The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

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 me in heels?”

She sat down on the floor facing me. “Now that I think about it, no. Do you even know how to walk in them?”

“I tried a pair in high school. Made my feet hurt.”

“What size are you?”

“Six. Narrow.”

“I’m a nine. Rox?”

“Sorry,” said Roxanne. “I got pancake flippers for feet.”

“Ariel?”

“Eight.”

“So much for tonight.” She yelled for Ariel, who was going through my other walk-in closet. “What’s the dress situation?”

Ariel stuck her head out of the closet and shook her head. “Nada. No dresses or skirts. Not even a pair of shorts except for some old ones that look like they lost a battle with a spray can and a weed whacker.”

“Those are my cleaning shorts,” I said.

“I’m assuming you clean this room once a year, whether it needs it or not,” said Ariel. “You know, a man would find this boudoir very inviting.”

I looked around my bedroom and took in the unmade bed, pile of clothes thrown on the floor and a potato chip bag which shared the night stand with a couple of empty yogurt containers. “Fine, I’ll get a cleaning service.”

“A snow shovel would be quicker,” said Roxanne.

“Seriously,” said Serena. “You don’t have a single skirt?”

“What can I say, I like pants.”

“Do you even bother to shave your legs?” asked Ariel, ducking back into the closet.

“Of course,” I said, then shrugged. “Well, not every day.”

“So,” said Roxanne, “besides the hair, what else is on the to-do list?”

Serena was making notes on a legal pad. “You ever try contacts?”

I nodded. “I had them in high school.”

“Did you like them?”

“Yeah, but they were a pain to clean all the time, so I went back to glasses.”

“Figures,” said Serena, who made a check mark. “After the contacts, we need shoes and an entire new wardrobe.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m starting a pile for Goodwill,” yelled Ariel, still in my closet. “Geez, it looks like Hillary Clinton lives in here.”

I saw one of my favorite pantsuits fly out of the closet. “Hey!”

“Shaddup and take your medicine,” said Roxanne. “Meanwhile, put your hair back up.”

“I thought you said men like it down?”

“They do, but I’ll need half a day to fix that mess and our dinner reservations are in an hour.”

I stepped off the stool. “So, I’m deemed okay to be seen in public with you guys this evening? I won’t embarrass you?”

Serena got off the floor and gave me the once over. “It will have to do, but we are going to change one thing tonight.”

“What’s that?” I asked, folding my arms. “I’ve apparently got no shoes, no clothes, my hair is a toxic waste dump and I can’t ditch my glasses or I’ll end up going home with someone who looks like Alan Greenspan.”

“That, right there. Your attitude,” said Serena. “Tonight, charm school begins.”

CHAPTER THREE

His eyes locked on me like a laser from across the room. Tall, well built, thick black hair and dark eyes to match. Rugged face, nice smile, dimples running the length of his cheeks. Probably about my age. Dark slacks, starched white French-cuffed shirt with gold links, red tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Shoes shining like mirrors, something my late father always told me to notice. Looks like he stepped off a wedding cake.

Another “total package” as Ariel would say. Can’t say I’d argue.

He started weaving his way through the bar traffic and headed for the chair next to me that was left purposely empty by my friends.

“Remember what we talked about, Wing Girl,” said Serena.

I nodded, downed a bit of wine, and smiled as he reached the table.

He placed his hands on the back of the empty chair, obviously waiting for permission to sit. Good. Polite. Looked right at me. Big smile. “You’re the girl on TV.”

“Woman on TV,” I said. Serena jabbed an elbow into my ribs. “Ow.”

“Right,” he said. “You did that great story the other night on the State Senator. Nice that we have people like you to keep politicians honest.”

“They’re all a bunch of scum. Next week—” I was interrupted by another elbow. “I mean, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”

Ariel reached one long leg under the table and pushed the empty chair out a bit. “Maybe our new friend would like to join us.”

“Uh, right,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting down. “I’m Vincent Martino.”

“Belinda Carson,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.” Serena, Ariel and Roxanne introduced themselves since I’d forgotten to do it, my mind too busy going over the directives they’d given me.

Serena widened her eyes as she looked at me and gave me a gentle kick under the table. Say something. Anything. “So, uh … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

The guy smiled. “That’s okay. Vincent.” Roxanne rolled her eyes then threw down the rest of her drink.

“Right, Vincent.” I remembered the orders I’d been given. Ask him about himself. Nothing too serious. “So, Vincent … are you married?”

“Madonne,” said Roxanne, as the man’s face tightened.

“No,” said Vincent, who looked at me as if I were a space alien. “Did you think I’m some married guy out cheating on his wife?”

“Uh, no, I was … you know … just making conversation.”

