Kara Lennox - Tame An Older Man

"I love weddings," Daisy said on a sigh. "I'm really happy for you, Elise, but I wish it were mine."

"We'll have you married off in no time," Elise said. "In fact, there's a new teaching assistant in the Languages Department. Spanish. He's gorgeous, kind of like Antonio Banderas, and he's single." Elise pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to Daisy. "He said for you to call him."

Daisy took the card without much enthusiasm. "How old is he?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, I don't know."

"He's younger than me, I bet," Daisy said.

"Maybe a little, but that shouldn't matter. He's very nice, very much a gentleman."

Daisy sighed. "I'm reduced to begging for dates with destitute grad students."

"He's not destitute," Elise argued. "Anyway, the last rich guy you went out with drove you crazy with all his things ."

Daisy groaned. "The dentist. Why do I let you guys keep fixing me up?"

"Because it's a numbers game," Elise said. "You have to kiss a lot of toads before you find the prince. And, anyway, the rejects have single friends."

"Maybe…" Phoebe ventured, "maybe Daisy doesn't want us to fix her up anymore because she found someone on her own."

"What?" Daisy said sharply. "Phoebe, I told you, Wyatt and I are just friends. We talked for about ten minutes, and that was it."

"Not Wyatt," Phoebe said. "The other guy. The one you left the party with."

"Oh, do tell," Elise said.

Daisy took a long sip of her iced tea. "So, Elise, have you chosen your colors yet?"

Well, that didn't go over well, Phoebe thought. She'd been hoping to tease Daisy into revealing the identity of the mystery man Wyatt had mentioned. She figured there would be a simple explanation. But clearly Daisy didn't want to talk about it.

"I'm not sure about colors yet," Elise said, "but I was thinking maybe a pale yellow for the bridesmaid dresses."

"Only if you want me to look like a corpse," Phoebe said flippantly, then wished she'd thought before she'd spoken. Elise should be allowed to pick any color she wanted. It didn't matter that yellow washed out Phoebe's skin and made her hair look like straw.

"I forgot-you do look dreadful in yellow. No offense."

"None taken. Don't worry about that, though. Pick whatever color you like best."

"No, no, I don't want any Night of the Living Dead bridesmaids. Maybe pink-"

"Pink? On a redhead?" Daisy said. "Clash city."

"You're right," Elise said. "Well, I'll think some more."

"Let's get back to Wyatt," Daisy said. "What are you going to do about him, Phoebe?"

"Me?" Phoebe hoped her friends couldn't see the sweat popping out on her forehead. "Why would I do anything with him?"

"Because the man is clearly besotted with you," Daisy said. "At the party he was staring at you like a cat eyeing the last sardine."

Wyatt was having a Tuesday that put all other bad Tuesdays to shame. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever get used to temperamental guests on the show, especially now that he was dealing with so many of them. "Heads Up" wasn't just an ordinary talk show. It dealt with trends-anything cutting edge, from the newest hot movie star to the latest in gene therapy. His hosts-a young, romantically involved couple-were hip and charismatic, and they were adept at getting past both glib sound bites and technobabble. Despite the show's wide-ranging subjects-going against the television industry's niche marketing philosophy-it was drawing a good-size audience from a wide demographic.

But some days, like today, Wyatt had his doubts about whether the show would go on at all. The featured guests, a 16-year-old star of a hot new nighttime soap, gave new meaning to the word ego . The show's hosts were engaged in a romantic quarrel, something Wyatt had known would happen eventually, given their volatile personalities.

And now his makeup artist was threatening to quit.

"If that oversexed little snip grabs my breast one more time," Carmen complained, "I'm going to give him a black eye!"

"Carmen, you can't assault our guests, no matter how bad their behavior."

"You wouldn't say that if he groped you!"

"I'll have a talk with him."

"No. I want you to get Jean to do his makeup." Jean was the stylist who did Kelly and Kurt, his hosts.

"Jean has already left for the day," Wyatt pointed out.

"Someone else, then!"

"We all have other jobs to do." Some of which weren't getting done. Tension on the set had a tendency to slow things down.

"Wyatt!" screamed Kelly Cupps, the female half of his hosting team. Wyatt glanced in the direction of the half-hysterical summons. She stood on the set in a robe, hair in curlers, feet bare. "There's no bottled water in my dressing room!"

Wyatt put a hand to Carmen's shoulder. "Carmen, please, I just need you to-"

She jumped away from him. "You men are all the same, always touching, touching, touching. Well, I'm through! I quit!" And she did.

Wyatt stared after her, incredulous. "Wyatt, what about my water!" Kelly screamed. Damn it, he was the producer, not an errand boy. He grabbed one of the grips. "Do me a big favor and get the Aqua Queen some bottled water?"

"That violates union rules, man. Sorry."

Wyatt got the water himself, out of his own stash in his office. Then he called around and tried to find another makeup artist. But his contacts in Phoenix were limited. He simply hadn't lived here long enough. Jean didn't answer when he paged her. He put out calls to a couple of others he found in his director's Rolodex, but by sixty minutes to airtime he still didn't have anyone to do his guests' makeup.

He was about to borrow Kelly's suitcase of cosmetics and do the job himself, when he remembered someone else he knew who did makeovers. What was the name of that spa where she worked? Sunshine… no, Sunrise.

On impulse, he dialed Information.

Phoebe carefully removed electric rollers from the fragile, auburn-tinted hair of one of her clients, Mrs. Cooper.

"I just don't know, honey," the sixty-something woman said, frowning into the mirror. "I'm not sure this color is me. I used to be a redhead, you know."

Phoebe knew. Mrs. Cooper had informed her of that fact several times a day last week while Phoebe tried every hair color on the shelf to please her.

"Why don't you try living with it for a few days?" Phoebe suggested. "It looks good with your coloring."

"I'll decide what looks good, missy," Mrs. Cooper said curtly. "I'm the one paying a thousand dollars a day."

Phoebe stifled a groan. Not all the rich ladies she worked with had this kind of attitude. In fact, most of them were very nice, and sometimes quite gracious when Phoebe worked her magic on them. She firmly believed that every woman, no matter how seemingly plain, had beautiful qualities that could be accentuated with the right hairstyle or makeup choices. Some of her clients were downright astounded when she brought their inner beauty to the surface.

Then there were the Mrs. Coopers of the world, who would never be beautiful because they never smiled. They treated Phoebe like a servant with no feelings.

Phoebe's intercom buzzed, dispelling her dismal thoughts. "Phone for you" came the voice of Pam, Sunrise's receptionist.

"I don't take calls during appointments," Phoebe gently reminded Pam. She also firmly believed all her clients-even Mrs. Cooper-deserved a hundred percent of her attention.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Pam said, sounding anxious. "But he said it's an emergency."

Phoebe's heart skipped a beat. All she could think about was her mother, her only living relative. Olga Phelps was healthy as a horse, as far as Phoebe knew. Had something happened to her? Phoebe apologized to the tightly frowning Mrs. Cooper and picked up the phone.