Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Retail Therapy (25 page)

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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Hailey

W
hat a difference a reputation makes. When I walked onto the set of
Days of Heartbreak
, everyone who saw me went out of their way to say hello, to give me directions, to make sure things were going smoothly. I passed a group of actors running lines, and they called out my name and burst into applause. I saluted them, feeling awkward but flattered. The security guard insisted on phoning Dante Ponce, the executive producer, who wanted to meet me immediately. Me! What a difference.

I just about danced up to his office, then remembered my new bad girl image and went for “pleasantly surly” as he brought the director, Piper Robinson, in to officially “greet” me. Me!

“We're pleased to have you with us.” Dante spoke with his head listing toward the side, like my three-year-old nephew who preferred to see the world sideways. “I must say, your reputation as a hipster party girl and Deanna-basher precedes you.”

“OK.” I laughed. “Not sure if that's a good thing, but I'm looking forward to this role.”

“I just have to ask you ...” Piper paused, then said, “did you help push Deanna in the fountain last night? The occasion was your party, wasn't it?”

“Well ...” I thought of Marcella's advice: let them think you're a girl behaving badly. “Let's just say, Deanna definitely made a splash at that event. And no, I didn't push her; I was too busy chasing Antonio Lopez with a butter knife.”

They got a good laugh over that one.

“We're going to have a marvelous time working together,” Dante said from his sideways pose. “Piper directs most of our episodes, and we're really a small, happy family. I'm sorry the writers have brought you in for only two weeks, but if things work out we'll get them to whomp something up for you.”

“You can always return from the dead,” Piper said. “I don't think they find your body when you die next week, do they?”

“No, no body,” Dante assured us, “so we're good for the long-term. My assistant will show you your dressing room. Oh, and we've lined up a limo driver to bring you back and forth to the studio. Don't want our talent getting stuck in the subway.”

“Sounds good,” I said casually, restraining the urge to jump up and do a happy dance in Dante's office.

If this worked out ...
wasn't that what Dante had said?

Ooh, if I could get a regular role on a soap, wouldn't that burn Deanna's butt?

Success is always, always the best revenge.

Alana

H
ave you ever had a hangover that lasted the entire month of August?

In reality, I guess mine lasted only a day or two, but when I was finally feeling better, it was clear that the consequences of my wild night were going to last the rest of my summer. My parents had seen a photo of me in the newspaper. It showed me standing beside the Oscar fountain, where Deanna was railing, fists in the air. Not a bad shot. The smile on my face was a little smug, but then, I looked a hell of a lot better than the dripping Deanna.

“This is not the sort of publicity befitting a Marshall-Hughs!” my father had bellowed.

Like I didn't know that?

I wanted to ask him what a Marshall-Hughs was doing reading
Soap Opera Diaries
, since my incident didn't receive any coverage in the
Times,
but I had learned that the judge does not like to be cross-examined.

Then there was my final visit to LA Minute, where I picked up my last paycheck and said good-bye to my coworkers. “You were the best!” Sage cried on my shoulder. “You made us these fabulous uniforms and got this place working like a Swiss clock. I'm so sorry about the Deanna incident. I keep feeling like I mishandled it.”

“It's not your fault,” I assured her. “You did the right thing. Who can figure out someone like Deanna?”

Minute Man seemed the most upset of all. “We're going to miss you around here,” he said. “I wish I could keep you on, but after dumping a celebrity guest in the fountain, well ...”

“I know.” Add to that the fact that Deanna had threatened to sue the restaurant if I wasn't fired and it became clear that my days at LA Minute were over.

“But I'd like to keep you on as a seamstress for the staff,” Minute Man offered. “The guys have been complaining about their shirts. I guess they're jealous of the girls' uniforms. And I really want them to have a new look by the time
Vanity Fair
does a piece on us in two weeks. Do you think you could swing it?”

“Actually, I'd like that,” I told him. Before I left, I got measurements from a few of the guysâwhich, I must admit, was wicked funâthen I headed straight to the garment district in the West Twenties and Thirties. Most of the shops in the district don't sell to individuals, but when I'd worked on the women's uniforms I'd managed to barter my way in and strike up a few deals.

