Retail Therapy

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Retail Therapy Page 3

by Roz Bailey


  “Thanks for that,” I said. With the new panic beating inside my chest, I felt totally unprepared to do the show today, a little skittish about facing Deanna, but there was no way out of it. Sucking in a breath, I tried an old yoga trick I’d learned—energy in, tension out.

  Energy in, tension out ...

  The breathing exercise helped, as did the mental exercise of focusing on pleasant thoughts: the fragrant cosmetics counter at Bloomie’s, the splendid museum-lit jewelry cases at Tiffany’s, the racks of gourmet gadgets in Macy’s Cellar, the plush, brown-and-white-striped bathrooms at Henri Bendel’s with stalls bigger than most Upper West Side studios ...

  “People, I need you to focus here,” the director called, holding up her hands like a flight attendant flagging in a jumbo jet. “We’re going to rehearse before we send the cast off to makeup and wardrobe.”

  Oh, but I didn’t want to focus on the awful scene that might spell the death of my soap-opera career! I wanted to think of the retail territory Alana and I would conquer when she returned from Europe. My mind floated off to the fountain in the Trump Tower, its water flowing steadily like a zen poem ...

  “Oh, goody,” Ian Horwitz said in his crisp British accent. A handsome, white-haired chain-smoker, Ian plays a doctor who mistakenly killed his evil twin last season. He put an unlit cigarette into his mouth and opened his script. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Reluctantly, I released my euphoric department store reveries and tried to memorize my new lines as Deanna and her entourage appeared on the set. This time she had brought her dog, a loud little Yorkie with thin gray fur and a pinched face that reminded me of a bat’s. The dog was always a show in itself, as everyone was obliged to fuss over it, and someone had to be there to hold and entertain the beast while Deanna ran lines.

  “And how is Muffin doing today?” Stella said, nuzzling the pooch adoringly.

  “Not too well, poor pookie.” Deanna handed him off to Sean. “I’m afraid it’s ...” she lowered her voice to whisper, “diarrhea.”

  I could see Sean wincing behind Deanna, nearly dropping the Yorkie, and it took all my acting ability to keep a straight face as Deanna turned to me. “Hey, you!” she smiled, showering me with fake affection. “Something is different about you today. A new hair color?”

  I didn’t tell her that the golden blond hue of my hair belonged to me; news like that might make a person like Deanna shrivel up and croak like the wicked witch in a downpour. I blinked shyly. “No, same hair.”

  She tapped her chin, looking me over from head to toe. “That’s it! The shoes.”

  I modeled my Nine West polka dots demurely, trying not to show off. “You’re right. They are new.”

  “Hmm. Very nice shoes, but really ...”

  “Really, what?”

  “Oh, just the combination.”

  I glanced down my body. “This shirt came with the shoes.”

  “Yes, of course, dear. But the shoes and the jeans?”

  An uncomfortable quiet wrapped around us as people shuffled and pretended to consult their scripts.

  “It might sound silly to you, but jeans are sort of my trademark. You know, that I mix and match jeans with formal tops and casual Ts?”

  Deanna gave a little laugh. “You and a few thousand other aspiring actresses.”

  I wanted to wipe the smirk from her Botoxed lips, but I forced myself to veer away from career suicide. “Anyway.” I bent back one corner of my script. “The shoes are new. Nine West.”

  “And they’re lovely,” she said effusively, “though the combination is a bit gauche. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to wear ankle-strap shoes with pants?” She pronounced it as “paahnts,” so haughtily you’d think she was starring in a British comedy.

  “But the jeans are my trademark,” I said, feeling mousy.

  She sighed. “Of course they are, but not with shoes like that, dear.”

  I lifted the fabric of my pants and glanced down at my beloved shoes. Was she right? Could it be that both Alana and I had missed a fashion mistake that would put me in the x-files of Glamour or Cosmo?

  “All right, then,” Deanna said, taking charge. “Shall we rehearse our new scene?”

  The crew came alive, hopping into place as Stella looked up over her reading glasses. “Yes, of course. This one takes place in the parlor of the Childs mansion. Let’s do a run-through, without the slap, of course.”

  “Of course!” Deanna chimed in, reaching over to touch my cheek with cold affection.

  I tried to smile, but it was hard to get past the wounded feeling inside.

  I was wearing ankle-strap shoes with pants.

  I had committed a fashion faux pas.

  My life was over.

  Part Two

  ARRIBA! IT’S CINCO DE MAYO

  SALE DAY!

  3

  Alana

  Damned cathedrals! Why couldn’t they keep their chimes to themselves?

  I was climbing the tedious stone stairs of the bell tower, trying to get to the top to put a sock on the clapper, but the higher I rose, the darker the stairwell became.

  “Who’s doing that?” I called. “Stop!”

  I flailed in the darkness, then realized I was writhing in my own bed.

  I tore off the mask and looked at my digital clock. Twelve noon. Ugh.

  With a tap of my fingertips, I hit the snooze button to cut off the cathedral chime alarm and fell back against the pillows. Sleeping till noon and still exhausted. . . I was in very bad shape. Jet lag was one thing, but this was a weariness more pervasive than a small time difference.

  Spring ennui.

