Retail Therapy (22 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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A hypothetical question that reminded me how much I loathed him when he acted like a jackass.
Besides, even if I were in love, the new Alana had to beware of hooking herself on a man. It would be too tempting to find a new provider, a replacement for my father.
When I hooked up with someone again, I wanted it to be all about love.
Well, love, and a little great sex. Great sex can only help a relationship, right?
41
Hailey
E
nergy in, stress out.
Good air in, bad air out.
Light air in, heavy air out.
Folded like a sprouting pretzel, I sat on the floor of our living room and tried to relax. It was the first day of my new free life.
It was also Saturday, the day the messenger usually arrived with a fat envelope full of my scripts for the next week of taping. Despite my attempts at picturing a beautiful hilltop overlooking Sedona, Arizona, the image in my mind was of our apartment door—the one with the doorbell that usually rang on Saturday mornings, the one that I kept glancing back toward, hoping that the curse of the past twenty-four hours was just a bad dream.
But no, I had to stop looking. The doorbell was not going to ring. I'd been fired. The horrible, awful truth, but still the truth.
I pushed my hands out, resisting an imaginary wall. I had to resist. Must resist ...
Oh, hell! I dropped my arms, snatched up the cell phone and called Antonio. Once again, I got his voice mail. Should I leave a message? The fourth one today?
No, I thought, clicking off. I was getting his message, loud and clear. He had dumped me. Our relationship was over.
My life was over.
I speed-dialed Rory's number and caught him on the way to the gym. “Gotta stay buff, doll.”
“Can you meet me for lunch?” I asked desperately. “I'll treat,” I said, before I realized that I had no way to pay for it.
“Pumped dudes like moi do not eat lunch. Especially after my weigh-in last night. If I don't watch it, the writers will change Stone's name to Boulder.”
“Then give me information,” I said. “Have you read your scripts yet? Does Ariel's destiny unravel during next week's tapings?”
“Well, I only skimmed.”
“And ... ?” I said encouragingly.
“It doesn't look good, doll. It's monkeypox.”
“What?”
“Apparently you got a needle stick while working on a patient who flew in from Africa. Or maybe it was Ceylon. Anyway, you're infected with this monkeypox, which makes them put you in total isolation. I'm afraid your death is imminent.”
“No!” I bellowed. “Maybe I'm just a little dead. A mistaken identity. Wrong body in the coffin.”
“Oh, it's you, all right. They might even bring Skip back for a big sob scene at your funeral.”
“They can't do that! Deanna will eat it up!”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe I can go into a coma for a long time. Till Deanna goes on vacation.”
“She won't stand for that,” he said, his voice heavy with sympathy. “Sorry, Hailey.”
“I can't let this happen. I can beat this thing; I know I can. I will take on the pox and win. Ariel can beat this monkeypox thing.”
“Tootsie, you're preaching to the choir.”
“I know,” I said in a small voice. “Enjoy your workout.”
He grunted. “Like that's ever gonna happen. Later, sweets.”
I let my head drop toward the floor, pushing the air from my lungs. My character was not going to rise up from this sad demise. Ariel was dead.
And I was dead meat.
42
Alana
A
fter a few hours of restless sleep, I staggered out to the living room to find Hailey face-down on the couch, her chin propped on a pillow. She was watching an old movie with Kate Hepburn as ingenue. Beside her was a mug of something that resembled watered-down charcoal.
“I tried to make coffee,” she said. “I think you need those paper thingies to make it turn out.”
I scratched my head blearily. “Filters? Yeah, probably. Who makes coffee at home anymore?”
I opened the kitchen cupboard. No food, but a fabulous array of glassware and dishes, my favorites being multicolor earthenware I'd ordered from Kitchen Kaboodle. Fabulous dinnerware. Just no dinner to serve on it.
“How's Trev?” Hailey asked.
“He'll survive. If he stops abusing himself. He's agreed to go to rehab.”
“That's a silver lining.”
“We'll see. He's been there before.” I closed the cupboard and drummed my fingers over the granite counter. “We've got to get out of here,” I said. “I need to shop.”
“But what about our doing the Marcella Plan?” Hailey sat up and folded her arms. “I'm not giving you your card back. Well, unless you really want it.”
“We'll work off our savings. I can stop at the ATM and take out some cash. And then—I know!—we'll check out one of those budget places. Mandee or H&M or Blueberry's.”
Hailey fell back onto the couch. “What has my life become?”
