Retail Therapy (16 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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Well, there, I just learned something, though I still don't know what it means ...
... features instant checks, ATM withdrawals, and cash advances. Summer cash to use however you like.
Now there's an abbreviation I understood. ATM! ATM!
Use your credit line to travel to a vacation hot spot and cool off oceanside—or cool down in the Great White North.
It was all too good to be true! The only snag—when I flipped through the enclosed papers, there was no shiny plastic card enclosed. I checked the envelope and confirmed that yes, it was addressed to me. This nice bank meant for me to have this card. And the 800 number printed in large, boldface type was hard to miss. I yawned. Would they still be up at Bank of Integrity?
I tried calling, and a very nice person named Val assured me that my bank provided customer service twenty-four/seven. Val helped me through the application process, a piece of cake, really. The only thing that made me hesitate was household income.
Hmm. The card was for me, and I didn't really have an income, but you'd have to count the money Daddy pays for the co-op. Something like three thousand a month.
I was about to answer when Val coached, “They mean, the total income of all the people living in your household.”
I sat up in bed. That included Mama and Daddy—that's what Val said. “Well, I'm not exactly sure, but let me give you a low estimate.” My parents' salaries, plus interest from investments and annuities ... “I'm guessing thirty thousand?”
“A year?”
“A month.”
“Oh! OK, then.” Cheerful Val needed a minute to run it all through, then she came back with a warm welcome to Bank of Integrity. Not only were they sending me a card with a white dove on it, but Val would give me my account number so that I could start “cashing in on summer fun” right away!
Considering the bond I'd formed with Val, it was hard to say good-bye, but I knew she'd be there twenty-four /seven just in case I ever needed her. I turned the light out and lay down with a smile. Maybe I couldn't fix the problems of the world overnight, but I'd made progress. I'd awoken that morning with a measly two hundred in my pocket, but I was going to sleep with a healthy twenty-thousand-dollar credit line.
I slept like an angel.
29
Hailey
“I
have never found a pair of sunglasses I really love.” I was turning a rack at the Sunglass Shack outlet, having tried a few and dismissed them all. “What is it about sunglasses? They make such a strong statement.” I tried a squarish pair. “Bossy. Aggressive.” An oval pair. “Nerdy.”
Marcella nodded. “Schoolmarm.”
“Try these.” Alana handed me some crescent-shaped tortoiseshell frames, which made us all laugh. I fanned my fingers past my face, Travolta-like. “OK, give 'em back,” Alana said. “Why is it that they look fine on me?”
And they did.
“On you they say ‘intellectual, astute, artistic.' On me, they're like ‘did you get a message from your planet yet?' ”
Marcella placed a pair of rhinestone frames back on the carousel, then nodded. “OK, ladies. Let's move on. Banana Republic?”
“But we didn't buy anything.” Alana handed Marcella a pair with neon frames. “We just got here.”
Marcella tucked the neons back on the rack. “Don't you have sunglasses?”
“Sure. But I like these tortoiseshell frames.”
“Do you need them?” Marcella pressed. “ ‘Need' means, can you live without them?”
“Well, that's an odd question,” Alana said, modeling the shades for us.
“Honey, you're the one worried about budget and all. That's all I'm saying.”
“I know, but aren't they fabulous?”
I nodded. “You should get them.”
“Should I?” Alana beamed.
Marcella put the brakes on. “How much are they?”
“Who knows? They're great.” Alana removed them to check the tag.
Marcella snorted. “And they call that a discount? Honey, you do what you want, but I'm telling you, we carry the same line at Bon Nuit, and they'll be half that price on Silly Sale Day. Think about it, 'cause I'm trying to save you some money.”
“Oh.” Alana seemed crestfallen, but she lifted the glasses and plunked them back onto the rack. We headed toward the door, but she turned back and gazed longingly at the sunglasses. “I think they need me.”
