Retail Therapy (27 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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53
Alana
“A
lana, my dear, do you have Rory's shirt for the dream sequence?” Eden Barrio, the wardrobe director, peeked her head into the back room and smiled. “Not that it's a rush, but he's standing here half-naked.”
“I'm just steaming it out now,” I said, holding the steamer over a stubborn wrinkle near the collar.
“Truly, I don't mind doing the scene half-naked,” Rory said, stepping into the sewing room where we repaired, altered, and prepped clothes for the actors. “It is a dream sequence, and as we all know many elements in our dreams don't make sense. Not to mention the fact that I always get more fan response when I go bare-chested.”
“Wear the shirt,” Eden called. “Our demographics are a little different from
Tomorrows.
Sometimes families watch.”
“Oh, well.” Rory smiled at me. “Worth a try. And truly, Eden has much better taste in clothing than that witch I left in the dust. If I had to wear one more golf shirt, I was going to scream. I think the country club look put ten years on me.”
“You survived it well,” I said.
“And look at you, slaving away, doing the drudge work. I don't know why you ever agreed to submit to such chaos.”
“I love this job,” I said. “The one drawback is pain-in-the-ass actors who want to appear on camera half-naked.” I handed him the shirt.
“Doll, if I'm your worst problem, you'd better count your blessings.”
I'd been doing a lot of that lately, grateful for my job as wardrobe assistant on
Days of Heartbreak
, grateful for my chance to attend the Fashion Institute of Technology, grateful for the special person in my life, the only one with the unique ability to please and torture me at the same time. Xavier had pushed our relationship on, and for once I was glad to be pushed. He'd managed to convince the cable network to let him shoot his show on the East Coast, and in the process, he'd hired on a new producer, his trusted friend Trevor. Since Trev took the job, he'd been working long hours, wheeling and dealing, but it was all good this time. He'd found a niche, and hell, I could relate.
Oh, and speaking of being grateful? There was one more biggy for me: peace with the parents.
I had appeared at a family council to plead my case, but this time, I'd come prepared with a plan, which included a financial statement and graphs that Marcella had helped me prepare.
“My spending is under control now,” I said. “Pages three and four detail my monthly budget. The essentials like food and household items. With the money I'll be making on
Heartbreak
, I should have my credit-card debt paid off by February, when I plan to start making my own co-op payment. There's just one glitch.”
Daddy had stared at me over his reading glasses.
“I need to ask you for a loan. Just a loan. I've enrolled at FIT. The Fashion Institute of Technology, in their design program. Marcella says I can work my schedule at
Heartbreak
around my classes, so I'll still be making money.”
“FIT.” Daddy let my proposal sail onto the table. “An appropriate name.”
“Now Ernest,” Mama warned him, “have some respect for Alana's goals. She's found something that will make her happy—right, dear?”
“I want to be a designer, Daddy. And I can do it. I know I can.”
Tension rose when Daddy stood up and pushed away from the table. Mama and I exchanged a worried glance. Was he going to walk out?
Instead, he stepped forward, took my hand, and pulled me into his arms.
“I'm so proud, Alana. Finally,
finally
, you've found something to do with your life.”
Mama beamed with pride and gave me a thumbs-up as I peered over Daddy's shoulder. “Children,” she said, “you all grow up so fast.”
“I have to ask you, though ...” Daddy stepped back. “What was the catalyst for this? After all my years of lecturing on budgets and work ethics, what finally turned your view of the financial world around?”
I thought of the fiery redhead who'd once wrestled with me over a tube of lipstick. “The truth? I found a personal budget trainer.”
 