Serena snorted, stifling a laugh.

“That’s one hell of a pick-up line,” he said.

“Sorry.” My pulse spiked as the checklist in my head got jumbled. My armpits grew damp. “Do you … uh … what do you do?” I smiled and exhaled. That was pretty safe.

“I work on Wall Street.”

“So, you work with some shady characters.”

The man shook his head and turned toward Roxanne. “Geez, Rox.”

I furrowed my brow. “What’s going on?”

“Vincent’s my cousin,” said Roxanne, cocking her head toward him. “I asked him to be our test subject tonight.”

“So you weren’t really going to hit on me?” I asked.

“I did hit on you. At least I was trying to. I would have even taken you out if we’d hit it off because Rox said you’re such a great person. They weren’t going to tell you it was a set-up if things went well, but … ”

“So, Vincent,” said Serena, who took out a legal pad and put it on the table. She clicked her pen in the air. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us your first impressions for the record.”

He looked at me, his eyes seemingly asking for permission. “What the hell, go ahead,” I said.

“Would be nice if she remembered my name ten seconds after I told her,” said Vincent, who turned to face Serena. “And asking me if I’m married? Seriously? I would have beat my feet right after that one.” He turned back to me. “Listen Belinda, no offense, but Rox said you guys needed a man’s point of view on your, you know, dateability.”

I shrugged and looked down. “I’m not offended. I appreciate your input. Keep going. Fire away, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?”

“Hey, I take on politicians all the time. I’m not afraid of anything. Don’t hold back.”

“Ohhhh-kaaaay,” he said, then exhaled and paused a moment. “Well, here goes. You’re not approachable.”

Ouch.

“People come up to me all the time.”

“Because you’re a celebrity,” said Ariel.

“I meant you’re not approachable as a potential date,” said Vincent.

“Fine,” I said, looking at Vincent, eyes narrowing into Brass Cupcake mode. “Tell me why I’m unapproachable.”

Vincent leaned forward on his forearms. Usually they lean back when the death stare makes its first appearance. Interesting. “Well, first I call you a girl and you correct me, so I think you’re some militant feminist, which I and most men hate. Then the marriage question, which was beyond weird. Along with your somewhat bizarre conversational skills, it’s the overall look. The hair in a tight bun. You’re sitting there on your hands, all hunched up. And the outfit.”

My face tightened. “What’s wrong with the outfit?”

“Rox said you’re hot and you look like a librarian. The bulky sweater, baggy pants, thick glasses. Those shoes look like you’re going hiking. You look like you want to be anywhere but here. There’s probably a serious babe under all that but I can’t be sure.”

He reached across the table toward me but I pulled back and put up a hand. “Whoa!”

“Relax, would you?” he said. Serena grabbed my hand and pulled it down.

He reached toward my face and gently removed my glasses. “Wow,” he said.

“What?” I asked, as my view of Vincent morphed into a Monet painting.

“You’ve got spectacular eyes. I mean, they’re like emeralds, such a vivid green. You could do eye makeup commercials.”

“If she actually wore makeup outside the studio,” said Roxanne, as I snatched my glasses back from him and put them on.

“Look, Belinda. Roxanne tells me you’re a beautiful girl with a big heart, but as a man looking for a date I would have no idea if any of that’s true. If you weren’t famous I doubt if any man would come up to you, and if anyone did he wouldn’t stay long.”

I bit my lower lip and felt my eyes well up. No! This wasn’t happening! A man cannot make the Brass Cupcake cry! “I’d like you to leave now,” I said softly.

“Hey, I’m sorry, that was a bit harsh, but you told me not to hold back—”

“Just! Go!”

Vincent put up his hands in surrender. He got up, kissed Roxanne on the side of the head. “Thanks, cuz,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. He shot me an apologetic look with sad eyes, but I turned away. He headed for the door.

“So,” I said, when he was out of earshot. “Whose brilliant idea was that?”

“Mea culpa,” said Serena, putting her wrists out as if she were waiting to be handcuffed. “I plead no contest.”

“And the rest of you were okay with it?”

“We thought it was a great idea,” said Ariel.

“A great idea? Having some guy insult me like that?”

“We already know you need help,” said Serena. “But we really needed a man’s opinion. Rox said she knew her cousin would help out, and you two might actually hit it off.”

“Vincent was just doin’ what I asked. You’d like him if you took the time to know him. He’s really a great guy.”

“Yeah, a regular Mr Wonderful,” I said. “He’s just so … so … ”

“Honest?” said Roxanne.

“And suppose I’d really liked him? It wasn’t real.”

“It might have been if you’d given him a chance,” said Roxanne.

“You’re a reporter,” said Serena, clicking her pen again. “Did you learn anything from that interview?”

