Retail Therapy (12 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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20
Alana
“E
speranza!” I whispered, trying to sound exotic and mystical. “Esperanza!”
To be honest, Esperanza was giving me a sinus headache, maybe even an infection. At first sniff, the scent hinted at clove and floral. Breathtaking! Or so I thought when I hit the cosmetic floor ready to whap some sales butt.
But the smell began to wear me down, and when one teenage girl joked that it resembled tiger urine, I couldn't lose that connection. Now, one spray of Esperanza and my mind was immediately transported to the restrooms at the Central Park Zoo. And as scents go, that is not at the top of anyone's list.
“Ladies, try Esperanza! The scent of mystical proportions. . .” I didn't know what the hell that meant, but since it was the damn theme of this perfume, Greg, my boss, wanted it “out there.”
“Gotta get it out there,” Greg kept telling me over the phone. “If women don't try it, they'll never know they love it. So that's your primary goal: get the scent out there.”
To be honest, the only ones really “out there” were weirdo Greg and the even weirder singer,
the
Esperanza, who was rumored to live with two Siberian white tigers in a two-bedroom apartment somewhere uptown. It's hard to figure the math on that—two bedrooms with two tigers? I guess the cats had to share. Hey, that's New York real estate for you.
I had read in the
Post
that Esperanza tongued their fur like a mama tiger, that the co-op board wanted her out of the building because her place wreaked of tiger piss, that PETA reps were hiding in Central Park waiting to douse her with fake blood, that she dropped out of Brown and lied about it on her application for Miss Teen Goth America.
Everything I'd ever read about my new employer was outrageous, but one simple fact remained: she was a wealthy celebrity, while I was a deb in financial rehab, pounding the marble floors of Bon Nuit to get wealthy again. Where's the order in that universe?
So far, my wealth goal was a distant target and all that pounding was wreaking havoc on my D&G sandals, as well as my delicate feet. Just yesterday when Suki was giving me a pedicure at Salon Armage she found a crack on the heel of my left foot. “Ouchie!” she said, showing me the spot. I had to restrain my horror long enough to ask for the hot wax treatment. Suki was very understanding, but my spa time had been ruined. Cracked skin, like an old granny! Please.
“Esperanza!” I hissed, holding up the bottle as an older blond with blue eye shadow happened by. “Would you like to try Esperanza?” I asked her.
“I guess,” she said without much confidence.
I sprayed her wrist from the tiger-shaped bottle. She gave a delicate sniff, then glanced away and headed off.
“It's available in toilet water and cologne,” I called after her. Maybe she'd double back after shopping. Maybe she'd come back and buy two, one for herself, one to give away as a gift.
“Esperanza,” I hissed, thinking that I sounded like a snake. I stepped up to a passing girl, who quickened her pace to avoid me. Obviously in a hurry, I thought, but she would be back.
Back to dodge me again.
Back to try a sample of Passion or Eternity across the aisle.
Who was I kidding?
This job sucked and I knew it. My feet hurt, my first full week of work had brought me a mere three hundred and thirty dollars after taxes, and this whole spray and buy sales tactic was so ten years ago. Nowadays, any woman who was into scents applied her fave before she left the house, and we all know that you never, ever mix scents, unless you want that table by the men's room at Nobu. Conversely, the women who wanted a spritz were novices, tourists in the land of scent, happy to visit but eager to leave before their visas expired. And if a tourist can get something for free, why pay?
“Esperanza,” I called out as I gracefully crossed the cosmetics floor to the Bare Shoulders counter. They made the best lotions, and my hands were feeling so dry right now. I figured I'd steal a dab of lotion from the display.
“Esperanza ... it means hope.” More like hopeless.
Just my luck—at the Bare Shoulders counter, the tester of Exotic Cucumber lotion was empty. I looked around and waved to Karo, one of the nicer sales assistants. “Hey, hi! Could you help me out, Karo? You're all out of Exotic Cucumber.”
“Again? Let's see.” She crossed to the counter and frowned. “It's our best-seller in the hand cream line.”
“And I can see why. It feels so velvety, and how about that antiaging formula? What do you know about that?” I asked.
