The Dirty Book Club(33)

“Yes, Addie, the meeting was tonight. No one showed. Easton locked up the store. We’re done.”

“Relax,” she said, yanking her inside. “This is California. Everyone’s late.”

Moments after she texted the change of address, Addie, still flitting about in a see-through dress was welcoming Britt and Jules into her cozy one-bedroom apartment; breezily asking them to remove their shoes because the floorboards were old; being praised for offering to host on such short notice.

“Sit wherever,” she said, indicating the small but opulent living room. Gold foil wallpaper, black velvet furniture, splays of animal hides, flickering vanilla-scented candles. It was sensual and sexy with an undercurrent of illicit behavior—perfect for a drug lord’s paramour or a Rihanna video.

M.J. sat on the curvaceous daybed, behind which was a mosaic of ornately framed oil paintings of Rubenesque women, pale and exposed.

“Y’all are never gonna guess who I just met with,” Jules said, as she unbuckled her sandals and placed them neatly by the door.

ISIS? M.J. might have joked had they been better acquainted. Instead, she remained silent while Jules went on about her three-hour caucus with Piper Goddard and her fiancé, Gill—whatever his last name was. It didn’t matter. Piper was Goddard Cosmetics. And she had just hired Jules to plan her third wedding at the Majestic.

“You don’t understand,” Jules said. “I worked the Goddard counter at Saks for two years. It’s the only thing I use. See?” She closed her lids, showcasing an expertly blended gouache of indigo and violet shadows.

“You’re a makeup artist,” Britt said, as if that explained everything.

“Self-taught,” Jules chirped. “I was accepted into the cosmetology school at Paul Mitchell but”—she sighed—“life. You know?” With a resilient grin she sat on the couch, removed two Goddard pouches from her tote and placed them neatly by the roses that were probably from Marilyn. “Come,” she said to Britt, patting the cushion beside her. “Let me cover that ’stache rash for you.”

“Is it still red?” Britt fingered her upper lip. “Serves me right for getting waxed at a nail salon.”

M.J. cut a look to Britt’s glossy reds. “That’s why you were late?”

“Paul’s taking me to Marrow. It’s our thirteenth anniversary.” She cast a wide-eyed glare at M.J.—a silent reminder to keep the brownie incident under wraps. Even though Britt accidentally fed her the batch Paul was making for a friend with colon cancer—not himself—she didn’t want the others to know. “Why stir the pot?” she quipped on the drive home from the hospital.

“You’re going out for dinner tonight?” M.J. asked, more peeved by Britt’s early exit than the unintentional overdose.

“Our reservation is in forty-five minutes.” She beamed.

“How romantic,” Jules squealed. “Wha’daya say we glam you up? It’s amazing what a wee bit of I-give-a-beep can do, especially around the eyes.”

Britt scratched at a crusty splotch on her mouse-gray maxi dress. “I did give a beep.”

“I know, shugah. You just need to give a twinge more.”

Compulsion shot up the back of M.J.’s throat and straight out her mouth. “Actually, the word is tinge.”

“Not where I come from,” Jules declared, then to Britt, “Look up so I can get your lashes.”

Addie returned from the kitchen with a warm bottle of chardonnay and a tower of red plastic cups. “Isn’t it a little soon for a makeover scene?”

Jules turned away from Britt and sneezed. “Sorry.” She sniffed, then sneezed again. “It’s the—Ah-poo—roses. I’m allergic.” She popped a Claritin.

“Say no more . . .” Addie opened her window and dumped the roses onto the street.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

“Poor Marilyn,” M.J. said.

“Marilyn didn’t buy the roses, he delivered them.” Addie lowered herself onto the zebra hide and leaned back on her elbows. “The flowers were from some hottie I met at the juice bar on Teal Street.”

“Did you know the hottie or was it a zipless fuck?”

“What’s a zipless fuck?” Addie asked.

“Spontaneous sex with a stranger,” Britt told her. “It’s from Fear of Flying.”

“Really?” Addie asked as she coaxed a floating piece of cork from her cup and flicked it across the room. “What’s it about?”

“Didn’t you read it?” M.J. asked.

Addie shook her head. “We agreed that I didn’t have to, remember?”

With a slight eye roll, M.J. turned to her notes. “Written by Erica Jong and published in 1973, this novel is a mock memoir about Isadora Wing, a New York writer who travels to Vienna with her husband, Bennett, so he can attend a conference. While there, she meets Adrian Goodlove—a scruffy Englishman who becomes her lover after helping himself to a fistful of her ass.”

“Sounds good.”

“It was,” M.J. said, hoping for backup. But Jules was busy contouring Britt’s cheekbones, and Britt was busy urging Jules to contour faster because Marrow didn’t hold tables. M.J. felt like a substitute teacher on the last day of school.