Bluette arrived at Maeve's cottage at seven-fifteen, under a riotous Los Angeles sky filled with color. The brush fires in the mountains had lent the sunset a particularly vivid glow, which almost made up for the dense layer of smog worsened by the smoke.
Cottage. There was no other word for it. Like something a Disney princess might live in while hiding from her evil stepmother and awaiting the handsome prince who was going to make everything just peachy.
"Guess that makes me the fairy godmother," Bluette snickered to herself as she parked at the curb and eyed the long, steep flight of steps that climbed the slope, to where the cottage nestled in a cluster of trees and flowering shrubs.
The contrast between that whimsical setting and herself was apparent even to her, and if any of the neighbors had seen her, they would have goggled or fallen dead on the spot. The neighbors – the Three Bears, the Seven Dwarves, the Three Little Pigs, Hansel and Gretel... it had to be, because every other house Bluette could see was just as cute as the one in front of her.
She looked around, expecting to see a host of friendly woodland animals doing yard work. Closest she got was someone's dog, but in this fairytale neighborhood even the mutt scrounging around the trash cans was wearing a bright pink bandanna, and cocked its head so adorably at her that she wouldn't have been surprised if it started to talk. Or sing.
In such a place as this, one did not expect to see a busty blonde bombshell in a black vinyl microskirt, boots, an unzipped denim jacket tattered artfully into long strips from the shoulders to the waistband, and a halter top of electric-blue that mimicked the Survivor logo (not that it was readable, the lettering strained and squashed as it alternately rose and dove over the hills and vales of Bluette's cleavage). Her hair was teased until it begged for mercy, large silver hoops depended from her ears, and her make-up was sultry without being cheap – for the price, it had damn well better not look cheap!
As she began the long trudge up the steps, Bluette wondered if sometimes she dressed a little extreme even for a rock star...
She reached the porch at long last, small muscles in her thighs and calves twitching from the exertion – it wouldn't have been so bad in athletic shoes, but in five-inch heels, her legs were crying for mercy. The porch was lined with – heaven help us! – gnomes. Seven of them, and could she guess their names? What do you think? There were also windchimes shaped like fairies and unicorns.
Maeve opened the door before she could ring the bell. "I don't think I can do this," she said by way of greeting.
"It's going to be fine."
Bluette stepped inside, and Maeve's entire face turned into an exclamation point as she got a good look at the outfit. Maeve herself, following Bluette's instructions to 'dress like a bad girl,' wore black suede pants that looked like the sort of thing a highwayman or 18th century poet might wear, and a shiny gold tank top with – gasp! – no bra. She was clearly unhappy about it too, crossing her arms over her perky but small breasts. Her only other token nod to bad-girldom was lipstick of fire-engine red.
"I called as soon as the message came in," Maeve said, averting, with effort, her eyes from Bluette and gesturing to welcome her into Fantasy- land. Every available space was crowded with prints and paintings and sculptures and carvings that continued the same theme begun outside. Amid all the knickknacks and novelties, the few electronics and appliances seemed weirdly out of place. "It went just like you said. I didn't answer when it rang, just listened to him."
A red light was blinking on the answering machine. Maeve pushed a button, and after the beep, D.J. Mack's voice filled the room. "Hey, Maeve. Okay, okay, I'll come by tonight and get my CDs and stuff. Don't know why you couldn't send them over. I guess you want to yell at me. Suit yourself. I'll be there around eight."
After that, a click and then nothing. Maeve fiddled with the machine, so that the light began to flash again, giving the impression that she hadn't checked her messages at all.
"I don't know if I can do this," she said again.
"Sure you can."
"But..."
"You want to pay him back, right?"
She nodded, that strawberry hair a paler echo of the sunset.
"Relax, would you?" Bluette set a companionable hand on her arm and felt Maeve thrumming like a high-tension wire. "We're just going to order some pizza and have a good time."
"Are you sure this is the right idea? To make him think I'm... I'm..."
"He was pissed at you because he thought you were a stuck-up Miss Priss prudy-girl, right? So the absolute worst thing you can do to him is make him realize you had some secrets of your own, make him want to drop dead in agony at the very idea of what he'd been missing."
"What if he tells?"
Bluette tossed her head, earrings jangling, and laughed. "Who'd believe him? Sour grapes because you broke up with him – don't even say it; as far as the rest of the world needs to know, you did the dumping. With your reputation, it's the last thing anyone would ever expect."
"Just so," said Maeve. "It's ludicrous. No one would believe it. Not even D.J. How could I ever hope to convince him that...?"
"He's not going to need much convincing. Every guy is ready and willing to believe that about any gal. The magazines they read and the videos they watch will have done all the groundwork ahead of time. The problem's in making sure it looks natural."
"Exactly! How can something like that ever be natural?"
"We can debate that one another time. The important thing is, Maeve, that you come across as relaxed and enjoying yourself. That's the impression you want to give. Relaxed. Enjoying."
"I don't know if I can."
"That's why I'm here to help. Come on. We've got a while before the pizza gets here."
Bluette led the pliant and unresisting Maeve through the cottage, to the single bedroom at the back of the house. It was primarily in shades of cream and pink, and Bluette saw right away that while the chair by the window would work fine, the twin-sized daybed simply wasn't going to do. The carpet, however, a plush expanse of dove-grey with roses, was deep and soft.
Maeve, in her bad-girl outfit of black and gold, stood in the middle of her own bedroom looking as though she felt as out of place as a nun at a strip club. She would have felt far more comfortable and at home wearing some frilly white nightie. And slippers. With bunnies on them.
"What do we need to do?" she asked.
"Make it look genuine." Bluette nonchalantly began to undress. Jacket, boots, and she was reaching for the zip in the back of her skirt when she caught Maeve's goggle-eyed stare. "What? Never been around another naked woman before? Nothing I've got that you don't have too. Only diff is, I've got the economy-sized, Costco packaging on some items."
