Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Retail Therapy (4 page)

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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The crew came alive, hopping into place as Stella looked up over her reading glasses. “Yes, of course. This one takes place in the parlor of the Childs mansion. Let's do a run-through, without the slap, of course.”

“Of course!” Deanna chimed in, reaching over to touch my cheek with cold affection.

I tried to smile, but it was hard to get past the wounded feeling inside.

I was wearing ankle-strap shoes with pants.

I had committed a fashion faux pas.

My life was over.

Part Two

ARRIBA! IT'S CINCO DE MAYO
SALE DAY!

Alana

D
amned cathedrals! Why couldn't they keep their chimes to themselves?

I was climbing the tedious stone stairs of the bell tower, trying to get to the top to put a sock on the clapper, but the higher I rose, the darker the stairwell became.

“Who's doing that?” I called. “Stop!”

I flailed in the darkness, then realized I was writhing in my own bed.

I tore off the mask and looked at my digital clock. Twelve noon. Ugh.

With a tap of my fingertips, I hit the snooze button to cut off the cathedral chime alarm and fell back against the pillows. Sleeping till noon and still exhausted. . . I was in very bad shape. Jet lag was one thing, but this was a weariness more pervasive than a small time difference.

Spring ennui.

Yawning, I sat up in bed and reached for my peignoir, the lacy pink one that was an accessory to this pink negligee. What a find! The fabric was amazing, and it draped so gracefully, I felt like one of those heavenly bodies Reverend Tyson preaches about at Aunt Nessie's church. The only snag with the gown was the pink color, a poor match for my smooth mocha skin. Hmm. That's a problem with many designers' attire. Some of those creative geniuses just don't choose colors that go well with African-American skin tones. I swished the gown around my legs, letting the skirt fall open on the air. Pink didn't work for me. I would have to find one in a better color.

But that was a chore for later. At the moment, I had to get moving if I was ever going to make my one-thirty facial at Armage, followed by a much-needed mani-pedi. If I had time, I would squeeze in a hot-stone massage with Chantelle, but it was going to be tight if I was going to make my date with Hailey. We were on for high tea at the Plazaâa much needed pick-me-up for Hailey, who was suffering some sort of career crisis. I don't know ... something about ankle-strap shoes? I was going to treat her to tea, then lure her off for some retail therapy. Both of us were in need of some serious shopping to cure the ills in our lives.

Myself? I was simmering mad at Daddy. During the flight back from London the night before, I'd had time to ponder the lunacy, the sheer ludicrousness of his cross-Atlantic summons. Really! I had ventured to Europe for a very worthy causeâthe support of my good friend Peteyâand to be scolded and ordered home like an errant puppy! The indignity of it all had my blood boiling, and it didn't help that the air was humid and hot when I stepped out of the Manchester lobby.

“Good Lord, is it summer already?” I shielded my eyes from the sun and smiled at the doorman, Mr. Barnes.

“It's still May, but we have summer weather.” Mr. Barnes squinted at me, the laugh lines deep around his eyes. He was one of the few African-Americans on staff at the Manchester Apartments, and his presence made my father uncomfortable. Daddy always frowned and fumbled for some dollar bills and felt incredibly guilty that a brother was opening the door for him when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. I guess that's one of those notions you're stuck with when you start out in the middle classâwanting to do things for yourself, feeling guilty when other people provide services for you. As one of five children growing up in Great Neck, New York, my father was forced to learn so many tedious tasks. Cooking, washing, sewing, vacuuming, dishwashing. How many times had I heard of the Sunday dinners after which he and his sisters spent three solid hours scrubbing pots and pans and buffing the kitchen till it shone? Please. If the Lord had meant us to spend our lives scrubbing, He would have given us scouring pads on our fingertips instead of nails. And that is enough about that.

Still, it's a shame that my father will probably never be able to shed his guilt. Here he is, a successful federal judge, and he can't take a vacation in the Caribbean or hire a limo or live in a doorman building without having his guilt button pushed. Poor Daddy; poor Mama. She has no qualms about being pampered, but she's stuck with the Mother Teresa of the service industry.

Me? I think it's great to see a black man in a well-paying job that suits him, and since Mr. Barnes is a fine conversationalist and a bit of a flirt, I'm happy to let him open my door any day.

“Do you need a cab today, Ms. Marshall-Hughs?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, Mr. Barnes. And let's pray you can find one with air conditioning.”

As he leaned toward the curb and whistled for a cab, I felt a familiar tug of longing for this city I loved.

