Retail Therapy (19 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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36
Alana
T
he next day I felt every inch the loyal daughter and dutiful financial citizen as I headed out to meet with the financial guru. To prove my earnest desire to reform, I even resisted the passing cabs and walked to the bus stop. Now, this seemed like a shrewd, money-saving measure, but with bus fare having been notched up to a solid two dollars, I had to wonder if cab fare would really cost me that much more.
I would have to ask Suze. I mean Lee.
Although Mom's finance chick was named Lee Leventhal, I was already envisioning Suze Orman, that blond, bright, brash cable TV money person who tells people that they'd better start saving money. I'd spent my time in the shower making up little jokes to tell Lee about my recent spending spree. How I wanted to make sure my card worked. How I'd heard you needed a personal charge card to build a credit history. How shopping was therapeutic for me, and if I happened into a sale, it was often less expensive than a session with an analyst. Besides, I could walk away from my retail therapy with a much nicer pair of shoes.
And then there were the clever lines in those perky letters inviting me to open a charge account and “spend, spend, spend!” Of course, I knew they were just an advertising come-on. But really, how creative ...
Today, life gets better ... when you use your credit card and save on purchases.
Or...
Write today, save today! Use the attached checks to access your credit line.
And this one, with a picture of a tiger:
Unleash your wild side. Get a gold card from the Safari Collection.
Oh, Lee and I would have a good laugh over how the credit card companies tried to seduce customers into irresponsible spending sprees. We would recognize the high regard for material goods in American society, the competitive spirit of fashion, the desire of women from ages eighteen to forty to feel good about their bodies and, consequently, the clothes they wore. (Hey, I didn't get into Harvard based on my SAT scores!) I would acknowledge to Lee my awareness of all these factors.
And then, with an emotional glaze in my eyes, I would confess that on occasion I engaged in impulse buying. I purchased unnecessary items for the thrill of the sale.
Lee would nod knowingly. She would reassure me that this is normal behavior. Girls will be girls. She might express an interest in meeting with my father, exploring his awareness of the cultural significance of shopping in American society.
I would wish her luck on that.
Then we would hug, maybe go for a cappuccino, or stroll through some of the art galleries in her Soho neighborhood. We could choose our favorite pieces, maybe dare each other to buy a piece of art. (This last thought as the bus headed downtown, past a strip of tiny galleries.)
We still hadn't approached the address of Lee's office building, but we were moving out of Soho. I must have misjudged that one. Hmmm. The offices here were squarish and old, and I realized we were rolling into the courthouse neighborhood. City Hall. Federal Building. Big snooze.
I stepped out of the bus and located Lee's building—boring as cement and glass could be. Inside, there wasn't even a doorman, just a buzzer system. Poor Lee must have hit some hard times. Maybe she herself had a shopping addiction?
All the way up in the stuffy elevator, I tried to ignore the smell of floor wax and to focus on the good things that happened when Suze Orman fixed someone's life. Financial fixes were good! Focus on the prize, forget the pitted linoleum floor.
On the fifth floor, there was one receptionist for a dozen or so people. I told her I was here to see Lee, and she took my name and asked me to sit down. I crossed to the leather sofa—no, scratch that, vinyl—and thought twice about letting my gorgeous new Giles skirt meet the worn synthetic surface—a surface that was bound to be infested with all sorts of microorganisms.
I decided to stay on my Manolos.
It wasn't long till she sent me into Lee's office—third door down on the right. I crossed the threshold and extended my hand. To my shock, an old, crotchety man with an
enormous
nose sat in Lee's desk.
“Oh, hello,” I said, dropping my hand to my gold-glittered skirt. “I was looking for Lee Leventhal.”
“You're in the right place,” he said, smiling under that nose. “Have a seat, Ms. Marshall-Hughs, and I'll be right with you. Just wanted to start a file on your case, take some notes.”
I flopped back into the chair, stunned.
This was Lee?
How could Mama have done this to me—to her own daughter? Hadn't she researched this place? It didn't take a Rhodes scholar to see that Mr. Leventhal was not of the caliber to work with a Marshall-Hughs. Especially not one as savvy as me.
Lee was friendly enough, but I zoned out from word one. Fortunately, instead of taking information, he decided to start with his overview of personal finance. Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah.
I knew I should be listening, but I could not take my eyes off that nose. It was unnaturally large, with red veins and little pockmarks.
How did a nose get pockmarks? I wondered as Mr. Leventhal launched into a lecture about the importance of a monthly budget, debits, keeping records ... stuff I knew, although I did not know how a nose could become so engorged and disproportionately large.
Had he been injured by shrapnel during a war?
The man seemed ancient, and for a moment, I wondered if he was old enough to have fought in World War II. Perhaps stationed on an island, somewhere in the South Pacific.
