Retail Therapy (11 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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17
Hailey
“L
ove your shoes, darling,” Rory told Marcella as she returned from another spin on the dance floor.
Marcella kicked up one heel behind her in a sassy pose. “Thanks, sweetie. They're Liz Claiborne. I got them at an outlet in Jersey for a fraction of retail price.”
“Really?” Rory gushed. “They make you look like you're dancing on a cloud.”
The lovefest between Rory and Marcella tickled me.
“You do the outlets?” Alana grabbed Marcella's arm. “You have to come with me to do the Hamptons outlets. I drive by them all the time, but they're so lacking in charm, I just can't muster the enthusiasm.”
“Not even for a bargain?” Marcella seemed appalled. “Fifty percent off retail. Do you realize what you're saying?”
“I love a sale!” Alana said. “Oh, don't tell me I've been missing out all this time. We have to do this together. Why don't you all come out with me? We'll go during the week when the traffic is light and do the outlet thing. The weather has warmed up, and there's plenty of room at my parents' summerhouse. Though it's in the throes of redecoration.”
“I would love to do the Hamptons,” I said, “but with my schedule on the show, it's so hard to get away.”
“In that case, there's definitely a shopping trip in your future. I've gone through the thumbnail story lines for the next two weeks and none of them mention Ariel. Looks like you're going to have some time off,” Rory told me.
“Oh, then I can go,” I said lightly as a wicked, sick feeling began to seep in. “Wait a sec, is Ariel even mentioned? Two weeks of shooting and I don't appear in any of the scenes? Not even one day?”
Rory pressed a finger to his chin. “No, I definitely didn't see your character mentioned. It's like ...” His eyes flickered with realization of the grim reality. “You've disappeared without a trace.”
“No wonder I haven't heard about a new contract!” My queasiness turned to a full-burning panic. “And they promised me more appearances. Gabrielle said so. Or at least that's what my agent said.” No wonder Cruella hadn't called; probably too busy chasing puppies on her broomstick.
“Now, don't have a freak-out,” Alana said, pinning me with her dark stare. “Look at the facts, honey. Ariel is too popular to be cut from the show.”
“That doesn't mean anything,” I lamented. “Maybe they're going to recast my part, give it to someone else. Oh, this feels very bad to me.”
“Let's not jump to conclusions, Hailey,” Rory said reassuringly. “You know the ever-changing world of daytime! As soon as you get used to having things one way, they go and change things on you!”
“Yeah, like axing your character,” I said sadly. “Excuse me, but I'm going to go leave a message for my agent.” I tucked my bag under my arm and headed off to the ladies' room, where I left a call-me-or-you're-fired message on Cruella's voice mail.
Afterward, I flipped my phone shut, feeling a pang of remorse.
Was I overreacting?
Having an artistic tantrum?
Somehow it didn't feel very creative, and if my agent couldn't return my call after a week of pleading, well, maybe it was time to move on.
On my way back to the table, someone called my name. I turned to find a familiar face—a middle-aged, bald man, grayish and pinched around the eyes, but familiar.
“Daryl,” he offered his name. “Malkowitz and Malkowitz Theatricals. Remember? We met at the Emmy celebration.”
“Oh, right!” An agent. Well, maybe that was good timing. Fire an agent, hire an agent.
He was sharing a booth with two Middle Eastern men, who smiled. “Come, sit. I want you to meet my friends.”
Daryl introduced the men, men with heavy accents who shook my hand, never taking their eyes off me. Since the others didn't seem too quick with English, Daryl bulldozed through the conversation, telling me about the people he had once represented.
“Halle Berry, before she got her big break. Vic Taylor, country and western singer ...” As he spoke, his hand went to the nape of my neck, stroking gently. I thought about what Marcella had said about worthwhile men not partying all night. Did that make Daryl worthless? I tried to be objective, but the neck massage was nice. Ordinarily, I would have flicked him away, but I was feeling low, my defenses down, and when he turned to me and leaned in for a kiss, I just let him.
His breath was minty—apparently he'd popped a few in preparation—and his tongue wasn't as goopy as you'd expect. Mostly, he molded my lips with his and rubbed my back, which did feel comforting.
When one of his hands moved along my side to stroke a breast, I gasped a little. I didn't really want it, but the sensation ignited a flicker of longing. I decided to toss my reservations to the wind and go with it, letting myself kiss him and be stroked as the music and flashing lights poured over us.
We were making out like two kids behind the 7-Eleven, our breathing heavy, nerves heightened. Spicy, teasing sensations. I felt safe and seductive, knowing it wouldn't go any further in this time and place.
He closed a kiss and nibbled my earlobe. “You look so pretty tonight,” he whispered, sliding a hand up to cup one of my breasts again. This time I pushed it away, slightly embarrassed over the two Middle Eastern men staring at us from across the table. “Very pretty. Tell me,” Daryl asked, looking at my chest. “Are these real? They feel real.”
The sweet longing that had tickled me now oozed into a slimy, slutty feeling. I pushed away from him completely and grabbed my bag. What was I thinking? Making out with a man who wanted the 411 on my boobs? “Gotta go.”
