Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Retail Therapy (13 page)

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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Alana

“I
'm always fighting oil in the T-zone,” I told Karo as she massaged an astringent wash into my face. “It's a never-ending battle, but they say at least my skin will remain young looking.”

“I hear you.” Karo's hands worked expertly, dabbing with a cotton ball, then rubbing gently with her fingertips. “Baby, I have customers who would kill for skin like yours. You just keep doing what you've been doing, but be sure to moisturize.”

“Twice a day,” I said. With the agent's card in my pocket and my hand-modeling career off to a strong start, I decided to give my poor feet a break and take a seat at the Bare Shoulders counter. Karo had obliged me with a quick facial that would show off the Bare Shoulders line of skin care.

“How's that feel?” she asked.

“Nice, but I think I like the Exotic Cucumber mask best. It feels so clean, and it really soothed my sore sinuses.”

“Umm ... excuse me, ladies?”

I knew that angry voice. I opened my eyes to find Marcella on fire.

“What do you think you're doing?” she reached around me and started capping the Bare Shoulders bottles on the counter. “This is not the way you were trained, either of you, andâ”

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly, realizing how bad this must look. “But I already signed out. I meant to finish out my shift, but my feet were so tired, and I really am interested in the Bare Shoulders line, and Karo offered to demonstrate. And the main thing is that I don't work here anymore.” I decided to spare her the really bad stuffâthat the perfume was irritating my sinuses and that serious shoppers didn't want to bother with a spritz and that I no longer wanted to be employed by a celebrity who had been photographed licking tigers. Really, no reason to be such a downer, and it was so nice of Marcella to get me the job in the first place. “I'm quitting,” I finished in a bright voice.

“Well.” Marcella folded her arms. “You don't have to take it that far.”

“No, I want to quit. I have to. I'm going to need every spare minute to pursue my new career.” I held my hands off to the side, posing them delicately like a ballet dancer. “I'm going to be a hand model.”

“Oh. I'll call Greg and let him know.” As if changing gears, Marcella looked at my face, my hands, my face, then back at my hands. “Oooh. I've always said you have perfect hands. But honey, how are you going to go about this endeavor? Do you know anybody in advertising? You're going to need an agentâ”

“Got one!” I waved Daryl Malkowitz's card.

“Daily manicuresâ”

“Already a sacred ritual,” I admitted.

“An insurance policy on your hands. After all, those mitts will be your bread and buttah.”

“I didn't think of that. Do you know anyone at Lloyd's of London?” Both Marcella and Karo shook their heads. “I'll bet Daddy's insurance guy could help me out.” I touched Marcella's shoulder. “You're a genius. You really are. Bon Nuit doesn't know how lucky they are.” I leaned into the mirror to rub in a smudge of cream Karo had missed. “And now that I'm self-employed, I'm free to head out to the Hamptons house ahead of the holiday traffic. I've been wanting to go out a few days early and make sure the new furnishings are in place for my parents. Memorial Day weekend is always their first time out for the season.”

“I thought your father cut off your shopping sprees?” Marcella said.

“But I purchased a ton of stuff before he lost his mind. And I figure, if I set things out with just the right touch, he'll begin to understand. He'll change his mind like that.” I snapped my dainty fingers. “By Memorial Day, Daddy will be begging me to decorate the rest of the house.”

I leaned closer to Karo to confide, “My father is so clueless when it comes to design.”

“Well, what do you want, honey? He's a man.”

“Please! Don't get me started on our issues.” I didn't usually make small talk about family matters, but Karo was so sympathetic and the relaxing facial had broken down some of my inhibitions. “If Daddy would just accept that he's from Mars and I'm from Venus, it would be a start. I don't know how my mother does it.”

“Some men will never get it,” Marcella said, rubbing a little cucumber cream into the back of her hand. “They come to things from a totally different place than we do. That's why we have to reach out for them and pull them in. It's like they're drowning in the water, thrashing around, and they need a hand to pull them to shore. They need us. But we can't stand on the riverbank and preach at them that they should learn to swim. They're fucking drowning! It's not about wanting to learn to swim; it's about knowing how to do it. And they don't. So it's up to us. We can save them, girls.”

I put my hands on my hips, amazed. “Oh my Lord, that is the most enlightening explanation I've ever heard.”

