The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull Page A

the wobbling, even the furniture.
    Ellen plopped a hand on my arm. “She’s a professional detective. Believe her.” Her voice dipped low and serious. “It’s a pussy cat.”
    Nicolette laughed so hard she nearly pissed herself, and we all decided that going home was the best thing. My girls had got a hotel room, but in the interest of everyone’s best interests, I made them come home with me. We grabbed various of my jammies—which looked like high-waders on my houseguests—and crammed into my queen-sized bed. “I won’t be offended if you two want to go to the couch and…and…” I offered magnanimously, my eyes heavy and glued shut like, like, like with glue. Ellen let out a snore in response.
    “Turn over, sweetie,” Nicolette said.
    I would turn over. I’d turn over a new leaf in the life department. I was worthy of love that could take place in public and happen every day of the month and in the same hemisphere as me. Damn right.
    * * * *
    How I made it to the wardrobe fitting
    a) looking alive instead of dead
    b) on time and
    c) without barfing on any of the sexy cat burglar outfits they squeezed me into is a mystery for the ages. But I didn’t regret my drunken shenanigans with my hos. Therapy or the VIP room and bottle service—they cost the same, they help you similarly, but for one, you get to wear badass jumpsuits and pretend you’re at Studio 54. I suppose you could have a drunken dance party in therapy, but your treatment will likely be longer.
    Bonus—nobody in wardrobe suggested that I lose ten pounds! Had I become an acceptable Hollywood woman? Or had everyone thrown up their hands and just decided to put my bodacious buttocks in black? Who cares.
    They took a bunch of Polaroids of me, and had settled on putting me in another jumpsuit. I was gonna bring them back! It featured a collar and long sleeves, like a mechanic’s, except fashioned in some material made by NASA that sucked in my thighs until they almost didn’t even rub together. Those genius people could have gone to Saturn, but instead they made advanced science clothing for comedy movies. And to finish it off—a giant zipper from my crotch to my throat.
    There had been some debate about shoes. The Powers That Be, i.e. studio execs in suits, wanted me in six-inch spike heels. No, no, no. First off—my feet are merely eight inches and change long. The only performance I could manage in six-inch shoes was a ballet on my toes. Secondly—I was so tired of seeing women in action movies leap about in ridiculous footwear. The military doesn’t put its fighting heroines in freaking Jimmy Choos! One twisted ankle and the terrorists win. After my polite, yet firm bitching, they agreed to find something in a lower-heeled wedge, maybe with spikes on it.
    I ran into Daniel whilst in my snazzy space spandex, and his eyes got appreciatively wide. Score one for me. The tight black tee and army-green cargo pants they’d poured him into would be fap fodder the world over once this movie hit previews, I had no doubt. God bless the makers of size smedium shirts, as made famous by Chris Evans as Captain America.
    He offered to play London tour guide for the day and take me out to dinner—at least one man I knew had the ability to follow through. I’d told him I’d have to answer him after I consulted with my visiting friends, and he wanted to include them, too! It was shameful how many sighs I’d had to internalize during our conversation. One sigh for his pretty face. Another for his hard, gorgeous, hummina hummina hummina body and a third for not wanting me to ditch my girls.
    Shame pricked at me. I’d shoved Sam so far out of my thoughts I’d nearly forgotten his name. If Sam was his name. I believe it was, but he’d given me so many over our time together that I chose to doubt in order to alleviate my wanton lusting. I wasn’t a woman who usually juggled men—I’d been lucky if more than one noticed me in the space of a year, never