“They tell me it's laboratory tested, and I say if there's even a chance of it working, let's give it a go,” Karo said. She slid open the cabinet and put a “tester” label on a new bottle. “There. Try that, sweet pea.”
I squeezed a tiny aqua pool on my hand and rubbed it in. “Heaven!”
Karo giggled. “I keep telling my husband, it stops aging, honey. One of these days I'm bringing some home to put on his johnson. See how that works out for him.”
“You wild woman!”
“And you with the hands. Honey, you don't need antiaging cream on those beauties.” She held my right hand up by the pinkie and examined both sides. “Perfectly proportioned. Shiny nails, healthy cuticles. And your skin ... mmmm-mmm.”
“Excuse me, girls, but I'm looking for Exotic Cucumber,” the woman said, getting right into our faces. Her husband followed behind on an invisible leash, an over-the-hill bald man who was obviously pussy-whipped.
“Esperanza?” I asked the bossy customer, bottle at the ready.
“God, no! Talk about overexposure,” the woman yapped to her husband. “I've had enough of the tiger lady, and I'm allergic to some of the chemicals used in perfumes. But Exotic Cucumber is intriguing. Is that a tester?” She lifted the bottle, turning it around. “I don't know. You're wearing it, right? Do you mind if I smell your hand?”
The husband folded his arms, obviously bored.
“No problem.” I pressed my hands together prayer-style and waved them under her nose. “It's a very subtle scent.”
Bossy lady sniffed cautiously. “Nice. And look at your hands. Daryl, look at her hands, they're like butter.”
Again with the hands. I let myself grin. They were one of my better assets.
“That's not from the cream, Muriel,” Daryl piped in.
“Who cares?” his wife snapped. “Darling, you have lovely hands. Doesn't she, Daryl?”
“Beautiful,” he said in a tone that begged “can we go?”
I smiled at them, wondering why Daryl looked so familiar. I could see him in my mind, in another time and place. “Wait a minute, aren't you the agent? Daryl Mousekowitz?”
“Malkowitz.” He nodded.
“The theatrical agent,” I said, recalling that Hailey knew him from the business.
As he nodded again and Mrs. Malkowitz tried on some lotion, a light bulb popped in my head. Maybe even exploded. This was a big-ass idea. “Your timing is perfect, because I need to engage an agent.”
“You and every waitress in town.” Daryl shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Muriel? She needs an agent. Give the girl a card.”
“You see, I'm going into the business of hand modeling.” I brought a hand demurely to my cheek and batted my eyelashes.
Daryl grunted, but Muriel turned toward me, her eyes growing wide. “Yes, I see it.”
“So call my office next week,” Daryl said lethargically.
His wife slapped his arm. “Don't be an idiot! This girl has fabulous hands.” She popped open her purse and handed me a business card. “Forget the screening, doll. Call tomorrow and give your information to Sherri. We'll have a contract out to you next week, and I'll look tomorrow to see what auditions we can line up.” She squinted at my hands one more time, then smiled. “Exquisite. I'm sure we can set you up with something.”
Can I tell you, I wanted to throw my hands up in the air and do a happy dance right in the center aisle of cosmetics!
But first thing's first. I had to hit the restroom and wash the tiger stink of Esperanza off my precious fingers.
Then, of course, back to Bare Shoulders for another round of Exotic Cucumber.
Take it from me, exquisite hands are no accident.
21
Hailey
I
felt my way along the ledge, my pedicured feet gracefully padding along the fake stone, my fingers trembling over the fake-stucco surface.
“Where is she?” a voice called from beyond the French doors. It was a voice I despised. “Why, she was just here a moment ago ...”
I dared a glance at the street below, then threw my head back as vertigo struck. My body teetered on the ledge, my soul immersed in an exquisite dichotomy of emotion: fall to my death and end the pain, or cling to the ledge and continue this arduous journey in a strange land, never knowing where I came from or where I truly belonged.
I felt tears sting my eyes as the camera moved closer, panning in for my close-up.
“And ... cut!” Stella called. “Great! Wonderful! Let's move to the next scene.”
Sean waddled over the mat in front of me—the street set that was supposed to be ten stories below— and peered into the penthouse set through the open French doors. This was for the benefit of Deanna, as the diva refused to do much of anything unless she received a personal invitation. “We're on the same set,” Sean told her. “Direct pickup in the Van Allen penthouse, interior and exterior balcony. Ready, Ms. Childs?”
