Retail Therapy (7 page)
9
Hailey
M
aybe I'm too blindly optimistic, but when the phone rang, I crossed my fingers, hoping it was my agent. I had left a message for her that afternoon, and thought maybe, just maybe, she was calling to let me know that one of the producers from
All Our Tomorrows
had called to renew my contract.
aybe I'm too blindly optimistic, but when the phone rang, I crossed my fingers, hoping it was my agent. I had left a message for her that afternoon, and thought maybe, just maybe, she was calling to let me know that one of the producers from
All Our Tomorrows
had called to renew my contract.
Did I mention that my thirteen-week contract was about to expire?
Did I mention that I can be a ball of insecurities at times? As in most of the time.
I grabbed the phone hopefully, but the caller ID flashed WISCONSIN. My parentsâprobably calling from the nearest dairy store, where they would be stocking up on tofu, sprouts, and fresh veggies. Sunflower seeds and nuts and vitamins came in ten-pound packs through the mail. Otherwise, my mother, Teddie, made her own yogurt and bartered for eggs from a nearby farmer. Dad was the canning expert, and whenever I was home I tried to stay out of the garage for fear I would touch something that had been sterilized or leave the wax out in the sun to melt or snitch a berry, which was a big no-no when Dad was ready to make jam.
“Hey, Mom,” I answered, wishing that they'd waited another few days for their weekly call. My folks didn't have a phone at the houseâDad had gone there determined to escape the invasive pressures of society, of which telephones topped the listâand consequently, they called me once a week, when they ventured into one of the local stores for supplies.
“Hey, Bright Star! How's it going?” It was Mom's nickname for me, a play on the fact that I was named for the comet. Yes, Halley's Comet. Part of that latent-hippie thing, but I always figured it could have been worse, and I might be trying to shed a name like Sunshine or Moonbeam.
“I'm fine,” I said.
There was a muffled sound, after which Mom said, “Your father wants to know if they called you about a new contract yet?”
That was the pattern of the weekly call. Mom took the lead, with Dad in the background, feeding her questions.
I bent one leg and stretched into the warrior pose. “Not yet. But I had a pretty hot scene with Antonio Lopez today, and I think someone at a store recognized me.”
“That's so exciting!” Mom said.
She probably didn't even know who Antonio Lopez was. How could she? My parents didn't have a television in their home, another postâWall Street career measure to cut off the stress of civilization. At the homes of relatives, they had seen videotapes of me playing Ariel in
All Our Tomorrows,
a phenomenon that probably reinforces their resolve to avoid televisions.
All Our Tomorrows,
a phenomenon that probably reinforces their resolve to avoid televisions.
“How's everything there?” I asked.
“Oh, fine. We got a new delivery of firewood, which will probably last us well into next winter. And before I forget, Sally Wallace's daughter may call you. She's headed off to New York to try the acting thing, so I gave her your number and told her you would show her the ropes. Her name is Jennifer.”
Great news: another aspiring actress named Jen who can screw up my latte order at Starbucks.
Mom went on about Jennifer's family. Didn't I remember the family with the four girls who used to canoe together on the lake? Dark hair, all of them, and their mom had moved to Wisconsin from Chicago?
Not a clue, but I pretended to recollect the Wallaces to move the conversation along. Which was a mistake, since she boomeranged back to the crucial questions: “When do you think you'll hear about more work? How are you paying your bills?”
Beep!
I was saved by call-waiting, flashing Alana's cell number.
I was saved by call-waiting, flashing Alana's cell number.
“Mom, I've got another call. Do you want to hold?”
“Oh, no, that's OK. I'll phone you again next week.”
After a quick good-bye, I clicked to Alana.
“Thank God you picked up,” she said, an oddly high pitch in her voice. “I need you now. Can you come?”
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I'm just outside Bon Nuit. Can you meet me here right away?”
“Sure.” I grabbed my Nine West heels. “But what are you doing there?” Wild thoughts flashed through my head: that Alana had returned to the store after I left an hour ago, that she'd decked the redheaded Marcella, that she'd been handcuffed by security and arrested ...