Marcella crooked her arm through Alana's and guided her toward the exit. “Let them go, honey,” she said soothingly. “Someone will find them a nice home at a farm somewhere. A very expensive farm.”
 
 
Banana Republic was a festival of fashion.
No Manhattan girl can resist a black linen blazer, especially in the crisp yet casual styling of the Big Banana. There's something so “I don't give a fuck” about the lines and fabric of their clothing; it's so New York.
I was trying on my blazer when Alana passed me on the way to the checkout counter, her arms loaded down with a heavy wad of items. “You hit the mother lode!”
“Just a few things I had to have.” Marcella popped out from behind a display of silk tanks and Alana added, “Things I need. Yup. I totally
need
this stuff.”
“How do the khaki boot pants fit?” Marcella asked.
“I think they'll be good. I'll try them on at home.”
“What?” Marcella was flabbergasted. “Why?”
“It takes too much time to wait in line here, and I'm not in the mood. I'll just return anything that doesn't fit.”
Marcella was shaking her head. “Oh, no. No, no. You are not wasting your money on things you won't ever wear.” She pointed to the dressing room with a stern look. “March!”
To my surprise, Alana listened. I grabbed my black blazer and red hip huggers and denim stuff and hurried behind them. It didn't seem like a good idea to cross Marcella, and I was curious to see what she thought of my black linen blazer.
Half an hour later, the three of us stood in line with very select purchases and a new feeling of pride. Marcella had taken us through the paces, critiquing each outfit, checking out the seams, the drape, the fabric, the care instructions.
My linen jacket had not passed Marcella muster. “Who wants to see a soap opera star in a droopy linen jacket all bagged out like a potato sack?”
Ouch.
But we had found a linen blend that Marcella assured me would not wrinkle, and I couldn't wait to wear it to work. Maybe I'd run into Antonio in the coffee shop across the street from the studio ... maybe I'd wear it to his apartment ...
I was leaping ahead, as usual, but I wanted him in my life so desperately, especially after the night we'd shared. The hot groping we'd done in the club had fired up to mad movie passion at his place, and we'd twisted and rolled through the sheets, two playful lovers.
And to think I'd been so nervous at the start of the evening, so worried that I'd do something stupid and he'd realize I was a klutz and a fraud. But Antonio had a gift for making you feel like you were the only person on the planet, the only one who mattered. When we sat down at that table in the club and started talking like two old friends, I felt that bond, that connection with him. I knew he was into me, but I wasn't sure how much, how deep his commitment was. I mean, some women were good at playing the casual game, that “if it feels good do it” thing, but not me. When I fall for someone, I start planning out forever. Neurotic, I know, and it had driven more than a few guys away, but I can't really invest in someone without thinking long-term.
The question was, how could I make plans with Antonio without pressuring him too much?
So far, he was still doing the initiating, and had asked me to dinner tonight. Marcella promised to help me find something special to wear at Liz Claiborne or DKNY. But I worried a little about how things would play out when we returned to the City. Would he have me over at his apartment, or come to mine? Would we spend whole nights together? Move in together? There I was, pushing again.
Marcella went to the register first with her single item—a pair of black faux linen pants in a size six, stretchy so they fit well over her “J-Lo butt” as she called it.
Alana stepped up to the next open register and started her transaction.
I moved up when Marcella was finished and handed the clerk my card. “Sorry,” he said. “They're not taking this for some reason.”
I gulped. My credit limit, maybe? Hadn't I paid the minimum on my cards? I did! But maybe that was before I'd bought my new swimsuits for this weekend. And the massage at Armitage.
How embarrassing. “Oh,” I said with minimalist brilliance. “Sorry.”
“Here, put it on mine,” Alana said, reaching for a slip of paper across the counter.
“But I thought ...”
“I have a new charge card,” she said proudly. “My very own.”