The men's uniform posed a new problem: men's fashion wasn't as wild, and short of putting them in tuxes, which would be expensive and uncomfortable, nothing immediately came to mind. The first day I explored various fabrics, chatted up the shop owners who spoke English, and window-shopped the men's garments they had on display. Then, since a decent breeze was blowing, I walked a block west, bought two hot egg rollsâgotta eat them while they're hotâand a copy of
GQ
, and sat among the students on the odd little plaza outside the Fashion Institute of Technology, where the rule seemed to be the more outlandish your attire, the higher your grade.

Two students sitting near me were talking about some sort of competition. I couldn't see their faces, but the girl wore a colorful turban on her head and the guy was extremely skinny from the back.

“Aren't you entering?” the girl whined. “You have to enter.”

“Why? They never pick the best designs. It's all about who's blowing who.”

“So? Then you should win.”

“I don't care enough about it to pour myself into a design. For that prize?”

“Free tuition doesn't work for you?” the girl asked. “You want to be in debt the rest of your life?” She flipped open a notebook. “What do you think? Do I have a chance?”

I stole a peek over their shoulders. It was a sketch of a woman in a long India print gown. Interesting.

“You want a shot at winning?” the kid said. “Then start sleeping with Vera Nichols.”

She slapped him on the shoulder and they headed off, but I lingered in the shade, wishing I could go with them. What did you learn in “fashion school”? Like any routine it became tedious, I was sure; still, I was intrigued enough to navigate my way around the school to the admissions department to pick up a catalogue. Fashion school. Daddy would get a good belly laugh out of that.

After two days spent struggling with the design for the men's uniforms, I proposed a simple gray T-shirt and sport jacket with black pants. “It may sound boring,” I told Minute Man, “but the look is very Hollywood producer, and I found a cache of brushed cotton T-shirts that look very upscale, with darker jackets in a linen blend. Now, the jackets will need some alterations to the individual body type, but I'll do that myself.” I handed him a sketch that I'd made. OK, I had traced the basic body shape, but the rest was my own work. “It's a clean, polished look, and it will come in on budget and on time if you approve.”

I think the sketch won him over. It's amazing what colored pencils can do.

“OK, Alana,” Danny said, handing me the sketch pad. “I'm going to trust you on this one. But make sure the uniforms are here on time. I don't want the guys looking like sad pirates when
Vanity Fair
comes.”

Twelve days and counting ... I had to start the alterations immediately.

Which made me miss the phone when Xavier called the first time. The whir of my sewing machine drowned out the chime of my cell. When I retrieved the message, I felt a little of that hangover nausea all over again.

“Hey, girl. Just calling to check up on you. You recovered yet? OK. Give me a call.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest as I thought of him. Not that the details of that night were clear, but I did have a hazy memory of throwing myself against him, falling into his arms. Please! I'd probably slobbered on the man.

Had I blabbered that I was falling for him?

I didn't remember. I thought of calling Trevor to pump him for information, but then he'd make an even bigger deal of it. And really, I couldn't be falling for a stand-up comic. Not Xavier. He wasn't my type at all, and pretty soon he'd be out in LA full-time, working on his new show.

The second time he called, he caught me coming out of the shower. I fell onto my bed and tried to think of the right words to say.

“I've been worried about you since the other night. Are you OK?”

“Fine! I mean, that night was a huge mistake, drinking the way I did. I was out of my mind.”

“Yeah. Actually, you were kind of funny, but I could tell you'd lost control.”

“Really? Did I say anything I should be taking back?” I probed.

“A few things that didn't make sense. Look, Alana, I know it's awkward, but we have something between us and I ... I just don't think we should pretend it doesn't exist. You hear what I'm saying?”

“I hear you,” I said. “But what's the point? You're headed out west, and ... I don't know, X. We never did get along. Maybe it's just bad chemistry.”

“So what do you suggest we do about it?”

“Keep a safe distance apart. The West Coast, that should be far enough.”

“Yeah, but I'm still gonna call you.”

“Don't torture yourself,” I said.
Don't torture me,
I thought as he made a joke about my bad mood and hung up.

The third and fourth times Xavier called, I didn't pick up, but I saved the messages on my voice mail. For some sick reason, it made me smile to hear his voice. I kept thinking of the way he looked in that silly hat when he was the manager of McDonald's back in high school, and I smiled even more.

Oh, Lordy, I'd really stepped in it now.

