I said. “And there’s no way in hell I’m getting a bikini wax.”
“Thoughtful friend.”
“You have no idea. Can you do my legs instead?”
“Only if they’re really grown out.”
“That’s gross.”
“We could do your brows, lip, feet, arms, underarms…but there again, only if it’s already grown out.”
“I guess that leaves my arms. People really wax their arms?”
She nodded. “They’ll feel so smooth. You’ll love it.” Perhaps reading my skepticism, she added. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
She industriously set out a series of wooden sticks that looked like giant tongue depressors, then pulled two chairs forward to either side of the waxing table. I took a seat and placed my first arm across the silky fabric. Megan made small talk while she smoothed a warm layer of freakishly purple wax along my forearm.
“Does this place have personal trainers?” I asked. Paybacks were fair, after all.
Megan’s enthusiastic smile returned. “We have
great
trainers. You should choose one based on your goals.” She pressed the wax into my skin and I felt her pluck along its edges. The plucking was agony. “What do you want to work on?”
“I need a drill sergeant type,” I said. “Someone to really kick my ass.”
Riiiip
.
“Whoa!”
“Natalie,” she said.
“What?”
“Get on Natalie’s calendar.”
I took a calming breath and Megan applied a new layer of wax. “Some call her a sadist, but she gets results.” She pressed the fresh layer of wax into my skin, then plucked its edge. I hoped Jeannie and Natalie would be very happy together.
“How long have—”
Riiiip
.
I collected my thoughts. “How long have you worked here?”
She turned, threw the wax strip away, and came back with a freshly dipped applicator stick, twirling the wax around and around, waiting for it to cool enough to apply. I had the routine down now. Press. Pluck. Pain. Repeat.
“We opened in January and I started then, on account of my mom,” she said. “She’s the manager.”
This was news to me, another of Claire’s baffling omissions. As manager, I figured, Diana could certainly access membership files. She could also determine the pattern of Claire’s visits. I thought about the anonymous locker-note that led Claire to the murder scene. Diana could easily learn Claire’s locker number.
Megan was still talking. “Before this place opened, I was a few blocks away at Beautiful Impressions. Less money. Nicer clients.” She caught herself. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“If you had it to do again, would you choose the people or the money?”
She looked embarrassed. “The money.”
“What’d your mom do before the club opened?”
Megan planted a hand on her slender hip. “Have you
seen
my mom?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Names and faces aren’t my strong suit.” It was only a half-lie.
Megan went back to pressing wax into my shocked and abused skin. “Before I was born she was a big time runway model. New York, London, Paris. That’s how she met my dad.” She started plucking the edges of the hardened wax.
“Travelling?”
She shook her head.
Riiiip
.
“Aging. My dad’s a cosmetic surgeon.”
Like Claire, Megan’s mother had been a patient-turned-lover of Chris King. I didn’t know anything about medical licenses but was pretty sure sleeping with patients was against the rules.
“An aging model married to a cosmetic surgeon,” I said. “Handy.”
She twirled soft wax around another applicator stick. “When she got too old to model, she switched to agenting. I met a lot of famous people in L.A. because of her.” She dropped a few names I pretended to recognize.
“Are you a model too?”
Her smile told me I wasn’t the first to ask. “I’m going to be a teacher,” she said. “Waxing helps pay the tuition.”
I imagined Annette reporting to a teacher who looked like Megan and the thought made me bristle. Then I checked myself. Tone Zone
“Thoughtful friend.”
“You have no idea. Can you do my legs instead?”
“Only if they’re really grown out.”
“That’s gross.”
“We could do your brows, lip, feet, arms, underarms…but there again, only if it’s already grown out.”
“I guess that leaves my arms. People really wax their arms?”
She nodded. “They’ll feel so smooth. You’ll love it.” Perhaps reading my skepticism, she added. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
She industriously set out a series of wooden sticks that looked like giant tongue depressors, then pulled two chairs forward to either side of the waxing table. I took a seat and placed my first arm across the silky fabric. Megan made small talk while she smoothed a warm layer of freakishly purple wax along my forearm.
“Does this place have personal trainers?” I asked. Paybacks were fair, after all.
Megan’s enthusiastic smile returned. “We have
great
trainers. You should choose one based on your goals.” She pressed the wax into my skin and I felt her pluck along its edges. The plucking was agony. “What do you want to work on?”
“I need a drill sergeant type,” I said. “Someone to really kick my ass.”
Riiiip
.
“Whoa!”
“Natalie,” she said.
“What?”
“Get on Natalie’s calendar.”
I took a calming breath and Megan applied a new layer of wax. “Some call her a sadist, but she gets results.” She pressed the fresh layer of wax into my skin, then plucked its edge. I hoped Jeannie and Natalie would be very happy together.
“How long have—”
Riiiip
.
I collected my thoughts. “How long have you worked here?”
She turned, threw the wax strip away, and came back with a freshly dipped applicator stick, twirling the wax around and around, waiting for it to cool enough to apply. I had the routine down now. Press. Pluck. Pain. Repeat.
“We opened in January and I started then, on account of my mom,” she said. “She’s the manager.”
This was news to me, another of Claire’s baffling omissions. As manager, I figured, Diana could certainly access membership files. She could also determine the pattern of Claire’s visits. I thought about the anonymous locker-note that led Claire to the murder scene. Diana could easily learn Claire’s locker number.
Megan was still talking. “Before this place opened, I was a few blocks away at Beautiful Impressions. Less money. Nicer clients.” She caught herself. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“If you had it to do again, would you choose the people or the money?”
She looked embarrassed. “The money.”
“What’d your mom do before the club opened?”
Megan planted a hand on her slender hip. “Have you
seen
my mom?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Names and faces aren’t my strong suit.” It was only a half-lie.
Megan went back to pressing wax into my shocked and abused skin. “Before I was born she was a big time runway model. New York, London, Paris. That’s how she met my dad.” She started plucking the edges of the hardened wax.
“Travelling?”
She shook her head.
Riiiip
.
“Aging. My dad’s a cosmetic surgeon.”
Like Claire, Megan’s mother had been a patient-turned-lover of Chris King. I didn’t know anything about medical licenses but was pretty sure sleeping with patients was against the rules.
“An aging model married to a cosmetic surgeon,” I said. “Handy.”
She twirled soft wax around another applicator stick. “When she got too old to model, she switched to agenting. I met a lot of famous people in L.A. because of her.” She dropped a few names I pretended to recognize.
“Are you a model too?”
Her smile told me I wasn’t the first to ask. “I’m going to be a teacher,” she said. “Waxing helps pay the tuition.”
I imagined Annette reporting to a teacher who looked like Megan and the thought made me bristle. Then I checked myself. Tone Zone
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