guinea,” Marilyn whispered.

Shirley quirked an eyebrow. “Lord & Taylor’s makes you think of New Guinea?”

Marilyn shook her head. “No, no, I mean, I feel like I’m discovering a tribe with completely different customs from my own.”

“Marilyn”—Faye laughed—“your tribe is the female, and believe me, shopping is a universal female instinct.”

“With the occasional exception.” Shirley looked pointedly at Marilyn.

Alice scrutinized Marilyn. “You’re a size ten, so you’ll be easy to fit. I suggest we each choose a few outfits for Marilyn to try on. The look should be businesslike, but with sex appeal. Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

“Cool!” Shirley said. “It’s like a scavenger hunt!”

The other three women vanished among the racks of clothing. Marilyn stood alone and uncertain, in her plaid skirt and blazer, which were perfectly serviceable and had been for years. Think
sexy
, she urged her brain.

Timidly, Marilyn forced herself to move through the racks. Her parents had both been academicians. Her father had loved her mother faithfully for fifty years of marriage, and her mother wore the same sorts of things Marilyn did. She wished her sister Sharon were with her—no, she didn’t! Sharon would fall on the floor in a laughing fit if she knew Marilyn was going to try to look
sexy
.

This was so
hard
. But she did like her new hairstyle. And she felt a definite obligation to the group, especially since Faye was going to so much trouble to find out about Lila Eastbrook. Marilyn squinched up her eyes, concentrating.

Fifteen minutes later, she met the other three outside the dressing rooms. Their arms were laden with clothing for Marilyn. They each took a cubicle, hung up their selections, then gathered outside Marilyn’s stall.

“Don’t try anything on yet, Marilyn,” Alice called. “Let’s see what you’ve got, first.”

“Um, okay.” Marilyn shoved the curtain aside. She took a hanger off the hook and held out a formfitting fuchsia crocheted dress with a halter top and a lace-up back.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Alice said.

“You said sexy!” Marilyn protested. “Isn’t this sexy?”

“Perhaps too sexy for an office,” Faye gently intervened, removing the offending garment. “What else, Marilyn?”

Meekly, Marilyn held up a black gauze top with a plunging neckline and ribbed black trousers with tiers of ruffles at the ankles.

Shirley choked, snorted, and turned away.

“What?”
Marilyn demanded.

Faye asked, “Anything else?”

Marilyn brought out her final selection, leopard skin capris with a leopard skin, off-the-shoulder, spandex top.

Alice closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, and muttered a prayer.

“Great!” Faye chirped, wrenching the hanger from Marilyn’s hand. “Now, let’s see what
we’ve
chosen for you.”

The three other women presented her with a variety of skirts, slacks, and silk tees in harmonizing shades of browns and grays. None of them had plunging necklines or ruffles, none was spandex or body-hugging.

“I don’t understand,” Marilyn complained, sliding into a pair of loose silk trousers. “I thought you said I should look sexy.”

“In an understated way,” Alice snapped. “Not like someone applying at Hooters.”

Marilyn sighed as she pulled on a loose, silk, long-sleeved shirt. “I’m too old to be sexy, aren’t I?”

“Of course not!” Shirley retorted. “I’m older than you are, and
I’m
sexy.”

“It’s a matter of environment,” Faye explained. “Looking
appropriate
for your environment. For TransWorld, you need to look alluring, but elegant.” She stepped back, appraising Marilyn. “Well, hey! You look
great
in that. You’re so lucky to be so slim.”

“Your shoulders are hunched,” Shirley told Marilyn. “You need to work on your posture.”

Something in Marilyn snapped. “Well,
you
have a whisker on your chin!”

“I do?” Shirley nudged Marilyn aside, to get closer to the fitting room mirror. “Jeez Louise, will you look at that, I do have a whisker. Does anyone have tweezers?”

Faye dug in her purse and handed Shirley her tweezers. Shirley bent toward the glass.

“I thought you said we grew less hair as we grew older,” Marilyn reminded Shirley accusingly.

“True,” Shirley answered, without moving her lips, concentrating on catching the whisker. “Less hair where we want it. But we do start getting whiskers where we don’t want them.”

Alice laughed. “I found a whisker on my left breast last week.”

“Eeek!” Marilyn cried, lifting the silk top so she could survey her breasts.

“Don’t take that top off,” Faye cried. “It looks fabulous on you!”

“I agree.” Alice looked at her watch. “Marilyn, if you buy those four trousers, and those four tops, and those four jackets, you’ll be able to mix and match them any way you want, and look great every time.”

“You’re right!” Faye flipped through their selections. “Aren’t we all clever!”