“I'll explain when you get here. Meet me in cosmetics, at the Trenda counter.”
I grabbed a leather jacket, one ankle wobbling in its high heel as I snatched up my keys. Flying out the door, I tried to speculate about what could have happened to Alana.
With my imagination, that was dangerous territory.
10
Alana
W
hat's that notion that a thief returns to the scene of her crime?
hat's that notion that a thief returns to the scene of her crime?
I admit, it felt tacky to be back in the cosmetics department of Bon Nuit on the very same night I'd had the altercation with the sales clerk. What was her name? Martha? Marley? Marchesa?
Oh, it didn't matter as long as I never laid eyes on her again. The only thing I cared about was buying Hailey's favorite shade of Trenda lipstick and leaving the scene before the sales clerk from hell tried another round of thumb wrestling. I never did get my credit card back, but it was OK, since that one was cancelled and Daddy wouldn't get to the rest of them until tomorrow morning.
It was already after seven. I had approximately twelve more hours of financial freedom ... and less than two hours until most of the stores closed. One last night of shopping before the bottom fell out of my life, and I was determined to make the most of it. Somehow I knew I had to start my last hurrah by purchasing Hailey's lipstick; if I could just right that one wrong, maybe it would set some positive karma in motion for me.
I retraced my steps to the Trenda counter, disappointed to find that no one was there. What is with these clerks? Either they hover over you like they own the cosmetics factory, or else there's no one in sight.
By contrast, there were three clerks over at Estee Lauder, two at Ralph Laurenâand one of them was that red-haired clerk. I felt my shiny talons emerge. My nemesis. What was she sounding off about now?
Had she been fired for her transgression? Slowly, I moved closer. She was still wearing a mint green cosmetics-counter smock, and from the way she was prattling on to her coworker, she seemed in need of some therapy. I sidled within earshot, planting myself behind a watermelon-size bottle of purple eau de toilette.
“You know, when they took me upstairs to HR, I thought, âThat bitch! She could've lost me my job.' ”
I froze. She was talking about me!
“But it didn't turn out that way at all,” MarcellaâI finally remembered her nameâwent on. “I thought Mr. Pomerantz was going to yell at me, even fire me, but no! Instead, they are going to transfer me to the buyers' division. Can you believe that dumb luck? A buyer, all because they think I have real potential, but maybe not so good at working directly with the customers. So I get to go to buyers' school and channel my aggressions toward those idiots from the wholesalers. Can you believe it? So I should thank that hipster monster.”
“Yes.” I stepped out from behind the giant perfume bottle, my hands balling into fists. “You really should thank me.”
Red's eyes flashed with fury, and for a minute I thought she would spring onto me with claws and teeth bared.
But no ... a subtle shift, a steely resolve. And what was that in her eyes. Respect? Or maybe a flash of humor.
“The hipster monster returns,” she said. “That's good, 'cause I have something for you.” She took a box from the pocket of her smock, a small box with the Trenda foil seal on it. “I saved this for you.”
I stared at the lipstick as if it would brand my palm. “Carnation Kiss?”
She shrugged. “It's all wrong for your friend. But don't listen to me. Let her walk around like a hideous buffoon in clown makeup. Sometimes you gotta look the other way and let people be happy with themselves. Anyway, that's what Mr. Pomerantz said.”
The surge of delight over my victory was slightly offset by Marcella's surrender and the fact that she had reserved a tube of lipstick for me ... well, it just wasn't done.
This woman was the rare exception, though I wasn't yet sure if that was a good thing or not.
“Everything OK here?” Hailey came onto the scene, moving tentatively. Her hair swung back as she looked over her shoulder. “No one called security yet?”
I passed her the tube of Carnation Kiss. “Try this on.”
“My shade.” She brightened a little, then turned to the mirror on the counter. I think every clerk in cosmetics watched with bated breath as she slid the shiny marbelized tube out of the box, uncapped it, unrolled, applied.
The bright red glistened orange on her lips. A clownish shade.