Shrapnel, or maybe it had been some type of exotic insect inhabiting the tropical foliage on the island. The rare, pockmarking, nose-attacking island chigger.
Or perhaps it was a replacement nose, plunked on by a doctor back in the days before plastic surgery had been perfected ... like the eighties. Maybe Mr. L had been a factory worker involved in an accident. Or a Mafia don who took a bullet in the nose.
“Excuse me,” Lee Leventhal said when the phone rang. As he spoke on the phone, I gestured that I'd step outside.
And step outside I did.
“Miss?” the receptionist called after me.
I didn't look back. Not to be rude, but I wasn't about to waste any more time pretending to accept advice from people I did not admire.
I would call Mom and lay down the requirements.
Send me Suze—or take me as I am.
37
Hailey
“O
h, not here,” I whispered, glancing at the door to my tiny dressing room. “What if Susan comes in?”
“Susan is a big girl.” Antonio's dark eyes were intent as he pushed me back onto the dressing room table and wedged himself between my legs. My robe fell open as he slid a hand along one thigh and dipped into the trimming. “Besides, it's too late. You're all wet and I'm hard as a rock.” He kissed me hard, sucking the resolve from me. “Come on, Hilly. We won't be long.”
With a moan, I slid my arms around him and kissed him back. “OK, but I'm almost out of condoms.”
“Not a problem.” He produced a packet from his pocket, which he tore open and expertly applied. “I come prepared.”
The foreplay was minimal, the penetration abrupt and deep, but it was a routine we'd fallen into, and I felt my breathing quicken to match the rhythm of Antonio's pumping. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the image of this beautiful man making love to me.
Within five minutes we had both climaxed and were laughing together about the bottles of lotion that Antonio had knocked to the floor in a fit a passion. “It's a good thing they're plastic,” I teased him.
He pulled up his black boxers, zipped his jeans, and reached out to hold me close. “Hilly, I'm so sorry I have to go. I have a lunch date with some people who want to talk about a film.”
“With you starring in it?” I felt a little rush of excitement. “That's pretty darned terrific.”
“We'll see.” He shrugged. “Many times, these things fizzle out.”
I couldn't help but wonder if there might be a part for a young, blond ingenue in Antonio's movie. It would be great to work with him off the set of
All Our Tomorrows—
a real bonding experience for us—but it seemed a little premature for me to weasel into his deal. Besides, Antonio was still a little secretive about his career, and I found it amazing that we could be sexually free and intimate while he closed the gates when it came to other aspects of his life. Chalk it up to the enigma of men.
After he left, I curled up in my little chair and flipped through the latest issue of
Soap Opera Diaries
. Every time I opened one of these tabloids, I expected to see the photo of Antonio and me sneaking out of the club in the Hamptons. Actually, I was dying to see the photo of us together, longing to be linked to him in the press (no matter what Deanna thought about it) and realizing how a photo in any paper would provide a major boost to my career.
But once again, no coverage for me. It was so unfair. Obviously, none of the trades had bought my photo from the photographer when he passed it around town weeks ago.
I sighed. What law did a girl have to break to get some exposure in this biz?
There was a knock at the door, and I assumed it was Susan being discreet. “Come on in.”
The stiff facade of Gabrielle Kazanjian appeared in my doorway. “Hailey? It's been a long time.”
I uncurled my legs and closed up my robe. Oh, God, was I still smelling of sex? I quickly leaned down to retrieve two of the bottles Antonio had knocked over.
“May I come in?” Gabrielle asked.
“Oh, sure! Absolutely! You just caught me taking a little break.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, her usual deadpan fish-face indicating nothing. Was she being sarcastic? Had she heard moans and groans coming from my dressing room just minutes ago? Or was she totally sincere?
Why was I so paranoid?
She stepped in and closed the door behind her. “I thought we should have a personal talk.”
I forced a tight smile. Again, paranoid.
“There've been some changes at the network that I thought you should know about.”
“Changes?” I sounded like a trussed chipmunk.
“In the next few weeks, we'll be getting a new director of daytime programming on the East Coast. Keep it under your hat, of course, but I've already met with him and he's very concerned about the demographics of our audience.”
“Right.” I nodded, wondering how this would affect me.
“Essentially, he wants to bring in a larger sector of the youth audience, and we all know that young people like to watch other young people. Like you.”
Me? Yes, I was young. Yes, yes, yes!
“Now, we both know your Q rating isn't the highest,” she said.
Oh, not the dastardly Q rating! I didn't want to go there.
“But our new director of daytime wants to get behind you. He'll instruct the writers to come up with a walloping new story line centered around you.” She smiled—a wonder her skin didn't crack. “Do you think you can pull it off?”