18
Alana
I
t was my turn to save Hailey. Rory and I intercepted her on her way back from the rest room, via some balding guy who seemed to know her a little too well. I hadn't seen Hailey hook up with a man since the ex dumped her, and I was certainly not going to let Mr. Bald-and-Horny be her rebound.
Although she was already leaving the table, she shot me a desperate look as I hooked my arm through hers. “Look at you!” I told her. “A few drinks and you're looking for love in all the wrong places.”
“This party is moving on to breakfast,” Rory said, motioning us toward the exit. “I can't work on an empty stomach.”
Marcella laughed. “You're going to work now? After partying all night?”
“A six
A.M.
call. But I had a little nap in the evening,” Rory admitted.
“I don't believe you,” Marcella said. “I don't believe me. I've never stayed out this late in my life. Well, not since prom night at Our Lady of Snows.”
We climbed to the street, where Rory gazed down the line of black limos. “There we go. My driver is waiting, third car up. We'll have him zip us directly to 24/7, then I must turn into a pumpkin and be off to work.”
“I can't believe I'm riding in a limo.” Marcella patted the shiny roof of the car and beamed at the driver.
I realized I liked having her around, though she was a study in contradictions. Full of practical advice, yet awed and wide-eyed as a little kid when it came to certain practices that were tired ritual in my life. She had a way of cracking things open and examining them with wonder.
Sometimes a new point of view is refreshing.
 
 
Over omelettes at 24/7, Marcella questioned Hailey and Rory about how things worked behind the scenes in daytime television. Although Hailey was still in a bit of a funk over her future as Ariel, she tried to answer politely. Marcella seemed genuinely interested in the “process,” and I suspected that she was going to make a fabulous buyer for Bon Nuit. I was going to send the store CEO a fat, juicy e-mail about how fabulous she was, just as soon as I got some sleep and took care of the zillion other tasks on my list.
Which reminded me ... one of those tasks was the pesky need for a job of my own.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, stabbing a mushroom from my omelette. “I need a teensy favor, Marcella. I was wondering if you could help me get a position as a mister. You know, the girls who spray perfume on the shoppers? Don't you think I'd be great at it?”
Rory nearly choked on his French toast. “Princess Alana, working? When was the last time that happened?”
I kicked him under the table.
“Ouch! Those shoes have pointy toes.”
“I've had plenty of jobs before,” I said. “Just none as interesting as working with
scents
.” I fantasized about receiving my first paycheck, a long stream of dollar digits that I could wave under my father's nose.
“I don't know about those girls,” Marcella said. “I don't think they work for the store. I never see them in the break room. I think they're paid by the cosmetics companies.”
“Hmm. So how do I apply for a position?” I asked.
“I'll ask around and find out for you,” she promised.
Ha! Wouldn't Daddy be surprised? I was going to be hugely successful without his checkbook behind me.
 
 
As chalky daylight began to illuminate the street, Rory and Marcella headed off in his limo. He promised her that the driver would take her to Brooklyn once he was dropped at the studio, and Marcella was determined to wake up her sister and brother-in-law so that they could see her pull up outside the apartment in style.
Hailey and I took a cab home, but as we pulled up on Madison Avenue, the CVS sign flashed in my view, and I realized I'd better stock up on a few necessities before I was running my own tab.
I filled a basket with various shades of nail polish, hot-oil treatment for my hair, top-of-the-line shampoo, and a few other bathroom unmentionables. We also found a few shades of nail polish that had to be tried, and two adorable matching ceramic vases for our bathroom.
Bearing new purchases in embarrassingly cheap plastic bags, we made one more stop—Starbucks—for lattes, newspapers, and low-fat muffins to go, because we were both so tired we were yawning in unison.
Up in the apartment, Hailey flopped on the couch, popped in a tape of her performances as Ariel, and cradled her coffee cup sadly. “I wonder if it was me,” she said. “Is it me? Or my performance? Or maybe my agent. No one likes Cruella. God, I can't believe they're cutting me from the show!”
As she critiqued her performance with “So wimpy!” and “Talk about fake tears!” I washed up, slipped into my peignoir, and fired up my computer to check my e-mail. Nothing good, but was featuring fabulous summer ensembles, most of which could be ordered on-line.
I sat down at the computer and sighed in wonder.
Honeydew-colored zip handbags with perky pale green flowers.
Big round orange dots on a baguette, so jaunty and whimsical.
And those strappy metallic sandals with shell disks designed by Colin Stuart. “Colin Stuart!” I shrieked in delight.
“Tell him I'm not home,” Hailey muttered from the living room. I shot her a look; her face was buried in the pillow, one arm dangling over the couch.
Sleep tugged at me, but I kept one eye open and clicked on the little shopping cart that indicated, yes, I would buy these bags, these sandals. And, yes, this sweet petite yellow silk-chiffon dress with a ruched waist. Yes, yes, yes!
I typed in the number of my American Express, my fingers bouncing over the keyboard like raindrops on the pavement.
