Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) (17 page)

Chapter 4: Take 2!

I couldn’t believe I fell for the whole UK pun. Of course we couldn’t possibly be heading to Europe. Instead, Bea brought me to the promised land of secondhand clothing—the huge
ukay-ukay
(UK-UK—get it?) complex in Cubao.

“I know what you’re thinking.” I felt Bea’s eyes on me as I took in the rows and rows of clothing hung and squished together like accordion pleats.

“I totally understand if you feel squeamish about wearing used clothes. But honestly, I’ve gotten some really great bargains here—even genuine designer stuff. And that musty smell? Nothing that warm water and soap can’t cure.”

I turned to her, feigning disgust, then burst out laughing. “Are you kidding? It’s perfect!” I immediately attacked the rack with the sign that said “50 pesos, Buy one, Take one!”

Like a mother hen, Bea followed me, giving me shopping tips. “Buy stuff you can mix—”

“—and match. I know, I know. Plain tops in different colors, a nice skirt maybe, and yeah, a dress that’s good for both for casual and formal. Got it.”

“Whoa, that’s my girl! You’ve got your fashion mojo back!” She held up a palm, and I slapped it.

For the next hour or so, we doggedly plowed through the racks, our hawk eyes on the lookout for damages, stains, and other wardrobe malfunctions. Of course the clothes shouldn’t look too secondhand; frayed edges, unless they were part of the design, were a no-no.

The fitting room wasn’t exactly comfortable. It was the size of an upright coffin, and I kept banging my elbows on the walls. The only thing that shielded us from the public was a flimsy curtain. Bea and I took turns standing guard outside as we tried on our short-listed wardrobe.

Finally we arrived at the cashier, exhausted but happy. “How’s the five-hundred-peso challenge?” Bea asked.

“Four hundred eighty bucks,” I said proudly. “Twenty pesos left for
meryenda
. My treat!”

* * * *

While sipping
buko
juice at the nearby
carinderia
, we brought out our purchases.

“Nice.” Bea looked admiringly at my favorite find—a knitted oversized top in lemon yellow and lime green.

“It would look great with Mama’s gold bangles, don’t you think?” I had clued in Bea earlier about my plan to use Mama Maring’s accessories.

“Perfect.” she concurred. “That reminds me, we still have some of her stuff left over from the rummage sale. Remember the vintage shops we passed earlier? Maybe we can ask them to buy her things.”

“Sure.” I gulped down the rest of my juice. “By the way, Bei, I’ve been meaning to ask you—remember when we were in Mama’s apartment and Mom asked you about your marriage plans?”

To my surprise, Bea avoided my eyes.

I laughed. “What’s up with you? Everyone knows that you and Mark will eventually get married—wait, you guys are practically married! Why are you blushing?”

“Nothing.” Bea murmured. “It’s just that I’m afraid of jinxing it. You know, if you talk about something, it might not come true?”

“Hello!” I shook her shoulders. “It’s been seven friggin’ years! If I cracked a mirror on the day you got together, the bad luck streak would have blown itself out by now—it’s been that long!”

“That’s the point!” Bea blurted out. “People expect us to get married, but the thing is, he hasn’t brought up the subject recently.”

“Well, why don’t you bring it up?”

“But what if . . . ?” She sighed. “What if he doesn’t have plans with me? What if he gets pressured and decides to break up with me?” She looked away. “I don’t know what I’d do without Mark.”

“Oh, Bea.” I was about to launch into a pep talk to convince her that good ol’ Mark wouldn’t flake out on her. But I stopped short, thinking of Mia’s ex-fiancé, with whom she had spent ten years of her life—only to have him cheat on her and jilt her a month before their wedding.

* * * *

The street where the vintage shops were located was a short distance away, so Bea and I decided to walk it out with our shopping bags instead of leaving them in her car parked two blocks away.

The first store we visited looked like a cramped storage room with no semblance of order whatsoever. Old soda and milk bottles gathered dust in crates, while vinyl records were heaped high like wobbly towers.

Even with Bea’s winning smile and marketing skills, we couldn’t get a word edgewise, because as soon as the owner, a cranky woman, found out that we weren’t there to buy, but to sell, she shooed us away.

The second vintage shop had more or less the same ambience, but the shopkeeper was a dear old thing—a reed-thin grandpa whose eyes twinkled when he smiled. Still it was a no-go.  “
Hija
, we can’t afford to buy your things since we can hardly sell ours.” He gently explained.

“Well, third time’s a charm,” I said, motioning to the vintage shop across the street. Unlike the others, this store looked polished and inviting, the words “Nostalgia Mania” painted on its glass walls in swirly psychedelic letters.