Could I manage a stop at Fifth Avenue and see if the summer handbags had arrived at Bergdorf's, where I had an Alessandro Dell' Acqua embroidered clutch on order? I checked my slim diamond Rolex. No, no time. When would I fit Bergdorf's into my schedule?

Facial.

Manicure/pedicure.

High tea.

Ah ... afternoon shopping! There would be time before the obligatory dinner with the 'rents. And to think I wanted a man in my life! It would be nice to have someone special for evening occasions, but honestly, there wasn't a minute of free time in my schedule.

Really. For a girl in her twenties, I was way overbooked.

Someone hand me a cappuccino, please. The ennui is killing me.

Hailey

I
need more work. Why aren't they signing me on for another thirteen weeks?

Why hasn't anyone mentioned a new contract?

Why hasn't my agent called?

Do I have coffee breath?

Insecurities shuddered through me as I held my mark on the set of
All Our Tomorrows
, waiting to finish up for the day. I would be finished by one o'clockâa sad summary of my life.

Finished.

We had already taped the two scenes that were Dullsville for my character. In today's episode, Ariel was hanging out in the restaurant of the Indigo Hills Inn, sipping a Cherry Coke and listening attentively while other characters unloaded their problems. I had to nod and ooze sympathy while Bella worried that her parents would notice she'd been skipping school all semester to noodle with her boyfriend. Then there was old man Gellers, lamenting how much he missed his wife, Trixie, who had passed away last year. It was the one-year anniversary of Trixie's deathâthe actress having gone on to play a grandmother in a sitcomâand in today's episode the writers were flashing back to scenes of Trixie's life, mostly to capitalize on the actress's newfound popularity.

Across the set, my friend Rory banged out a rendition of “Surrey With the Fringe on Top” on the piano. Today Rory/Stone was performing at the Indigo Inn, tickling the ivories in the background while the characters lamented their problems.

I leaned on the simulated oak bar of the restaurant and yawned. We were between takes, and today's director, Percy Blake, didn't want any of us to leave our positions. Group scenes are tricky to tape, orchestrating the moves of a dozen or so players; if the actors are allowed to leave the set, chances are someone will return with an altered hairstyle, a new shade of lipstick, a donut crumb on their collarâsome telltale change that will stick out when the editors try to cut the scenes together.

“Ok, then, ladies and gentlemen.” Percy paused, pressing his fingertips against his lips. He's one of those gorgeous black men who exude charm and creativity, always a pleasure to work with. When it comes to containing Deanna, Percy is a pro. Fortunately, she wasn't in any of my scenes today, so I didn't have to face her and follow up on the nasty shoe comment. Percy came out of his trance. “I think we're ready to move on to our Act Six scenes.”

“Act Six, Scene Two!” Sean announced. “We have Bella approach the piano and confide in Stone. Lizzie Slate meeting Doc Willoughby at the door.”

“Ah, yes!” Ian Horwitz waggled his eyebrows at Susan Lazlo, who plays Lizzie. “I believe this is the scene in which I diagnose you with a debilitating disease based on the dry condition of your cuticles.”

Susan folded her hands and took her place without comment. She's a short-term contract player, like me, and you never hear her complain (though I can imagine what she's thinking!).

“And ...” Sean continued, “we have Ariel crossing to Kostas in the corner booth.”

At last! The scene I'd been waiting for: my first significant exchange with the lean, dark, mysterious Kostas, played by daytime heartthrob Antonio Lopez. His beautiful face lit up the covers of the soap opera weeklies, his wide, white smile and smokey eyes tucking into your soul and giving a joyous little squeeze. I had to agree with the viewersâAntonio was magnifico, despite the fact that he had never paid much attention to me, perhaps due to the fact that he had spent most of the last year sucking up to Deanna. Smart man. From his first day on the set, he buttered her up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and she lapped up the attention. Gobble, gobble.

And I must begrudgingly admit, the heat was rising from their scenes together. Although Deanna is probably a good ten years older than Antonio, they were a hot soap opera couple until her character learned that he had once killed a man in a Salvadoran prison ... and that man just happened to be her brother. Or maybe it was her father? I wasn't paying close attention. Who could focus when Antonio's tan, rippled muscles were flexing against the satin bedsheets?

“Excuse me, Percy?” Rory called to the director, stretching his hands over the keyboard. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I take five? I need to”âhe lowered his voice to a stage whisperâ“use the facilities.”

