The Stand-In (2 page)

“It seems to be.”

She put the newspaper on the table between them and stared at it, her heart filled with horror and a strange fascination. Kind of like the time, years ago, when she came upon a hawk in the backyard, eviscerating a squirrel.

“Bad idea, huh?”

“It’s different.”

“Look. Clearly it’s not right for you, Winn. With everything that happened between you and Shithead Mike.”

One of Enid’s charms was her ability to create succinct nicknames for the men who passed through Winn’s life. People like Pervy Phil, Shithead Mike, Suddenly Gay Dennis. That sort of thing. She claimed it helped her keep them straight. Not that there were so many one lost track.

“Don’t call him that.”

“Jesus, will you stop defending that prick? You need to confront him and tell him he’s an asshole of the first order.” She grabbed the newspaper, ripping it. “Forget the ad.”

Winn held onto the paper and managed to retain the scrap that contained the advertisement. “Forget Mike. I’m interested in this job and I need the money.”

Enid peered at her. “Are you sure? It’s weird, but I suppose it might work for a theater grad.”

Winn reread the small ad.

Bridesmaids wanted for agency. We are seeking clean, attractive young women who are willing to act as bridesmaids in wedding parties. You must have a flexible schedule for dress fittings, showers, wedding dates, etc. You must be friendly, sociable, and detail-oriented. Generous hourly wages. All expenses paid. Call Margie Kent at (416) 271-4568
.

Winn stared. Who advertised for bridesmaids in the paper? Who was this Margie Kent? Was she really a freaky dude trying to lure women to his “agency”? Was his office really a smelly basement apartment decorated with photos of unsuspecting women taken at close range?

“On the plus side,” said Enid, “you’ll get paid to pretend to be someone’s BFF, get new gowns out of the deal, and a few good meals. And you get to flex your acting skills. It might work. I’ll go with you to meet her if you’re worried about being alone at the interview.”

“But on the negative side, I’d have to attend weddings. Lots of them.”

Enid reached for her hand and squeezed. “Kiddo, in a weird way, it might be good for you. After all, it was over a year ago. Shithead Mike is history, as he should be. I know we both think wedded bliss is a fallacy, but who cares? It’s just a job, an acting job. Think of it as a challenge. In a way, it could be the ultimate kiss-off to Mike as well. It would be closure. God knows he never gave it to you.”

Closure. An acting job. Money.

It seemed ridiculous to say no. Hey, if she let herself relax, it might even be fun. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she hadn’t had to worry about the rent money. Hell, she might even be able to go shopping for the first time in what felt like a decade. Imagine. New shoes. Some fancy panties, the kind that came with a matching bra. And, she mused as she salivated, a new tube of lipstick. Luxury.

She could do this. She’d be insane not to do this.

Winn sat up straighter as a queer sense of destiny filled her being. She reread the ad a few more times and then grinned at her sister. Without saying a word, she reached into her purse for her cell phone and dialed.

“Hello, is this Ms. Kent? I’m calling about your ad.”

* * * *

Winn sat in the plush office and took in the view of the Toronto skyline from the forty-third floor. When she’d first arrived at Margie’s office, she thought she’d come to the wrong place. The address the woman had given was for an executive search firm. However, when she’d inquired about the bridesmaid agency, she’d been directed into this office.

Apparently, hiring bridesmaids was a lucrative business.

Within minutes, a professional-looking woman entered and extended her hand. Winn stood and shook it, taking in her appearance. Margie Kent was a tall, slim brunette whose lovely figure was wrapped in an expensive pantsuit. She smiled and her blue eyes shone. A massive rock nestled against a diamond-studded wedding band on her left hand.

She didn’t look like a serial killer. She looked like Ivana Trump’s better-dressed cousin.

“Winn, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.”

She did, smiling through her nerves and patting down her worn cotton skirt. “I have to admit, Ms. Kent. I’ve never heard of this sort of operation before.”

“Call me Margie. And most people haven’t heard of us. Let me tell you a little about myself.” She crossed her long legs, gams that looked as if they belonged on a show horse, and sat back in a tall, leather chair. “I’m a headhunter by trade, and have worked in the financial sector for years, hiring bank executives and analysts. Like many women today, my job has been my life. A few years ago, I met a wonderful man and we married.”