“Give me a minute, please,” Deanna said calmly.
Oh, great. A diva minute was ten in real time.
Rory sneaked onto the street set below my feet, his face level with my belly button. “You were great! You really nailed it, kiddo! This is going to be a hot day. Does it air on a Friday? It's real tune-in-tomorrow material.”
“Thanks,” I said, my eyes still brimming with tears from the emotion of my scene. “Can you grab me a tissue from the prop cart?” I asked, determined to stay on my mark. This scene was going well—I could feel it in my heart—and I didn't want to jinx it or wreck a shot by moving out of place.
He handed me a tissue and I dabbed carefully. “Did I smudge?”
“Nope. You're good to go.” He peered over toward the open French doors. “I'll bet she's steaming that you got the dramatic beats in the scene.”
I smiled. “How'd that happen?”
“An accident, I'm sure. Heads will roll in the writers' room. But in the meantime, you're really cutting your teeth on it, kiddo. Keep it coming.”
“I don't want to lose the lovely momentum we have going, so can we move on quickly?” Stella asked.
“Only if you say please,” Deanna called out sweetly. I was glad that, from my position on the ledge of the building, I couldn't see her face.
Rory rolled his eyes and hurried to the edge of the set.
“Please, pretty please!” Stella clasped her hands together in a gesture of prayer.
“S'il vous plait! Por favor! Bitte!”
She turned to the AD. “Okay, Seannie, let's roll tape.”
Sean moved directly in front of camera one and shouted, “In five, four, three, two ...”
And once again I was Ariel, the ethereal goddess of the water who defied definition, the girl with no past who happened upon Indigo Falls quite by accident and who, finally, found herself a decent dress.
“Ariel?” Meredith called.
“Should I check downstairs?” With his British accent, Horwitz made even the most mundane lines sound distinguished. “Perhaps she's retired for the evening.”
“I'm afraid that would be too easy,” Meredith said. “A con artist like Ariel doesn't just leave on her own. She has to be driven out of town.”
I gasped, swallowing hard over the emotion rising in my throat, the camera panning toward me.
“What was that?” Meredith asked.
I flattened myself against the wall, but it was no use. Meredith's curly head popped out. “Oh, my goodness, Ariel! What are you doing out there?” Her mouth was a wide O as she leaned out—way out.
“Don't come out here!” I said. The line wasn't in the script, but Deanna was about to climb onto the ledge to get in my shot! “Stop right there. If you move any closer, I'll jump, I swear it.”
The set was deathly quiet. She recoiled and retreated, thank God. But who had the next line?
“Ariel? Ariel, darling, it's Dr. Willoughby.” Good old Ian to the rescue. “Why don't you come in now, young lady, and we'll sit down and work this out.”
“I can't!” I choked out. “Not while she's in the room. Meredith Van Allen can't be trusted.”
“Me!” Meredith exclaimed. “I would never, ever harm another soul. Why, I don't even swat flies. I simply open the window and shoo them out. How could you say such a thing about me?”
“Because I know the truth,” I said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I know what you did ... to Skip.” The air was thick with tension. Even the normally chatty makeup gals and hair people were watching breathlessly. “I know what you did!” I shouted.
Meredith shook her head, wordlessly suggesting denial of all charges and surprise at my revelation. Nice touch.
“Skip?” Doc Willoughby played confusion.
“How do you know Skip?” Meredith asked. “He was long disappeared before you came to Indigo Hills.”
“He was like a brother to me,” I said. “And you destroyed him. He only wanted to make you happy, Meredith. He would have given you anything, anything, but you wanted it all. You wanted him dead!”
“No!” she shouted, reaching out toward me. “It wasn't that way.”
“You killed him, Meredith. His death is on your conscience.” I turned toward the street and sucked in a breath for courage. “After this, you'll be able to add another tally to your scorecard, Meredith.”
“Ariel, listen to me,” the doc said emphatically. “You must not jump!”
“Stop!” Meredith shrieked, sobbing that fake soap-opera sob. “Stop her!”
