Lucky Love Read Free Page A

sleep. No rest for the wicked and all that crap."
    I love how my hotshot lawyer best friend struggles with forensics and precedents while I struggle with finding rhyming words for love: schmove, dove, shove … as in off.
    "So what’s Marlon doing with all his spare time? Isn’t he scared you’ll run off with some handsome John Grisham type?"
    It was her turn to snort. "We trust each other totally. Why get married otherwise?"
    "Tell that to guys like Vaughan," I mutter, hating how gullible I’d been.
    "Speaking of hubby, better dash. Good luck." She hugged me, waved and eased into the crowd, a stunning figure dressed in black jeans and cobalt tank cutting a swathe through the late afternoon shoppers.
    Her last words rang in my ears. Good luck . Despite the fact I loved Nat to death, I hated it when she said this before every date or night out. Who said luck had anything to do with it? I would arrive, I would check out the talent, I would conquer. Well, that was the theory. Shame the practice left a lot to be desired.
    With the prospect of a plane trip to Love in my future, I did need luck; tonight I’d carry a rabbit’s foot, a four-leaf clover and a horseshoe, all tucked into the stunning new handbag I’d blown a week’s wages on.
    I reached home in record speed, eager to start the preparation process. I tried on ten outfits, turning like a contortionist in front of the mirror. It always paid to check out all angles. Pity I didn’t have any; I was a beanpole, straight up and down without a curve in sight. I decided on skin-tight, black bootleg satin pants teamed with a red ribbed singlet top. My boobs looked great in the top; amazing what a push-up bra could do.
    Lesson A in trying to land a guy; men loved cleavage. Being an average B cup I utilized every push-up bra on the market to enhance what the good Lord has given me. My latest triumph was a spa bra, the under cups filled with fluid: firm yet soft, cleavage without the silicon. I looked sensational in it. However, after a close call with a friend’s toy poodle wanting to sink its teeth into it, I didn’t fancy a flood at the next dinner party so I’d reverted to the trusty padded variety.
    Lesson B consisted of preparing the temple for possible invasion. I could always live in hope. I showered, shaved my legs, loofahed, exfoliated, moisturized—and that was just my body. The face took much longer, plucking being the order of the day. My eyebrows hadn’t been waxed into shape for a while so I set my tweezers to work. Ten minutes later, I’d plucked enough to need an eyebrow pencil to fill in the gaps. Why do women do that, pluck out the hair to replace it with lead from a pencil? Weird, yet who was I to question the art of beautifying handed down over the centuries?
    The singlet exposed a lot of skin so I needed a quick bronzing. My lily-white skin needed all the help it could get. I reached for the tube of self-tanning lotion, vowing to spend more time at Bondi this summer. Natural was best and besides, I hated the orange tinge the fake stuff left. I always looked like a Cheezel in the morning. The sheets I’d slept on looked worse.
    Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m late for the party. Rather than doing my whole torso I tan my arms and chest. With my luck lately who’d see the rest of me anyway? My face looks strangely pale above its tanned counterparts so I complete a foundation and powder job in record time.
    I decide to go for the understated vamp look, smudged kohl and dark eyeshadow with a smidgen of lip-gloss. The lippy ad promised ‘kissable lips he couldn’t resist’. Still waiting. The last minute pash as I left a nightclub two weeks ago didn’t count; he’d been a jerk. A jerk who didn’t call. As usual.
    I glanced in the mirror. I looked sensational. How could any guy resist?
    No way would I end up in Love.
    Four weeks and counting.
    I drove to Amanda’s new apartment, vowing not to drink too much. She’d said there’d be loads