Operation Cinderella Page 3

  Starr snorted. “If ‘it’ involves driving On Top into the ground and me prematurely gray, then yeah, no problem.” She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Two weeks. It’s the best I can do.”

  “Two weeks is barely enough time to unpack.” Macie studied her own splayed fingers. Assuming Starr gave her the green light, the nail tips and multiple rings would have to go, as would her long hair, naval ring, and all-black wardrobe. “Six weeks including the two weeks of paid vacation I have coming to me. But if you end up running the story, and you will, I’ll expect salary plus expenses.”

  Starr didn’t rush to answer, a sign that her will was weakening. “Cocky little shit, aren’t you?” she said after a moment, and Macie knew that those twitching lips meant she was struggling against smiling. “Okay, you get the six weeks, but you make sure to check in every frigging day by e-mail. Terri is a good assistant editor, but she’s not ready to fly solo.”

  Adrenaline pumping, Macie shot up from her seat. “I’ll get with Terri ASAP and make sure she has what she needs from me.”

  “Unless you’re planning on knocking over an armored truck, see you keep your expenses within reason,” Starr warned.

  Turning to go, Macie grinned. “Hey, have you ever known me to be anything but reasonable?” It was a loaded question, and they both knew it.

  She had one foot in the hallway when Starr called her back. Wondering if she might be reconsidering, Macie slowly turned around. “Yeah, boss lady?”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Macie hesitated. She was signing up to go undercover, not unlike feminist Gloria Steinem had done in the sixties, donning bunny ears and tail to infiltrate Hugh Heffner’s Playboy Club. Only instead of a good girl playing at being bad, Macie would be a bad girl playing at being good. Could she really pull it off?

  Mindful that she had not one but two people to convince, Macie concentrated on appearing confident and calm. “If everything goes according to plan, which it will, I’ll have the research wrapped up and the finished story on your desk in four weeks, not six, which leaves Yours Truly with two solid weeks—with pay, thank you very much—to plant my winter-white ass on a patch of beachfront paradise.” Backing out into the hall, she shot Starr a wink.

  Screw a fairy godmother and pumpkin-pulling mice. The wheels of Operation Cinderella were already in motion and this coach was set to soar.

  .

  Going undercover as Mannon’s personal Cinderella would call for an Oscar-worthy acting performance. To prepare for her starring role, Macie needed a major makeover. Fortunately, she was friends with Franc Whiting, an A-list Manhattan stylist. Frankly Franc had opened that summer in TriBeCa, and already getting an appointment with the owner involved a backlog of several months. Her panicked call to Franc’s cell phone—“I need a fairy godfather fast”—scored her an after-hours appointment and the promise of a bottle of top-shelf pinot noir.

  Hours later, she sat inside the renovated former warehouse facing a gilt-framed salon mirror, her hair hidden beneath the wrap of a fluffy pewter-colored towel. Grayish blue eyes stared back at her, heavily lined with charcoal-colored eye pencil, smudged to give her a smoky, slightly netherworldly look. A little pink around the whites—okay, borderline bloodshot—a sign her partying lifestyle was beginning to show. Naked lips, full thanks to Mother Nature and not collagen, and a dusting of pale powder completed the look she’d spent the past six months perfecting. Now, of course, it would all have to go.

  Franc leaned in, his sculpted face joining hers in the mirror. “Courage, love. You’re going to look amazing.”

  Macie wasn’t sure why, but she always found his faux British accent incredibly soothing. “You always say that.” Nervous, she fingered the edge of the towel.

  The year before, she’d been a spiral-permed redhead with a penchant for eighties retro trash chic. Her current transformation, changing her hair from black to blond, was a grueling process involving stripping the black, bleaching to cover any residual brassiness, and then coloring the hair a wheat blond—the closest match to her natural shade, as far as she remembered. Between applications, she filled Franc in on Operation Cinderella. In a single breath, he’d declared her lunatic, outrageous, and, of course, brilliant.

  “Voilà!” He swept away the towel and pale hair slid free.

  Macie sucked in her breath, feeling as if she was staring at a stranger. “Wow, that’s quite a…change.” Though blond was her natural color, she’d been dyeing her hair darker for so many years now that she’d as good as forgotten what she used to look like.