“Congratulations,” she replied, not sure where the conversation was going.

Margie smiled, showing off brilliant white teeth. “Thank you. However, when our wedding preparations got underway, I came to a sad realization. I had no friends to stand up for me.”

Winn gawked. How could this woman have no friends? Even the grouchy lady who ran the corner store on her street had friends. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Not really. You see, I’d dedicated my life to my work. Spent countless hours climbing the corporate ladder. Oh, I had associates. I had plenty of colleagues and contacts, but no real friends. And I realized I’d rather have a stranger as my bridesmaid than an associate.”

“But that sounds, well, sort of horrible. No offense.”

“None taken. The fact is, Winn, in today’s modern world, many relationships are conducted online. People are closer to their Facebook friends than they are to people they see every day. These are the women I help. Let’s face it, some of us just don’t have a wide circle of girlfriends.”

Winn thought about it. She didn’t really have a lot of good friends either, unless she counted her sister. Oh, she knew a few women, but because she was in acting, most of her friendships expired quickly. To keep her acting résumé fresh, she partook in numerous community theater productions. Her relationships tended to last as long as each production. After each show ended, the friends faded into the distance.

Of course, there had been Amber…

She gritted her teeth at the thought of her former best friend.

Margie continued. “When it came time to finalize my bridesmaids, I interviewed and hired a few of the professional temps I’d worked with in the past. These were women who knew how to conduct themselves, women about whom I wouldn’t have to worry. Because they were getting paid, I knew there was no chance of them getting drunk or hitting on the best man at the reception. They represented me on my special day exactly as I wanted them to represent me. They made me look good and I was happy to pay them for their services. After the wedding, I shared the information with a couple of colleagues and we all agreed it might be an interesting sideline for the agency.” She curled her rouged lips. “You’d be surprised how many brides approach us for stand-ins as their bridesmaids.”

Winn bit her lip so her jaw wouldn’t drop. “You call them ‘stand-ins’?”

“Better than ‘Rent-a-Maid,’ don’t you think?”

“Uh, sure. I guess so.”

Margie cast an appraising gaze over Winn’s face and form. “You’d do well in this position. You’re pretty, but you look like the girl-next-door, which is good. Brides don’t generally want to hire supermodels as their bridesmaids.” She looked her up and down. “It’s good you’re not too tall. The blonde hair might be an issue for some brides. Some women are very insecure and don’t like to think the stand-in will outshine them on their wedding day. Still, I don’t think there’s a need to dye it right now. Let’s see what the response is first.” She glanced down at Winn’s resume. “You’re an actress. Wonderful. This job is ideal for actors.”

“Great.”

As Winn struggled with her thoughts, Margie produced a contract. “As you’ll see here, the pay is fair and we do have a bonus structure in place. As stated in the ad, all your expenses are paid, from wedding gifts to dresses. We also screen our brides and ensure we’re not sending our stand-ins to any questionable locations. You won’t have to attend weddings in dodgy bars on the bad side of town. Does this sound reasonable to you?”

She stared at the figure on the contract. She hadn’t ever seen that kind of money in her bank account. Pinching her thigh so she wouldn’t shout in excitement, Winn composed herself and offered Margie a placid smile. “Very reasonable. When would I begin?”

“If you’re free this afternoon, one of my colleagues can start your training.” She offered a pen that cost more than Winn’s shoes. “I will, of course, need to call your references, but I can see you’ll fit in quite well here. Would you mind terribly if I sent you to a spa tomorrow to get your eyebrows and nails done? I’ll cover the cost. We like all our girls to project an immaculate image.”

Winn touched her left eyebrow as she reread the contract. She hadn’t ever thought her brows were unruly, but who was she to argue with the woman footing the bills? She eyed Margie Kent. “You’re not really a madam, are you? I’m not signing some kind of hooker contract, am I?”

She laughed. “Absolutely not. As a stand-in, rule number one is ‘No hookups on the job.’” She motioned toward the contract. “So, do we have a deal?”

She smiled, brimming with a happiness she barely understood, and so relieved she didn’t have to give up her apartment. She’d have money again, and she’d be acting again. In a strange way. “We have a deal.”

