Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Retail Therapy (23 page)

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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Hailey

“Z
oe will be in soon,” the receptionist told me as she paused in the doorway. She had just escorted me into the office of Zoe Lemonda, editorial director of
Soap Opera Diaries
, and my new pipeline to the world. At least, that's what I'd been hoping for when I set up this meeting. “Would you like something to drink?”

I grinned. “Do you have any scotch?” I got that response from Marcella, and it worked like a charm.

The receptionist paled, looking nervously out in the hallway. “Water, coffee, or tea?”

“Guess I'll stick with water, thanks.”

I pushed the visitor's chair closer to Zoe's desk and sat down. None of that friendly personal space, Marcella had instructed. “Get right up in her grill, honey.” I straightened the elegant beaded black Dolce jacket I'd borrowed from Alana. A totally new look for me, the dress and matching jacket revealed miles of leg and a tease of cleavage. I hadn't worn jeans for a week now. Marcella had suggested that the new, bad Hailey needed a new look, and so far I was having fun stepping out in styleâmostly in items from the depths of Alana's closet.

A young, pencil-thin woman with a blond pixie haircut came in and grinned. “Did you really ask for scotch! You boozehound!”

I laughed. “I figured it was worth a try.”

“I'm Zoe,” she said, extending her hand. “And I've heard that you've changed your look recently, but I must say, this is working for you. No more of that corn-fed midwestern girl, right?”

I crossed my legs. “I'm afraid we're not in Kansas anymore.”

Zoe smiled. “Let's close the door. We've got a lot to talk about, I think. As you know, my specialty is behind-the-scenes info on the soaps.”

I nodded. “And I've got a few dozen Deanna anecdotes for you. I've sorted them in my mind by level of severity from nasty to depraved evil, but you can do with them what you like.”

Zoe's blue eyes went wide in amazement. “Do you mind if I tape you? You're the first person who's ever been willing to go on record with Deanna dirt. The woman is so powerful in this industry, well, not to scare you off, believe me, but no one has ever been willing to cross her.”

“I used to feel that way, but she's crossed me one too many times. She's gotten me fired, she's intimidated my boyfriendâ”

“Antonio?” Zoe turned on the tape player. “I'd love some juice on him, too. You can imagine, he's a big seller for us, too. But first thing's first: Deanna and her insipid evils.”

“The thing to remember about Deanna is that she's truly the queen of mean. No one on the set is safe from her tantrums and orders. She's gotten makeup artists fired, and once she actually stuck a costume assistant with a straight pin.”

Zoe was writing furiously, a look of amazement on her face. “Is it true that she demands rewrites?”

“Won't leave her limo if she doesn't get them.”

“Ugh! I used to work production on a soap. No more. And the size-two costumes? I just have to ask ...”

“Actually, size six.” I nodded. “You heard it right. She's been lying all these years. God knows why. I'm a size six and proud of it.”

“This is so great,” Zoe said, holding her hands up like I'd scored a goal. “But I'll stop interrupting and let you dig into the whole stories. Like the time she threatened you. How'd that happen?”

“Well, she was waiting for me outside my dressing room, hiding in the shadows, when ...”

I told the story with relish, careful not to inflate any of the details. In some cases, the truth was odder than fiction, and when I'd decided to step forward, I promised myself I wouldn't stoop to Deanna's level. I was sticking to the real story, period.

The old Hailey would have hated this, but the new me was ready to rumble. If Deanna was going to sling the mud, I was willing to get my fingernails dirty and slop it right back.

Fire away.

Part Five

MAKE A SPLASH WITH AN
AUGUST SALE

You Won't Want to Miss!

Hailey

T
here is nothing worse than having irate fans up your wazoo when you're buying feminine-hygiene products.

I had just placed my tampons and deodorant on the counter at the corner CVS when a woman behind me in line gave a loud sigh. I shot her a look.

“Oh, you're that mermaid girl,” she said, loud enough for everyone in the line to turn around to stare. She had black hair that was growing in shocking white, making her resemble a skunk. I could only hope she was in line to buy some Clairol Dewy Chestnut. “You're that one who got caught stealing Deanna Childs' clothes,” she said smugly.

I pulled my straw hat down over my forehead and muttered. “I wasn't stealing anything.” Didn't anybody get that?

When I turned back to the cashier, skunk lady added, “Better watch her! She's a closet thief!”

The clerk's eyebrows rose, and I shook my head. Sometimes, the bad girl image just doesn't work for you, but then nobody thinks of defending the rights of Mata Hari or Madonna to buy tampons in peace. I routed through the bottom of my bag for the thirty-seven cents in change. I would have to talk to Marcella about budgeting in some more cash for necessities.