“Yes, honey.” Karo was nodding. “Mmm-hmm. You tell it right, girl.” She went off to deal with a customer who beckoned at a nearby counter.

“Marcella, you must be an old soul,” I said.

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

At that moment, I realized the downside of quitting my job at Bon Nuit. Marcella! I would miss being around her. Which gave me an idea.

“You know, the Hamptons house is huge,” I said, turning to face her. “Why don't you come out sometime? Come out for Memorial Day? We need to stay in touch, honey. Lunches and shopping quests and whatnot.”

“Definitely, cookie. But I gotta work Memorial Day.”

We compared schedules and it turned out that Marcella had the next few days off, before she worked the holiday weekend. “Perfect! I talked to Hailey, and she's got off, too. We can all drive out together tomorrow and you guys can take the Jitney back whenever you want.”

“That could work. Let me talk to my sister. I was supposed to watch my little nephew, but my sister, she'll get over it. Girl's gotta live.”

“Please! You work hard all week. You deserve a vacation. And we can shop the outlets!”

“Look, I got to get back to linens. Some idiot put the new Ralph Lauren sheets on display without steaming the creases out. Moron.”

“Ralph Lauren sheets?” I perked up. “What are the new color schemes? Oh, never mind, I'll go take a look on my break. We need some new linens for the Hamptons. Come to think of it, I could use sheets in my apartment.” Not that I wanted to apply my measly three hundred dollars to new bedsheets, but who could resist a peek?

Hailey

W
hen I got to my dressing room, there was a note on my table from Susan Laslo, the girl who played the troubled teen, Lizzie.

Saw your scene ... bravo! You rock.

âS

I smiled. Susan was a girl of few words, but I was beginning to realize that there was a solid, spirited person stuck in the role of Lizzie Slate. Since we were both minor players, we shared a dressing room the size of a Mini Cooper, which was just fine for both of us.

I dashed off a little note about enjoying the long weekend, since no one would be taping on Monday, then left it on her dressing table. Susan was scheduled to tape for the rest of the week, but I was done until next Tuesday, with a chance to go to the Hamptons with Alana.

A real vacation, with the promise of acting work when I returned; it was a rare luxury.

I turned toward my skinny closet, threw my arms into the air, and did a little hip-swaying dance. I had nailed an important scene, and now I was free, free, free!

Why didn't my mother ever call to check in at victorious times like this?

Leaning into my closet, I sorted through the emergency clothes there and decided to leave just about everything until next week. My pink polka-dot shoes were coming with me, along with three bottles of Evian water I'd snitched from craft services. You could never get enough bottled water in this city, especially when the weather began to warm up and the subways and stores held on to the stale winter heat.

Just then there was a knock on my door and I straightened, knocking my head against the top of the closet.

“Come in!” I called, rubbing the tender spot.

Antonio Lopez filled the doorway, his short, dark hair slicked back to appear in his pseudomobster scene. He wore a double-breasted, pin-striped suit in a pale shade of grayâsinister spring fashions. I know it's wrong to judge a person based on looks, but I couldn't help myself.

I loved him.

“Hilly,” he said in his beautifully accented voice, though I couldn't remember if he was from Spain or Portugal or Argentina. Like that mattered anyway. “May I come in?”

“Sure!” I squeaked, stepping back and nearly falling into the closet. As he gracefully squeezed into the tiny space, I quickly closed the closet door to prevent further bodily injury. “How's it going?”

“Excellent.” There was that killer smile, subtle and over-the-top sexy in one simple flash of the teeth. He was magnificent. “I just had the privilege of seeing your scene with Deanna. I wanted to tell you how fantastic it was.” He pressed one hand to his chest. “I was genuinely moved.”

“Me, too,” I said without thinking. Oh, like that made sense! Jeez, was I an idiot! “I mean,
âEt tu?'
Like Shakespeare?” Which made even less sense.

Come on, dinglebrain! Pick yourself up here!

“But thanks,” I said. “I didn't even know you were watching. And coming from you, well, it means a lot. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

In that moment, I realized that a box of tampons had spilled open on my table, and I sort of leaped forward to block it from his view. Not that Antonio didn't know about those things, but I didn't want to go there with him.

He held up his arms, as if blocking me from bolting out the door, and we both laughed nervously.

“I'm sorry,” I said earnestly. “It's just that I'm not used to having stars like you in my dressing room.”

“Stars? There are no stars here.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Well, there's Deanna ...” I said.