“Congratulations! What a big step.” It was a move in the right direction for Alana, taking financial responsibility. After all, she'd gotten a job, and she was even pursuing a career that interested her now. Hand model. Who would believe it? “I can't believe you got your own credit card,” I said. “Kudos, honey.”
“Oh, it's not just a card,” Alana said, tucking the slip of paper carefully back into her wallet. “It's my ticket to summer fun.”
Part Four
EXPLOSIVE SAVINGS AT OUR
FOURTH OF JULY SALE!
30
Alana
A
s I followed Hailey onto the set of
All Our Tomorrows
, I tried to think of nice things to say, things that would imply that I was impressed without my totally lying. The truth? This cavernous old building was a dump.
“Exciting, isn't it?” Hailey's eyebrows shot up. “I still remember the first day I was on the set. I felt like the new kid, but no one seemed to notice. I changed in the bathroom because I didn't know I could use a dressing room. I was so dumb. Deanna ordered me to get her a Diet Coke, and I did.” She hugged herself. “This place has such memories for me.”
“I can see that,” I said; a lame comment, but I'm not a very good liar.
I forced a smile as we got shoved back by two workers carrying a hollowed-out refrigerator. Not to complain, but there was nowhere to sit unless you counted the furniture on the actual sets, which was strictly forbidden territory unless a scene was being taped. Besides, the decor of those rooms was so unappealing, you wouldn't want to hang there, anyway. The living-room set was pat and tweedy, sort of June Cleaver-meets-the-Stepford Wives. The doctor's office was so Gothic, I'd swear they were storing Frankenstein's brain in that filing cabinet. And the pub-style lobby of the inn ... whose idea was the green theme? You'd think a leprechaun had tossed his shamrocks. Didn't these people know that primary green was deadly?
“Alana!” Rory stood paging through a script with two guys on the crew. “Darling, how are you?” He rushed over and kissed me on each cheek.
“Oh, darling yourself,” I teased. “You're so Hollywood in New York, and I love it.”
He preened. “The attitude goes with the Botox lips. What in hell are you doing here?” He gasped. “Not a hand shot for us? Will your hands be appearing in today's show?”
“Not yet. But I have an audition today.”
“It's her fifth audition,” Hailey added. “She's really jumped into this hand model thing. You should see her at home. No one takes care of her hands the way Alana does.”
“What can I say? They're my future. My agent, Muriel, thinks something will come through soon.”
“Let's see, let's see! Strike a pose!” Rory insisted.
I folded my hands across my chest (mind you, I was showing just a teensy bit of cleavage) and Rory burst into applause.
“Isn't she great?” Rory motioned to get the attention of the crew people he'd been talking with. “Aren't those hands perfection? She could be the hands of our serial murderer!”
“Very nice,” one man said. “Except that our murderer is a white male.”
“Oh, that!” Rory waved him off. “You must catch me up, doll. It's been a while, and I haven't heard one word on you from our friend Hailey, mostly because she's been detained elsewhere.”
Rory and I smiled at Hailey, whose face blushed strawberry pink. “Don't stare. So I've been busy. And happy. Antonio is wonderful.”
“So when are you going to share the wealth?” Rory asked. “Bring him out to meet the friends? Dinner? Lunch? Cocktails? Skinny-dipping? You two are one of the soap world's best-kept secrets.”
“Why do you think I'm here?” I plunked down in a high director's chair, one of the few places to sit aside from the living room furniture on the set. “It's the only way I'm going to meet the man.”
“Don't sit there!” Rory and Hailey exclaimed.
I stood up and looked behind me. “Cooties?”
“Double cooties.” Rory took my arm and guided me away. “It's Deanna's chair. If she caught you there, you'd be banned from the set.”
We wove behind the scenery to a table of pastries, muffins, yogurts, and fruits, along with juices and a large coffee urn. Rory offered me coffee, but I declined, having read that caffeine dries out the skin, and I was working to keep the hands in mint condition. I did succumb to a bowl of strawberries, and settled into a molded plastic chair.