“That's her!” The white-streaked woman pointed to the copies of
Soap Scandals
in the checkout-counter rack. She even stepped up and tapped my face, a photo of me leaving Mosquito with Jackie Chan, my face a little pale from overexposure, though Jackie looked adorable. We'd had a chance to meet him that night, and we just happened to leave the restaurant at the same time. See how the press twisted things? “She's Hailey Starrett, the thief from
All Our Tomorrows
.”

At least she got my name right. I turned slowly and folded my arms in front of me. “I didn't steal those clothes, and they didn't belong to Deanna in the first place. They were
costumes
, and I was in the
wardrobe
department doing fittings. I was just doing my job as an actress when Deanna Childs threw one of her famous tantrums.”

I realized that the eyes of customers in the line were all over me, assessing my testimony. One woman with rectangular eyeglasses and a briefcase scowled. A girl with too much mascara was nodding in approval. One man from the back called out, “You tell her, Ariel!”

My testimony complete, I turned back to the counter and fished out the coins. I was waiting for the receipt to print (for Marcella) when the woman behind me added, “How about Antonio Lopez? Is it true that he broke your heart?”

Now that was too personal, and way too complex to answer in five words or less, though I was beyond the early scratch-his-eyes-out stage. By my count, the first seven days after any breakup should be termed as a cooling-off period, a time when each party needs to work through the hurt, rejection, blame, regret, disbeliefânot to mention the tests for STDs, which may have been the cause of the breakup in the first place.

In my case, after that first week of misery over Antonio, I realized that I didn't miss him that much, and that the worst part of our breakup was the humiliation of allowing Deanna one more shot at me.

“You know,” Skunk Lady said, yanking me back to reality, “you're not as pretty in person.”

I turned to her and just rolled my eyes.

It was ironic, but ever since I was fired from the show, I'd been recognized more than ever. Marcella had been right about being unable to shake the bad rep. Not that I minded being the bad girl of soaps, but I wasn't even being paid for the honor or the invasion of my privacy. I wouldn't have minded the attention if I had a job!

“Is it true Deanna threatened you?” the woman asked.

“Read
Soap Opera Diaries
,” I said, plugging Zoe's publication. “They're the only ones who got it right.” Snatching up my plastic bag, I swept out the door, nearly snagging Alana's lilac silk print summer dress as I swept past the rack of
Soap Scandals
. It was an issue I'd already read, which quoted Deanna saying, “Hailey Starrett will not be back. If that girl wants to return to this show, she'll have to step over my dead body.”

A tempting invitation, I thought. Very tempting.

Alana

“T
his is Alana sending five to the caves, party of five to the caves. Do you copy?” I spoke quietly into the headset mike, as I guided five female exec secs into the elevators.

“This is Bear. Copy that, Alana.”

Bear was a nickname for Brandon, my associate manning LA Minute's third floor, which was otherwise known as the caves. Everyone employed at LA Minute had to wear a headset, and the lingo was just a shorthand that had evolved over the course of conducting hundreds of people through a multilevel facility. Today I was assigned to my favorite “hot spot,” the main entrance, which was truly the land parallel to air traffic control. Here I got to meet and greet everyone coming in, charm them in the first thirty seconds, then hustle them along to “one of my favorite tables” with that high-voltage energy that was trademark LA Minute. In less than a month here, I had mastered the pace of one of the trendiest new restaurants in Manhattan. Perhaps it was just the flavor of the month, but LA Minute was the hot, hot, hot place to see and be seen, and I was fine, fine, fine at keeping on top of the friendly chaos.

I sent a few more parties off to their tablesâthe most stylish guests landing tables in the fountain room on the first floor, where all the stars and models and power players were seated. The main structure in the center of the fountain was shaped like an Oscar, the gold statuette given out to winners of Academy Awards. The second floor, called the balcony, was a little more quiet and reserved. The chairs were actually movie seats in rows of two or three. To break up the auditorium sterility, the tables were separated by screens made of rice paper, painted canvas, or stained glass. Somehow the overall look came together: kitschy, eclectic, and cozy. Chaos reigned in the caves on the third floor, designed to resemble a movie set for
Planet of the Apes
meets
Jurassic Park
. Our dark, wild dance floor and funky bar was favored by college kids and overage debutantes. The restaurant's owner, Danny Slane, affectionately known as Minute Man, offered incentives like half-price happy-hour appetizers to lure customers up to the caves, and people had responded in droves. I guess the lure of a discount works in the restaurant industry, too.

