Beauty Bites (22 page)

“That gray thing? They’ll yawn to death. At least take one of my bras. I know thirty-two D is too small—”

“Thirty-six, Twyla.” I sprayed more starch and finished up the collar. “You haven’t been a thirty-two since freshman year in high school.”

“Whatever. Just try my Stealth Top.” She held up a skimpy knit. A line of tiny snaps marched down the front. “It starts off at Nun and unsnaps to Wink, Gasp, Slaver and Kill Me Now.”

I clicked off the iron. “Even at Wink, I’d look like an inflatable rubber raft with more cleavage than a plumber’s trousers.”

“But if Little is going to fight dirty—”

“I’m not stooping to his level. I’m going to win this battle on my own merits.” Rosie’s reluctance had rung a chord in me.

Twyla muttered something about leaving the gun holstered to shoot it. “Fine. I’ll put it in your dresser, in case you change your mind.”

Ten-twenty sharp I waited for the elevator in the Holiday Buzz main lobby, armored in the starched blouse, stiff tailored suit—and Twyla’s best ivory underwear set. She’d forced it on me at the last second, maybe hoping my blouse would get torn again. The lacy bikini thong with the tiny red bow fit but the bra’s band was two inches less than I was used to, and I couldn’t take a full breath.

So I was shifting foot to foot, nervous and uncomfortable too. This was it. The confrontation between me and Camille. Crisis Time. I reached for my emotional “off” switch—

My cell phone rang. I pulled it out and saw
Hospital
. “Byornsson.”

“Dr. Synnove?” Teddy’s thin voice greeted me. “He’s doing it again. Dr. Bearsylls is threatening you.”

“I’m sure Dr. Bearsylls doesn’t mean it.” I kept my own voice level. Teddy had had a very difficult surgery and didn’t need to be upset on top of everything. I mentally burned Bearsylls for scaring the boy.

“But he’s so angry. He’s saying it’s your fault that I can’t walk.”

Yes. The final piece of The Incident that I hadn’t told Ric. Teddy was the patient. That botched surgery had happened to a
child
.

Routine surgery to correct the leftover effects of a clubfoot had turned nightmare; Teddy could no longer use that foot and might never walk or run again. I couldn’t make up for the damage, but I did everything I could to balance it, visiting him daily and reading him stories to keep his spirits up.

And what about the surgeon, the one who actually did the damage? Was he in the least remorseful? Well, he was behind on his malpractice insurance premiums and his two sets of alimony. He simply took out more advertising to offset the “incorrect impressions”.

So no. No remorse at all.

This was the full horror of The Incident. A maimed child—and the guy who’d maimed him dismissed it as a cost of doing business.

“Why is he saying that, Dr. Synnove? Why is he so mean?”

My fingers tightened on the phone. Poor Teddy sounded really afraid. I was scared too, but Teddy needed to be reassured. I put aside my own feelings. “It’s an adult thing, sweetie. Some people deal with their anger and fear by taking it out on others. It’s not very constructive, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I know he’s wrong. You’ve been nice to me. I know you couldn’t have done anything bad.”

“Thanks, Teddy. That means a lot to me.” Unfortunately it wouldn’t mean anything to a judge, if it came to that. The boy had been under anesthetic at the time. And as far as support from the rest of the surgical team…well, not only Teddy was afraid of Dr. Bearsylls.

There was a short silence. Then he said timidly, “He talked my mom into it.”

I chilled.

“She says we can’t afford my treatment unless we sue somebody. Dr. Bearsylls said that Dr. Bearsylls Cares and everybody knows it. That she’d never win against him. He said she should sue the hospital instead. And you.”

That was a blow. But unfortunately, the way of the litigious world. “Your mom is doing what’s best for you, Teddy. Don’t worry about me.”

“But Dr. Synnove—”

“You concentrate on getting well. And the minute I get back into town I’ll visit, okay?” When he didn’t answer I prompted again. “Okay?”

“Well…will you show me that neat card game again? Sheep guts?”