* * * *

Three months later

Patrick Lincoln ignored the receptionist’s knowing grin as he entered the sleek offices of
Player Magazine
. Clearly, the receptionist recognized him as the ex-columnist for the
Torontonian
, Toronto’s most respected newspaper. She obviously saw him for what he was: a former reporter of world events, now reduced to freelancing for a dumb rag, written for dumber men.

She glimpsed him and must have known exactly how far the mighty had fallen.

Nevertheless, he held his head high as he approached her desk. “Hi. I’m here to see Jake Fowler.”

Her manicured nail clicked her computer mouse. “Of course. He’s expecting you, Mr. Lincoln. I’ll take you right in.”

The pretty thing stood and led him to a door at the back of the reception area. Patrick allowed his gaze to drop to her rounded ass, clad as it was in a tight miniskirt that showed quite clearly her lack of panty lines. Nice.

Stop it. You’re not in any position to be noticing a lack of panty lines
.

Feeling castrated, as if the mighty hand of fate had snipped his balls, Patrick looked away from her juicy behind. He followed her down a mahogany corridor to an office as spacious as his own used to be at the
Torontonian
. He bit back a grunt as he glimpsed warm, leather interiors and manly furnishings.

Old Jakey boy had done all right for himself. Perhaps he should have tried writing less about scandals in the council chambers and more about bodybuilding and “how to get her into bed on the first date.”

Bullshit men’s magazines. Catering to readers who thought they were gods but who had trouble getting it up.

Now, now, Paddy. You’re here because you have no choice but to work for this bullshit men’s magazine, so smile for the damned cameras
.

The first thing he noticed was the incredible view of the city’s trendy Distillery District, refurbished beer warehouses that now acted as galleries and high-priced florists. He then noticed the professional man standing at the window, the suit who bore little resemblance to his old friend from university. However, once Jake Fowler turned and smiled, his brown eyes crinkling in genuine happiness, he once again glimpsed his old drinking buddy and fellow shit disturber from journalism class.

“Patrick Michael Lincoln, you downtrodden fuck.”

Patrick danced his gaze toward the still-lingering receptionist and then back. “Nice to see you too, Jake. It’s been a long time. I see you’ve cleaned up.”

Jake shrugged, glancing at his designer duds. “Nah. I haven’t changed a bit. Just better clothes.”

“Considering some of our misadventures, it makes me nervous you haven’t changed.”

He chuckled and then eyed his employee. “Thanks, Nancy. That’ll be all for now.” She smiled and left the room. Once the door was closed, he gave Patrick the same randy grin they’d exchanged at countless filthy bars in their college days.

He shook his head. “Seriously? Sleeping with the secretary? You’re a twisted cliché.”

He held up his hands in defense. “Are you kidding? I wish. I’m not that depraved.” He approached and they hugged it out. “Not that I wouldn’t like to. That bra is definitely not padded.”

Jake motioned toward the homey seating area and Patrick sat, knowing full well that as comfy as it appeared, each furnishing was chosen with care by a designer. As he eased into the brown leather couch, he let out a small, nostalgic sigh for the chair in his old office. God, he missed that chair. When he remembered how well his own chair cushioned him, he got winded. Any time he so much as spied a nice pair of Italian leather shoes now, or even a belt, he got a hard-on.

“Besides,” Jake continued, seemingly oblivious to Patrick’s case of leather-inspired lust. “We’re not here to talk about my perversions. We’re here because you fucked up big-time. I may want to sleep with my receptionist, but you hit the boss’s wife. What were you thinking?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not as lecherous as it sounds.”

Jake matched his eye roll. “Oh, it’s never as lecherous as it sounds. Don’t worry. This is a judgment-free zone.”

“Listen, Jason Dietrich was my boss at the
Torontonian
for five years. I saw how he operated. I witnessed how he mauled every skirt in a ten-mile radius. When Gloria first came to me, she was distraught. She needed a shoulder to cry on and I happened to be there.”

“I’m sure you were.” Jake grinned like a spoiled frat boy.

“No, really. She told me she wanted to save her marriage, not make it worse. She said she could only take so much rejection.” He brought his hands together, knotting his fingers. “Gloria and I were old friends…Anyway it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure you read all the sordid details in the papers.”