“Hello, Ms. Tong! Step in out of that humidity! Our garden is nice and cool today.” Over my mike, I said, “Two coins for the fountain,” and sent the local newscaster and her companion to the celebrity area.

I assumed that the next tall black brother in the lobby was a pro basketball player, until I got a look at his face.

“Trevor!” I gave him a hug, pounding on his back. “You're looking good, you bad boy!”

“Hell of a lot better than I looked the last time you saw me. And you're kicking some butt yourself, cuz. Got yourself a job at the see-and-be-seen place in town.”

I slipped out of Trev's embrace and noticed that Xavier was behind him. Somehow I'd known I would see him again, though it had bothered me to have the situation out of my control. For a guy who almost invited me to move out to LA with him, he had certainly dried up quick and fast. In fact, when I'd tried to get information about Trevor in rehab, I'd had to call his mama and try to sort fact from Aunt Nessieâfiction.

So what could I say to cover the awkwardness? “Oh, you.” I didn't intend to sound so mean. “What, are you visiting from the West Coast?”

“Actually, I'm sort of bicoastal. You didn't think you'd be rid of me so easy, did you? Besides, someone had to spring your cousin from rehab.”

“Nah, it's not that way,” Trevor insisted. “It's my call now. I'm the one who's gonna make this work.”

“Now, didn't they tell you in group that you can't do this alone?” Xavier objected.

Trevor held up his hands. “You're twisting my words, bro ...”

“Whoa, wait!” I held up my hands. “Before you deck each other here in the lobby, let me get someone to cover and I'll go on my break so we can catch up.”

I called in Ginger to cover and showed the guys to a table on the second floor, one of the very private screened-off tables near the kitchen doorânot a great spot for clients, but secluded enough so that employees could take their meals without looking like slackers. Minute Man didn't like the idea of his people appearing in uniform in the local Burger Heavens and yogurt shops, and when I agreed that it looked unprofessional, I was able to talk him into accommodating staff right here in the restaurant. The boss was a reasonable man. Lucky for me, as I don't suffer fools gladly.

I placed an order in the kitchen, filled three glasses with Coke, and returned to the table. “I ordered us some pork chops, today's special.”

“Pork chops?” Xavier tapped a finger against his dimpled chin. “Now what if we didn't want pork chops?”

“You'll eat them, and you'll like them,” I said sternly.

“Same old Alana.” Trevor stirred the straw around, making the ice in his drink jingle. “Tell me how you managed to walk into this place and become the boss so fast. What? You sleeping with the owner?”

“Minute Man?”

The guys nearly sprayed Coke out through their noses.

“I don't think so. Not that he's not a great guy, but I don't think Danny's wife and daughter would take kindly to me rolling down to their breakfast table. No, my rise to fame and fortune at LA Minute has been based on hard work and meritâhard for you to believe, I know, but there you go. I know there's no real future in the job, but I do have a knack for it. I guess it's just the party girl in me; I feel right at home in this venue.”

“And you look right at home in that uniform,” Xavier said. “It's a damn good fit.”

“Probably because I designed it,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke.

“You mean, like, in your dreams?”

“In my apartment.” Stephanie served our pork chops with gravy and greens and apple sauce, and I said, “Eat it up while it's hot! It's a pet peeve of mineâcan't stand it when they serve lukewarm food. It's always nice and hot here.”

“Listen to yourself, Alana,” Trevor said. “Did they brainwash you, or insert an LA Minute microchip?”

“Always competing with me, Trev. Does it bother you that I like my job, and I'm good at it, too?” I told them how the LA Minute uniform had suited none of the girls, with fabric that didn't breathe, no darts in the bodice of the white blouse, and a fat sash at the waist that kept dipping into customers' entrees. When I'd pointed out the problem to Minute Man, he told me to bring him some solutions. So I set to work with a needle and thread, trying various fabrics and styles. I adapted a white cotton blouse from a discount store, gave it three-quarter sleeves capped with pearlized buttons, a sewn-in bib in the front to cover any “nipplage,” a jaunty collar, and plenty of darts to accentuate the female shape. When one of the waitresses modeled my design for Danny, he pronounced it “killer cute” and wanted the entire female staff to switch over, just as soon as I could alter twenty-some white blouses.

“That's when I realized the little Sew-Right that I bought from a late-night TV ad wasn't going to cut it. So I had to sneak into the parents' apartment when they were out east and pick up the sewing machine Daddy gave me for my birthday when I was taking ninth-grade home ec.”

“They still had that old thing?” Trevor asked.