 
Out on the set, they were getting ready to roll tape, so I went out to stand by for costume repairs. Balancing the job with school was going to be a challenge for me, but it would combine practical, hands-on work, like costume repairs, with design history and theory.
Hailey had used her clout with the producer of
Days
to get us all in the door—Rory, me, even Marcella, who had decided to take a job as a production associate, a position that utilized her managerial skills to the fullest. As I walked toward the lights, I passed her at the edge of a darkened set, negotiating with someone on her cell phone.
“What are you, crazy? I can't pay that much to rent a bunch of movie theater seats. Their sets look so fake, anyway. You tell him I said that. And tell him that he can cut his prices in half or we'll forget the movie theater scene.... Honey, I don't care! The writers will move it to the park or the pizza place or something. And did you get me that cat for the Tuesday taping? ... Long hair, short hair, I don't know. Talk to the story editor.”
I waved to Marcella, then noticed someone flagging me down from the exit. That gorgeous face and bright smile, my honey-lamb. X had convinced the network to shoot here in New York, and as luck would have it, his studio was on the same side of town. Sometimes we got together during lunch or dinner breaks.
“Alana!” he hissed, trying to keep quiet for the taping. “Your father called, said he's been trying to reach you.”
I jogged over to him so we could keep our voices low. “Oops. I turned my cell phone off last night and forgot to turn it back on.”
“You can't leave your cell phone off. The man was frantic.”
“As I recall, we were a little busy, and you were the one who didn't want any interruptions.”
“Well ... anyway, he wants us to come out to the Hamptons house. Thought maybe you could finish the redecoration you started at the beginning of the summer.”
“Did you tell him there's no time? I start school next week, and the show has only one tape day off.”
“He's your father, Alana. I can't tell him no. He told me to tell you he had to get rid of the green chairs. The fabric was splitting by July.”
“Told him so.”
“It was really strange to see his name on my cell. I mean, he's always been like an uncle to me. Uncle Ernest. And now, to think that he'll be my father-in-law. . .”
“Whoa, there, brother. Nobody said anything about getting married.”
“Oh, come off it, Alana. You know you want to.”
He was right, but I wasn't ready to concede yet. I loved giving him a hard time. “I'm just starting off on a new career. And we've just started officially dating. And you know what else? You're gonna have to work for me.”
He put his hands on my hips. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. I want to be wooed, Mr. X-Man. Wined and dined.”
He grinned. “You planning to spend all my money on expensive shoes and dresses, right?”
“Please!” I shook my head. “When it comes to shoes, I'll spend my own money.”
54
Hailey
“O
h, look at these! They're so cute I can barely stand it.” I held up a little wooden shadow box painted in pastel teal, blue, and summer white. Inside the glass, the frame contained white sand and a few tiny shells that shifted gracefully when the picture was moved. “Don't you love it?”
“That would work in the new pool house bathroom,” Alana said thoughtfully. “You know that tiny alcove between the shower and the vanity? And it goes well with the decorating theme. The question is, which one works best?”
Marcella waved her hand at us. “I say get two. At that price, they're a steal.”
“Really?” I gaped. “Now you're talking crazy talk.”
“And we should all get some of these little plastic caddies,” Marcella said. “They're really handy for organizing drawers and cupboard space. You know? So your lipstick doesn't keep rolling to the back of the drawer. Pens and pencils stay where you want them. You could even use them to organize your sock drawer.”
“Like any of us has time for that?” Alana carped.
“You'd be surprised.” Alana adjusted her fabulous Fendi sunglasses on her head. “When you get organized, you have time for these things. And look at these brandy snifters, ladies. You know, winter is coming. Wouldn't these come in handy when you want a little something to warm up you and your honey?”
“I'll take two,” I said, placing the brandy snifters in my basket, which was filling up. “Or maybe not. Should I put the organizers back? Or ... I don't know. I've got an awful lot of merchandise here.”
It had been a long time since I'd shopped with such abandon, and I worried about undoing the progress I'd made with Marcella.
“What did I tell you about shopping with purpose, honey?” Marcella asked. “If there's need, if there's a purpose, and if the price is right, you can go for it.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “I can buy all this?” That tiny thrill was rising again—the adrenaline rush of a worthy purchase.
“I know,” Alana said, turning a statue upside down to eye the manufacturer. “It's nice to be back in the game again. Tap that wild huntress within us.”
“Honey, this is one place you can let the huntress go wild,” Marcella said. “Thank God for the dollar store.”
Smart, perceptive, and deliciously funny, Roz Bailey's novels are impossible to put down. In
Postcards From Last Summer,
she follows the lives and loves of three girlfriends as they reconnect in the Hamptons each summer for cold margaritas, hot hookups, and plenty of drama ...
 
