Retail Therapy (5 page)

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Authors: Roz Bailey

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Retail Therapy
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5
Alana
“H
e really kissed you?” I asked Hailey as she popped the end of a watercress sandwich into her mouth. She looked cuter than ever in her low-waisted jeans, purple T and Jimmy Choo stiletto boots, her blond hair loose and shiny on her shoulders. “You were just kissed by Antonio Lopez?”
“Mm-hmm!” She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes round with amazement as she chewed on the dainty little sandwich from the elegant platter served in the lobby dining area of the Plaza Hotel.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “Tongue and all?” Just the idea of being within inches of Antonio Lopez was provocative, but to receive a hot, juicy kiss ...
“Tongue and teeth! I've never had that happen while performing. I mean, whew! We were on fire.” Hailey waggled her hands, air-quenching the imaginary flames.
“Good for you, honey!” I toasted her with my china cup, so glad to be back in my city, sharing high tea with my good friend. “So ... then what? What happened next? Tell me everything!”
“There's nothing else to tell! He nailed me with the kiss, I melted inside, and then, when the director yelled cut, he dropped me like a sack of potatoes. I'm telling you, that man can turn the heat on and off like a faucet.”
“She said with a sigh of longing,” I teased.
“I guess I'm just flabbergasted. One, I never thought he was my type, and two, I didn't think he had that much acting ability.”
“Well, he was either acting or sending you a message. I'll bet Antonio is into you.”
Hailey pressed a hand to her mouth. “That's what Rory said, but I thought he was just ragging on me.” She shook her head.
One of Hailey's more endearing qualities is her total unawareness of her own beauty. My theory is that her granola parents kept her so well hidden under those stupid hippie caftans that she missed the fact that she's a knockout. Or maybe it was that three-year period that the Starrett family spent in a Buddhist ashram. Imagine missing your prom because you're living in a commune of meditating longhairs! It's appalling, what some people do to their children.
“This is an exciting new development,” I said. “So you're feeling better about Deanna's public assault on your wardrobe?”
“A little.” Hailey picked up a wafer cookie. “I don't know why I let her get to me, but I do.”
“Don't be so hard on yourself,” I said, “but what pair of shoes did she pick on, anyway?”
“The Nine West,” she said indignantly.
“Not the Nine West? Pink with polka dots? And dots are so hot!” The nerve of that woman! As Hailey gave me a play-by-play description of the exchange, I felt anger rising on my friend's behalf. Deanna Childs was a walking menace, a bully who picked on weak and vulnerable people around her, like Hailey. When Hailey finished her story, I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Listen to me, honey. You looked gorgeous in that outfit—I saw it! Denim will never go out of style. Did Deanna miss Demi Moore in her jeans and Gucci shell at that premiere last month? How about Naomi Campbell? Jessica Simpson? Linda Evangelista? Please! Deanna Childs wouldn't know fashion if Christian LaCroix hijacked her limo and airlifted her to Paris.”
She brushed a crumb off the tablecloth. “Even if that's true, she's got an awful lot of clout on the show.”
“Yes, and you're smart to defer to her. But don't ever
believe
her act. Deanna is out to promote Deanna, and she doesn't care who she has to climb over on the way.” I poured some more tea for her, and she spooned some clotted cream onto a scone. Hailey has an amazing metabolism that burns just about anything she eats like an industrial furnace. Personally, I've tended to wear desserts on my ass, but most of the guys I've gone out with had no complaints. “You just hold tight,” I said. “Things will work out.”
“I'm just glad to have you back, Alana. With a new French manicure, I see.”
“Salon Armage.” I held out my hands—petite, with buttery-smooth chocolate-hued skin and the barest hint of knuckles. “They do fabulous work.”
“But your hands are perfect to begin with,” Hailey said. “Now I want to hear all about Europe, but first, you never told me why you came back early.”
“That's my father's doing—the pain in the butt. Can you believe he called me over in London and told me to come home for a family council?”
Hailey stopped chewing, powdered sugar on her lower lip. “Something wrong?”
“He's just harping on the money thing again, and really, I'm getting sick and tired of fighting with my parents over the budget. Don't they understand what things cost these days? They know I don't settle when I shop—they know I have an exquisite sense of style and fashion, an uncompromising eye for quality.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes parents can be so dense. I see my parents sitting on old sofas with slipcovers, wearing clothes they've had since the first George Bush was president, and I don't get it. What happened to that generation? They can't seem to grasp the joy in spending money.”
“Exactly!” What a relief to talk to someone on the same track! Hailey totally got it. “So I've decided to take this situation in hand. If they insist on this ridiculous budget restriction, the least they can do is double it.”
