Marc took the short lift ride up to the flat on the fifth floor where he and Amanda were living. Less than a full week into the job and he was feeling confident and excited. Daniel had already conscripted him to make changes to the fashions selected for the centre autumn spread to be shot in a couple of days because he considered some of the choices a little drab.
He was glad he'd made the decision to come to London. Mandy, on the other hand, he wasn't too sure about. She'd been mopey since they'd arrived. She hadn't felt up to going to dinner with Daniel and Betty. She didn't even want to go shopping. At first he attributed it to jet lag but several days later she was still lethargic and moody.
He slipped his key into the lock and opened the door. What he saw when he entered wasn't even remotely surprising. She was curled up under a blanket on the couch watching television, still in her robe. There was bag of cookies on one side of her and a box of tissues on the other to catch the teary fallout of whatever pathetic soap opera she was watching all afternoon.
"Oh hey, Marc." She gestured to the television and exclaimed enthusiastically, "Natasha told Nick she's pregnant just so he'd stick around!"
"Mandy, have you been watching television all day again?" He placed his laptop down and took off his jacket.
"Not all day. I was on the internet for a little while. Did you know bold lips are coming back in? The colours are fab!"
He was filled with a moderate amount of hope at that statement. At least it was fashion related and had some substance to it.
"I did know that. Actually Amanda, that's last week's news and you would have known that if you got off that couch and joined us in the real world. And what are you eating?" He walked over to the sofa to take a closer look.
"HobNobs - chocolate coated ones. Mmm, whoever invented these is a genius. Oatmeal cookies dunked in chocolate, you have to try one."
"You need to stop eating like that. You are going to look like Betty if you keep this up and I hate to say it Mandy, but you don't possess the 'nice' that Betty does to go with the plump. You would just be chubby and mean."
She sighed. "Fine. Take them. The only comfort I have in this cruel, dark world, Marc and you are going to rip them from my hands."
He sat down on the couch beside her.
"This whole restraining order thing will blow over in no time, you'll see. Celebrities issuing restraining orders against crazed fans are a dime a dozen. It's probably old news already." He put his hand carefully (so as not to touch a used tissue or a chocolate stain) and comfortingly around her shoulder and she leaned in and put her head on his chest.
"It's not just that." She popped one more HobNob into her mouth whole, and chewed.
"Then what is it?" he asked, looking down and making a tiny face at the grotesque image of her trying to chew with a mouth full of cookie
She pointed to her mouth indicating she couldn't talk at the moment. He waited a good solid minute until she got the mouthful under control and was able to speak again.
"Do you think I'm unlovable?" She raised her vulnerable little spheres to his and it made his heartbreak.
He hated seeing her sad, but to see her sad and wretched was almost intolerable. Where was the saucy minx that sashayed through the halls of Mode so confident in her beauty and dazzle that all the regular girls were left in a pathetic, prosaic wake?
"Aww Mandy…no, you're very lovable."
"I don't mean to gay men, Marc. I mean to real men." She looked back down at the box of HobNobs on her lap.
Marc, not so gently, pried them out of her clenched fingers and tossed the box onto the armchair, out of her reach.
"To all men. You are fabulous," he gave her a little squeeze. "Where is this coming from?"
"It's Daniel and Betty," she admitted softly. "The whole thing makes me feel kinda…funny."
Marc pushed her up off of his shoulder so he could give her an odd look. "Whoa! Hold on there Camilla. A little while ago you were the one who insisted I not post this fabulous, hilarious idea of mine because you were all like," he raised his voice in a high pitched mock "'No Marc, we can't. We have to give those two kids a chance. This might be the real thing for them.' Remember that, Amanda?"
"I know. And I meant it Marc. I really did. It felt like I was cheering for all fuzzy, orphaned, little Mexican girls everywhere. And, I mean, I like Betty, really. She's grown on me; all that perkiness and gumption is inspiring, you know?"
Marc made a face and shrugged. He really didn't know; he kind of thought it was annoying but obviously now was not the time to argue with the fragile woman.
"But what does she have that I don't?" She looked over at the box of cookies on the chair.
"Is this why you keep dodging their attempts to get together for dinner?"
"They're in a real relationship, Marc. Daniel never wanted that with me. Ever."
"Do you want him to want that with you?" Marc was confused; he didn't think Amanda felt anything but friendship for Daniel anymore.
"No. That whole thing for Daniel is so four years ago and I have so moved on. But that's not the point. The point is: First Matt chooses her over me and now Daniel. How does she do it? I mean, look at her and then look at me, it doesn't make sense. It completely defies the laws of nature, like bees being able to fly or chubby people in spandex."
Marc put his arm around her again and she leaned into him. He rubbed her arm reassuringly and examined her – her knotted hair, her sad face with the traces of chocolate on the side her mouth, and he tried not to grimace at the used tissues and HobNob crumbs scattered across her robe. Her argument was a little lacking looking at this particular Amanda; he just tried to remember that she did clean up nicely.