Quick, quick! Quick, before Daddy cancels the card! He's never up this early, but in a situation this dire, you can't be too careful.
With a few more victorious purchases taken care of, I bypassed my unconscious friend, turned off the television, moisturized with night cream, and slid into bed.
Sleep mask, ear plugs, and ...
I still had one earplug out when the phone rang. Caller ID indicated it was ... Daddy.
Daddy, calling at eight
A.M.
? This couldn't be good.
I sank back into my pillows. I didn't have the energy to talk to him now—this time I had summer ennui, and I was still mad at him for last night.
If he was calling to apologize, he could leave a message.
I scootched down in the bed and savored the coolness of the sheets against my bare feet, visions of strappy metallic sandals dancing in my head.
Part Three
ALL PRICES SLASHED FOR OUR
MEMORIAL DAY SALE!
19
Hailey
T
hey say suicide can be a real killer. Fortunately for me, my character, Ariel, didn't muster the courage (or cowardice, depending on how you look at it) to do herself in. After a two-week personal hiatus during which my shopping therapy helped me accumulate more articles of denim clothing than a tourist at a horse ranch, I was offered a new thirteen-week contract on
All Our Tomorrows
.
Big sigh.
With the new contract money, I could pay the two months' back rent I owed Alana. And the monthly minimum on my credit cards. It had gotten to the point where I didn't even check the list of purchases when the bills came in. Not that I regretted the items I'd bought, but it was a little depressing to be reminded how much everything cost these days. Manhattan boutiques were certainly a step up from ordering fleeces and granny underwear from a catalogue in Wisconsin, but believe me, that insurance of quality and style was more than reflected in the prices.
But, hey! I could pay the monthly minimum on my charge bills! I wouldn't have my credit cards confiscated and clipped in half by a clerk with a Mussolini mustache. Instead, those power-hungry sales clerks would be scanning my purchase with respect, because two of the banks were extending my credit limit to twenty thousand dollars! Now twenty thousand times two is forty thousand, which is just an astronomical, gluttonous amount to think of spending on strappy sandals, lattes, and Chardonnay with a hint of peach and almond, but I love the idea of having a few fat steamer trunks of cash at my disposal; somehow it's very Greta Garbo.
So I skipped merrily back to the studios where we tape
All Our Tomorrows
, happy to be employed as an actress again. I gave Sean a big hug, even said hello to the cameramen, and didn't object when Lucy in makeup wanted to try a new shade on my lips. I was upbeat and sunny until I read the daily schedule. Since the actor who plays Preston Scott was unavailable today, his scenes were being moved to tomorrow, and tomorrow's scenes between Meredith and Ariel were being shot today. Bumped up to today? My haute-drama scene with Deanna Childs.
Now I am an actress who welcomes the opportunity to work with any fellow actor. However, having heard (and read!) rumors that Deanna was the person responsible for my expensive layoff, I admit I harbored a little distrust. A smattering of anger. A quivering fear that she would try to get me axed again. So, I admit, the scheduling change threw me.
But then Jodi brought out my wardrobe for the day—a strapless dupioni silk dress with kicking polka-dotted Manolo mules—and my throat tightened with emotion.
“What's wrong, honey?” Jodi asked, pulling the curtain aside so that every gaffer in the studio wouldn't see me in my underwear.
“It's ... it's so pretty.” I held my hair back as she zipped up the dress, a high-waisted, shoulderless, sassy design in various shades of green stripe.
Jodi pinched at the bodice, pursing her lips. “We might bring it in a bit there—you're so skinny!—but otherwise it's a good fit.”
“It's a dream! I feel like Julia Roberts after Richard Gere takes her shopping in
Pretty Woman
.”
The usually deadpan Jodi actually cracked a quick smile. “I loved that scene. Now try the shoes. The script calls for you to kick them off when you go out on the ledge, so I didn't give you any straps or zippers.”
I slipped my feet into the open-toed shoes, so glad I'd sprung for a pedicure yesterday. The shoes were silk heaven, with a pert band of lime ribbon trim around the toes and slender heels. And the polka dots! How I wanted to do a high kick in Deanna's face, proving that dots are hot. “Wonderful,” I said. “Fabulous. Very comfortable.”
“Now the key to making a dress like this work is the accessories, so don't forget the necklace and earrings. Some silvery droplets, since we need to break the horizontal line of the dress.”
My attention was glued to the mirror, to the smart, new Ariel. “It's so nice to be out of droopy seaweed clothes, even if I am still wearing green.”
Jodi wrinkled her nose, tugging on the tape measure back and forth around her neck. “It was time. Everyone knew it, but the network had a focus group and they really shoved the results down Gabrielle's throat. No one wants to tune in to see people dressed in rags. Time for Ariel to have some style.”
“Thank you.” I would have hugged her if I didn't think it would freak her out. At a time when I needed a confidence boost to face Deanna, Jodi had come through. “Thank you, thank you!”
She ripped the curtain open, indicating that I was finished and should leave her space and let the next cast member step in. So I glided out of wardrobe on my dotty Manolo heels feeling dazed and beautiful, whacked by the wand of the costuming fairy.

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