  Franc sent her a self-assured smile. “What can I say? False modesty isn’t modesty at all and a frickin’ fairy godfather couldn’t have pulled this off in two hours.” Pulling a black comb and scissors from the container of Barbacide solution set atop the black marble-topped counter, he addressed her reflection. “Speaking of fairy tales, don’t you think that bit about your past employers being Christian missionaries might have been…well, a tad over the top?”

  “Actually, I think he ate it up.” Leaning back in the black, vinyl-covered chair while Franc gently combed out the tangles, she decided she’d better tell him the rest before he started with the scissors. “By the way, you’ll probably be hearing from him soon.”

  The comb snared on a strand. Franc snapped up his head. “Why would I?”

  Macie bit her bottom lip, wishing her glass of wine were within easier reach. “He asked me to e-mail him my references, and I couldn’t risk giving him some bogus address and then having him find out, so I, er…gave him your and Nathan’s landline.” She cast a look behind to the curtained office where Franc’s accountant and life partner was busy going over the books.

  His perfectly plucked brows shot upward. “Nathan and I are supposed to be the Christian missionary couple you’ve been working for?”

  She slipped her hand from beneath the smock and patted his bicep. “Relax, Brother Franc, it’s no big deal. Your first name’s the same only spelled with a K. All you have to remember is that you have a wife, Nadine, and two teenage kids.”

  He struck a pose reminiscent of Nathan Lane in the film version of The Bird Cage and batted his eyes. “Really, Macie, we’re not drag queens. Nathan’s falsetto is slightly superior to mine but still not terribly convincing.”

  Macie chuckled. “If he insists on talking to the wife, stall. Tell him she’s out at a church bake sale or praying or…something, and then give me a buzz. My assistant editor, Terri, was a theater major at NYU. She can help us out.”

  The comb-out complete, he started dividing her hair into sections. “And what about our fictional children? Do the little darlings have names?”

  Macie hesitated. “Chloe and, um…Zachary.”

  “Zachary, hmm, interesting choice.” Looking ahead into the mirror, she caught him rolling his eyes at the mention of her on-again-off-again boyfriend. For the past two months, they’d been in the “off” phase—barring a few late night booty calls that he’d put out and she’d…answered.

  Busted, she sunk down into her seat. “If I get stuck, it’ll be easy to remember.” Bringing the subject back around, she added, “Anyway, the four of you are about to set off for a two-year mission to… How does Belize sound? I know how you hate the winter in New York.”

  Running a hand through his mousse-spiked hair, he nodded. “Thoughtful. And who are you, by the way, or are Nathan and I the only ones with aliases?”

  She tried out the guileless gaze and Stepford wife smile the good women of her hometown wore on a regular basis. Batting her eyes and stretching her lips to the limit, she drawled, “Why, I’m Martha Jane Gray, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. “You sound terrifyingly authentic.”

  She hesitated, and then admitted, “I ought to. I grew up in a tiny town in Indiana called Heavenly.”

  “Sounds quite…bucolic.”

  She smothered a snort. Heavenly was an egregio
us misnomer. The town was home to a paper mill and was about as butt ugly as small town America got.

  “It’s prime Bible Belt territory. My folks were—are—thumpers from the old school. Living under their roof by their rules was the closest thing to doing time in a dungeon.”

  He paused in securing the last of the hair sections with a metal clip. “However did you escape?”

  She rolled her shoulders, which suddenly felt as stiff as her neck. “I finally convinced them to give up on me.”

  He pulled the clip from a long swathe of hair and slid the comb through, stopping just below chin level. “Here?”

  She swallowed hard, held her breath, and nodded. The scissors made their definitive cut, sealing the deal and sending a lock of wet hair sliding down the front of her smock like a tear.

  He worked for several minutes in silent concentration. Macie tried to relax as a year’s worth of hair growth fell to the tiled floor. Snipping away, Franc finally said, “I gather your parents don’t approve of your lifestyle?”