“OK, one star. The rest of us are just actors.” His face was just inches from mine now. “But I wanted to say, I admire what you're doing.”

I was about to say “me, too!” again, but realized it would be doubly stupid a second time. He seemed to want to kiss me, but he paused, his eyes smoking and glazed. I couldn't stand it. I reached up, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and kissed him.

He moaned, his lips dewy and moist against mine. Antonio was a fabulous kisserâI remembered that from our one scene together. He had the ability to transport me, to lift me to another place and time with the nudge of his sweet lips.

I was so into it, I barely noticed that my butt was crushing a row of tampons against the makeup table.

He ended the kiss and hugged me close. “We need to get together,” he said. “May I see you this weekend? Outside the studio, of course.”

“Oh, but I'm going out to the Hamptons,” I blurted before I had the good sense to change my plans. “I'm leaving tomorrow, but I'd love to see you.”

“I have a little condo there,” he said, lifting my hand to kiss my knuckles. “East Hampton. Perhaps we could meet there? There's a club on Main Street that really rawks.”

I nodded like a bobblehead. “Yeah, sure! Sounds great!”

We set it up for the following night, then Antonio stepped to the door. “I have a tedious scene to do. Taking another bad guy hostage, I'm afraid.”

“It happens.” I tinkled my fingers in a wave.

“Oh, and just a word of advice? You might want to keep our involvement under wraps around here. At least for now. Don't want any unnecessary studio scuttlebutt circulating.”

I was impressed that Antonio knew what “scuttlebutt” meant, but I nodded as he blew me a kiss and ducked out the door.

Big sigh, then another thought. He had said “involvement,” hadn't he?

So we were involved?

Antonio Lopez and Hailey Starrett, a new soap couple.
Soap Opera Digest
would run a feature on us. We could do one of those joint interviews on
Soap Central
. Together we would be a powerhouse!

My hands shook as I flipped open my cell and speed-dialed Alana.

“You'll never guess who I'm hooking up with tomorrow night... .”

Alana

“W
ho ever decided that the streets in Brooklyn should be named? It's too confusing. Was that Mr. Brooklyn, or what? Are you sure this is the right address?” I asked Hailey as I edged Daddy's car dangerously close to the bumper of a parked car and veered into a spot by a hydrant. The street Marcella lived on was narrow, dark, and, well ... tacky, with a crummy little deli, a cleaners, and an Off-Track Betting center on the corner. Men clustered around the outside of the OTBâill-dressed, slovenly, grayish men in clouds of cigarette smoke. Disgusting.

Hailey was already on her cell, ringing Marcella. “We're here! Or at least, I think we are. There's a cleaners on the corner and a deli and ... yes, I see the men. OK. We're parked at the hydrant. OK.” She flipped the phone shut. “She'll be down in a minute. She says roll up the windows and don't talk to the OTB losers.”

I was already rolling up my window, annoyed that their smoke was drifting into the car. My father loved this old Mercedes, an ancient black sedan built like a tank. I'd tried a million times to get him to trade up to a newer model, but that was Daddy, clinging to his old stuff. I adjusted the side-view mirror and caught sight of a man spitting on the sidewalk. Yucky. I felt sorry for Marcella, having to live here. It had to be unpleasant walking past those men every day, though I knew Marcella could hold her own.

“This block is creepy.” I leaned toward the mirror and straightened my hat, a teal blue open-weave sina-may trimmed in a white satin sash. My collection of hats was justifiable, since they're the best way to keep sun damage from the face, and this particular hat went well with my Adrienne Vittadini beachwearâteal-and-white-flowered capri pants, a long-cut white duster, and matching low-heeled Dolce & Gabbana sandals with peekaboo straps. The outfit was exceedingly bright for this dingy Brooklyn street, though it was fabulous beachwear. Not that I intended to be near any real beaches; I can't stand the grit of sand under my nails, and with my upcoming career, well, damage to the hands was a big no-no.

“She said it's the building right over the cleaners.” Hailey tipped her sharp white Kangol hat back and peered up at the building. “What's keeping her? Maybe we should lock the doors.” Coming from a woman in a crisp white mafioso hat, the comment struck me as funny.

“Not to sound weird or anything, but do you think Marcella is poor? I mean, this neighborhood and everything ...”

