Icing On The Cake

Before I can answer, Celia’s out the door. As I fiddle with the strings that claim to adjust hip exposure, the door swings back open and two young women enter.

One glance over my shoulder reveals a pair of deeply tanned but un-sun-kissed babes in micro bikinis, the kind you only see in ads for Australian beaches or Brazilian wax jobs. They are also wearing shower caps and heels.

One holds out a slender arm to the other. “Does this look like a Brazilian tan to you?”

Her whole body is the color of maple furniture; who can tell? But I turn quickly away. They weren’t speaking to me.

I hear her companion reply, “You look a bit toasty around the edges.”

The first one sighs. “They say it will take several hours for the full effect. Still, I expected, well, you know. More.”

The way she says this, I visualize beluga on toast triangles, chilled Dom, an ocean view and live violins.

I sidestep back into one of the dressing cubicles, hoping they will just ignore me. Now, not only do I feel sallow-complexioned and under-exfoliated, even my pedicure screams amateur. I’m a self-made woman in this spa-day world.

“Oh, look, a newbie,” says one of them in a stage whisper. The reason that must be so crystal clear is because my pale June-moon posterior is turned to her.

Moving closer to me, she says, “Hi there. You will want to go slow the first time in a tanning bed. You’re really untan.”

“Thanks,” I mumble without turning around. “But I’m getting a spray job.”

“Should you tell her?” murmurs the other one. “About the, you know, uneven affects spray tans can have on aging skin. How it streaks in sagging areas?”

“No, that wouldn’t be kind.” Muffled giggles accompany this as they drift into cubicles to change out of their suits. “But I’ve seen what inconsistent coverage can do. The poor woman looked like she had a disease.”

I suspect I’m being baited, even if they are whispering, but the partition blocks the nasty look I toss in their direction.

After a moment of silence one says, “Have you bought your wardrobe for Santa Fe?”

“Not everything. It’s so hard to shop now that I’m between sizes. I saw these really cute capris at Bloomies.” Big sigh. “But they were a size four, and positively bagged in the crotch. To make up for my bad mood, I bought two pairs of Michael Kors sandals, a gold-leather flat and wedgies with turquoise stones up the front.”

“Oh m’god! I saw those. They cost a fortune.”

“That’s right. But I earn it.” There’s a muffled exchange and more giggles. “Teddy just loves my new abs.”

“Ten days at a spa in New Mexico. You’re so fricking lucky, Brandi!”

My head jerks up. Teddy? Brandi! “Oh…my…God!”

I step backward out of my cubicle just as she does, and find myself looking dazedly at a face and body that accelerates my heart. It’s…. it’s…her!

Her gaze widens, as if I’m the one who needs help because I’m gaping at her standing there in the nude. “You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

That’s when I remember I’m wearing a shower cap and goggles. I hurriedly snatch off both, which is a mistake. My breasts heave and then drop, breaking the paper halter strings, so that they flop out over the top.

I reach back and grab for modesty’s sake one of the paper towelettes they gave us to dry off with. As I do, I hear a rip. The crotch of my bikini bottom pops, leaving me with two narrow triangles flapping free, fore and aft.

“Well, well. Liz.” Brandi’s lips twitch as her gaze flicks up and down my torso with mortifying interest in my wayward flesh. “It’s always…interesting to see you.”

“I—er, yeah,” I manage but she’s on the move.

“Got to run,” she says as she sashays her tiny bronze butt toward the lockers.

“Who was that?” I hear her buddy ask as they disappear around the corner. I miss the reply. But I don’t really need to hear it.

I strip off the remains of my wrecked suit with shaking hands. Of all the bad-luck, unnecessary things to happen!

I’m back in my own bra and panties when Celia reappears, which adds a second shock to the day. She looks like something that should be served up with clarified butter and lemon wedges.

“Holy cow! Celia, are you okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s just had a reaction to the tanning booster,” Lili says calmly.

Celia doesn’t look calm. She’s vibrating as if she’s got one of her new fingernail tips caught in an electric socket. “The hot-action cream said it gave maximum tanning results in the shortest possible time. I—I wanted to look—look.”

I turn to our hostess. “I thought she was going to be painted bronze. Cherry-red is not a tanning color.”

“It’s temporary,” Lili assures us with the perfect composure of a salon hostess accustomed to dealing with victims of a disastrous tanning job. “It will wear off.”

“She can’t go out in public like this,” I protest. “She looks like a frankfurter.”

“In twenty-four hours, she will look normal again.”

“Tanless?” Celia questions in alarm.

“No, just not so—”

“Boiled?” I suggest.

Lili purses her lips. “She’s not burned. Our hot-action creams simulate the same kind of heat you get from deep-heat muscle creams. Mrs. Duffy just has what we call an overt reaction. The overstimulation of blood vessels will wear off.”

I turn to Celia. “Get in the shower and wash that stuff off.”

“No!” both Celia and our hostess protest.

“She’ll lose the benefits of the spray-on tanning,” Lili explains.

“And now, because of my reaction, it will be two weeks before I can come back!” Celia’s wail touches my heart. But my brain is busy reliving humiliations of my own.

She has just reappeared, wearing a blouse knotted high under her breasts and low-rider cuffed cropped jeans that expose a long lean bronze torso with a multicolor tattooed garland centered two inches below her navel.

Lili rushes up to her to gush, “Was everything satisfactory, Mrs. Talbot?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

“Of course, Mrs. Talbot. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

I straighten my spine as she passes. I’m in my best underwire now. It’s safe to thrust.