  She blew out a breath, amazed that after all this time it still hurt so much. “They don’t approve of me period. New York City is just one big Sodom and Gomorrah as far as they’re concerned, not that they’d ever venture out of the Heartland to come and see for themselves.”

  “That’s too bad.” He switched on the blow dryer, and she felt the bristles of the big rounded brush moving soothingly against her scalp.

  Trying to relax, she closed her eyes while he rolled and unrolled chunks of her shorn hair to achieve maximum volume. Adieu to the days of letting her long locks dry naturally! The shorter, stylized cut would involve more upkeep, another sacrifice in the “line of duty.”

  Turning off the dryer, he said, “Snap to, Cinderella, and consider the magic wand waved.”

  She opened her eyes and looked into the mirror. “Oh, Jesus!” Even with her makeup unchanged, the woman who stared back didn’t remotely resemble the one who’d first sat down mere hours earlier.

  He set aside the styling tools. “I believe the appropriate exclamation in this case is bibbity boppity boo.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she reached up and touched her hair, which fell just below chin-level, a face-framing glossy cap. “I look like Martha Stewart.”

  Franc’s flawless features relaxed into a grin. “I’ve always rather fancied the old girl. And you do have a certain country club vibe going on. With the right clothes and makeup, you can pull it off, love. You always do.”

  She gave her new ’do a test head shake. The precision-cut blond hair fell flawlessly back into place the moment the movement stopped. “It’s a great cut, no doubt about that.” She ran a hand through her hair and let it slide through her fingers. Despite all the chemicals, it felt remarkably silky, a testimony to the high-end products Franc used. “As long as a certain person approves, that’s all that matters.”

  Franc held a hand over his heart. “Please, please tell me you’re not speaking of Zachary.”

  She shook her head, noticing how the blond strands caught the light. “I meant Mannon, actually, but since you keep bringing him up, Zach does have his good points, you know.”

  Making a face, Franc reached for the open bottle of pinot set on the counter of the adjacent salon station and refilled their glasses. “And those would be fabulous abs and okay, a really tight butt, not that I was checking him out—I wasn’t. I don’t do grunge. But honestly, love, I wish you’d stop settling.”

  Accepting the glass, Macie snorted. “And hold out for Prince Charming?”

  During her five years on the Manhattan singles’ scene, Macie had become convinced that romance was the opiate of single women everywhere. Mr. Right simply didn’t exist outside of fairy-tale fantasies. Anyone deluded enough to be waiting on Prince Charming had better get herself a vibrator and put herself on a Disney channel diet.

  “You mock,” Franc said, “but great guys are out there, I know they are. Take me for example—looks, personality, and brains, and did I mention I was spiritual?” He did a half turn, arms outstretched, wine slopping over the rim of his glass. Sucking the spillage from his knuckles, he met her gaze with his own suddenly serious brown eyes. “The complete package, Mace. That’s what you deserve and nothing less.”

  She swung her head from side-to-side, getting used to the freedom of shorter hair. “I’m afraid there just aren’t all that many straight guys out there who are complete packages.” With the mainstay of her makeover behind her, she lifted her wineglass and took a sip.

  He paused. “What about Ross Mannon? Does checking out his…package come as part of the assignment?”

  Macie nearly squirted wine from her nose. Coughing, she said, “Are you kidding me? I may be dedicated—okay, borderline nuts—when it comes to my job, but even I’m not so out there that I’d prostitute myself to get a story.”

  Swirling the wine in his glass, he studied her. “That’s some comfort, I suppose. Even though you must be borderline something to saddle yourself with a name like Martha… What was the other half?”

  “It’s Martha Jane, and I’ll have you know it’s my legal name.” Seeing his jaw drop, she added, “If you don’t believe me, I have the driver’s license to prove it. I took Macie Graham as a pen name once I moved here, then I decided if I liked it so much why not use it all the time?”

  If she’d stuck with Martha Jane Gray, she’d still be writing fluff pieces instead of covering the meatier, grittier assignments that had made her want to be a journalist in the first place. The name change had been powerfully symbolic of the fresh start she was making. It had meant putting to rest the naïve, altogether too trusting small-town girl she’d once been—forever.

  Or so she’d thought.

