Her hands gripping the smooth polished stone countertop, she screamed, "Oh my God!" One hand rose to her face, her fingertips searching the lines and curves of familiar features, but ones that definitely didn't belong to her. "I'm...Monica? But how?" Even her voice sounded different. Could a surgeon change a person's voice? Immediately she recalled last night's wish but dismissed it. That was a silly, childish rhyme, not magic. Real magic didn't exist outside of fairy tales and movies, everyone knew that. Those fancy magicians who made DC-10 airplanes disappear used illusion.
This had to be some kind of illusion too.
She pulled her hair back and gathered it into one fist, then felt along her hairline for some kind of seam, figuring someone had put some of that special makeup on her, like the rubber mask Robin Williams wore in that old movie, Mrs. Doubtfire. But after searching thoroughly, she concluded either there was no makeup or it was applied so well it couldn't be detected.
Maybe a shower would wash some of it away.
She turned on the water-no easy task, considering the number of gadgets and gizmos in the glass enclosed cubicle-and stepped inside, scrubbing from top to toe with soap. When she stepped out and scrutinized her face in the mirror, she still found no signs of makeup, no seams or smears.
Okay. Running out of steam fast, she sat on a cushy bench in front of the mirror and stared at herself. There had to be a logical explanation. Didn't there?
Whoever was responsible for this crazy event evidently wanted her to play Monica for a day or two for some reason. Why, she couldn't begin to guess. But she figured she had two options-either she could hide out until someone showed up to explain it to her, or she could make the best of it and do what she'd secretly dreamed of doing-see how it felt walking in three-inch Manolo Blahniks and driving a Lexus.
Wrapping her-correction, Monica's-body in a luxurious bathrobe, she padded into the bedroom, rummaged through drawers until she found the necessities she was looking for, then went to the wall-to-wall closet to find an outfit that suited her.
So many choices! Good God, the woman owned enough garments to clothe a small nation. Heck, some of them still sported their price tags. She pulled out a black skirt, tag still attached and read the price. Three hundred bucks? For a little black scrap of material? It had better do something special for that price, like clean itself.
Stepping into it, she immediately recognized how terrific it fit. It seemed to have been made for her-correction, Monica. There wasn't a bit of extra room anywhere, nor did it fit too tight, even around the hips. "I guess for three hundred dollars you should get something that fits perfect." She ran her hands down her upper thighs, smoothing the fabric. It felt nice.
Next, she found a white button-down shirt with subtle gray stripes. It, too, fit her like a second skin. And a silky cashmere sweater finished off the outfit. Cashmere felt like heaven. Now Jane could appreciate why it cost so much.
After slipping her feet into a pair of high-heeled pumps, which were extremely comfortable-unlike the cheap plastic pairs Jane regularly bought at the discount shoe outlet in the mall-she walked down the hall to the kitchen to find a bite to eat. Unfortunately, the fridge was empty. The woman kept no food in her house? So that was her secret! Made sense. You can't get fat if you don't have any food to eat. Heading for the front door, and hoping to run across a purse and some keys, Jane vowed to do the same at her place when she returned. She could stand to lose at least ten pounds. The Monica Starvation Diet would do the trick. Yes, she was learning some valuable stuff already-how to lose a few pounds and the value of a good cashmere sweater-and she hadn't even left the house yet.
She found a purse, briefcase and a set of keys lying on the console next to the answering machine with the blinking red message light, then went back through the kitchen, hoping the door leading to the garage would be somewhere in there. They usually were, weren't they?
After taking a tour of the butler's pantry and a half bath, she found the door in question, exited but didn't arm the house's alarm system, and pushed the button to kick-start the automatic garage door. Then she got in the car. Like the clothes, the car's leather seat fit like a glove. The padding wrapped around her derriere and gently cradled it like a loving mother. The motor sung a soft lullaby. And, as she first backed out of the garage then drove down the street, she realized it glided smoothly, almost floating above the street's surface.
It took her a while to find her way out of Monica's twisty-turny subdivision, and Jane had the forethought to not only write down the address but also keep track of how she got out so she could find her way back in if she needed to. Who knew how long she'd be stuck living this farce, so she figured she'd best be prepared.
When she finally arrived at work, almost two hours late, she headed straight to her cubicle to see who or what was there. Maybe Monica had taken her place.
It was empty. No sign of anyone. Darn! That meant she'd have to finish both her own projects and Monica's! Grumbling, she plopped into her chair and turned on her monitor, figuring she'd get her stuff done first before trying to figure out what Monica had on her plate.