WISH YOU WERE HERE ...
 
Darcy Love is a lot like her lipstick-red convertible: fast, pampered ... and sometimes off the road. Though she's still cruising guys and playing it loose enough to worry her friends, she knows that this will be the summer when Kevin, the love of her life, finally falls for her. This summer is supposed to be a hot one, and she's planning to make it even hotter ...
Every summer Tara Washington regrets leaving her quiet and sane friends in Manhattan for the Hamptons—until she gets there. It's such sweet relief to cut loose and be away from the unending pressures to meet a man who's also African-American. She loves the craziness of the Hampton girls, especially her friends, and before long she's getting crazy right along with them ...
Lindsay McCorkle just
knows
she's the only woman on the beach who shouldn't be wearing a swimsuit. Spending the winter indulging her passion for ice cream and chocolate hasn't helped her figure—or her confidence. For once she'd like to meet a guy with a brain, but that doesn't mean she can't occasionally give in to the temptation of a hunky lifeguard's kiss ... or
more
...
 
From friendship to freedom to sex—and everything in between—Darcy, Tara, and Lindsay will make this and every summer unforgettable as they pick up the right guys, the wrong guys, the tab, and, always, each other ...
 
 
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Postcards From Last Summer
coming next month in trade paperback!
May, 1997
Southampton, New York
 
