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gal who bought her wedding dress from L.L.Bean, writing ads for a trendy boutique like Passions.

    Back on the sales floor, Tyler was folding spandex tank tops, studiously avoiding all eye contact with Frenchie, who sat at the register pushing back her cuticles and tapping her Jimmy Choo knockoffs in an angry staccato. You could cut the tension between them with a weed whacker.
    I, on the other hand, was remarkably tension-free. Even if I didn’t get the job, the $500 Grace Lynbrook was going to pay me for coming up with ideas would at least take my checking account off life support.
    I told Becky the good news.
    “That’s super!” she said, once again channeling Gidget. “Why don’t you drop by for dinner tomorrow night, and I’ll give you any background information you need.”
    “You don’t have to cook dinner for me,” I said. “You’ve done enough as it is.”
    “Don’t be silly. I adore cooking. I just hope you get the job.”
    “What job?”
    Frenchie was at our side, smiling an icy smile. Why did I get the feeling she could see right through the sleeve of my Prada suit to the price tag inside?
    “Jaine might be writing Passions’ new ad campaign,” Becky said. “She’s coming back next week to pitch ideas to Grace.”
    Frenchie’s eyes widened with surprise.
    “You’re kidding, right? Surely Grace can do better than her. ”
    Okay, she didn’t really say that. She didn’t have time to say that, because at that moment she saw a customer and dropped me like a hot pomme frite.
    It was the older woman from the other day, the one who dressed like a recycled teenager. Today she was wearing capri’s and a mini-sweater, her thin hair pulled back in a pony tail high on her head.
    “Mrs. Tucker,” Frenchie cooed, “how lovely to see you. I’ve got a new halter top that just came in. It’ll be perfect for you.”
    And with that, she began plucking clothes off the racks. Mrs. Tucker followed her eagerly, a fashion junkie about to get her fix.
    Having deposited Mrs. Tucker in the dressing room with several age-inappropriate outfits, she sailed back to us.
    “What a silly old cow,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The woman has been under the knife more times than a Benihana steak.”
    “Frenchie,” Becky admonished, “that’s not nice.”
    “You know what I call her?” Frenchie said, obviously not giving a damn about being nice. “I call her Mrs. Nip & Tucker.”
    “Cut it out, Frenchie,” Becky said, a warning note in her voice.
    But Frenchie ignored her.
    “If I have to lie to her one more time about how good she looks, I’m going to puke.”
    “Don’t worry, Frenchie. You won’t have to lie to me any more.”
    Frenchie whirled around to see Mrs. Tucker, standing outside the dressing room, her eyes blazing.
    “You brought me the wrong size,” she said, holding up the halter.
    Frenchie laughed nervously. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about you, Mrs. Tucker.”
    “Don’t you mean Mrs. Nip-and-Tucker?”
    For once Frenchie was at a loss for words.
    “No, you won’t have to lie to me any more, Frenchie. Or to anybody else in this store. Not after I finish talking with Grace. We used to model together, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re friends. Best friends.”
    She stormed off to Grace’s office, her surgically taut face even tighter with rage.
    “I tried to warn you,” Becky said.
    “I’m not afraid,” Frenchie said airily. “Grace will never fire me. I’m much too valuable to the store.”
    And with that she went back to the register to contemplate her cuticles.
    “What do you think?” I asked Becky when Frenchie was out of earshot. “Will Grace fire her?”
    “Gosh,” Becky said wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be neat?”

    Frenchie’s fate was of little interest to me as I drove home from Passions. All I could think about was that $5,000 carrot Grace had dangled before my eyes.
    I found a parking spot in front of my duplex and was heading up the path to my apartment