I caught a glimpse of the shopkeeper hunched over a MacBook as I put my palm on the glass door. Bea suddenly hissed in my ear.

“Crissy, it’s him!”

“Him who?” I looked around and, seeing no one, pushed the door to the sound of chimes. “And why do you look so pale?”

“Hi! Good afternoon,” the shopkeeper called out. “Welcome to Nostalgia Mania.”

“Good afternoon,” I replied cheerfully. “We just want to inquire about—” I took one good look at him and the blood drained from my face.

Standing before me was none other than Surfer Boy.

“Yes?” He tilted his head, still smiling. He looked at me, then at Bea. Slowly his forehead creased as his eyes returned to me. “Wait a minute . . . Have we met?”

For some reason, I couldn’t seem to unfreeze the stupid grin stuck on my face. I was filled with the crazy urge to walk backwards slowly to the door, but at that moment, my legs felt they had been cemented to the floor.

Bea swooped in and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Bea, and this is Crissy. We haven’t been formally introduced, but yes, we’ve met! You were at our rummage sale just last week!”

Surfer Boy stared at her, then at me. “Right. The girl who didn’t want to turn me on.”

This time, the blood rushed to my face. “Yup, the one you accused of selling fakes.”

He had the decency to blush. “Sorry, I was way out of line that day.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t prepared for an apology. Finally Bea broke the awkward silence. “It was the probably the heat! It can make you do crazy things.”

He gave a little laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

More silence.

He cleared his throat. “I feel that I owe you guys an explanation. Whenever Dad and I go shopping, he tends to show his excitement, so vendors would end up charging him more. I have to act like the uninterested customer so I can get a better price.” He ended sheepishly, “I guess I went overboard last time.” Then he turned to me, offering his hand with a smile. “Friends? I'm Vince, by the way.”

I caught my breath. The smile transformed his features, making him look cuter than ever. Thank goodness my palms weren’t sweaty.

“I’m sorry, too,” I managed to say. “But you were right—I totally lacked customer skills. I’m not used to selling stuff.”

“Why? What do you guys do?” He asked, clearly relieved at the chance to change the subject.

Bea rattled on about her businesses, then pointed to me. “Crissy here works in TV.”

“Really? What show? As what?”

I stammered out an answer. “Executive producer . . . for this show called Profiles.”

“Oh yeah! I’ve watched that,” he said. “Caught that really nice feature on Jeff Javier. You know that indie film he just starred in? My friend wrote and directed that.”

“I looove that film!” I blathered, then immediately clammed up, wondering if overextending the word love made me sound like an airhead. Awkwardly, I jerked down my head, and pretended to be interested in his blue-and-white checked Vans.

He didn’t seem to notice. “And what brings you guys here? I’m sure you already have more than your share of vintage items.”

“Well,” Bea said, “we were just looking around after our shopping spree.” She held up her plastic bag with the words “UK-UK” on it. 

Vince grinned. “Ah, yes. That’s where I got this,” he said, tugging at his yellow shirt printed with the Beatles’s Sgt. Pepper album cover.

“Cool shirt.” Bea looked at me, hoping I would continue. I remained silent, and felt her mentally roll her eyes at me.  “Anyway, we thought of exploring the possibility of selling the leftover stuff from our rummage sale to the vintage shops here! But they weren’t totally sold on the idea.”

Vince rubbed the stubble that covered the cleft chin that I remembered oh so well. “People usually set up vintage shops just because they love old things. They don’t really intend to earn a lot from it. Like my dad and I—we don’t really buy stuff outright unless we’re really interested in them like say”—he turned to me, an impish look on his face—“a maroon vintage radio that’s still in mint condition?”

I felt my face grow hot. “Look, I’m really sorry about—”

Vince frantically waved his hands as if warding off an evil spirit. “No, no, no. . . . Please . . . I was just trying to lighten things up! If it makes you feel better, Dad was really pissed that I wasn’t able to close the deal. He really wanted that radio.”

As he gazed at me, I felt my skin grow warm.

Then he straightened up. “Hey, we may not be able to buy your stuff, but we’re open to consignment. Just give us a fair price so we can still make a profit, and whatever we sell, we’ll turn the amount over to you.”

“Really? That’s great!” Bea enthused. “We can bring over the stuff next week, along with the price list.”

“Cool!” Vince said.

“Perfect!” I chimed in, finally managing to smile at Vince. 

Vince was intently looking at my face. “You know, I didn’t recognize you right away because you looked different last time.” To my horror, his eyes roved from my eyes to my cheeks, finally settling on my nose, where an almost invisible bit of pimple residue was drying up. 

I held my breath as he finally snapped his fingers. “Aaaah, got it!” He grinned. “You’re actually smiling.”

