Kathryn Lilley: Makeovers Can Be Murder

Once inside, I clicked on the kitchen light. As if to reward my self-restraint for not checking my messages during the drive home, the red light on the answering machine on the faux-granite counter was blinking.

″Hi,″ a familiar voice began. It was Jonathan.

No ″Hallo, luv,″ his usual salutation for me.

My boyfriend′s voice sounded two degrees cooler than usual as he continued, ″There′s been a bit of a cock-up with my schedule and I had to change my plans-right now I′m not sure when I′m coming back. Might be another week or two. Keep you posted, all right?″ he said. ″Cheerio.″

Click.

Cheerio?

I glared at the answering machine as if it could transmit my baleful energy through the undersea cables all the way to London, and deliver a thwack on my boyfriend′s forehead. Where was his usual ″I love you″ or even ″Miss you, luv″? There wasn′t the slightest hint of affection in the message he′d left for me. What was up?

″What cock-up with your schedule?″ I demanded of the machine. ″What are you talking about?″

Obviously, Jonathan′s mother wasn′t dying. Obviously, he wasn′t lying in a ditch someplace in a London slum. Obviously , he simply couldn′t be bothered to call before now to let me know what the hell was going on with him.

A throbbing pulse began at my temples, then spread like a wildfire crackling across my scalp; I snatched up my cordless phone to call Jonathan back.

″Down, girl,″ I cautioned my temper before replacing the phone carefully in its base. What was the point of getting angry?

My mind leapfrogged to the worst-case conclusion about Jonathan′s message: The answer must be that he was cooling off on me. I′d heard the tone of voice he′d used in his message once before in the past, from an old boyfriend who′d then proceeded to inform me that he was dumping me for the new TelePrompTer girl. But at least that guy had had the guts to deliver his message in person.

″What gives? First you avoid talking to me; then you leave me a cold-ass message like that?″ I wailed at the answering machine, which sat in stony silence. ″How cheesy. How cowardly . If that′s all you have to say, then as far as I′m concerned you can-you can just…″

He could rot in hell.

In a fit of pique, I deleted Jonathan′s number from my contact list. Okay, maybe that was an overreaction (and I had his number memorized anyway), but his frosty tone had hit me like a gut kick. He′d spoken like we barely knew each other. What the hell was going on?

Advancing farther into the kitchen, I threw open the refrigerator door. Foodwise, the view was barren except for some snap beans and heirloom tomatoes I′d picked up the day before at the farmers′ market. And I was in no mood at that moment for anything healthy. I wanted something with a major sugar kick, and I wanted it now.

According to the wall clock, it was only ten p.m., which meant I still had time to make a run to Thirty-one Flavors for an emergency pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream. Then my eye fell on a bottle of sauvignon blanc that was chilling on the shelf. I′d been planning to share it with Jonathan the next day to celebrate his homecoming from the UK.

There′s nothing more sorry-ass than sitting at home alone, drinking over a guy who doesn′t call, I told myself.

Defiantly I grabbed the bottle, then rummaged around in a drawer for a corkscrew. After a brief struggle to get the bottle open, I poured a generous amount of wine into a green-stemmed goblet.

″To relationships,″ I said, raising the glass in Elfie′s direction. ″Be grateful you′re spayed so you don′t have to play stupid mating games with tomcats. They′ll let you down every time.″

Elfie blinked her topaz blue eyes at me. Her expression was attentive but not overly empathetic. At times like this, it would be nice if Elfie were a dog, I decided. Dogs always seemed to understand when you′re upset.

I decided to turn in. I made my way into the bathroom, grabbed my koala-bear sleep shirt from the hook on the back of the door, and changed into it. Then I brushed my teeth with vicious up-and-down strokes. After propping myself up in bed with a magazine, I sipped the glass of wine. It tasted sour after brushing my teeth.

I clicked on a cable news channel. I couldn′t hear a sound over the thundering internal roar of my continuing mental rant at Jonathan. When I started to punctuate my thoughts with hand gestures, I cut myself off.

How pathetic, I thought. Before long I′ll be like Miss Lonelyhearts in Rear Window, getting piss-ass drunk and holding imaginary conversations with gentlemen callers.

With a firm sense of resolve, I set the wine-glass down on the bedside table. There would be no getting drunk tonight for me. Not because I was afraid of becoming an alcoholic.

It′s simply that when it came to getting an evil buzz on, no wine could ever give me a flavor gasm like a pint of Pralines ′n′ Cream.

When the cell phone on my nightstand buzzed me awake at three a.m. Thursday morning, I grabbed for it eagerly, expecting it to be Jonathan. I wasn′t awake enough yet to remember that I was mad at him. But instead of a London exchange, the LED displayed the number of the Channel Twelve news desk.

I stifled a groan. A call from work in the wee hours meant only one thing: a summons to roll out to cover a crisis someplace. Usually it would turn out to be nothing more exciting than a smoky fire. And every smoky fire looked identical. Seriously; you could use the exact same video to show every predawn smoker in the world and no one would be the wiser.

I answered the cell with my work greeting: ″Gallagher.″

″Hi, Kate-sorry, I know you′re not on call tonight, but I′ve got something crazy going on.″

It was the overnight news producer, Roe. Something ″crazy″ was always going on whenever Roe called. She monitored the police scanner like a jumpy little chicken hawk, pouncing on every squawk that came over the radio. Roe was an expert at working herself and everyone around her into balls of stress. She′d make an excellent news director someday.