I laughed in spite of everything. “Sheepshead.” The card game learned by all good little Meiers Corners
kindern
while they were still in diapers. “You bet. But you’ll have to promise to practice for me in the meantime.”

“I’ll get right on it!” The sound of ruffling cards underscored the last words.

I hung up, glad to hear life come back to Teddy’s voice, glad I’d distracted him from worrying. Talking him down had worked, at least for now. Next time, who knew? I’d try my best.

The fact that I was scared too? Wasn’t Teddy’s problem, nor even his mother’s, who worked two jobs just to pay the insurance deductibles for the surgeries. She needed money to help her boy. It wasn’t her fault a malpractice suit was the only way to get it. Unfortunately, that meant she’d sue everybody from the hospital to the PG4s, that is, me.

One person was at fault, but we’d all pay.

And unless I got into the right mindset to take on Camille and Chicken Little, a whole city would pay another price.

The elevator had come and gone while I’d been on the phone. It was now ten thirty and my meeting was about to begin without me.

I tried to flip my Crisis Time switch but I was either too distracted or needed the smell of disinfectant as a cue—nothing happened.

Damn. I pushed the elevator button, chafing. I heard a distant ringing—the elevator was on hold. Being late wouldn’t strengthen my position. If they listened at all. No, I was a doctor by training. They’d respect that. And maybe they’d understand if I explained I was late because I took Teddy’s phone call.

Unless they didn’t wait for me. Unless they decided that, because I wasn’t there at 10:30 sharp, Camille won by default. I pushed the button and held it. An extended ring told me it was still stuck. I waited. Pushed again. The shrill ring had a faintly mocking tone to it. Whoever was holding it wasn’t letting go.

My nerves, already frayed, pushed me away from the elevator to run up the stairs.

I promptly got new respect for Rapunzel’s prince, clambering up a towerful of hair. Even a workout with Mr. Miyagi’s head teacher Thorvald, a grueling mix of running, agonizingly slow kicks and mountain climbers, culminating in a duck walk around a city block—affectionately known as “Thor’s Hammering”—didn’t prepare me for running up the side of a football field-size mountain. I was gasping for breath, rumpled and sweaty by the time I made it to thirty-two.

Rosie, at the front desk, leaped up the moment she saw me come through the agency door. “They’ve already started.” She grabbed my hand and led me toward the offices. “They’re in the big conference room. Do you want coffee?”

“Water,” I croaked.

“It’s on the table.” She studied me, biting her lower lip. “Good luck, Dr. Byornsson.”

From that look, I’d probably need it. I nodded my thanks, and stumbled in.

The big conference room next to Ric’s corner office ran half the building’s length. It was dominated by a long hardwood table circled by twelve black captain’s chairs. Four chairs were occupied, by Camille, two women, and a man; Little was standing. The man must be Mr. Riley from Finance. I guessed the neat Asian woman with the short glossy black bob was Ms. Park, which left the painfully thin brunette as Ms. Dullea, the media buyer.

Charles Little strutted at the head of the table, arms behind his back. He was obviously trying to give the impression of a captain pacing his ship’s deck but to me that strut said rooster. When he saw me he stopped. “
Miz
Byornsson. Finally deciding to grace us with your presence, I see. Sit. There.”

I’m not naive. I try to play fair, but I’m perfectly aware of how the game goes. That introduction was one of the most damaging blows Little could have dealt me. I lost points for being late. I’d been stripped of my title’s respect, and asking for it now would make me look petty. Explaining why I was late would look like I was currying pity points.

Without a word, I sat. My lips were as tight as rubber bands and my nerves were singing like horror movie violins.

Charles began strutting again, his wattle jiggling importantly. “I am often called on in Mr. Holiday’s absence to step in and keep Holiday Buzz running smoothly. Such is the case with this Meiers Corners competitive presentation. For both our efficiency and the client’s best results, it is imperative to move on this in a timely fashion. Thus, I’ve decided to hold the meeting today. In deciding which client to take on, my sole objective is to be fair.” He smiled sappily at Camille.