I nodded furiously. “Sure! I mean, pinch me, I'm dreaming!”
“Yes, well, remember that this is not public knowledge just yet,” she said, turning toward the door.
“Not a worry!” I assured her. Normally I'd have followed her to the door, but I was feeling a little ripe from my encounter with Antonio. “I'm on it!”
She nodded sagely. “I see that.”
38
Alana
T
hank God they let me into the studio. I couldn't find Rory, and Hailey was in the middle of taping a scene, but I didn't mind standing at the edge of the set to watch. After my brush with the largest nose ever born on a human head, I felt soiled and sad. Disillusioned. I wasn't really sure why, except there was something about my parents' lack of trust in me—a mushy, sensitive feeling that hit me every time the parents made a move, and it was a swampland I didn't want to cross at the moment.
So I waited at the edge of the set, watching the director call out shots and make some last-minute changes with the actors. There was something about CPR—Hailey's character had to resuscitate someone—so some guy on the set was giving her tips about where to place her hands, how to breathe, stuff like that.
One of the crew adjusted the lights, and some of it spilled over to me, catching the glimmering goldfeather embossing on my skirt. I lifted my hands into the white pool, admiring the smooth surface of skin, the pearly nails shaped like little almond slivers. Why didn't some commercial genius see the beauty of these hands? From what I'd seen at my auditions, those casting people were morons.
When Hailey's scene started, it was hard for me to see with all the camera guys and cord holders getting in the way, but I could tell she was in the groove, and the director and crew people seemed to like her a lot. No wonder. After you've worked with a prima donna like Deanna, any normal person seems eminently reasonable.
“Help! Someone help!” a lady in the scene called out. “He's not breathing!”
In a flash, Hailey stopped wheeling her little meal cart down the hospital corridor and rushed to the ailing man's side. “Go, get a doctor,” she told the woman. “They're in a conference in the north wing.” As the woman ran off the set, Hailey helped the man to the floor, straddled him, and started alternately pumping his chest and then breathing into his mouth. (Well, I guess she was pretending on the CPR, but I was convinced.) While Hailey worked on the dying man, somehow she managed to fit in a little speech, persuading him not to give up, to cling to life with all his strength. I wanted to jump in beside her and shout, “You tell him, girl!” It's not every day you see a hospital aide save a man's life, but Hailey made it look real.
Apparently, the rest of the crew felt the same way, because when the scene ended, the director started them applauding and the guy with the clipboard told her what a great job she had done. I rushed over to compliment her, and she threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug.
“I'm surprised to see you here, sweetie,” she said. “Didn't you have your meeting with that Suze Orman person today?”
“Don't ask! When everything fell apart I didn't want to be alone. I thought maybe we could go shopping?”
Her blue eyes glimmered. “I have a VIP shopping pass, good all day at Bloomingdale's.”
“That's the best thing I've heard all day. Can we go now?”
“I'm done here. Just let me get out of this costume and—”
“Hailey ... wait!” A short, dark-haired woman with a measuring tape around her neck split off from the director and chased after us. “Don't forget, you need to get that fitting done now. The big wedding scene is coming up and I can't have your boobs popping out of the gown.”
I leaned close to Hailey. “Why not? Bound to improve ratings.”
“Go over to my closets and find a dress,” the woman ordered. “I've got a meeting, but I'll meet you there in an hour and mark the alterations.”
“OK, Jodi,” Hailey said politely.
I frowned at her.
“Jodi's the costume designer,” Hailey explained. “And this is a great excuse for you to see all the things she's got in her closets. A real treasure. Almost as much fun as shopping.”
Honestly, I was in no mood to indulge the obnoxious woman who'd just ordered my friend around ... until I stepped into the “closets,” an endless, two-tiered train of clothes racks. At first sight, it was a bit overwhelming, like stepping into a warehouse of Salvation Army clothes. But on closer inspection, the quality and the styling of these garments were unmistakable.
I staggered to a rack of summery whites: pleated skirts, scalloped tanks, halter dresses, slip dresses, wispy lace tops. Beside the whites were gowns, short and long, print and solid, conservative black and glittering beaded, spangled explosions of color. I flicked the hangers along, pausing to soak up the dramatic styling and rich fabrics.
As if the fabrics and styling weren't enough, the labels were to die for: Chanel, Vera Wang, Oscar de la Renta, Caroline Herrera, Michael Kors, Zac Posen, Narciso Rodriguez.
“You're awfully quiet,” Hailey teased.
“Almost speechless.” I stepped away from the rack and stared up and down the line of clothes. “I'm trying to absorb it. I am looking at the mother lode—a shrine to fashion.”
“And this is just the formal wear.”
I held a sheer black D & G gown under my chin, thin straps and a low back, trimmed with gold cord and rhinestones. “Is there a dressing room? Or should I just strip down right here?”