Gorgeous Hailey looked hideous.
“It's awful,” I delivered the verdict quietly. “It does make her look jaundiced.”
Hailey smiled into the mirror, then shuddered. “Yucky.” She took two tissues from a box offered by a nearby clerk. “I can't believe I ever wore that shade.”
“You were right,” I told Marcella, gracefully conceding. Like my father, I fight my arguments to the finish, but when proven wrong I defer to the truth. “Those were your words exactly.”
Marcella straightened the lapels of her mint smock with pursed lips. “Uh-huh.”
“I was so wrong,” I admitted, addressing the cluster of clerks. “This woman knows her colors. I will always buy cosmetics from Marcella.”
The women chimed in with “Oh, sure!” and “She's the best!” and “I thought they were doing a makeover.” The tension dissolved as people returned to their stations, shoppers went back to their shopping, and Marcella stepped up to the counter and picked up the controversial lipstick.
“You try it,” she told me. “It's your color.”
I rolled it on and blotted. Let me tell you, it looked like spicy red joy on my lips. “Hallelujah,” I sang.
Marcella cracked her gum. The woman chewed gum. Unbelievable. “Told ya,” she said.
“Look, I feel like an idiot,” I said.
“Well, at least you don't look like one.” Having removed the last of Carnation Kiss, Hailey was applying a cinnamon shade from her bag. “I just had big, orange clown lips in front of a dozen cosmetics experts. Do you think anyone recognized me?”
“I apologize, Marcella. Hey, do you work on commission? Would it help if we bought tons of makeup tonight?” I asked.
She tugged on a dangly earring. “Sure, but, did you bring cash?”
Cash? Oh ... the credit thing. I felt my face warm with embarrassment. “I do have a purse full of charge cards, one of which is bound to be valid, and Hailey and I are dying to stock up on cosmetics. Anything you can show us in the spring colors?”
“Plenty!” Marcella motioned us over to the Trenda counter. “We can start by establishing your personal palettes, since you know firsthand that every color doesn't suit every person. Over here. Let's start with you, blondie ...”
The woman had an eye for color, but she definitely didn't belong in sales. Maybe I'd done her a favor by getting her bumped up to buyers' school. As Marcella began explaining about hues and skin tones and seasons, I checked my watch. Already past seven-thirty.
“You'll have to step up the pace, Marcella,” I said. “We're already converted, so no use preaching to the choir. Just load us up with the goodies. We've got a lot of shopping to do before the doors close on us.”
A whole lot of shopping.
11
Hailey
“S
o let me get this straight,” I said as Alana and I watched that smiling, petite granny-type at Zarela's carve up an avocado to prepare our fresh guacamole right at our table. “All that stuff you bought tonight? You don't really want it?”
o let me get this straight,” I said as Alana and I watched that smiling, petite granny-type at Zarela's carve up an avocado to prepare our fresh guacamole right at our table. “All that stuff you bought tonight? You don't really want it?”
“Exactly.” Alana dipped a chip in salsa. “Except maybe for the Burberry. As I said, I'm conflicted about that plaid.”
The Burberry hat had been a “what the hell!” purchase. Otherwise, Alana had chosen her items mostly by price tag, the more expensive the better. We'd quickly cut over to Tiffany's because she realized that jewelry was compact and easy to carry with the added bonus of being outrageously expensive. As the bell rang to close the store, Alana paid a porter to transport our purchases back to the apartment, leaving us free to cab it over to Zarela's and join the Cinco de Mayo celebration.
“So you bought the closetful of stuff to return it ...”
“And get cash back. Let me tell you, it's going to take me a few days to return all that merchandise, but at least it will give me a little liquid cash to get myself going. I tell you, I don't believe my father. He's never pulled a power trip like this before.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I offered. She'd given me just a few salient details as we shopped.
“Honey, I couldn't bear to give you a play-by-play. Let me just say that he's going to cover the co-op expenses, so at least I won't be homeless.”