“What's in the offing for the Fourth?” Rory asked. “A rooftop barbecue? Anyone know of a party overlooking the fireworks on the river? Or are you gals heading out to the Hamptons again?”
“The Hamptons won't be happening anytime soon,” I said. “I don't think Daddy has quite recovered from our last trip.”
“What's this?” Rory perked up. “Don't tell me you girls trashed the house? Bad girls! Bad!”
“The house was no worse for the wear,” I said.
“Alana made it better.” Hailey tore off a piece of bagel. “She found this gorgeous wicker furniture for the pool terrace. Comfortable, with a Caribbean look. Beautiful furniture! We ate dinner out by the pool.”
“Stop! You're killing me!” Rory held up a hand. “I miss the days of basking in the sun, but you're talking to a guy whose dermatologist won't let him go near cancerous rays. It's the Irish curse.”
I had heard the Irish curse used to describe a small penis, but I didn't think Rory would want to go there at the moment.
“What was Dad's problem, then?” Rory asked.
“Still money issues,” I said. “He doesn't want me to spend it.”
“I hate when that happens.” He turned to Hailey. “Were you there for the showdown? Did the judge pitch a fit? Were the police called?”
“I was already back in Manhattan,” she said. “Alana had dropped us at the Jitney the day before. Marcella had to work, and I had made plans in the City with Antonio.”
“Let me tell you, my fun crashed to a halt when they left. I went back to the outlets and bought up a storm, but it didn't help. I covered the quaint shops on Southhampton's Main Street, found some fabulous swimwear. Oh, and that's where I got those dangly earrings, hand-made by some tribal Indians on Long Island. And shoes ... Dolce & Gabbana on sale! Who could resist?”
“Doll, you're rambling worse than a Tuesday story line,” Rory said. “Where in this shopping spree does the judge come in?”
“Enter Judge and Mrs. Marshall-Hughs, Saturday morning,” Hailey offered. “Alana was still in bed.”
“Another one of my father's pet peeves—the work ethic. He thinks that getting up at the crack of dawn is a prerequisite to hard work. Anyone who sleeps after eight is a slacker.”
“I guess I'd be guilty in Daddy's court of law,” Rory said.
“Well, I couldn't sleep for long. I was cozy under my quilt when I heard a scream from the pool terrace. It was my father, and he sounded awful. I was sure he was having a heart attack. I rushed downstairs and it was all about the patio furniture. Where were his green chairs? He wanted his green chairs back. And how much did the coco wicker furniture cost him? When I mentioned the three-thousand-dollar sale price, I think he almost did have a heart attack.”
“But she got it on sale,” Hailey pointed out. “Alana's father is an educated man, but sometimes the facts elude him.”
“I tried to show him how the new furniture was superior. More comfortable and atmospheric, but he didn't want to hear it. He dragged it to the side of the house and marched out to the shed to retrieve his old furniture, the hideous green chairs. Mom seemed to like the wicker, but after Dad's outburst she was afraid to sit in it.”
“A colorful scene!” Rory said. “I can just imagine the judge rearranging furniture on the pool deck.”
Hailey knew the other details—the more painful ones. How Daddy said the new furniture resembled a “goddamned movie set.” He didn't understand how his daughter possessed the poor judgment to sink his dollars into such frivolity. How Daddy had called me a lazy parasite with a vicious sense of entitlement. That had hurt. How could he not see that my days were bursting, full of activity? I wasn't lazy, and to compare his own daughter to a life-sucking organism ...
Mama wasn't much better. She sat me down in her kitchen and told me to face the fact that I had a serious problem, one that needed counseling. Professional intervention, she called it, unable to look me in the eye. I should have stopped the conversation then. Never argue with a parent who cannot look you in the eye.
“I need to see a shrink because I have a talent for design and home decor?” I asked her.
“Your shopping addiction has become a problem.”