Bea was so going to make a big deal of it later—I just knew it. But I just couldn’t help it.

I blushed.

Chapter 5: Wardrobe Change

Beauty before stress.

That was my mantra as I went through Hell Week, all thanks to a congressman caught philandering in his own home. Even worse, Ms. D (now
D
for “diabolical”) had suddenly decreed that we feature the scandal on our next episode, which meant that we had less than a week to find said politician, who had gone into hiding, and somehow convince him to appear on our show.

Fan-freakin-tastic.

Anyway, I had been chanting my “beauty before stress” mantra, determined to
not
let anything get in the way of Project Svelte. Last night, I dutifully planned and laid out my UK-UK ensemble. If the day turned out to be crappy, if all hell broke loose, at least I looked good.

My outfit: a white off-shoulder top, accented by Mama’s rainbow pop beads, a denim miniskirt, and my old pair of high-cut yellow Chucks. I used one of Mama’s scarves as a headband, and I was glad I did—it kept me from tearing out my hair as I hung up the phone with a bang after yet another unsuccessful attempt to reach the congressman. I grabbed my apple and bit it with a vengeance.

Leo popped into my cubicle. “So . . . who’s the guy?

“What guy?” I chewed violently as I typed on my computer.

“The guy that has sparked the fire in your loins.”

I nearly choked.

“Excuse me?”

Leo ticked off his fingers. “Well, you’ve been dressing up, you’ve ditched the junk food and soda habit, and—don’t deny it—I’ve seen you huffing up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. It’s pretty obvious that you’re inspired.”

I tried to look indignant. “And that inspiration has to be some guy? Maybe I just want to feel good about myself!” I pointed my water bottle at him. “You’ve always prided yourself in looking your best all the time. You even told me that the reason why you’re always dressed up is that you never know when you’ll get hit by a truck, and heaven forbid the day when a camera crew documents your corpse, all dressed up in some horrible outfit!”

He laughed. “You forget the other reason is that Scott Schuman may pop out of nowhere and instantly fall in love with me.”

If you hadn’t heard by now, Schuman was the man behind The Sartorialist, the
über
successful fashion blog that featured photographs of ordinary people who had extraordinary fashion sense.

And though Schuman’s romance with a female fashion blogger was highly publicized, Leo still believed that, once their destinies met, Schuman would take one look at him, instantly turn gay, and ask him to marry him.

“I still think there’s some guy you’re not telling me about.” Leo walked away, his knee-high leather boots clip-clopping on the floor.

Great. I tried getting back to work, but thanks to Leo, my mind refused to concentrate on the philandering congressman. Instead, it wandered off to visions of a cleft chin and a sunshiny smile, and three simple words that sparkled in my memory:
You’re actually smiling.

* * * *

The weekend had finally arrived, and I still didn’t know how we managed to pull off the episode. As expected, the congressman was a no-show, which really didn’t make for great TV, but at least Ms. D couldn’t say that we didn’t do our best.

Now I could focus on more important matters—such as meeting Vince.

For the nth time, I checked my reflection in the mirror. Even if I had just taken a shower, my armpits were starting to sweat from the effort of several wardrobe changes. Quickly I swiped on deodorant.

Finally I grew tired of obsessing about what to wear and settled on the first ensemble I tried on. I blow-dried my hair, applied lip gloss, and grabbed my denim boho bag before dashing out of my room.

“Why so dressed up?” Mia was yawning, carrying a cup of coffee from the kitchen.

“Oh, just meeting a friend.” I inched closer to the door, hoping for a quick getaway. 

“Nice top.” She eyed my knitted lemon-and-lime blouse, which I had paired with leggings, ballet flats, and Mama’s silver hoop earrings. She reached out to touch it. “Is it from Zara?”

“Nope, from
ukay-ukay
,” I declared proudly.

Mia drew back her hand quickly. “You mean it’s
secondhand
?” 

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mia, and it’s not fatal. You should come with me sometime. You can buy truckloads of secondhand outfits with your spending money.”

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “No, thanks. Just the thought of touching clothes that belong to dead people makes me break out in hives!” She peered closer at my top. “Come to think of it, it
does
look kind of worn and creepy.”

“Okay, I have to go,” I said a bit too quickly. Mia could be so tactless sometimes.

I closed the door to her cheery “Byeee!”

Downstairs the guard opened the gate for me, and I smiled my thanks.

“Wow, Ma’am Crissy,” he said, smiling, “you’re getting prettier every day.”

“
Talaga
?” I beamed. “Thank you!”

I stepped out into sunshine, my feet floating on clouds.
No one
, not even Mia, was going to ruin today.

