The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy. Nic TatanoЧитать онлайн книгу.
and led me to the couch. “Honey, if you keep going the way you’re going you’ll end up like one of those crazy cat ladies.”
I sat down on the soft leather and let out an audible exhale. I knew they were right. I repelled men. And I did like cats an awful lot. “Fine,” I said. “So what’s the deal with this charm school?”
“First,” said Ariel, as she moved to the white board and grabbed a magic marker, “we’re going to start with what you’re looking for in a man.”
“Pffft. I’ll settle for breathing at this point,” I said.
“Be serious,” said Serena.
“Give us the qualities you’re looking for,” said Ariel.
***
Ten minutes later we all looked at the very long list compiled on the board. Bright sunshine spilled through the large window, illuminating the room but shedding no light on my problem.
Serena furrowed her brow. “Guys, I’m not sure he exists.”
“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Roxanne. “The only guys left are the Pope and Tim Tebow.”
I shrugged. “So I have high standards.”
“You have unreal standards,” said Ariel. “Your problem is that you’ve spent your life going after politicians who are supposed to be squeaky clean, and you expect the men you date to be that way. Everyone has baggage. Some have a carry-on, others have more than a trophy wife on a European vacation.”
“Fine,” I said. “So I need to lower my standards.”
“You don’t have to lower them,” said Serena, “you just have to learn to accept the fact that there is no one out there with every single quality you want.”
I nodded, realizing they were right. “Okay. So I become more open minded about men. There, we’re done. Let’s go to dinner.”
“Not so fast,” said Ariel. “And not dressed like that. You’re not going out in those outfits anymore.”
I looked down at my clothes, a pair of red and black plaid slacks and a bulky purple sweater. “What’s wrong with this?”
“It’s fine if you wanna pick up a guy at Home Depot,” said Roxanne.
“I always attract men,” I said. “That’s why you call me Wing Girl.”
“The Brass Cupcake attracts men,” said Serena. “Belinda needs to learn how to keep them.”
“Really?” said Ariel. “Pants and flats for a Saturday night?”
“They’re comfortable,” I said.
“Men want heels and skirts,” said Serena. “We know you’ve got great legs under there. We’ve been to the beach with you.”
“And the hair,” said Roxanne, rolling her eyes as she pointed at my head.
“What?” I asked.
“The bun is done,” she said.
“You’re blessed with that beautiful red and you tie it up in a bun of steel,” said Ariel. “Meanwhile, the glasses have got to go. We need to see that green.”
“I can’t see without glasses.”
“As a reporter you should know there’s been a fabulous new invention called contact lenses,” said Serena. “Maybe you’ve read about it.”
“So you’re giving me a total makeover.”
“Yep,” said Ariel.
“Right now?”
***
As my friends took inventory in my two bedroom closets, I wasn’t sure how this makeover thing was gonna come out. I mean, I’ve got three women who are all very different and the combined advice might result in something out of a horror movie.
Ariel is my oldest and closest friend. She’s a tall drink of water from a wealthy section of Connecticut who grew up with every privilege and ran off the trust fund reservation by actually having a career. The horror! A Madison Avenue copywriter, Ariel is clever at turning a phrase whether she has to pitch cars or feminine hygiene products. She can also weave a tapestry of words into a blanket under which a man becomes powerless.
Always impeccably dressed in classic clothes and a strand of pearls, she’s the proverbial blue-eyed blonde with the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and full lips. Add her customary four-inch heels to the five-ten frame, and you’ve got a girl who could probably be a model if she wanted to.
Serena is an attorney from California who learned early on that male members of a jury can often be distracted by a lawyer who dresses as if she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender. Her short hemlines are legendary in New York courtrooms, as she’s known for “skirting the issues” when it comes to closing arguments.
She’s not a stunner by any means, but she’s kinda pretty and makes the most of what she’s got. In a sea of New York women obsessed with black, Serena has a closet full of red, so she always stands out. Her big, shoulder-length hair harkens back to the eighties, framing an angular face and a cute pug nose. She’s got these devilish hazel eyes that always make her look like she’s up to something. Probably because she is, either in the courtroom, bedroom, or both.
Serena loves the law so much she carries that “lawyer-talk” out of the courtroom and often works it into everyday conversations. (I’ve picked up a little myself, as I think said style of speaking sounds cool.) But despite the fact she uses her wardrobe as a weapon during trials, she’s an excellent lawyer and could easily win her cases dressed in burlap.
Roxanne is my gum-snapping Sicilian friend from Brooklyn who’s a hairstylist, or, as she calls it, “hairdressuh.” But she’s not just any salon gal; she’s sought far and wide by celebrities and the wealthy, who no doubt endure her wicked accent because she’s a miracle worker with scissors and a comb. She’s blessed with natural wavy hair, big light-green eyes and a great rack. Beneath the Brooklyn stereotype lies a girl with an IQ of about 160 who actually has a degree from Wharton but ditched the whole corporate thing for a career with a styling brush. She makes more money with her salon than she ever could in a boardroom.
She’s about five-three, making her the shortest of our group, but the one you’d want in a foxhole because Roxanne doesn’t take shit from anybody. She’s a tight package: tight jeans, tight skirts, tight tops, tight walk with no wasted motion. You know the type. Also has the quickest wit, and can cut a man down to size with a comment sharp enough to slice a stale bagel.
They made me get up on my kitchen step-stool like it’s some pedestal and then walked around me looking at the total package.
“Let’s start at the top. The hair’s comin’ down,” said Roxanne, who reached up on her tiptoes to unleash the bun.
I leaned away. “I like my hair up.”
“Men like it down,” she said, grabbing my bun and struggling to pull the hairpin out of the Gordian Knot. “Geez, you could bounce quarters off this thing.” My strawberry locks dropped, hitting my shoulders. Roxanne ran her fingers through it. “Gawd, it’s like straw. But I can work with this. Women would kill for this color, you know.”
“They can get it out of a bottle,” I said.
“Yeah, but the carpet won’t match the drapes,” said Roxanne, with a wicked grin.
Serena had been rummaging through one of my closets. “Where the hell are your heels?”
“I don’t have any,” I said. “I’m five-five, that’s tall enough.”
“Please tell me you didn’t just say that,” she said. “Is it therefore your contention that you do not own one single pair?”
“Have you ever seen