“Really. What do they give you now? If you don't mind my asking.”
“Not a worry. It's something lame like three thousand a month, not counting the co-op payment.”
“With the way you spend money, that must disappear fast.”
“Please! Three thousand is a pittance in Eurodollars. Three thousand will barely buy you a Prada gown or an afternoon of shoe shopping. And it's not like it's all about me. I'm constantly buying little gifties for my parents. I do all their Christmas shopping for them, and now Mama and I have plans to redecorate the house in the Hamptons. I'm excellent at what I do, but I can't function within these ridiculous parameters.” Ever since Daddy's brusque phone call I had been dreading the family council, but it helped to run my argument by Hailey, who got it.
“So where are you meeting them?” she asked. “How are you going to play the scene?”
“Like the most professional daughter in the world.” I had thought about it on the plane ride from Heathrow. “First, I'm going to put the numbers in front of them. That my budget, at three thousand dollars a month, is a mere thirty-six thousand a year. Most people can't survive in Manhattan on a salary like that, and with their two salaries and trust funds and investments, I'm costing them a minuscule amount.”
“I like it.” Hailey passed me the tray, and I took a butter cookie dipped in bittersweet chocolate. “Then I'm going to give them a bit of proof—an example to prove my point. I figure Daddy will be particularly impressed by that.”
“Bravo.”
“Which I could use your help on. I'd like to head out now and pick up a few things for the Hamptons house. This way I can demonstrate how silly Daddy's budget rules are. He's going to be so happy to see the place redone. I was thinking of everything in shades of white—vanilla walls, snowy wicker, bleached pine.”
“Yes, I've seen that done, and it's so elegant yet casual.” Hailey looped her Fendi bag over her shoulder and scooted forward in the chair. “Where should we start?”
“Bloomie's and Bon Nuit are having Cinco de Mayo sales.” Hailey and I cannot resist sales—the unbelievable deal of getting something at twenty percent off makes our pulses accelerate like seasoned runners'. I handed the waiter one of my shiny hologram credit cards and waved Hailey's cash away. “My treat, honey. You need some coddling after those rotten things Deanna said to you.” I tucked my card into my Kate Spade bag. “Should we start at Henri Bendel's?”
“They don't sell furniture at Bendel's, do they?”
“No, but I hear M.A.C. is coming out with new shades of lipstick this month, and the sales clerk told me she expected them in today.”
“Ooh! That's right.” She checked the lipstick on her napkin. “I'm feeling a little washed out. Let's stop in the rest room and primp.”
“I was just going to say that!” That's the thing about Hailey and me: if we didn't look so different, I would swear we were twins separated at birth. It's hard to believe two people could love the same things, like Caribbean martinis and Prada gowns, and hate the same things, like sticky cinema floors and men who talk to women's breasts. I swear, we have the same cravings, laugh at the same jokes, even have the same pee schedule. If I have a soul sister in the world, it's Hailey Starrett.
6
Hailey
I
t started at Bendel's, where the spring shades of lipstick weren't in yet, so we ventured upstairs and came upon an unusual set of coasters—white enamel with the tiniest wildflowers along the edges. Each coaster was different, hand-painted. “Like tiny works of art,” Alana said. “I have to get them for the summer house.”
“No, let me.” I snatched them out of her arm and turned toward the sales clerk. “I've been wanting to give your parents a little something for all the times they've hosted me there, and now that I know you like these, they'll make the perfect gift.”
“Well, thank you! That's so sweet.”
I grinned all the way to the counter, wondering if the clerk recognized me from the show or simply liked the way I carried myself. She was so deferential, nearly bowing to me as she rang up the purchase.
It was easy to bestow a smile on her ... until I signed the charge receipt and noticed the price.
Two hundred forty dollars
—six disks that kept the condensation off your table?
Oh, well ... it was a gift, well deserved, and it would be the last time I used my card until that new contract came in. It would have to be the last time, as I recalled that my balance was hovering dangerously near my credit limit.
Maybe they'd raise my salary on the show ... maybe double it? Or triple!
I checked the tag on a summer scarf and pretended not to be shocked at the five-hundred-dollar price. Yes, a raise was due. I would call my agent Cruella in the morning.
 
 
At Saks, Alana and I got lost in a huge circular rack of summer dresses just out from Marc Jacobs. Alana freaked over the abundance of size sixes, and we hustled armloads off to the dressing rooms. Now, there is something about a summer dress that doesn't quite suit Manhattan. Maybe it's that so many people in this city still wear black year round, giving many a function a funereal pall. Or maybe it's just that, in the canyons between the tall buildings in midtown, we don't see a lot of sun. In any case, try wearing a sundress down a busy street in Manhattan and you'll see what I mean; it just feels out of place.
