“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “do you have anything in a size large?”

“That is a size large.”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

“Jaine’s a writer,” Lance said. “She’s not really into the fashion scene.”

“A writer?” Becky asked, clearly impressed.

I nodded modestly.

And it’s true. I write résumés, personals ads, and industrial brochures. Perhaps you’ve read my block-buster brochure for Toiletmaster Plumbers (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters.)

“I adore writers!” Becky gushed. She blinked those big blue eyes of hers, and I couldn’t help wondering if she’d actually ever read a book.

“Tyler’s a writer, too.” She pointed to a salesman helping a customer in the men’s section. “He’s writing a novel.”

Lance eyed him with interest. And for good reason. Tyler was one eminently eyeable guy. Tall and slim, with an innocent face and a killer body, he managed to look both sweet and sexy at the same time.

“Forget it, Lance,” Becky said, following his hungry look. “He’s straight.”

“Are you sure about that? I don’t mind a challenge.”

“I’m sure, Lance. In fact, he used to date Frenchie.”

“Frenchie?”

“The blonde at the counter. Her real name is Giselle but everybody calls her Frenchie.”

We followed her gaze to a brittle blonde sitting at a stool in front of the register, talking into her cell phone. Her white-blond hair, pulled into a tight bun, contrasted sharply with her blood-red lipstick and fingernails. She wore a low-cut black dress and ridiculously high stiletto heels, which she tapped impatiently as she talked. Nestled in her cleavage was a gold Maltese cross. Yet somehow I didn’t figure her for much of a churchgoer.

“Where the hell is my pizza?” she shrieked. “I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

Her name may have been French, but her accent was strictly Brooklyn.

“A cutie like Tyler dated her?” Lance’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Quelle bitch.”

“You know who she’s talking to on the phone?” Becky said.

“An unlucky pizza parlor?”

“Her husband. She bosses him around like a trained seal.”

“Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning,” Frenchie barked, before slamming down the phone.

“Wait a minute,” Lance said. “She dated Tyler, and she’s married?”

Becky rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how much she cheats on her husband. I’m surprised she hasn’t hit on the UPS man yet.”

Lance shook his head, baffled. “What was a cutie like Tyler doing with a bitch like her?”

“Oh, Frenchie can be charming when she wants to be. But eventually Tyler realized how awful she was and dumped her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say nasty things about Frenchie.”

I turned around to see a mousy woman in a tweed suit and sensible low-heeled pumps. Her dull brown hair formed a frizzy halo around her head. She looked as out of place in this joint as I did.

“Frenchie is a very nice person when you get to know her,” the mouse said reprovingly, then scurried away toward the back of the store.