“It'll be fun. Come on, get your body dressed, girl. We're going shopping!”
 
 
Honestly, it took me a few minutes to make the mental adjustment. Blueberry's was cute as a Barbie's Malibu Beach House, but just as tacky, and it sort of disturbed my aesthetic sensibilities to see so many adorable things merchandised together.
Truly, I'd entered the mother ship of the Nayasias and Sharons of the world.
“I don't think I'll find anything here,” Hailey said nervously. “Can we go? I think Macy's is having a sale today.”
“Let's just take a look,” I said, trying to think of something that would be safe. Socks? Hair scrunchees? “What about these mood rings? Aren't they fascinating? I mean, it's something to talk about when you're stuck with a dud conversationalist.”
Hailey shook her head. “They remind me of my parents. Mood rings and granola and incense. Talk about a lost generation.”
I had never seen my friend in such a funk. Here we were shopping and she couldn't find something to lift her out of that mood?
“I am going to grab an armful of—I don't know—some of those little shorty pajamas over there, and I'm going to try them on. You're welcome to join me when you come back to the human race.”
I flicked the tag up on the pajamas and was shocked to find that they were more than twenty dollars. Twenty bucks here at Blueberry's? Didn't they advertise,
Don't get the blues, shop at Blue's, where the prices will lift your spirits?
What a crock.
On the way to the dressing room, I told Hailey, “Oh, and I'm going to need my card. I'll be back in a flash with a stash.”
Hailey never did show up in the dressing room. When I reappeared in the store, I nearly dropped my selection of shorty pajamas.
“Marcella?” I tried not to sound guilty. “What are you doing here?”
Her face was puffed up with anger. “The question is, Alana, what are you doing here?”
“I called her,” Hailey admitted, her face pinched. “Sorry, but I didn't know what to do, but it just seemed wrong to give back your credit card.”
I scowled at her. “You ...”
“Don't blame Hailey,” Marcella cut in. “The only one you have to blame is yourself, coming in here and planning to burn money on more things you don't need.”
“Excuse me? Can I wear pajamas, please?”
“Pajamas! Sleep in a T-shirt. Did you hear anything I said last night? The Marcella Budget Plan? Alana, you are broke, sister.”
“I know.” I put the pajamas on a rack of socks. The cheap brushed cotton fabric had shed, leaving little flecks of white on the front of my black tank top. “But that doesn't change anything. Shopping is what I do, it's like breathing or eating. You can't expect me to stop living.”
And without even brushing the fuzz off my shirt, I tucked my Louis Vuitton under my arm and strode out of there, my head held high.
That Marcella had a lot of nerve, getting in my grill and telling me what to do. And Hailey, with her namby-pamby “I didn't know what to do” and “I'm so sorry!” I'd had about enough of them.
And doing this to me after I was up all night with Trevor. I marched down the street, thinking what a horrible city New York was when your friends turned against you.
Friends ... huh! Telling me what they think I should hear. What did they care about me?
Again, the image of Trevor in the hospital bed came to mind, and I realized he had felt the same way. The people who cared about him were telling him something he didn't want to hear. Dammit if they weren't right, too.
I turned, and there were my friends, a few paces behind me. Yes, they really were my friends. Oh, I felt ready to kill them both, but I knew they meant well.
“I need a commitment from you,” Marcella said, getting right to the point. “Either you want to work with me on this, or you don't. I can't make you do it, honey. Alana is the only one who can fix Alana.”
“Yeah, OK, I'll do it,” I said, “but you can't expect me to sit around all day and not go shopping. At least I can look, right?”
“That's the biggest part of the problem!” Marcella pointed a finger at me. “You have too much time on your hands. But we're going to take care of that right now. You need a job.”
“Really?” I started brushing lint off my T-shirt. “Great. Hey, how about if I get a job being a personal shopper for the stars? It's my specialty, and I could go out all day and spend someone else's money. Wouldn't that be great?”
Marcella shook her head. “Too close to your addiction. Come on, it's just two blocks this way.” Already she was on the move, Hailey dutifully walking alongside her.
Oh, what the hell? I followed, picking my shirt clean and thinking that my Prada mules were feeling a little snug. Was it the humidity, or was it time for a new pair?
When Marcella started up the stone stairs of LA Minute, I wanted to shout my approval. At last, the girl had come to her senses and we were going to have lunch at the “hottest spot on the planet.”