“Shopping isn't a problem; it's what I do best. And half the time it's therapy for me. Why would you want to spend hundreds of dollars on a therapist who'll try to dredge up bad feelings when I can spend the same money on clothes and shoes and handbags that will make me feel happy?” I asked. “Where is the sense in that, Mama?”
In response, Mama, the college professor, told me that it was not a subject for further debate.
Helloooo? Whatever happened to a democratic society?
I had tried to make a dramatic exit.
How I had wanted to peel out of the driveway, spraying gravel behind me!
But my purchases had bogged me down. I had to make four trips to the car, traipsing through the house with bags and boxes. The shoe boxes were the worst, bulky and difficult to hide. I considered leaving them behind, and believe me, I would have if I'd been able to part with my good friends Dolce & Gabbana.
At one point, Daddy came running around the side of the house to gawk into my open trunk. “How?” he gasped in horror. “How did you pay for all this merchandise?”
“I'm taking care of it,” I told him. “My new career pays well.”
“What new career?”
I slammed the trunk closed, letting my hand rest near the Mercedes symbol. “I'm a hand model now,” I said, stretching the truth. “People have always said I have exquisite hands.”
“That's not a job! A job is hard work.”
Again with the puritan work ethic. Sometimes I wonder how I ever survived my parents' inability to have fun.
“So ... another trip to the Hamptons is not in the cards for the Fourth. Maybe Labor Day? Daddy should have returned to his senses by then. He's got to be realizing how clashy and uncomfortable those green chairs are.”
“Green chairs.” Rory shook his head. “Of all the issues that drive a wedge between people, this is the first time I've ever heard of patio furniture providing such controversy. The way you talk about it makes Janet Jackson's boob and Mayor Bloomberg's policies pale by comparison.”
“Those chairs are symbolic of the lack of ‘aesthetics' in my father's world.” I had given some thought to this problem, and the word “aesthetics” had such a nice ring to it. Not that I'd been able to run it by Daddy, since we weren't exactly on speaking terms.
“Well, gals, if we're all going to be in town, let's do something fun for the Fourth.” Rory tapped his chin. “The beauty of the New York summer is that Manhattanites flee. The city will be our playground.”
“Yes, let's do something!” Hailey clapped her hands together. “Maybe Antonio will join us. I'm really dying for you to meet him, Alana.”
“And I'd love a peek at the real Antonio,” Rory said mysteriously.
“Speaking of which ... where is he?” I checked my watch. “I have to be crosstown for this audition. I'm going to have to go.”
“And we have to get to makeup, Ms. Ariel.”
Hailey shrugged. “Sorry. I guess we'll walk you out.”
We were passing by the dressing-room doors when the man in question appeared striding confidently down the hall. Usually, the classically handsome men are a bit too polished for me, but Antonio broke the mold. Tall, dark, handsome, and exuding fire ... I could see why Hailey fell for him.
“Antonio!” She rushed ahead to throw her arms around him, but he turned his head abruptly. Hailey's kiss landed awkwardly on his chin.
“Hilly ... I'm late for wardrobe.”
“I wanted you to meet my best friend,” she said, introducing us. He shook my hand and looked me in the eye, but the man was obviously not at ease.
“I must go.” He turned away, then called back, “Nice meeting you.”
“Cute, but reticent,” I said as he disappeared. “What's his problem?”
“I hear he's a very private person,” Rory said. “But you would know better than I. Is he incredibly secretive? As mysterious as those dark, exotic eyes suggest?”
Hailey laughed. “He's not mysterious. Just sex-starved.”
“Wheeeew!” Rory and I squealed.
“He's totally different in private,” Hailey went on. “Much more relaxed. Whenever we're in public, he clams up. I don't get it.”
“Can't be sure,” Rory lowered his voice and motioned us close, “but I suspect it's about Diva Deanna.”
“What?” Hailey croaked. “They're not an item. Deanna is married.”

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