“A
nybody here?” Darcy hugged the container of take-out sushi to her chest, hoping that one of the cleaning ladies or the day maid, Nessie, might still be around.
She hated coming home alone. Next time she was going to drive Kevin straight over and dump him on the overstuffed sofa. Even passed out, he'd be more reassuring than the hollow darkness.
Damn Kevin. Damn Nessie, too.
When there was no answer she braced herself and stepped into the grand foyer, hardwood floors gleaming up at her, the new tapestry-print runner zigzagging up the stairs looking more welcoming than last year's cream burber carpeting. Mother had swept through here with Miguel, her design consultant, last month and ordered a few decorating changes, but no amount of renovation or redesign could bring the life that was lacking to this house—people.
Darcy hated being alone in the house. She was often the only one living here, and some nights, when she was alone in bed and listening to the scrape of tree branches against the side of the house, she felt like the last person on earth.
Lowering the thermostat, she wished Kevin had come home with her. Even if he wanted to sleep, it would have been better just having him in the house, but somehow he didn't get that. No one understood how lonely Darcy's perfect life was inside this architectural gem.
The Love Mansion was the envy of anyone who dared to trespass down the private Mockingbird Lane. Darcy saw them sometimes from her bedroom window—faces looming in the open windows of Mercedes and Audis, twenty-somethings in big, bruising SUVs soaking up eyefuls of the lush, luxurious estate. But Darcy wanted to yell at them that it wasn't all it seemed. Despite the family name, this gorgeous house had never become the warm, familial home she'd dreamed of when her parents had purchased it from a famous actress. Dad had rarely spent more than a weekend here. As CEO of a giant corporation, his job had always demanded his presence in the office, in the boardroom, in the convention center. On the rare weekend when he did make it out to the Hamptons, Bud Love spent his time barking on the phone by the pool or golfing with business associates. And while Darcy's mother, Melanie Love, had plenty of time on her hands, she'd always found it difficult to extract herself from the social whirl of their home in Great Neck, the Garden Society, and the girls at the country club and, of late, the young tennis pro at the club who Darcy suspected was fooling around with her mother. Disgusting. Not that Mother hadn't kept herself in good shape, but really, what did a young, okay guy like Jean-Michelle see in her mother, a woman as regal as a cathedral statue and cool as cucumber gazpacho?
No, the Love Mansion had never fulfilled its name. Couldn't feel the love in this place. “It's all crap!” she once shouted down from her window to a bald man with the nerve to drive by in a Porsche convertible. “It's
crap!”
He'd turned that dick-mobile around pretty fast.
“Hello?” Darcy called out again, but Nessie was long gone. Damn. Although Ness had done a good job cooking and corralling Darcy and her friends for many years, Darcy didn't really need her anymore. Twenty-one and going into her last year of college, she didn't need a nanny. And now, each afternoon, Nessie seemed eager to get back to her own family in Riverhead, Long Island, much to Darcy's regret. She didn't blame Nessie, and she didn't know how to ask her if she could occasionally stick around to keep her company, to make some normal household noises and ward off the evening shadows.
If only she could have a big, noisy houseful of people, the way it was at the McCorkle house. Darcy loved staying over with Lindsay, listening to Granny McCorkle's stories and sitting at the dinner table with all the cousins. She'd have to work on Lindsay and wangle an invitation for tomorrow night. Though Lindsay had seemed a little testy on the beach. Ach! Poor Lindsay had blimped out and wearing those boy swim trunks only made it worse. Darcy couldn't understand how her friend could let herself go that way. For chrissakes, why didn't she just stop eating? And then, when Darcy tried to help with a little joke, Lindsay and Tara just weirded out. Whatever. But they'd get over it if they wanted to hang out with Darcy. And they always did.
Darcy hopscotched down the hall, stopping to stare into the darkness that loomed there. The living room, or parlor, as Mother called it, was way too grand for anyone to ever relax or want to spend any amount of time there. A large stained glass piece set into the center window always reminded Darcy of a medieval chapel, and the silk upholstered furniture, including authenticated pieces from one of those King Poopypants dynasties, made the room feel like a museum. Darcy paused in the doorway, wondering for a moment if she'd ever, in fact sat in that room.
She padded barefoot over the Chinese rug and chose the red silk chair, sitting like a queen on her throne. The chair creaked, and a faintly musty scent mixed with the mango-coconut smell of her suntan lotion. Wouldn't Mother freak to know she was getting Coppertone on the antiques.
Whatever.
Popping open the container, she bit into a slice of California roll, not worrying about the grains of rice that fell to the floor. That's what the cleaning people were for, right? Gotta give Nessie and the girls something to do.
The cozier den in the back of the house, with its brown suede chairs, entertainment center, and gray stone fireplace was more her style. She snapped open a diet Pepsi, turned on the VCR, and sank into a chair to devour sushi and catch up on the soaps she'd missed that day. The characters of daytime dramas were Darcy's year-round friends, and they never failed to appear with a new scandal or heartbreak, a thorny, submerged problem that made the issues swirling beneath the surface of Darcy's life seem simple and harmless. Soaps broke through the hollow aloneness. So what if her mother was sleeping with a tennis pro? Affairs were a daily occurrence in soaps. And all the accusations swirling around Dad's investment firm were petty grievances compared to the serial murderer, switched-at-birth babies and vindictive lovers of the daytimes soaps.
Watching as two lovers shared a kiss on a moonlit balcony, Darcy glimpsed her own future, and it was good. No more putting up a happy front and knocking around in empty houses. No more being alone. No more just Darcy ... but Darcy and Kevin. The McGowans. Mrs. Kevin McGowan ... God, that sounded good. Together, Darcy and Kevin were going to make a life right here on America's Riviera, where Kevin's father already owned a small gold mine. She and Kevin would have money, houses and cars, great bodies, and lots of good sex.
Really, when you got down to it, what more could a person want?

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