I played with my wine glass, swirled what was left before I downed the whole thing. “Yeah, you all think I’m a total loser.”

Ariel wrapped one arm around my shoulder. “You’re a winner, Wing Girl, and tomorrow we’re going to start showing the world.”

***

Most people go to church on Sunday mornings. Since sermons have bored the hell out of me since I was a little girl and I am ruled by Catholic guilt, I donate my Sunday mornings to a good cause. I figure it’s better than sitting in a rock-hard pew like a member of the parish undead.

As mentioned before, I love cats. So I help out at the local cat rescue shelter every weekend for a few hours, play with my furry friends and deal with things like cat food and furballs.

Cats don’t judge me, especially shelter cats. They don’t have homes yet, so they appreciate any attention they can get.

And after last night, I felt the same way.

“Morning Belinda,” said a cheery Diane as I opened the door to the shelter, jingling the little brass bell hanging off the top. She’s the petite blonde middle-aged millionaire animal lover who runs the place, often working weekends since more kitties get adopted on those days.

“Hey, Diane. How’d the week go?”

“Pretty good. Two in, five out. Somebody even took that huge tabby.”

“Great,” I said, heading toward the back of the building where the kitties lived. “Jabba the Cat was eating us out of house and home.”

“Oh, hey, we’ve got a new volunteer who started today. He’s just about to leave so go introduce yourself. Name’s Scott. Cute guy, Belinda.” Her voice went up as she said my name, like a suggestion hanging in the air.

Like I’ve got a shot. I’m wearing old torn jeans, a ratty New York Giants sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, didn’t sleep a lick last night and have a full set of Samsonite under my eyes.

Not that it would make any difference if I were dressed for a ball. I’m unapproachable, remember?

I headed down the long mauve hallway to the back and heard a man’s soothing voice float around the corner.

“Oh, yeah, there it is. That’s the spot. Ooooh, you like it when I rub you like that, don’t you?”

Sounded like some dialogue from a porn movie, but I realized it was a man talking to a cat. If only one would talk to me that way. “Hey, baby, come home with me and I’ll make you purr … ”

I turned the corner into the shelter area and saw a man sprawled on the floor, scratching the belly of a purring Siamese who was obviously in cat nirvana. The man looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hi. I see you’ve made a friend.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweet cat.” He got up off the floor, brushed off the cat hair and extended his hand. “I’m Scott.”

I shook it. “Belinda.”

He didn’t have what I call the look. The one that tells me he recognizes me from television, the one Wing Girl gets when we’re out on the town. The smile looked sincere. He was maybe five-ten, slender with broad shoulders, tousled brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes. Classic anchorman’s jaw with a little cleft in his chin, one day growth of stubble. Maybe thirty-five. More cute than handsome, but he had that boy-next-door thing going along with nice-fitting jeans, a button-down blue oxford and docksides with no socks. An old-money look, like many members of Ariel’s family.

I smiled back. “So, you’re new here.”

“Yeah, I decided it was time to give something back instead of just writing a check.”

“Most men don’t like cats.”

“My mom was a vet. She had a practice that only took cats. You could say it’s in my blood. I just like their independence. And they’re self-cleaning.”

Cute line. Cute guy. This bears investigating.

“To a point. They don’t have hands.”

“Yeah, I already did the cat boxes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, you been volunteering here long?”

“Every Sunday for the last four years. Ten till noon.”

“I signed up for the same hours but I have a wedding to go to today, so I got here at nine and Diane sorta gave me a quick orientation. But I guess we’ll be working together.”

I nodded. “Guess so.”

He glanced at his watch, then fished his car keys out of his pocket. “Well, I gotta run and get cleaned up. See you next week.” He headed for the hallway.

“Yeah. See ya.”

So much for that.

He stopped, turned and looked at me. “Hey, maybe we could go for lunch afterward.”

I said, “That would be nice,” before I even had a chance to think about it.

He pointed at me. “Belinda, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m bad with names. Just wanted to make sure. See ya.”

I’m bad with names too. We had something in common.

But for some reason I wouldn’t forget his.

He disappeared down the hall, obviously having no idea about the superhero known as the Brass Cupcake who prowls the streets of New York making life safe for women and children while repelling the hell out of men.

Meanwhile, I just got asked out to lunch looking like absolute shit.

Now I’m totally confused.