"Okay, well the Matt thing is simple. Baby Fartley's taste was extremely questionable to begin with. You only needed to look at his wardrobe to figure that out, and don't even get me started on the hair. You should be grateful that never panned out because what did he really offer besides billions? The brown shoes, Mandy - remember the shoes? And those corny jokes, if you could even call them that...ugh. And as for Daniel, he's just at that age." Amanda looked puzzled so he clarified. "He's reached the age of wanting a family. It's basic evolutionary theory – survival of the fittest. The male of the species is looking to pass his genes along so he's scoped out the sturdiest looking female of the herd to increase his chances of successful reproduction."
"You really think so?" She sounded hopeful.
"Sure. It's the only logical explanation. Betty has sturdy child-bearing hips and let's face it, you're hips are designed less for procreation, more for recreation." Marc nodded confidently.
Amanda nodded thoughtfully, looking convinced.
"But if you keep eating those stupid cookies you'll have the sturdy hips."
"Well, I think maybe I may want a baby someday, Marc."
Marc's eyes widen. "A baby! Do you even know what you're saying? Babies are smelly, winey, eating machines that offer no real benefit to the unfortunate individual who has to watch them."
"They are kind of mini-divas though. 'Feed me', 'change me', and a huge hissy fit when you don't. Don't you find that intriguing?"
"Not so much intriguing as annoying," Marc replied.
"Besides, they seem to be the 'must have' accessory lately. Everyone who's anyone has one – Amy Adams, Sandra Bullock, even Claudia Schiffer had another one and she's, like, a gazillion years old. And Angelina Jolie likes the things so much she has one in every colour."
"Okay, so one day you'll get yourself a baby. But let's get you to land your billionaire first, because trust me, you'll want a nanny."
"I don't care about landing a billionaire anymore, Marc," Amanda sighed despondently.
Marc gasped. "Mandy, you have been on this sofa too long. You've lost perspective."
"I'm serious. I think I just want someone who loves me for me."
Marc nodded thoughtfully. "I can understand that. But let's make sure he has some wealth or at least a reasonable means of acquiring wealth. And failing that, he needs to be smoking hot so you can produce offspring that can do child modelling, acting or beauty pageants in order to help maintain your lifestyle."
Unexpectedly, an image of an enormous, pregnant, barefoot Amanda in a tiny, cluttered kitchen, with a screaming baby in a high chair and a snotty toddler yanking on her oversize, hideous, muumuu, while she stood over a sink doing dishes popped into his head.
"Holy Wang!" he grabbed the arm of sofa dramatically.
"What's wrong Marc?" Amanda asked, concerned by his reaction.
"Horrible images. A dreadful look into a future that you do not want to be part of - barefoot, pregnant, with an entire average looking brood vying for your attention, and the worst part of all…" He lowered his voice to a whisper and finished, "you were wearing polyester."
Amanda's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Aaah!"
"I know. If that doesn't get you off of this couch, and desperately seeking billionaires, nothing will. I have some work at Mode you can do, Mandy, to get you back into the swing of things. We have to get ready for the cover shoot and we need some people to work on the set. I know you've never done it before but you're creative and I kind of exaggerated your skill set a little and told Elaine, the Creative Director, that you were qualified."
Her eyes lit up. "You mean like a set designer?"
"Uh…sure."
A grunt worker for a set designer was a better description but he didn't need to tell her that or she'd never get off of the couch. She could discover what her real role was when she got there. He was convinced, as soon as she got back into the Mode atmosphere with all the emaciated models and temperamental photographers she'd be hungry for it, no pun intended. And once she was there, he'd take her to the closet where all the Gucci, Wang, and Versace would deliver the final blow and she'd be hooked again. He knew his Mandy and there was no way she could resist that, particularly when he reminded her that swag day was only a few short weeks away.
"She believed you? She didn't want to see my resume or anything?" Amanda's was starting to sound excited.
"One of the benefits of being the Senior Fashion Editor is that I have some pull."
"Aww, Marc, you lied for me?" Amanda was touched.
"I had to Amanda, this couch potato thing is really getting old. I love you and everything but I can't have this…" he waved his hand in a circular motion in front of her and made a disgusted face, "associated with me. I am the Senior Fashion Editor of Mode, I have an image to uphold. Besides, once we get closer to the day we do the shoot we can switch you to a role you're more comfortable with."
"You mean sleeping with the photographer?" Amanda inquired.
Marc looked at her and tried to determine if she was serious before answering. "No. I meant Stylist."
"Oh, that."
"Come on, we need to get you up and moving before those cookies stick to your hips."
Amanda went to work with Marc the next day. He felt guilty, only briefly, that he let her leave the house in her bright orange Yves St. Laurent mini-dress knowing she'd be lugging things around and maybe even painting. But he was hopeful they had painting smocks at the office for people helping with the set design; besides if he told her before they got there she might not go.