Hailey tapped her chin with her cell phone. “I think Marcella is sort of normal. This is no worse than that Washington Heights dungeon I lived in before I moved in with you. Marcella is average. You're the one who's different. You've never had to worry about money.”

“Until now,” I said, thinking of how the money from my spritzing paycheck had somehow shrunk to less than three hundred dollars just from buying a few lattes and taking a few cabs to work.

My funds were frighteningly low ... especially since I hadn't been able to cash in on the return of my “buying spree” items, which had been a total shock to me since I had all my receipts, none of the tags had been removed, and I had brought the merchandise back to the stores within twenty-four hours. Imagine my dismay when the first clerk I approached at Bon Nuit told me she couldn't hand over cash on the spot?

“What? No cash? But I have receipts!” I chirped.

I was told that it was store policy. The clerk would be happy to credit the accountâwhich meant the money would go right back to Daddy.

“No! That won't work at all!” I had protested, demanding to see a manager who politely told me the same two words: “store policy.”

As I made the rounds with my returns, “store policy” became the mantra of the day. Most retail establishments agreed to give me the money back, but it would have to be processed through their credit department, which would issue a refund in three to six weeks.

That was three weeks ago, and let me tell you, I was feeling the crunch. But money things always have a way of working out for me. I calculated that, just about the time the checks started rolling in, I would be seeing a big advance from my hand-modeling jobs. And of course, by that time, Daddy would have seen the magic I can do with the help of a few charge cards and would reinstate my credit line.

I turned toward the squarish, pedestrian brick apartment building that rose over the cleaners in time to see Marcella emerging from the narrow vestibule. In a smart black-and-white ensemble, she could have stepped right out of the pages of
Vogue
.

“Well, shame on me, I take it all back. Just look at her. Those houndstooth checked pants could be an ad for Talbots' classic collection.”

“I could die for that vanilla alligator bag,” Hailey murmured.

“Definitely a Furla. And look at that hat! If that isn't the cutest.” It was a bucket hat in black-and-white buffalo check with a floppy, flirty brim. “I can't place that hat, but do you recognize the sleek, draped black tank?”

Hailey and I glanced at each other, then said in unison, “DKNY.”

“And her luggage. What is that?” Hailey gasped, but Marcella was already waving and bouncing her rolling suitcase down the stone steps.

I unlocked the car doors and stepped out, more to see her perfectly matched luggage than anything else.

“Sorry I'm late,” she called. “It's hard to get out the door with a baby in the house, even when it's not yours. I just love holding the little querido.”

The demure tote was made of smooth leather in a buttery shade of honey. There was a matching cosmetic bag, just the right size to hold tall bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion. I couldn't resist touching the large suitcase on wheelsâbutt soft.

“Where did you get this?” I gawked as Marcella lifted them into the trunk. Riding alongside these enchanted bags, my old Giacomo tapestry pieces would probably curl up and whimper all the way east.

“It's the sort of luggage you'd expect Julia Roberts to carry,” Hailey said as the three of us popped into the car. “Or J-Lo. Or Jennifer Aniston.”

“Hailey, honey,” Marcella chastised her, “do you really think any of those people carry their own luggage?”

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” I said as I tipped my sunglasses down and followed the signs to the BQE. “Those men outside the OTB certainly got their pickles tickled today, seeing the three of us out in our spring finest with our hats and all.”

Marcella slapped her thigh and turned toward Hailey in the backseat. “I'm sure they didn't believe their eyes.”

“I'm still stuck on that luggage,” Hailey said. “Our producer keeps talking about going on location, and if we do, I'm going to need something nice. The old college backpacks don't cut it anymore.”

“Time to step up,” Marcella advised.

“OK,” I said, cutting to the chase. “So we're dying to know where you got it.”

“Bon Nuit, of course. It was ridiculously overpriced, so I kept an eye on it until Silly Sale Day.” Silly Sale is when everythingâand I mean everythingâat Bon Nuit is fifty percent off. It's a wonderful thing. “That morning I zipped in there as soon as the doors opened, and with my employee discount, I got it for a song.”

Hailey and I oohed in admiration. An exquisitely beautiful purchase is one thing, but an exquisitely beautiful purchase at deeply discounted prices? Sheer magic.

“I forgot about the employee discount,” I said, mentally ringing up those Ralph Lauren sheets I'd liked minus twenty percent. “Are you allowed to include friends and family members?”