That said, the exception to any rule is Alana, who was modeling the ruby and white tropical print in front of the mirror. “Perfect!” She clicked it onto the “buy” rack and slipped into a crisp white dress straight out of
The Great Gatsby
. “Oh, Mr. Marc Jacobs, I love you!”
I whirled around in a peach gingham print, feeling like a barefoot sprite in a field of wildflowers.
“Don't you dare tell me you're not getting that,” Alana said. “I won't let you put it back.”
Twisting my hair into a knot, I tried to hate the dress. I failed. “Where would I even wear it?”
“Trust me. When it's a gazillion degrees out, you'll be wearing it everywhere.”
I looked at the price. Ouch! Amazing that a cotton blend dress could be $499. I mean, really. It was way too expensive, and there were no Cinco de Mayo discounts here. And my credit card balance was edging into the danger zone.
No. Absolutely not.
“Remember what we said about dressing like a star?” Alana backed toward me so that I could zip up a smart black-and-white-striped dress for her. “You have to invest in yourself, invest in your dream.”
I hung my head down and faced my reflection, a weak smile evident through my silky hair. She was right of course. The dress made me feel special. Pretty.
And every so often a girl needs to feel pretty.
Click! I added my peach gingham to the “buy” rack.
 
 
By the time we reached Bon Nuit, our petite fingers grasped shopping bags of telltale colors and emblems—the handsome brown-and-white stripes of Bendel's, the bold S of Saks, the pale teal of Tiffany's, where Alana had purchased a sterling tie clip for her father and a pair of amber earrings that we both agreed screamed Rose Marshall-Hughs. Alana led the way up to the balcony, where we checked our bags and coats, then we took the elevator up to the furniture department so that Alana could get serious about a summerhouse purchase.
I felt like Goldilocks, flinging myself onto leather couches, striped ottomans, white divans. Too hard, too soft, too ugly for words. We quickly decided that nothing was “just right.”
“I can see I have furniture research in my future,” Alana said, eyeing the love seats as she strolled down the aisle in her smart Dolce & Gabbana heels.
Downstairs we moved through accessories, trying on hats, which always worries me. What if a previous shopper had dandruff or head lice? Wasn't that all highly contagious? It was a gross-out possibility; however, I couldn't resist plunking a few hats on my head.
“I'm not sure how I feel about Burberry plaids,” Alana said as she tried on a sporty plaid hat. “Sometimes I love them, other times I hate them. I'm just so conflicted about Burberry.”
“It's a classic.” I folded my arms, assessing the hat. “Some people love Burberry. The color is good on you, great with your skin tone.”
She frowned in the mirror. “I know, but I'm just so torn.”
“Madonna made plaid cool again.”
“Yes, but Madonna is so Madonna, and I'm so not. Do you know what I mean?”
I did. “I would wait on that purchase. Buy the Burberry when you're in a Burberry mood.”
She dropped the hat back on the rack and wagged a finger at me. “You, Ms. Starrett, have a knack for this!”
 
 
Our energy was winding down as we meandered past the cosmetics counter, disappointed that the new M.A.C. lipstick wasn't out yet. We browsed for a while, then came upon a brand of cosmetics called Trenda.
“Have you tried Trenda? I love it.” I marveled at the glass display case. “Summer makeup kits, massage-therapy beads. Oh, and their lipstick. It's the best!”
“I think I tried Trenda years ago,” she said. “Great blush, flaky eyeshadow, right?”
“I wish I could remember my color.” The cabinet was across the aisle and there wasn't a sales rep in sight. But I could see the boxes. “Pleasantly Plum. Iridescent Moon. Plush Cherry ...” So far nothing rang a bell.
I squinted, peering into the cabinet. “That's it! The last row on the bottom. Carnation Kiss. That's my shade.” I straightened and flicked my hair back over one shoulder. “Oh, this is so great! I haven't been able to find this shade forever.”
The sales clerk slid the little carton out of the cupboard and routed through the other stacks. “That's funny. It's the last Carnation Kiss.”
“Let her try it,” Alana said.
“I can't. It's the last one. If I let her try it, then it becomes a sample. And if it's a sample, I can't sell it to her.”
“Well, that's stupid,” Alana said.
The sales clerk tossed off a careless shrug. “It's the policy. For your protection.”
“Can we just see it?” Alana was getting impatient. “Take it out of the box.”
“I cannot do that.”
Alana's eyes went wide. “You have got to be kidding. . .”
“I want it.” I put my purse on the counter and dug for my card. “Just ring it up, OK?”