Ignoring them, I lifted my face to the pretend sky, fixing my eyes on a catwalk along the shadowy ceiling. “It's OK, Skippy,” I whispered fervently. “You won't be alone too much longer.”
And with that, I flung my arms wide and jumped to oblivion....
I rose from the mat to applause—roaring applause on the set! Stella was whooping and whistling, Rory clapped to the side of his head like a flamenco dancer, Sean tucked his clipboard under one arm so he could applaud. The people from hair and makeup and wardrobe were cheering. Even the cameramen had lifted their heads to join in. Deanna's assistants were applauding madly, including the Diet Coke holder, who had placed the drink on the floor to free her hands.
I straightened my shoulders and let myself smile just a little. We'd nailed that scene! Everything had felt in sync, but sometimes it feels just right and some little clunker line or audio glitch pops up on the tape and you have to do it over again.
Not today.
“Bravo and kudos!” Stella boomed, rushing into the scene with her arms spread wide. She folded me into her bulky sweater for a warm hug, then moved on to Deanna and Ian for more fuzzy hugs. “Was that not the most riveting, most dramatic scene in the history of daytime television?” the director exclaimed.
Sean turned toward me and bowed dramatically. “Awesome.”
I turned to Rory, who was dabbing at his eyes, trying to compose himself. When I gave him a questioning look, he flung his hands in the air, a gesture of disbelief. “Didn't know you had it in you, kiddo.”
“I smell Emmy in the air!” Stella exclaimed. “Two Emmys.”
Deanna walked to the edge of the set and took a sip from the Diet Coke, which her assistant quickly fumbled off the floor. “Two Emmys.” Deanna's eyes glazed as she lobbed that notion in the air, like a cat playing, batting at a mouse. “I do like the sound of that. But really, how could I win two awards?”
Rory and I shot the panic look at each other. Had Deanna already forgotten that I was in the scene with her?
“Oh, you're too funny.” Stella passed the gaff off as a joke. “I was just thinking that this year you might want to share one of those Emmys with Hailey. Let her win for supporting actress.”
“Oh, that ...” Deanna assessed me, as if she really had a choice. “Oh, OK!” she teased, reaching out to give my arm a pat. She missed me by at least a foot, but who's measuring?
“Thanks loads, Hailey.” Stella summoned me back for one more hug. “You're done for the day. But we'll see you next week. When's your call?”
“Tuesday,” Sean jumped in. “Bright and early. We've got to get you in swimsuit and waterproof makeup for your landing in the rooftop pool.” Sean rolled his eyes. “Writers.”
“Hey, it's a lot softer than the street.” I was glad to have the weekend off with the promise of a scene to tape after the holiday. Ariel went off the ledge, but she would be discovered a few days later in some billionaire's penthouse pool. I guess that mermaid thing just kicked in when Ariel needed it most.
I thanked everyone and said my goodbyes, then headed off to the dressing room I shared with Susan Laslo, another part-time player. From the corner of my eye, I sensed an incipient movement on the set. Deanna was on the prowl, moving in on Jodi, the head of wardrobe.
Stopping at the craft services table, I dipped a baby carrot in humus and tried to listen in. Mmm ... the humus had extra garlic. The gossip was spicy, too.
“Who picked out Ariel's wardrobe today?” Deanna asked. I couldn't hear Jodi's answer, but apparently it didn't suit Deanna. “Would you talk to Gabrielle about it? Because, frankly, off-the-shoulder dresses have really been my trademark on this show. And I wouldn't want anyone to say that wardrobe is falling down on the job, but I do have my own signature style. It's who I am.”
It's who I am ...
Wasn't that a perfume slogan from three years ago? Jeez, Deanna really fell apart without the scriptwriters to put words in her mouth.
I grabbed another carrot and headed off to change my clothes. I was still so buzzed from hitting my mark on the scene that I really didn't care that Deanna was being a bitcho supremo. Let her whine and complain and give orders and send her assistant off for more Diet Coke. She was going to be stuck here till Friday, while I was free for the rest of the week.
I wondered if those gowns I'd liked at Lord & Taylor would be going on sale for Memorial Day. I remembered one that fit like a glove, a ballroom gown in diva red satin. It would be perfect for the Daytime Emmy Awards ceremony.
Oh, yeah. Did I mention that it was off-the-shoulder?

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