“Bon Nuit is very strict about that,” Marcella said. “I'd help you, honey, but I can't afford to lose my job.”

“No, of course,” Hailey said politely, but I could hear the disappointment in her voice. It killed me, too, knowing that all those employees had a discount that I couldn't get. Sometimes life is incredibly unfair.

“There is nothing like a great bargain,” I said, ramping up the speed as the expressway began to clear. “I still remember the most fabulous deals of my life. I can just about smell the perfume I was wearing that day, even remember my shade of lipstick. The memory is that vivid.”

“OK.” Hailey put her hands on the console and leaned between the two front seats. “Let's tell shopping stories. The most incredible buy of your life. Alana?”

“Hard to say.” I told them about a two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater I had bought for Daddy one Christmas at Macy's. It was already on sale but I had so many coupons and one-day savings tickets that it rang up to be seven dollars and seventy-eight cents with sales tax included. “At that price,” the salesclerk had teased, “we're almost paying you money.”

“Jimmy Choo boots down in the Village,” Hailey said. “They were red-tagged, double discount, eighty percent off. I think they were from the previous season, but I didn't care. Those boots fit me so perfectly. I still have them.”

“Remind me to toss them out of your closet when we get home,” I said. “Boots from two seasons ago? Have you lost your mind, child?”

Marcella's best buy was a HermÃ¨s scarf on the clearance rack in that little accessories boutique in Bergdorf's. “Or actually, it was last night at Sears when I got this tank top and these slacks.”

I gasped in disbelief. “You got that outfit at Sears?”

“Can you believe it? Sears. I went with my sister to get a crib for the baby, and I was wheeling him around and I almost ran into this sales rack. Next thing I know, I had him in the dressing room and nobody believed how fucking great this stuff looked on me.”

“That's amazing,” Hailey said.

“Tell me about it. It was a nightmare getting that crib home in a taxi, but we made it. Dragged that thing up the stairs ourselves. My brother-in-law had to work overtime.”

I think Hailey and I were still recovering from Marcella's outstanding Sears acquisition when she revised her best bargain scenarios.

“If you want to talk designer, I think it would have to be the Kate Spade bag that I found at this boutique on Madison that was going out of business. Or wait! Do housewares count? I got a Cuisinart Deluxe food processor at fifty percent below retail. I was dating the salesperson at the time and I talked him down. The relationship ended fast, but I still have that food processor and it's fucking great!”

As we laughed and compared anecdotes, I had to be honest with myself. Hailey and I were excellent shoppers, but Marcella Rodriguez had the golden touch; this woman was truly gifted.

And I basked in the glow of greatness.

Two hours later the Mercedes rolled past the rosebushes that marked Rosebud Lane, and my parents' summerhouse came into view. Six years ago, while Mama and I were off in Europe, Daddy had picked the place himselfâa U-shaped, cedar-shingled charmer with a white wooden porch that wrapped around the front of the main wing. Two cars were parked near the garage, which used to be an old carriage house, and I remembered Mama had mentioned that the housekeeping staff would be cleaning and stocking the place as scheduled. As we drew closer, I noticed that the porch was littered with large brown boxes.

“Looks like a UPS convention,” Hailey teased.

Gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled up to the steps, swung my door open, and lifted my sunglasses onto my head. “Giant boxes! I love presents.” Navigating the stone path delicately in my D&G sandals, I hopped up the steps and sprang onto the porch to examine the shipping labels.

“Fortunoff! The Source!” I threw my arms around a box and pretended to hug it. “I almost forgot! It's the outdoor patio furniture I ordered to replace that hideous aluminum junk Daddy bought last year. Oh, I can't wait to see it,” I said, tugging at the lip of one huge box.

“Excuse me?” Marcella swung her black bag atop one box and scowled at the label. “Who delivers packages without getting a signature? Who leaves thousands of dollars' worth of merchandise out on someone's front porch? You are so lucky someone didn't drive by and cart this off in their truck.”

“The cleaning crew probably signed for it,” I said, shoving a key under the giant staple. “And it's the Hamptons. People can't just drive up to your house without raising suspicion.”

Hailey's hands were on her hips. “Alana! Don't break a nail! Remember, your hands are your future.”

I jerked my hands back as if they'd touched fire. “You are so right. We'll work on these later. Let's get settled in first.”

BOOK: Retail Therapy

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