“Good God, man! You took the words from my mouth!” Horwitz exclaimed, shoving a cigarette into his mouth and striding toward the door. “I shall return!”

“Don't go far!” Percy called, pressing his hands to his jowls. He took the clipboard from Sean's hands and checked the schedule. “Next time I agree to tape an episode with a group scene, please, just shoot me.”

Amused, Sean scratched the soul patch on his chin. “Whatever you say, boss.”

I stood up and began to stretch and do some yoga twists. I was sucking in energy air when someone jabbed me in the ribs.

Rory flashed me a sneaky grin and chanted, “Nanny, nanny, foo-foo, you get to kiss Antoonioo.”

I grabbed his shoulders. “Would you put a cork in it?” Fortunately, Antonio had left the set for the moment. “Lucky he's gone, or I'd have to kill you on the spot.”

“I think he likes you,” Rory teased, his blue eyes flashing.

“Don't be silly. He's more your type.”

“No, no, no! I have it from a reliable source that Mr. Lopez is quite hetero. Score one for your team.” Rory is sort of a daytime TV pioneer, having revealed his sexual orientation eight years ago at a time when it could have cost him future roles, but fortunately, viewers responded with approval. Since then, he's become a fixture on the show.

“You are such a troublemaker,” I told him.

“I'm not kidding, Hailey. Antonio is hot for you. I hear he's got a poster of you taped up in his dressing room.”

“Would you stop it now?” I smoothed down the ugly ruffled teal shirt of my costume and dabbed at my forehead with the back of my hand. “How do I look? Got any Altoids?”

He reached behind the bar and produced a tin of cinnamon-flavored, my favorite.

“Why, thank you!”

“Shh! I stole them from props. And you look glam, despite the unfortunate costume choice. When is Jodi going to stop dressing you like a moray eel?”

“As soon as the diva realizes I'm not a threat.” I popped a breath mint and smiled. “Curiously strong.”

“Are you nervous?” he prodded, leaning across the bar. “I think he likes you.”

“Get out!”

“I'm serious.” He cocked an eyebrow. “For once in my life.”

“Really?” I stole a glance back at the booth where Antonio had been sitting. Still empty. “Do you mean âlike'? Or âlike-like'?”

“Honey, I'm talking throw you down andâ”

“OK, OK, you don't have to draw a diagram.” I could feel my face heating up, and it ticked me off that Rory was so good at embarrassing me.

Rory folded his arms, clearly on a roll. “So on a scale of one to ten, one being you'd let him peek at your panties and ten being you'd swing naked on his chandelier, what would you sayâ”

“OK, people, we're ready to continue!” Sean shouted. “Places everyone.”

There was a flurry of movement as the actors and crew returned to work.

Rory winked. “Good luck, doll.”

I scowled at him, but he ignored me. He sauntered back to the piano and started playing “Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?”

Taking my place at the bar, I tried to suppress the flurry of nerves Rory had elicited.

This isn't your first stage kiss. It's acting. It means nothing,
said the professional actress.

But you get to kiss Antonio Lopez!
squealed the yearning girl.

As the hairstylist fluffed up my hair, I let the yearning girl win me over. A little excitement wasn't going to hurt my performance, and since the kiss was in the script, what was the harm in enjoying it?

Sean called for everyone to settle down, and Joanne counted off to begin the scene. I started my cross to Antonio, pretending not to notice him at first, then agreeing to join him for a second as heâI mean, as Kostasâspilled his troubles to Ariel.

I sat beside him, folding a napkin tentatively, even shyly. The lines fell from my lips as if we were in normal conversation. I wasn't sure I was sticking to the script, but I felt confident I was turning in one of the finest performances of my life.

“No one understands,” Kostas said. “But you ... ?” He turned my hand and ran a finger along my palm, eliciting a tiny stir inside me. “You seem to know. It's as if you've come from another world.”

I lifted my chin to him, tears in my eyes. “I can't tell you of my past,” I said. “I wish I knew. But I do understand. I can't help but see how you feel, deep in your soul. Somehow, I know.”

He tilted his head toward mine, so close I could feel his breath stirring my hair.

“Yes,” he whispered, his gorgeous face closing in on me. “I believe you do.”

I stopped breathing as his lips pressed against mine for the kiss. Most actors sort of maul you with a closed mouth, but Antonio opened his lips to mine and gently teased my upper lip with his tongue. With a moan, I opened my mouth and let my tongue edge along the smooth surface of his even teeth.

Heaven ... the man was sweet heaven.

“And ... cut!”

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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