Well, that answered who he was rooting for, as if I hadn’t known. I hoped the entire vote wasn’t stacked against me.

I checked out the room. Tailored suits, crisp shirts and power ties. It didn’t mean their minds were made up but I certainly had an uphill battle. Even my professional togs were a point against me, as rumpled as they now were.

Chicken Little turned from Camille to me and his simper clicked off like a light. “Ms. Byornsson, if you’re ready…?” He sounded like he doubted it.

“Of course.” As I got up I kept in mind that I was pitching to people like me—realists. Interested in results, not feel-good empty talk. Like a doctor who, after surgery, requires not flatulence but results… Okay, bottom line, Meiers Corners’s folksy message might connect better to the creatives, but these were
my
equals.

“Meiers Corners is positioned for enormous tourist growth. Let me tell you why.” I’d carried in a manila folder and now I opened it on the table so everyone could see it. “We’ve already taken steps to make the city more attractive to tourists.” I tapped the graph on the top sheet. “Here’s tourist volume before and during the run of
Oz, Wonderful Oz
—which is now on Broadway, a great selling point, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

From their stony faces, they didn’t. I swallowed my disappointment—a mistake because I hadn’t had time to pour myself water, my throat was extremely dry, and the swallow took half my tongue with it. “Uth ook aa…” Damn it. I bit the inside of my cheek, which relieved some of the dryness, and tried again. “Just look at the numbers.”

The facts were solid. I pointed to the first bar, then the second, which was five times taller. We’d already quintupled our tourism, proving our work ethic. Surely that was impressive.

Little smiled like a razorblade. “So you went from one tourist to five?”

Dullea tittered.

“No, it’s five times as many—”

“Oh! From two to ten?”

Riley snorted.

I clenched my eyes briefly. “The point is, we attracted hundreds of tourists to our city.
New
tourists.”

“You’ve forgotten something.” Camille smiled slyly. “Many of those tourists actually came because of
my
club.”

“Is that true, Ms. Byornsson?” Little’s shocked expression was
way
overdone. I wanted to smack him. Come on. Even image should have an element of taste.

But because of who I am, I had to admit the truth. “It is my understanding that
some
of them came because of your club, but—”

“You do know you’re making Ms. Lebeau’s case for her?”

The whole room laughed at that.

“But they stayed because of the musical—”

“I promise I didn’t pay her.” Camille’s eyeteeth got pointy as she went for the kill. “Synnove is giving me an
honest
,
truthful
evaluation.”

The words hit like hammers between my shoulder blades. How could honest and truthful be so awful?

“I think that’s enough from Ms. Byornsson. Let’s hear from Ms. Lebeau.”

My mouth worked but no more words came out. A slow, awful cold invaded my body, taking the strength from my legs.

I sat down. I’d lost, and more than the pitch.

Camille rose, her lush form poured into a red bandage minidress, and swayed around the room on platform spikes. “Let me stress how much
money
my casinos will make.”

The room was so quiet you could hear my ego drop. Ding.

As she went over her cash figures, heads nodded. She passed out slick packets of glossy pie charts, stepped back and let them absorb the numbers, her lips curled in a small, smug smile.

That smile cankered. I found my voice for one last try. “What about the Holiday Buzz mission? Where’s the favorable impact on humanity? My plan—”

“History-book charm? Please. Hoary and irrelevant.” Camille braced her hands on the table and leaned forward until her cleavage popped, completely reclaiming their attention, even the women. “
My
plan brings Meiers Corners into the twenty-first century. Your plan? As helpful in this economy as a liberal arts degree or educational television. Mine is a high tech degree; a blockbuster movie.
My
plan generates the kind of jobs that’ll last through whatever turns our modern age hands out. Real jobs for real people.”

“Real jobs,” Riley murmured. “Real benefit.”

My chest ached as I sat there, not quite hearing because my ears were stuffed with cotton. I started shivering. Maybe I was coming down with a cold. That would explain my prickly nose and my gummy eyelids.