“Wait!” Shirley cried. “Buy this, too, Marilyn.” She handed her a long swath of lime green. “Toss this over your shoulders. It will give you flash.”

11

The Eastbrook mansion towered on a hill in a bucolic suburb thirty miles west of Boston. The drive, thick with pebbles white as snowflakes, led between stone pillars supporting stone urns, around the house to a fountain centered in a parking circle, and back around the other side of the house to complete the loop.

Down the hill, roof just visible from its shelter of birches and spruce, was the Eastbrook Clinic, with its three operating rooms, where wealthy clients paid fortunes to have their faces sculpted, their asses hoisted, and their tummies and backs vacuumed of fat. They recovered in the Eastbrook Spa, a cluster of low white buildings surrounding a courtyard where they could lie on long chairs listening to the melody of the fountain, smelling the multitude of flowers, always present, fresh every day. Elsewhere on the grounds, secluded among trees, were garages for various cars and quarters for some of the staff.

It was in the elegant white French Provincial mansion that Eugenie Eastbrook had her own office. She’d suggested during their telephone conversation that Faye drive around to the back of the house, which would make it easy for her to come to the staff entrance at the back hall. Accordingly, it was there, on Thursday morning, Faye knocked.

Eugenie Eastbrook herself greeted Faye at the front door. For one icy instant, Mrs. Eastbrook scanned Faye up and down. Faye held her breath. Then Mrs. Eastbrook delivered a frosty smile and invited Faye to follow her.

Down a narrow carpeted hall they went, through a door, into the front of the house, a world of pastels, gilt mirrors, chandeliers, and an atmosphere of such serenity Faye wondered if they’d found a way to distill Valium and steam it into the air.

Mrs. Eastbrook’s office opened on to the main entrance hall, with doors, discreetly camouflaged by murals, to the living room on one side and to the housekeeper’s office on the other. Like the rest of the exquisitely maintained home, this room was decorated, carpeted, and draped in a luminously floral plush luxury Marie Antoinette would have appreciated.

“Beautiful room,” Faye murmured.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Eastbrook settled behind the delicate ivory desk whose curved legs, inlaid with gilt rosettes, supported a crystal-and-ebony desk set and a state-of-the-art computer. “You brought references?” She held out her hand.

Faye took a sheaf of papers from her purse and gave them to Mrs. Eastbrook, who slipped on her glasses and read.

In the striped silk lute-back chair facing the desk, Faye waited quietly, hands in her lap, ankles crossed in a ladylike manner, covertly scrutinizing Mrs. Eastbrook.

She was a petite woman, and exquisitely beautiful, with large blue eyes and straight blond hair falling crisply just to her collar. She had to be somewhere between forty and fifty, for her daughter Lila was twenty-three, but her skin stretched blandly over her bones, erasing the years. No wrinkle marked her smooth forehead, thanks, Faye assumed, to an injection of botulism, and her lips had the youthful pout of someone recently injected with collagen. She was, of course, thin.

Faye wasn’t slender, but she did look
appropriate
in her modest gray suit, low court heels, and single string of pearls. Her white hair, in its usual chignon, was correct. The suit didn’t fit as well as her clothes usually did, because in real life, for an occasion of any importance, she used a dressmaker who altered everything exactly. But here she was not supposed to look like someone who could afford to have her clothing perfectly fitted. She was supposed to look like an educated, dignified, and slightly impoverished woman who had worked all her life, and Faye felt she’d accomplished that when she bought the taupe pantsuit with its blessed elastic waist and slimming thigh-length jacket.

Beneath the jacket, Faye’s heart did the salsa. Her hands were clammy. Monday night, in the company of the others, Faye had felt brave, even lighthearted. She thought it was rather like joining the CIA but without the danger. But now that she was actually here, under a false name, talking to a real person, her nerves shot hot flashes through her body, one after the other, like Roman candles.

Eugenie Eastbrook murmured, “You worked for thirteen years for the Maine Corbetts.”

Faye nodded. “Yes.”

Eugenie looked up. “I like that. It speaks well that you stayed with one family for so long.”

“Frances Corbett wanted me to go with her when her parents died, but I preferred to stay in the East,” Faye said.

“I see. Well, now.” Mrs. Eastbrook leaned back in her leather desk chair. “My husband, as you know, is a plastic surgeon, and the director of the clinic. My daughter and I share the duties of supervising the offices and staff. The housekeeper’s duties are confined to the house. We need it to run smoothly, always. We often hold dinner parties for prospective clients to meet satisfied patrons, and occasionally we have potential clients as guests in this house. It goes without saying that discretion is of the utmost importance.”

Faye said, “Of course.”

“This establishment must run like clockwork,” Eugenie Eastbrook said.

