Cutting Loose

“Gee, can’t imagine who said that.” Cilla’s voice was wry. “You know, if you just ditched the T-shirt and jeans and spruced yourself up a little, people would be so busy staring at you, no one would give Amber a second glance.”

Trish flicked her gaze to the ceiling. “I don’t want people staring at me, thanks, and I like wearing a T-shirt and jeans.”

“And they like you,” Cilla said smoothly. “But at a party? You’ll feel more comfortable if you’re looking your best.”

“Come on, Cilla, a little makeup isn’t going to change things.”

“Mmm. I had in mind something a little more radical,” Cilla stated, walking into her bedroom and pulling open the closet door.

“If you think I’m going to be able to fit into anything of yours, you’re dreaming,” Trish said, coming in after her. “I’m three sizes larger than you are.”

“Give me a break.” Cilla grabbed a handful of the cloth at Trish’s waist. “You could take these jeans off without ever unbuttoning them. Why are you still buying clothes for someone you were ten years ago?”

“They’re comfortable,” Trish muttered.

“So’s being naked, but I don’t see you walking around like that.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Cilla pulled out garments at random, humming to herself. “Humor me.”

Trish tried again. “Cilla, no one’s going to care whether I’m in costume or not.

Cilla turned to her and smiled. “Trust me. They will when I get through with you.”

“LET ME SEE.”

“Stay still.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not going overboard.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Trish said, trying unsuccessfully to rise from her perch on the toilet seat.

“You’ll see when I’m done. Now sit,” Cilla ordered, pushing her back down. She brandished the mascara wand. “Look toward the ceiling and try to keep your eyes open wide.”

“That’s the third coat of mascara you’ve put on,” Trish pointed out. Makeovers exasperated her. Good, bad or ugly, she was who she was, and all shining-up her act was going to do was make her expect things that were never going to happen.

Yeah, she’d learned that the hard way.

Trish reached out for the hand mirror on the counter but Cilla fixed her with a look. “You take one peek and I’m not giving your jeans back. Ever.”

“Come on, Cilla, I’m feeling like your personal Frankenstein monster, here. I can put on my own lipstick.”

“Uh-uh.” Cilla came back from her makeup drawer with a lipstick the color of ripe cherries. “I want you to get the full impact.”

The full impact was what Trish was worried about as she worked to keep her mouth still under the tickle of Cilla’s lipstick brush. Simple, low-key and in the background, that was the way she liked it.

Cilla finished and set the lip color down, then she stepped back with her hands on her hips and studied her friend. “Now that’s a sight to see,” she said in satisfaction, and then laughed. “That was the most scared I’ve seen you look since that time we ordered a male stripper for your birthday.”

“Just tell me I don’t look like Tammy Faye.”

“You don’t look like Tammy Faye,” Cilla assured her. “Okay, upsy daisy, but don’t look at the mirror in here.” She covered Trish’s eyes until they got into the bedroom. “I want you to get the total effect all at once.”

“I’ll get the total effect if I trip and break my neck.”

“Almost there, almost there…okay, you’re in front of the mirror. Are you ready?”

Despite herself, Trish felt a little tingle of anticipation. “So show me.”

“Ta-da,” Cilla sang and dropped her hands.

For a moment, all Trish could do was stare. And a gorgeous stranger in the mirror stared back at her. The other “her” stood with a silky waterfall of absolutely smooth red-gold hair flowing to her waist and a mouth as tempting as chocolate. The features that had always seemed too delicate in comparison to her sister’s sun-tossed California blond looks were suddenly vivid and underscored with some special importance. Expert makeup played up the hollows in her cheeks and rendered her slate-gray eyes dark and somehow mysterious. “Wow.” She raised her hands to the soft strands of her hair. “Wow,” she said again.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m…wow, Cilla, really. I’m amazed.” With a little surge of excitement, Trish turned to and fro to get the full effect. And, she had to admit, in the outfit she wore, it was some effect indeed. The evening required a bold statement, Cilla had decreed. Digging in her closet, she’d come up with her best studded-leather dominatrix look. To Trish’s amazement, she’d actually been able to zip it up, although taking a deep breath made her breasts swell upward alarmingly. The leather bustier molded her waist, the skirt fit her like a second skin. Fishnet tights and high-heeled red ankle boots completed the ensemble. It might have been couture, but it looked like something out of an S&M club.

And it looked really fabulous.

Still, she wasn’t sure she was such a good judge of party wear. “Are you sure this isn’t a little over the top?”

“Are you kidding? At a do like this?” Cilla sniffed. “You’ll be tame. Too bad we couldn’t get you a whip,” she added thoughtfully. “It would add that little extra touch.”

“For that ‘you’ve been a bad boy lately’ look?”

“Like I said, you never know. You might enjoy it.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Although it feels like the person I’m dressed up as would.” She turned to inspect herself from behind.

“That’s the fun part, isn’t it?” Cilla said cheerfully, slipping into her nurse’s costume. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do that, be someone else just for a night?”

Trish’s standard answer was that who she was would have to do. If she wasn’t one-hundred-percent thrilled with life, that was only to be expected. She’d shed the crazy expectations of being a siren, of having men tumble at her feet, of finding true love with Mr. Right. She just wasn’t built for it. Her friends could tell her she was a hopeless romantic all they liked. Wanting love and believing that it had any place in her life were two very different things.

For one night, though, maybe it could be different. Maybe for this night she could be someone else, see how the other half lived.

Slowly the corners of her mouth curved up into a smile and she vamped in the mirror. “Be someone else, li’l ol’ me?”

“Why not?” Cilla slicked her dark-gold hair back behind her ears and hung a stethoscope around her neck. “In this getup, you could have yourself a time. What do you think?”

Trish grinned at her reflection. “I think we’d better get to the party.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, as they stood outside Sabrina’s house, the notion seemed altogether less brilliant. Sabrina lived in Venice, a small neighborhood south of Santa Monica. An ambitious developer in the thirties had built a neighborhood of houses along a series of narrow, criss-crossing canals dug into the California soil. Now, newly dredged and fashionable, the neighborhood held echoes of the real Venice or Amsterdam, with its small arched bridges and houses next to the water.

It definitely didn’t go with dominatrix-wear. “I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea,” Trish murmured, pulling futilely at her skirt as they made their way up the walkway to Sabrina’s house. It was one thing to be wearing the outfit in Cilla’s bedroom; it was another to wear it in public. Not even the silk duster she’d thrown over the top helped.

“Stop picking at your clothes,” Cilla scolded.