  For the next six weeks she’d signed herself up to not only walk the walk, but talk the talk of the very creature she’d sworn to never ever be—a sickeningly sweet, simpering old-fashioned girl. As transformations went, it amounted to Cinderella in reverse. But glancing down to the pile of hair at her feet, she told herself that no sacrifice was too great. She wanted to knock Prince Ross off his high horse once and for all. She wanted it bad. Galvanized to get going, she started up from the salon seat.

  Franc’s voice stayed her. “Not so fast. Nathan and I have a prezzie for you.” Over his shoulder, he called loudly, “Nathan, love, pull your nose out of the Excel spreadsheets and come here. It’s time.”

  Before she could ask what he was up to, he reached down into his styling station and withdrew what looked to be a vintage wooden shoebox. Straightening, he turned around and held it out to her.

  Taking it and setting it in her lap, Macie was dumbfounded—and deeply touched. Being on the receiving end of a gift was never something she expected—or knew quite how to take. “What’s the occasion?”

  Franc shrugged. “No occasion. You’ve been such a supporter of the Salon, with all the fab coverage in On Top, and such a great friend to Nathan and me that when we saw these and heard the legend, we knew they were meant for you.”

  Shuffling out from the stockroom in a cardigan and khaki pants, a pen pushed behind one ear and a camera in hand, Nathan called, “Wait for me.” Coming to stand beside Franc, he raised the camera. “Okay, open it.”

  Macie lifted the hinged lid to the camera’s pop. Unfurling the tissue paper, she carefully took out one shoe. “Oh…my…God!”

  The vintage ruby velvet-covered high heel was in mint condition and dated from the late thirties or early forties, Macie surmised, based on the styling and exquisite detailing. Amber crystals beaded the strap and the vamp above the peep toe, flashing like flawless canary diamonds.

  Smiling broadly, Franc nodded. “Vintage Saks and first worn by the famous film star Maddie Mulligan. She had them on the night she received the news that she was nominated for an Oscar. That same night she received a marriage proposal from international financier Carlos Banks, her fourth and final husband.”

  “It was a classic case of opposites attractin
g,” Nathan added, casting a fond look at Franc. “The Hollywood gossips of the day all swore it wouldn’t last longer than any of Maddie’s previous liaisons—only they couldn’t have been more wrong.”

  A freak for black-and-white films, Macie was familiar with the legend. Maddie Mulligan had grown up poor in Dublin and made it rich in Hollywood during the early 1930s. After more than a decade of serial monogamy and gin-soaked partying, the famous film actress had settled down to an unexpected Happily Ever After with Banks, to whom she’d remained married for the rest of her life. Both in press interviews and in her memoir, she’d sworn her staid businessman husband was her one true love—and that the shoes had been her lucky charm.

  “I snapped them up at a silent auction this summer,” Franc said.

  “At a charity event I had to drag him to,” Nathan put in.

  Franc declined to deny it. “We’ve been waiting for the right moment to give them to you. Given this is bon voyage for you and the launch for Operation Cinderella, what better time?”

  Nathan’s brow furrowed. “Bon voyage? Operation Cinderella? What have I missed?”

  Franc tapped the shorter man’s shoulder. “Macie’s going to DC for a month or so. I’ll fill you in later…Nadine.” Swinging back to Macie, he asked, “You like?”

  “Like? I love! They’re exquisite! I don’t know what to say.”

  “Try them on,” Nathan urged.

  Willing her size seven-and-a-half feet to shrink to a seven, she kicked off her sling-back and slid her right foot into the red velvet. She’d expected some pinching, but the little slipper fit as if fashioned for her.

  Dividing her gaze between her two friends and fairy godfathers, she wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you! I can’t wait to wear them once I’m back in town.”

  Washington might be the nation’s capital, but it was also a fashion wasteland. Besides, posing as Mannon’s housekeeper and nanny likely wouldn’t involve many opportunities for socializing, certainly not in formalwear.

  Franc shook his head. “Take them with you and wear them even if it’s just for yourself, as a reminder that you’re still…well, you, a princess beneath the soot and cinders. Or in this case the Talbots and Burberry. Who knows, maybe some of Maddie’s mojo will rub off.”