“What a great idea!” I called to them. “I'm parched, and they have the most delicious Hollywood salad here.”
But Marcella shook her head as she held open the big glass door. “You can't afford to eat here anymore. I'm taking you in to apply for a job, honey.”
I laughed. “What? Here? I can't cook.”
“True, but you know what people like, you have a strong sense of style, and you know how the rich like to be treated. Doesn't hurt that you've got a damn pretty face. You'll make a great hostess.”
“A hostess? What kind of a job is that?” I blurted out to a woman in a gypsy costume hooked up with a headset right out of mission control.
“It's a super fun job,” she said cheerfully, acknowledging the three of us. “Table for three?”
“Oh, I'm not staying.” Hailey shook her head in a panic, turning to Marcella. “I can't work here. It's too public. People will recognize me.”
And I thought my cage was rattled.
Hailey was frantic. “They'll think I've given up,” she blubbered. “I'll never get another role—”
“Don't panic, honey.” Marcella put her hands on Hailey's shoulders. “I've got a different strategy for you. A little career advice. If you haven't heard, you were mentioned on
ET
and
Dateline: Hollywood
last night. You're the new bad girl of soaps.”
“But I didn't do anything wrong!” Hailey protested.
“See, that's the thing. You keep proclaiming your innocence and people don't want to hear it. The public wants to hear how naughty you've been. People love fallen angels. I say you stop fighting this thing and go after the bad girl market. Exploit the villainess image. Go to another network and sell yourself as a stinker.”
“It's so ...
not me
,” Hailey objected.
“Was Ariel you? Are you half fish, half girl?”
Hailey sighed. “I guess I could make it a game. Like acting.”
“That's right, honey. What have you got to lose?”
“Hey? Sorry to interrupt,” the hostess prodded perkily. “How about that table?”
“We're here to see Minute Man,” Marcella answered, “about a job. Would you please tell him Marcella is here?” As the hostess radioed to a distant planet, Marcella was back on Hailey. “Now the first thing you do is call your agent. You tell her you have a three-point plan. You're gonna start with the trades, and she's going to set you up to be interviewed... .”
As Marcella spelled out the details for Hailey, I surveyed the lobby of LA Minute. Customers were whisked through here quickly; a good thing, because the lobby decor reminded me of the waiting room of a dentist's office—unsettling, with a promise of pain to follow.
“OK, I'm going to go call Cruella.” Hailey held up crossed fingers. “Wish me luck.”
“You go, girlfriend,” I told her, giving her a quick hug. A minute after she ducked out the door, a heavyset man with slicked-back sandy hair sauntered out of the elevator.
“Marcella! What's happening, babe?” He lumbered over and kissed her on each cheek.
“Things are good,” she said. “I just stopped by to save your sorry butt. My friend Alana is in the market for a job, and since you need a hostess, I thought I'd put you two together.” She introduced us, and he shook my hand.
“The name's Danny Slane, but everyone calls me Minute Man.” Danny's green eyes seemed to have a smile lurking behind them. “What do you think, Alana? We're a very service-oriented business. Do you think you would be happy here?”
“I can be happy anywhere, as long as I'm surrounded by style. And I like what you've done here. I've always enjoyed myself here—delicious food and a fun theme.”
Danny grinned. “Great.”
“However,” I went on, “I have to be honest with you, Minute Man. Silk flowers in the reception area?” I shuddered. “And that doormat has to go. It just screams ‘final sale at Kmart.' And the mints on the counter? Who are we kidding? Can you spell ‘hepatitis law suit'? And that gypsy costume you make your staff wear?”
“Now, the costume is important. It's part of the theme,” he explained. “We want them to look like extras in a big-budget film.”
“From the 1940s? Please. That thing will make me look like a runaway slave. ‘I ain't never seen no babies being birthed!' Is that the look you want for your staff?”
“Of course not, but we need to follow through on the theme.”
“Then change the costume. I'm sure we can come up with something more flattering for the staff, a little classier for your establishment.”
“Yes, please!” the hostess called over as she led a group of diners toward the stairs.
“I don't know.” Leaning against a marble pillar, Minute Man scratched his chin. “You'll have to show me some designs for uniforms. But I have to say, I like your honesty. And you seem to have a sense of what people want.”
“Trust me, I'm an experienced consumer.”
Marcella nodded. “That's for sure.”
“OK, then,” Danny said, shaking my hand. “Let's give it a shot.”

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