“There are some curtained sections in the back,” Hailey said. “But we're not supposed to fool around with this stuff. Jodi freaks when we don't take the costumes seriously.”
“Oh, come on, Hailey. A little dress-up won't hurt anyone, and Jodi won't be back for an hour. She told us that.”
“Oooh ...” She vacillated, but I knew she would give in. She couldn't resist, either. “I've always been dying to try on this gray linen duster by Anne Taylor. OK.”
I collected a mound of fabulous gowns and nearly ran to the curtained area in the back.
I tried on the black Dolce & Gabbana. Elegant.
A beaded turquoise Oscar de la Renta sheath. Stunning.
A charcoal gray satin Chanel with an ornamented bustle bow. Thrilling.
Hailey was laughing, trying sexy neckline-plungers that her character Ariel would never be allowed to wear. “And look at this one,” she said, kicking out from under a high-cut gown. “It's slit right up to the patootie. Don't you love it?”
“My supply is dwindling,” I said, hitching up my satin skirts. “Gotta get more.”
I ran for more clothes and came back with an armload of treasures from a small room off to the side. “Look what I've found! Did you know there's a little room off to the side with—guess what?—Prada gowns! Our favorites—and this one in these russet tones. I'm getting choked up just looking at it.”
“Wait. From a separate room? You can't try those on.”
“Why not?” I was already prying my beautiful earth-tone Prada ballroom gown from its hanger.
“They belong to Deanna. All her wardrobe is kept in a separate room. The vault, they call it. No one is allowed to touch it except Deanna and Jodi. And besides, none of those dresses will fit; they're all size two.”
“Oh, what's the harm? Deanna doesn't ever have to know. Besides, she's got the best clothes in the whole massive collection. And—oops!—look at this.” I finished zipping up the Prada gown and smoothed my palms over the tapered bodice. “Deanna's perfect size two fits me like a glove. What does that tell you about Ms. Deanna Childs's trademark
tiny-two
shape?”
“You're kidding.” Hailey gaped. “She's a fraud? She's not even really a size two?”
“Not even close.” I twirled in the mirror. “I adore this gown.”
“How do you think Deanna pulls it off?”
“Well, Jodi must be in on it. And maybe she uses the big hair to distract. With that mass of fat curls, her body looks small by comparison.”
“I've always wanted to wear this gown,” Hailey said, pulling out a shell pink beaded sheath.
“Now's your chance. And I have to try this one. It's a Christian LaCroix, and I saw some celeb wearing it in
Vogue
. Hers was white though.” I slipped on a black lace LaCroix, a short dress that revealed an eye-popping amount of leg, as well as seductive portions of bare skin under lace.
The effect of black lace against my cocoa skin, along with all that leg ...
“That dress is a man-killer,” Hailey said.
“Grrrr,” I teased. “This is a dress you definitely do not take home to Daddy.”
“That would be if you could take it home. Remember. . . we're playing dress-up. None of this can be for keeps.”
“Who cares?” I laughed. “Really? I don't feel the need to own any of these magnificent creations. I'm just loving the chance to play in them.”
And what did that say about me and my shopa-holism? I liked spending money, I had to admit that. But as I slid into sexy silk gowns and unrolled the layers of frou-frou red feathers of an Ungaro, the textures and styling—the tactile aspects of the garments—brought me immense satisfaction.
Maybe it wasn't all about the victory of a purchase. Was there some other payoff? An aesthetic aspect that attracted me to shopping?
Besides looking fabulous, of course.
I strutted past the mirror in Deana's black lace LaCroix, lifting my head up and tossing my baby dreads over a shoulder. “Now here's a dress for the Emmys. Can't you picture me wearing this on the red carpet when we go to accept your award?”
“Only if I can wear this.” She slunk up beside me in her shell pink sheath.
“Well, thank the Lord that gown has beads. Otherwise, I'd think you were totally nude.”
“It fits like a body sock.” Hailey wiggled her hips and the beads winked. “I
like
it.”
“I'll just bet you do.” The voice was cold, edgy, with the sarcastic bite of an angry parent.
Hailey spun around but I didn't need to turn to catch the hard lines of Deanna's face in the mirror. My heart sank at the sight of her monstrous scowl, her bulging-eyed anger. Party pooper.
“What do you think you're doing, touching my clothes, wearing my personal things?”
“We were trying on some costumes,” I said. “Don't get your panties in a twist over it.”
Deanna ignored me, glomming onto Hailey. “You're over the line. I'll have your job for this.”
Hailey's face went as pale as her pink gown when she crossed her arms and bent down to pick up her clothes. I felt a twinge of regret as she ran from the room.
The party was definitely over.

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