We won't be homeless
, I thought, recalling that I was a few months behind on the rent I owed Alana. I really, really needed that new contract from
All Our Tomorrows
.
, I thought, recalling that I was a few months behind on the rent I owed Alana. I really, really needed that new contract from
All Our Tomorrows
.
“But beyond the roof over my head and an occasional salad smuggled in by Mama, when Daddy cuts me off, I'm going to be penniless. No spending money whatsoever. And you know I can't live that way.”
I shook my head. “I am so sorry. What will you do?”
“Find a job, I guess,” she said airily. I don't think the real trauma had sunk in yet.
Poor Alana. The question remained, what would she do? “What kind of work were you thinking of?” I asked, recalling that she did not possess any so-called marketable skills.
“I had a tiny epiphany while we were having that lovefest with Marcella back at the cosmetics department. I've always marveled at the easy job those perfume sprayers have. Don't you think I could wax that? How hard could it be to say, âEndeavor? Endeavor? Endeavor?' like, twenty-five times a day?”
She had a point.
“And now that we've bonded with Marcella, I figure I've got an in at Bon Nuit,” Alana went on. “I'm going to call her in the morning, first thing tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. I've got an appointment for a hot-stone massage, and then there's all that merchandise to return. But eventually, I am going to get myself a new job spritzing elegant ladies.”
“Been there, done that. It was kind of fun, too, but after the Christmas season they let all of us go.” Talk of my spritzing experience reminded me of the lean days before I had gotten acting work. No health insurance, no spending money. I lived in a creepy basement apartment with two roommates who eventually became a couple. I waited tables in a diner, which didn't help when I sneaked out to auditions smelling of grease. I saved up my change for a cup of designer coffee in the morning, going to Starbucks a little later so I could read someone else's leftover newspaper. It was not a pretty life.
Those were the days before I'd been adopted by Alana, who let me move into her spare bedroom for a fraction of the Madison Avenue rent. Before I could afford to have my hair set and cut by a stylist. Before I could afford manicures and facials and fabuloso dinners at places like Zarela's where the little granny makes you guacamole.
If you've even been to Zarela's, you know the woman. It's her job to go to each incoming party and offer up her fine avocado-smashing services. I have watched her do her thing over businessmen trying to best each other, over the argument of a couple, over a rather lurid conversation I once had with my girlfriends about the hazards of giving blow jobs to uncircumcised men. And no matter what's going on at the table, the little granny smiles and smashes away. I love the little granny.
“Thank you,” I told her as she finished up. I handed her a few singles and Alana slipped her a twenty-dollar bill. Granny bowed as if we'd both handed her gold bullion, then moved to another table.
“Did I just hand that lady twenty dollars?” Alana asked me. When I nodded she smacked her forehead. “What an idiot I am! I'm poor myself and I'm giving away hefty tips. I wish I could call her back.”
“Consider it a parting gift. Besides, you're not poor until tomorrow, Cinderella, and the night is young.”
“Exactly what I was thinking, Hailey. Dinner is on me, then after that let's go bar hopping or out to a club or something. You've got your contract coming up and I've got my parental problems and I say we deserve a little treat. If this is our last chance for a while, let's go for it!”
“That sounds more like the Alana I know.” I lifted my margarita glass in a toast, knowing this was a bonding moment. Not that we hadn't bonded a million times over shopping, but to date, we had not been down and out and broke at the same time. “And thank you. For everything. You're such a giver, Alana. I don't know where I'd be without you.”
“Don't start! You're going to get me choked up.” She waved a petite hand, rapidly fanning her eyes. “And you're too sweet to be living without a fairy godmother in New York. Just remember me when you're up on stage at Radio City, accepting your Emmy Award.”
“Remember you? You'd better be there.” We clinked glasses and some slopped over my hand. We both sipped, then I dabbed at the spill with a napkin.
But Alana, having latched onto something transpiring behind me, slammed her hand on the table. “Damn them!”
“What happened? Who?” I looked over my shoulder but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
“It's just so typical,” she said, snapping a corn chip in half. “I think my father called in his spies.”
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