Hailey

“G
ood afternoon, Ms. Starrett.” Mr. Barnes tipped his hat as he held the door open for me.

“Thanks, Mr. Barnes.” My heels clicked over the marble floor of the Manchester lobby, and I felt tempted to break into a tap dance. Good news does that to me.

“Ms. Marshall-Hughs had some visitors up there, but they just left. Three fine-looking gentlemen.” He lowered his voice to add, “Mrs. Abraham in 8-F was complaining, but I told her she should enjoy those fellas while they're here.”

I smiled. A few of the neighbors had expressed concern over the stream of men visiting our apartment lately, but Alana didn't think she needed to explain herself, and she had so little time to do the alterations for the entire male staff that she had stopped going back and forth to LA Minute and started calling the guys to stop by the Manchester instead.

Upstairs, I turned the key and pushed open the door. “Honey, I'm home!” I teased. “And I've got news.”

Alana tipped her head back from the pool of light around her sewing machine. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail atop her head, and she was dressed in skinny gray sweats with an oversize Harvard T. “Hey, there! What's the word from the outside world?”

“People like me!” I threw up my arms. “Cruella called me at work to let me know that I'm getting a Soap Opera Lovers Award. Can you believe it? Viewers voted me for it! But the ceremony is this Thursday and I need a dress. Dante let me tape early so I could leave and go shopping, and you have to come with me.”

“Hailey, that's great!” She was already turning off her sewing machine and ducking into her bedroom to change. “That ceremony is televised, right?”

“Yup. I have to write a speech. Oh, God! Think of some pithy bad girl comments.”

“For that you need to call Marcella.”

“And you have to come with me to the ceremony. I can bring someone, and we'll have a blast. I mean, you should be finished with all your uniforms by then. So you need a gown, too.” A few weeks ago, this would have been a disaster, but now that I'd earned some money on
Heartbreak,
I could afford a new gown. Even Marcella would agree, it was a business expense. “Where should we start? Bergdorf's? Saks?”

“The garment district.” Alana emerged from her room in a smart red-and-white print sundress with a white duster. After an entire week in seclusion here, she still knew how to step out. “I know a place where we can get last year's designs for wholesale prices.”

“Last year's?” I winced.

“Trust me. You'll save thousands of dollars, and with a few alterations, which I can do for you, no one will ever know the difference.”

“But honey, you have no time. Those uniforms have got you sewing round the clock, and I need my gown by this Thursday.”

“I'll fit it in,” Alana said. “Besides, I need a break. Those jacket alterations have me seeing pearl gray in my sleep. Do you know how complicated an alteration is when you have to cut into the lining? Please! Thank God the fabric is exquisite. Otherwise I'd be suicidal.”

After we rode the subway downtownâI know, pee-yew, but it's one of Marcella's rulesâAlana took me around to half a dozen places where she knew the vendors well enough to negotiate. We found a few possibilities but settled on a fabulous Diorâa bright red, off-the-shoulder gown that needed just a tiny bit of alteration in the waist. For Alana, we went with a Prada, a layered chiffon in various shades of brown from chocolate to russet to terra-cotta. Hers needed to be taken up, but Alana was up to the task, and the price was right. After Alana bartered with the vendor, the two gowns cost us less than five hundred dollars. Of course, we'd had to endure trying things on in tiny closets in the back of the shops, but it's all a trade-off.

On the subway ride home, I realized how much the tenor of our shopping trips had changed. And there was something else: Alana had changed. She was distant, a little too thoughtful.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

She frowned. “My head is all tied up in my work. And in Xavier.”

“Uh-oh.” I shook my head. “Men are always trouble, aren't they?”

“That's for damn sure. And I'm crazy about him. Can't stop thinking about him, though I'm hoping it's just a phase. That's possible, right?”

“If you feel that way, why do you keep pushing him away?” I asked. “Why not tell him exactly how you feel? I think he's got a thing for you, too.”

“Nah.” She waved me off. “It would never work.”

“Why, Alana Marshall-Hughs, I think I've finally found something you're afraid of. You're afraid of falling in love.”

She bumped into my shoulder as our train skidded to a stop. “That's a crock. I'm just overwhelmed with work right now. My perspective is all warped.”

I just smiled. We both knew she was lying through her teeth.

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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