* * * *

Cautiously I parked Bea’s hatchback right in front Nostalgia Mania. Last night, she and Mark  had dropped off the car at the condo, and helped me load Mama Maring’s things in the trunk.

“You don’t need me to close the deal with Vince,” Bea said with a knowing grin.

I ignored her and turned to Mark. “You guys are really going out of town tomorrow? Where?”

He glanced at Bea who widened her eyes. I swear--my friends are terrible actors.

“Tagaytay,” Mark said.

At the same Bea replied, “Pampanga!”

I rolled my eyes. “If you were going to lie, you should’ve at least agreed on the details first!”

“Whatever,” Bea waved her hand dismissively. “The point is, we have an all-day date tomorrow. Let me know how it goes with Vince, okay?”

So here I was, alone and a bit nervous as I clutched the purple envelope that contained several copies of the list of consigned items and their prices. I was determined to give an air of professionalism. I caught my reflection on the glass door, flipped my hair, straightened my top, and then entered.

The chimes tinkled, and someone shuffled out from the backroom. That someone was a silver-haired man—Vince’s dad. My heart sank.

“Hello! Welcome to Nostalgia Mania.” He beamed at me.

“H-hello.” I hesitated, staring at the stockroom, wishing that Vince would suddenly emerge.  “I’m here to drop off some things for consignment. You may not remember me, but we met at our rummage sale.”

His face lit up. “Of course! Vince told me all about you. No, don’t tell me your name—Vince already told me. Bea? No, not Bea—the other girl. Aha, Missy—no, not that. I got it! Crissy!”

I laughed. “That’s right, sir!”

He shook his head. “I should’ve gotten it right the first time. Vince told me that Crissy was the one with the cute dimples.”

Say what?

Just then the door chimed, and in strode Vince. My heart thumped wildly.

“Oh, hey, Crissy!” He grinned and started to introduce me to his dad.

“Yes, yes, we’ve met.” His dad waved him away, then turned to me, rubbing his palms. “So, Crissy, where are the goods?”

Vince helped me unload the crate from the car and brought it inside.

While he was taking out and examining Mama Maring’s things, I opened my purple envelope. “So I have here the complete list of products and prices, and I’ll be highlighting the ones you’re interested in selling.”

Then came the tedious business of, well, getting down to business. Vince checked each item thoroughly and haggled shamelessly. Weirdly enough, his no-nonsense attitude put me at ease, and I was able to forget about being self-conscious. Soon we arrived at the final product list—well, more or less.

“Dad, I don’t think we can sell that album of matchbook covers,” Vince said firmly.

“But it’s unique! I’m sure someone will appreciate it.” His dad looked at me for support.  “Besides if it doesn’t sell, we can always return it to Crissy. Isn’t that right?”

“Absolutely.”

Vince shook his head. “But we have enough stuff as it is. It will never sell, I’m telling you.”

“Come on, Vince. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

Vince sighed, then relented.

“You can start arranging Crissy’s stuff for display.” His dad gave me a conspiratorial wink. “You do that sort of thing better than I do.”

After he left, I said. “You and your dad are pretty close.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel like our roles are reversed—like I’m the parent and he’s the kid.” He sifted through the crate. “You know, I’ve never seen so many vintage stuff from just one source. Where did you get all these?”

I told him about Mama Maring’s passion for past mementos and how I had decided to keep some of them for myself. I tugged at my left hoop. “I like the idea of wearing something from her, you know? It keeps her memory alive.”

Vince nodded. “I know what you mean. My mom died when I was little, and for an entire year, I carried her ratty bathrobe like a security blanket. I refused to have it washed because it smelled like her.” His eyes twinkled. “Dad was pretty cool about it. He didn’t force me to give it up. He just let me outgrow it."

I pictured Vince as a toddler, sucking his thumb and toting the bathrobe around like the
Peanuts
character Linus. “I’m sorry about your mom,” I said gently.

“It’s okay. Dad did a pretty good job of raising me.” 

Vince stood up and placed the matchbook cover album on the coffee table. “I guess that’s why I like used stuff. They have a bit of history in them from their previous owners. And to me, that makes them all the more valuable.”

The door chimed, and two elderly women walked in.

“Hello! Welcome to Nostalgia Mania.” I grinned, then whispered to Vince. “Hah! I beat you to it.”

Vince chuckled.

“Of course now that I’m a ‘business partner’”—I made quotation marks in the air—“I also have to make sure your business does well!”

“Excuse me,” one of the women twittered, holding up the album Vince had set down just seconds ago. “Is this wonderful collection of matchbook covers for sale?”

Vince’s mouth hung open while I fought down the giggles bubbling up my throat. “Why, yes!” I answered, looking pointedly at Vince. “
Wonderful
, isn’t it?”