“You know it. Daddy is a saver.”

“I remember when you got that,” Xavier said. “Pitched a fit, didn't you? Made your poor father miserable.”

“It was a dud gift. Thirteen years old, what did I want with a sewing machine?”

“But the way you cried about it,” Trevor said. “Cried and cried till your eyes were little red onions. I was scared you were really sick or something, but my mama said you were just a spoiled brat.”

“I was not!”

“Alana, you cried till your Daddy peeled some bills out of his wallet. A few hundred, as I remember.”

“That doesn't mean I was spoiled. I just appreciated nice things.”

The two guys exchanged a knowing look.

“Stop the collusion. Can I help it if I have refined tastes? People just don't understand me.”

After we finished eating, Xavier excused himself to go out for a smoke.

“Smoking again?” I scowled at him.

He pointed a finger at me. “Don't even start on me, woman.”

As Xavier disappeared down the stairs, Trevor nodded toward him. “Now there's a good man. He gave up drinking so he doesn't influence me in the wrong way. Only problem is, he's back on cigarettes. Unhealthy, I know, but he's doing it for me.”

“Xavier's a nutcase in his own right,” I said. “And how about you? What are your plans? I'm glad you're OK. Is there anything I can do to help you stay that way?”

“I don't know. Don't know what I'm going to do, just know I can't go on the way I've been. The family business is no good for me, and honestly, I'm probably no good for the family biz. Mama never wanted a million dollar business; expansion means nothing to her. She wants to cook and fill folks' bellies and bring them comfort. And you've probably heard the family scuttlebutt about me, how I lost her some money with bad investments.”

I didn't want to admit that I'd heard and I'd chimed in with my own condemnation of Trev, partly out of cousin rivalry, but mostly out of jealousy. Trevor had an enviable gift for charming people.

“It's been a heavy burden, thinking that I had to fill my Daddy's shoes, that I had to prove myself and make Mama's catering business an even bigger success. And all along, everything I did, she tore it down, worked against me 'cause it wasn't what she wanted. I was banging my head against a wall, hating her, hating myself.” He wiped a hand over his face. “Man, I was really down on myself. One miserable brother.”

“Trev ...” I put a hand on his back and rubbed between his shoulder blades, wanting to say more, wishing I could tell him I'd believed in him all along, but I couldn't bear to lie when he was being so honest with me. “I was worried about you,” I admitted. “Sometimes ready to kill you myself.”

He let out a laugh, though his eyes were shiny with tears. “Yeah, I bet. But at least you gave a shit. You cared enough to want to kill me.”

We both snorted. “Honey, I'll still kill you if you start abusing yourself again.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I'll count on it. You know, I've always wondered how you do it. How you keep pushing on, don't let shit bother you, you just keep going and finding things that make you happy, smiling and all. I mean, look at you in that outfit that you sewed, and you sewed 'em for all the girls because it seemed right and you knew what to do and you got a kick out of it, too. That's a gift, Alana. To get yourself out there and pick what you want from life, like it's yours for the taking. And the joy ... you really feel it, don't you?”

“Don't you?” I asked.

“Nah ... sometimes, I think this earth might have been better off without me. I've wished myself away, thinking it would have been better not to be born at all, not to feel the pain we all have to go through.”

“Oh, Trev, no.” There was a catch in my voice as the level of his pain hit me, and I squeezed his hand on the bar and closed my eyes and tried to send him positive, warm vibes through my palm.

After a minute, he complained, “Hey, you're squeezing all the juice outta me.”

“Damn you, Trevor Marshall-Hughs. Don't you ever,
ever
think the planet would be a better place without you. And don't be telling me it's not worth the ride. The good times make it worth the ride.”

He sucked in a breath. “I don't know, maybe I'm too numb to feel anything good anymore.”

I smacked his hand. “Then give yourself some time. That numbness is going to wear off and that pain is going to lift, a little every day. And one day you're going to wake up and smell the fresh air and lift your head to the sun and say, damned if my cousin Alana didn't tell me I'd feel this good again one day!”

“You're full of shit,” he said.

“Come on, brother, give me an alleluia and an amen.”

“Get out!”

I curled my fingers at him. “Come on. Come on, come on, come on!”

He sighed. “Yeah, OK. Alleluia.”

When he rolled his eyes, I smacked his arm playfully, all the while hoping it was true. My cousin couldn't go on with this heaviness in his heart; he needed relief, some source of joy.

“You are one sorry black man,” I said. “But just you wait. A few months down the road, you're going to be singing it like you mean it.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I really do.”

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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