“I understand,” Faye replied.

“My family works six days a week and are on call for seven.” Eugenie Eastbrook punched out her words in sharp verbal bullets. “From time to time your duties will intersect with those of the spa and clinic. The housekeeper must liaise with me, the cook, two maids, two chauffeurs. She must be able to perform some secretarial functions—you do know how to use a computer?”

“I do.”

“She must be capable of giving orders without hesitation and of receiving orders without resentment. She must look appropriate at all times.”

Faye said, “I understand.”

“Well, Faye, it looks like you might be just the right person for the job. Can you start right away?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” She rose. “Let me give you a tour of the house.”

Faye followed her prospective employer out of the office into the hall, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. It was like walking on marshmallows. The thought made her stomachs perk up.

“Living room, dining room, my office, housekeeper’s office, pantry, kitchen, back stairs, elevator,” Eugenie Eastbrook announced briskly. “Housekeeper uses back stairs or elevator.”

The same plush carpet covered the second floor, except for the bathrooms, which were floored with ceramic tile, all shining. In the master bedroom, a Hispanic maid was making the bed.

“This is Julia,” Eugenie Eastbrook announced. “Julia, this is Mrs. Van Dyke, who will be our new housekeeper.”

Julia nodded and returned to her work. Her employer ushered Faye through the rest of the bedrooms and the large linen room, where the ironing board, towels, sheets, pillows, quilts, and other household necessities were kept. They returned to the first floor by way of the carpeted front stairs, which curved gracefully down to the entrance hall.

“This is the housekeeper’s office.” Eugenie Eastbrook threw open a door.

Faye followed the other woman into a small, tidy room, complete with desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a phone with a score of speed-dial buttons.

“This door,” Eugenie Eastbrook said, “leads into my office, which, although open during the day, is full of private and confidential information and must be off-limits to almost everyone. At night I lock it.”

“I see.”

“The housekeeper would enter her office,” Eugenie Eastbrook continued, “either directly through this door from the kitchen or the main door from the hall. You only enter my office through this internal door at my request.”

“Of course,” Faye said.

“All the staff’s quarters are out in staff houses on the grounds, except for the housekeeper’s, for obvious reasons. These are the housekeeper’s rooms.”

They had arrived at the far end of the hall. Faye stepped through a door and made a quick glance around the suite: bedroom, sitting room, and bath, pristine and perfectly equipped.

Politely, she murmured, “Very nice.”

Mrs. Eastbrook did an about-face that would have impressed a Marine and stalked back to her own office, where she grabbed up a cluster of keys. “One of the housekeeper’s responsibilities is to ensure, every night before retiring, that all the doors on this floor are locked.”

“Very well.”

“I must stress, Mrs. Van Dyke, how essential discretion and security are to this household.”

“I understand.”

“Unscrupulous journalists have tried to enter this house, hoping to discover the identity of some of our clients. We must be on guard at all times.”

“Of course.”

Just then the door opened. A gorgeous young woman walked in, her blond hair tumbling down her back, her eyes bright blue, her smile as fresh as summer. No plastic surgery needed there.

“This is my daughter, Lila,” Eugenie said. “Lila is my assistant here. Everything I know, she knows; if she asks you to do something, you can assume it came from me. Lila, this is Faye Van Dyke.”

Faye smiled. “Hello, Lila.” Something about Lila reminded her of her own daughter, perhaps simply the glow of youth. Catching the frown on Eugenie Eastbrook’s face, she remembered who she was supposed to be, and added quickly, “Or would you prefer me to call you Miss Eastbrook?”

Lila’s mother answered. “Miss Eastbrook. And I am Mrs. Eastbrook. And of course you will call my husband Dr. Eastbrook. We will call you Mrs. Van Dyke. We find this formality preserves a professional tone that is reassuring to our clients.”

“Of course.” Faye had chosen the pseudonym; it was close enough to her real last name to feel right.

“I believe that’s everything then,” Mrs. Eastbrook announced. Eugenie handed her a thick folder. “Why don’t you read this contract and sign the privacy clause. You’ll move in tomorrow, and report here, to my office, at eight o’clock Wednesday morning.”

“Very well,” Faye said.

She rose. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Van Dyke.”

“Thank you.” Faye rose, and shook Mrs. Eastbrook’s hand. Mrs. Eastbrook escorted her down the long hall to the staff’s door at the back of the house.

On the white circle drive waited her rented Toyota, appropriate for her “new” life. Faye sank into it gratefully. Her suit was drenched with sweat, her limbs trembling with adrenaline, her heart still popping off rockets. She drove away from the house. At the end of the drive, she began to grin. When she reached the highway, she burst out laughing.