CHAPTER FOUR

The salon was dimly lit and quiet, as Roxanne had opened it up on Sunday afternoon just for me. (I always thought “Foxy Roxy’s” was kind of a throwback name, with the term “babe” having replaced “fox” sometime back in the eighties. On the other side of the coin, I believe “skank” has serious staying power and could be eternal.) Tomorrow being Memorial Day and a day off since Harry doesn’t waste me on slow news days, I was to be dragged kicking and screaming by Ariel and Serena for shoes, clothes, contacts, makeup and God only knows what else. But I was in a good mood, as a seemingly nice guy who liked cats had asked me to lunch despite the fact I was wearing the spring collection for the homeless. Still, after I related the story to Roxanne, I was confused about what had happened.

“It’s a subconscious effect,” said Roxanne, as she worked the thick conditioner into my hair. I caught a faint whiff of avocado, which Roxanne said made this the perfect conditioner for someone with hair that could be used by someone playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, my head leaning back in a royal-blue sink. It was kind of odd looking at her from that angle, and gave me a new perspective on her terrific eyes and flawless creamy skin.

“It means that what happened last night sank in to a degree, and you were so tired you didn’t have time to think about it. You were in a situation where you didn’t expect to be asked out, so you didn’t have your force field and death stare at your beck and call.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the death stare really that bad?”

She stopped working the conditioner in for a moment. “Honey, when you use that thing on a man you look so possessed I think I need to call a priest.”

“Hmmm.” I closed my eyes as she resumed the scalp massage.

“Okay,” said Roxanne, “I think that’ll do it. Geez, I got sandpaper burns.”

“Funny.”

She turned on the faucet and began to rinse out the conditioner, as she ran the warm water and her fingers through my hair. “When’s the last time you wore your hair down?”

“Eighth grade, I think.”

She finished the rinse, then wrapped my head in a thick, fluffy red towel and began to dry it. She finished drying it as I sat up, ran her fingers through my hair to fluff it out, stood back and flashed a sinister smile with a gleam in her eye. I knew that look as her being “up to something.”

“What?” I asked, as I looked in the gold-framed mirror behind her and saw a drowned rat.

“I’ve got so much to work with. You’re like a blank canvas. This is gonna be fun.”

“Don’t do anything drastic.”

She waved her hand. “Pffft. Honey, drastic is already in the rear-view mirror.” She led me out of the shampoo room and over to her station, where I took a seat. It wasn’t the typical black-lacquer-everything you see in many salons that resembled a hangout for a coven, but rather a cheery sea foam green cubicle always accented with fragrant fresh roses. The large mirror was bordered with photos of celebrity clients.

My picture wasn’t up there. Geez, I wonder why.

She draped a purple smock over me and clipped it behind my neck. Then she did something that scared me to death.

She swung the chair around so my back was to the mirror.

“Hey, I wanna see what you’re doing,” I said.

She shook her head. “Sorry, no backseat driving on this.”

“Roxanne, if I come out of here looking like some freak on the subway … I do have to work on TV, you know.”

She kneeled down and looked at me. “Will you please trust me? Half the movie stars in this town do. And I’m going to make you look like one of them.”

***

Two hours later she shoved the comb into a pocket in her smock, stood back, crouched down, and moved her head side to side as she checked out the finished product.

“Well?” I asked.

“Shhhhh,” she said, putting one finger to her mouth. She moved around behind me. I felt her fingers lightly touch the back of my head, fluff my hair a bit, then she walked around where I could see her. She looked at the top of my head, then the sides, without ever looking in my eyes. Like I was some inanimate object. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “My work here is done.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

She leaned forward and swung the chair around so I faced the mirror. She stood behind me, then handed me my glasses.

I put them on and my vision cleared. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

My hair shone like a beacon, with shimmering highlights amidst my strawberry red. The soft tangles lightly dusted my shoulders. I lifted my hand and touched it. It was as soft and thick as the Persian I’d petted this morning.

It had never looked so good in my life. Sorta slutty, but really good.

“You like?” asked Roxanne.

I couldn’t stop staring. “It’s spectacular,” I said. And right then and there I knew my trusty black-rimmed glasses had to go.

She reached into my purse, pulled out my sizable collection of hairpins and shook them at me. “And if I ever see you with your hair up again, I’ll stab the shit out of you with these.”

***

The contact lenses were surprisingly comfortable, as there had apparently been great improvements in the past fifteen years.

But they didn’t conceal the fear in my eyes as I stepped out of the changing room in my bra and panties.

“Okay, hop up,” said James, the bald, green-eyed wizard known as New York’s best fashion consultant from its most expensive department store. A tiny man around forty, he probably weighed less than I did.

I wrapped my arms around my waist as I stepped onto the pedestal in the middle of what had to be the largest fitting room in the city. No bathroom stall-sized cubicles here: this was at least twenty-by-twenty, complete with a beautiful cream-colored sofa, a few matching chairs and a credenza filled with champagne, a bowl of fresh fruit salad, and a large silver tray of cucumber sandwiches.