Sometime around mid-morning, she burst into his office with that crazed look that she sometimes got on her face. He flinched a little, remembering those brutal slaps of hers.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and a smudge of army green paint was smeared across her right cheek. And looky-there, he was right, they did have smocks. Hers was large, with the sleeves rolled up and it was hanging to her knees so she looked like a flasher in a trench coat with nothing on underneath, but at least her mini-dress was covered. Unfortunately, the Prada shoes…not so lucky. Perhaps it was only fair he buy her a new pair if he survived this encounter which, by the look on her face, seemed unlikely.
"Marc, what the hell is this." She was holding a hand grenade and although he was completely aware it was a fake, it made him shudder a little. He was surprised she didn't have a machine gun strapped to her back as well.
"It looks like a hand grenade, Mandy. It's a little bomb that you throw," he explained, deflecting the question.
"I know what this is," she said, shaking the grenade violently; the image was a little chilling and he wished she'd put it down. "I meant, why am I doing this? I thought you said I would be a set designer."
"No, you said you would be a set designer. I just said I could get you some work."
"I'm painting Marc. Painting. With yucky, smelly, dirty…paint." Now she looked like she was about to break into tears. "And I had to carry a big crate up seven flights from the ground floor."
"You didn't use the lift?" Marc questioned putting on his fake British accent to try and cheer her.
She glared at him. "Where the hell is this lift thing everyone's talking about? That's what the guy who sent me to get the crate said." She mocked him with the worst accent ever. " 'It's 'eavy, make sure to take the lift, luv.' I couldn't find the stupid lift."
"Amanda, we took it up this morning," Marc reminded her.
"We did?" She looked confused.
"Yeah. The little box with all the buttons on the wall…it's the elevator," he explained.
She sighed. "Stupid language. Why don't they just say elevator?" She slumped down into the chair on the other side of his desk. "I'm not cut out for this job Marc."
"Aww, Mandy, sure you are. Painting is simple. Just think of it as applying make-up to a really big face."
She looked thoughtful. "Well, it did kind of have that same feel."
"See?" Marc was becoming hopeful. "And on the plus side, you get to see me throughout the day."
She smiled. "It is nice to be working together again. What is with the army theme though?" she asked shaking her head, her face contorted with disgust.
Marc sighed. "It's Daniel. Remember the flak jackets in the desert at Christmas and 'Love is a battlefield' for Valentine's Day? The man is obsessed with killing and war."
"I thought Betty would soften him up and he'd be all kittens and bunnies now."
"He probably is now. The decision for this shoot was made before they were baking the enchilada."
" 'Baking the enchilada'?" Amanda asked, puzzled, giving him an odd look.
"It's my new euphemism. Do you like it?"
"Not really." She shook her head.
"Anyway, apparently the down and dirty only started recently, hence the backorder of death and the military."
"Interesting…" Amanda's eyebrows were raised.
"Not really considering it's Betty. She probably had him do a series of tests, fill out a bunch of forms, and undergo a treatment of antibiotics before they could get their mojo going." He changed the topic. "Anyway Mandy, it's only one more day of the set construction and then, I swear, I'll switch you to stylist for the shoot."
"Aww, thanks Marc."
"You look like you're feeling better," he offered hopefully.
"You know, I am, even with all this manual labour. I think just getting around all this glitter and sparkle is helping. There's a smell around this office that seeps into your system; it's all glamour and seduction."
"Actually, I think it's overbearing perfume and cologne, and too much hair product," Marc corrected her. "But anyway, to each his own. Oh, and hey, I saw the photographer coming out of Daniel's office and he's a cu-tie." He finished the end of the sentence a little sing-songy.
"Never mind him, Marc. Did you see the designer they are featuring in the 'Who to Watch' section? And he's totally straight."
"How do you know?"
"Unibrow," Amanda replied as if it was obvious. "But other than the caterpillar over his eyes, he's hot. You should see the way he fills out his t-shirt and jeans."
"He wears a t-shirt and jeans and he has a unibrow? Totally straight," Marc concurred.
"I know. And if you saw him in them it would make you want to trans-Alexify yourself so you could get his attention."
Marc grimaced a little at the thought but didn't linger on it too long because something else was bothering him. "Are you sure you can overlook the caterpillar?" He was a little skeptical.
"Completely. Daniel and Betty have taught me something about deep relationships. Love is about more than just the hair on your face, and if he can overlook hers than I can overlook Designer Dave's, or whatever his name is, especially since he's going to be a success, I can just feel it. You should see his stuff. And I mean his real stuff, not his stuff-stuff, if you know what I mean."
"Amazingly, I do." Marc commented with disbelief that he actually understood that.
"Forget the lowly photographer, Marc. I gotta snatch the designer while he's still a nobody and ride his coat-tail, and other things, to superstardom."
"Aww Mandy, you're back!" Marc was delighted.