Sarah Mayberry - Anything for You

She usually ate lunch with Sam. They’d walk to a local café, or jump in the car and go somewhere farther afield, just to clear their heads. Once or twice a year, when the weather was too damned irresistible and the surf report was too enticing, they’d bail on work completely for the whole afternoon and take off for the nearest surf beach.

She could just imagine his expression if she sauntered next door and suggested they grab a bite. She hadn’t heard a peep from him since he’d barreled out of her office and into his own—no low murmur of phone conversation, no chatting with the other employees. Like her, Sam was probably staying put in his office, reeling from her announcement.

For a second she was gripped with a wild impulse to tell him it had all been a big, stupid joke. That she’d just been yanking his chain, the ultimate practical gag.

The urge was so strong she forced herself to scoop up her car keys and purse before she could give in to it. Striding to the front door, she told Debbie that she’d be back in an hour.

The mall was probably not the best place to go when she was feeling down, but somehow she wound up there. Fluorescent lighting, neon signs, crowds of dull-eyed shoppers—she fit right in as she walked around aimlessly, staring blankly at clothes racks, sorting pointlessly through sales bins. It wasn’t until she caught herself burrowing furiously through a bargain bin, trying to find a complete set of Christmas-themed napkin rings, that she snapped out of it.

Not only did she not own napkins, she hated knick-knacky home decor items with a passion. Dropping the offending objects like hot potatoes, she exited the store and sat on the nearest bench. Pulling a notebook from her handbag, she forced herself to focus.

Yes, she was a little off balance after making such a life-changing decision and then following through on it by telling Sam her intentions, but it was no excuse to wig out completely. She had to keep moving toward her end goal—find a husband, build a family.

She wrote both things down in her notebook, then groaned and tore the page out, throwing it into the nearby bin. Who was she kidding? She didn’t need a to-do list—she knew what had to be done.

First, she had to stop comparing every man she met to Sam Kirk. Second, she had to actually start taking more men up on their offers to take her to dinner/the movies/bed. With Sam out of her life, hopefully the rest would simply fall into place.

Wig-out over, she stood and smoothed the creases from her tailored slim-line trousers. Her hands stilled on her thighs as she stared down at her sensible, businesslike outfit. She always wore pants to work. And she almost always wore a shirt, or some other kind of sensible, tailored top. She wasn’t a fussy, frills-and-flowers kind of woman, never had been. But still…

Scanning the mall, her eye was drawn to the glint of a mirror, and she crossed to stand in front of it. The woman staring back at her was plain-looking, with long straight mid-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing navy linen pants and a cream cotton shirt, and while both were of good quality and well-cut, there was no escaping the fact that she looked a little like a military nurse. Or a postal worker.

Her mind flashed to the eye-popping blonde she’d encountered outside the office that morning. No one would ever mistake Coco for a postal worker, that was for sure. And while Delaney knew she could never even begin to play in the same league as the epically endowed Coco, there was no reason why she shouldn’t make the best of her assets.

That’s what it was all about, after all, wasn’t it? Using what you had to attract the opposite sex. Then it was down to personality and compatibility and chemistry.

Once again she scanned the mall, this time looking for a hair salon. There were three to choose from, all situated close to one another. She spent a few minutes analyzing the cuts of the hairstylists in each establishment, as well as those of their clients, then she simply picked the one that looked the most expensive. She hadn’t had a haircut in months. Normally she tidied up her own bangs with the kitchen scissors, and just had the spilt ends cut off the back every now and then.

Approaching the counter, she smiled nervously at the receptionist.

“Hi. I’d like to get a haircut,” she said.

“Of course. We actually have an opening now, if you’re interested,” the girl said smoothly. “Someone canceled at the last minute.” She flicked a strand of perfect hair over her shoulder, and Delaney found herself following the silky fall of the woman’s multihued locks. Eyes narrowing, she assessed the receptionist’s haircut: shorter at the front, it gradually became longer toward the back, just skimming her shoulders. The choppy texture of the cut was emphasized by a mixture of brown streaks, ranging from darkest chocolate to cinnamon to a golden bronze. It was sexy hair, alluring hair. Nothing postal or military about it at all.

“Do you think they could cut my hair like that?” Delaney asked impulsively.

The receptionist tilted her head to one side and considered her. “Absolutely. Let me get Volker. He’s the expert,” she said.

Delaney found herself being ushered into a seat by a lanky hairstylist with a pronounced German accent.

“Oh, yes, we can do something with this,” he said approvingly as he freed her hair from its tie.

“It needs to be like hers,” Delaney said, pointing toward the receptionist who had once again resumed her station at the front of the store.

“It will be better,” Volker announced, no hint of ego or boasting in his voice—he was simply stating a fact.

Two hours later, Delaney decided he was right on the money. The woman staring back from the salon mirror was a stranger. Gone was her straight, no-nonsense fringe. Now her hair swept gracefully to one side of her face to fall in graduated layers onto her shoulders. Each layer was made up of a myriad of colors—russet, chocolate, ginger—so that when she ran her hand through it or shook it, her hair shimmered with light and movement.

“Wow,” the receptionist said when Delaney stepped up to the counter to pay her bill. The girl’s gaze flicked doubtfully to her own reflection in a nearby mirror and Delaney felt a dart of feminine pride. She had hair that other women envied! How good was that!

Her euphoria lasted for all of the five seconds it took for her mind to default to wondering what Sam would think of her new cut.

Stupid stupid stupid, she told herself, but it didn’t make any difference. He had been the sun her world orbited around for so long, it was going to take time to wean herself away from using him as her touchstone.

The realization drove her into the nearest David Jones department store, her step determined.

Another hour and a half later, she stuffed a dozen rustling shopping bags into the back seat of the MINI. She’d gone berserk. There was no other word for it. Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman had nothing on Delaney. She’d practically handed her credit card over to the sympathetic sales assistant and told her to go crazy. New makeup, perfume and underwear, six pairs of shoes, a pair of boots, three pairs of figure-hugging jeans in black, red and dark denim, and a host of skirts, dresses, tank tops, T-shirts…She honestly had no idea exactly what she’d bought. But it was all fitted. Tight, even. The skirts were either short and flirty, or short and figure-hugging. The dresses were triumphs of design, with minuscule straps and cinching belts and draping skirts that made her look willowy and elegant and mysterious. And the bras…Who would have thought that a bra could make such a difference? She refused to wear a padded bra, but the underwire balconette bra the saleswoman had shown her actually gave her cleavage. And the colors! She had a rainbow of silk and lace in her shopping bags. She’d oohed and ahhed so much she was sure the saleswoman must have thought she’d just escaped from behind the Iron Curtain. But the truth was, Delaney hadn’t spent this much time thinking about her appearance since she was a teenager and she’d made a single pathetic, misguided attempt to make Sam look at her as a woman. He’d laughed at her too-bright lipstick and her sister’s clothes and asked if she was going to a fancy dress, and she’d gone home and scrubbed at her face until it was red raw.