The sales clerk stared at the box, her mouth puckering. “I know this shade. I've sold this line for years. This color is not good for you. Carnation Kiss is gonna make you looked jaundiced.” She pronounced it “jyawndist.”
I put my card on the glass counter with a click. “That's OK. I'll take it.”
She shook her head, her red hair bobbing. “I don't think so. I'm trying to do you a favor here and save you from looking like a poky yellow chicken with its lips on fire. Do yourself a favor, honey, and pick out another color.”
Can you believe this woman?
I checked her name tag. “Listen, Marcella, I used to wear Carnation Kiss. I loved it. For years.”
“So for years you were jaundiced.” Another little shrug. “Who knew?”
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Alana extracted a credit card from her Kate Spade bag and slapped it on the counter. “I'll take the lipstick. I want it. Give it to me. Or does it make me look jaundiced, too?”
The redhead assessed her. “Actually, it would be very flattering for your skin tone. But I know what you're up to. So put your charge cards away, ladies.”
“Listen, Marcy ...” Alana growled.
The clerk pointed two fingers an inch from Alana's face. “That's Marcella.”
Alana shrugged. “Who knew? Now sell me the lipstick. Carnation Fucking Kiss.”
Marcella drew a deep breath through her nostrils, as if it was all too tedious to bear.
“Give me the lipstick,” Alana went on, “plus two summer makeup kits. And throw in one of those pedicure pooch pillows. My niece will get a kick out of it.”
I expected another rebuttal from the clerk, but instead she picked up Alana's card and turned to the register. “I am selling you this under a lot of duress,” she said as she scanned the card, then moved the wand over the purchases. “So don't think you can come back here and complain that this lipstick makes you look jaundiced, because I'm warning you.”
Alana rolled her eyes dramatically. “Consider us warned.”
“Ha!” Marcella scanned the card a second time, then pushed a button on the register. “Is this your Bank of Freedom card?” She turned back to us. “Are you Alana Marshall-Hughs? Got some ID?”
“Who wants to know?” Alana demanded.
“The credit card company.” The clerk grinned as she tapped the card on the counter. “Bouncy-bouncy!”
“Oh, that's ridiculous.” Alana cut around the side of the counter and lunged toward the clerk. “Give it to me. Give me my card. I'll ring it up myself.”
“You can't be back here!” The redhead lowered her head bullishly. “That's it!” She gestured to a clerk at a nearby counter. “Courtney! Call security.”
“Yes, call them!” Alana said, closing in on the shorter clerk. “I'll need them here to carry you off after I rip that lipstick out of your hands.”
“I was selling you the damned lipstick! It's not my fault your card is cancelled.”
Paralyzed by a mixture of shock and amazement, I stood at the counter watching the two women. I'd never seen Alana act this way, but then, I'd never seen her credit denied.
“Give me that lipstick,” Alana growled.
“I'll give it to you.” The clerk held it back, back, back. “Just as soon as you pull that stick out of your ass!”
Alana reached over for it, but suddenly Marcella ducked and dove under Alana's arm, lunging forward. I think she was trying to race ahead but she tripped and dove into the floor.
My friend couldn't stop her momentum in time and fell right on top of her. Together they were a squealing pile of designer shoes, fine fabrics, and manicured hands.
“Where is it?” Alana lifted her head enough to grope the floor. “Give it to me!”
“Ladies? What's happening here?” A heavyset guard trotted up, his belt jingling. He paused when he saw the puddle of feline fury. “Someone hurt here?”
Alana sat up. “She won't sell my friend her lipstick!”
The clerk pushed herself up from the floor and smoothed her hair back. “She has no credit,” she said, pointing at Alana. “And she”—Marcella pointed at me—“looks jaundiced!”
Another guard appeared, a female, who seemed equally confused. The heavyset guard shook his head.
“We didn't do anything wrong,” I told them. “It all started over a tube of lipstick.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the female guard said. “Sometimes it happens that way.”
Really? Did they often have altercations over lipstick? Fistfights over exfoliants?
The female guard moved behind the counter. “Nobody hurt, right?”
No answer.
“Marcella?” The guard helped her up. “Back upstairs. They'll be expecting you in Human Resources.”
The other guard motioned to Alana. “And you'll need to come with me, miss.”
“Where are you taking her?” I asked, feeling a little worried. I'd never been involved in a department store infraction before.
“Just escorting her to the door.” The wide man with the rather large walkie-talkie on his belt seemed to have a slight lisp. “This way, ma'am.”
“My coat and packages are in the coat check,” Alana stood her ground. “I'm not leaving without them.”

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