  Yawning, I sat up in bed and reached for my peignoir, the lacy pink one that was an accessory to this pink negligee. What a find! The fabric was amazing, and it draped so gracefully, I felt like one of those heavenly bodies Reverend Tyson preaches about at Aunt Nessie’s church. The only snag with the gown was the pink color, a poor match for my smooth mocha skin. Hmm. That’s a problem with many designers’ attire. Some of those creative geniuses just don’t choose colors that go well with African-American skin tones. I swished the gown around my legs, letting the skirt fall open on the air. Pink didn’t work for me. I would have to find one in a better color.

  But that was a chore for later. At the moment, I had to get moving if I was ever going to make my one-thirty facial at Armage, followed by a much-needed mani-pedi. If I had time, I would squeeze in a hot-stone massage with Chantelle, but it was going to be tight if I was going to make my date with Hailey. We were on for high tea at the Plaza—a much needed pick-me-up for Hailey, who was suffering some sort of career crisis. I don’t know ... something about ankle-strap shoes? I was going to treat her to tea, then lure her off for some retail therapy. Both of us were in need of some serious shopping to cure the ills in our lives.

  Myself? I was simmering mad at Daddy. During the flight back from London the night before, I’d had time to ponder the lunacy, the sheer ludicrousness of his cross-Atlantic summons. Really! I had ventured to Europe for a very worthy cause—the support of my good friend Petey—and to be scolded and ordered home like an errant puppy! The indignity of it all had my blood boiling, and it didn’t help that the air was humid and hot when I stepped out of the Manchester lobby.

  “Good Lord, is it summer already?” I shielded my eyes from the sun and smiled at the doorman, Mr. Barnes.

  “It’s still May, but we have summer weather.” Mr. Barnes squinted at me, the laugh lines deep around his eyes. He was one of the few African-Americans on staff at the Manchester Apartments, and his presence made my father uncomfortable. Daddy always frowned and fumbled for some dollar bills and felt incredibly guilty that a brother was opening the door for him when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. I guess that’s one of those notions you’re stuck with when you start out in the middle class—wanting to do things for yourself, feeling guilty when other people provide services for you. As one of five children growing up in
Great Neck, New York, my father was forced to learn so many tedious tasks. Cooking, washing, sewing, vacuuming, dishwashing. How many times had I heard of the Sunday dinners after which he and his sisters spent three solid hours scrubbing pots and pans and buffing the kitchen till it shone? Please. If the Lord had meant us to spend our lives scrubbing, He would have given us scouring pads on our fingertips instead of nails. And that is enough about that.

  Still, it’s a shame that my father will probably never be able to shed his guilt. Here he is, a successful federal judge, and he can’t take a vacation in the Caribbean or hire a limo or live in a doorman building without having his guilt button pushed. Poor Daddy; poor Mama. She has no qualms about being pampered, but she’s stuck with the Mother Teresa of the service industry.

  Me? I think it’s great to see a black man in a well-paying job that suits him, and since Mr. Barnes is a fine conversationalist and a bit of a flirt, I’m happy to let him open my door any day.

  “Do you need a cab today, Ms. Marshall-Hughs?”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that, Mr. Barnes. And let’s pray you can find one with air conditioning.”

  As he leaned toward the curb and whistled for a cab, I felt a familiar tug of longing for this city I loved.

  Could I manage a stop at Fifth Avenue and see if the summer handbags had arrived at Bergdorf’s, where I had an Alessandro Dell’ Acqua embroidered clutch on order? I checked my slim diamond Rolex. No, no time. When would I fit Bergdorf’s into my schedule?

  Facial.

  Manicure/pedicure.

  High tea.

  Ah ... afternoon shopping! There would be time before the obligatory dinner with the ’rents. And to think I wanted a man in my life! It would be nice to have someone special for evening occasions, but honestly, there wasn’t a minute of free time in my schedule.

  Really. For a girl in her twenties, I was way overbooked.

  Someone hand me a cappuccino, please. The ennui is killing me.

  4

  Hailey

  I need more work. Why aren’t they signing me on for another thirteen weeks?

  Why hasn’t anyone mentioned a new contract?

  Why hasn’t my agent called?

  Do I have coffee breath?

  Insecurities shuddered through me as I held my mark on the set of All Our Tomorrows, waiting to finish up for the day. I would be finished by one o’clock—a sad summary of my life.

  Finished.

  We had already taped the two scenes that were Dullsville for my character. In today’s episode, Ariel was hanging out in the restaurant of the Indigo Hills Inn, sipping a Cherry Coke and listening attentively while other characters unloaded their problems. I had to nod and ooze sympathy while Bella worried that her parents would notice she’d been skipping school all semester to noodle with her boyfriend. Then there was old man Gellers, lamenting how much he missed his wife, Trixie, who had passed away last year. It was the one-year anniversary of Trixie’s death—the actress having gone on to play a grandmother in a sitcom—and in today’s episode the writers were flashing back to scenes of Trixie’s life, mostly to capitalize on the actress’s newfound popularity.

  Across the set, my friend Rory banged out a rendition of “Surrey With the Fringe on Top” on the piano. Today Rory/Stone was performing at the Indigo Inn, tickling the ivories in the background while the characters lamented their problems.

  I leaned on the simulated oak bar of the restaurant and yawned. We were between takes, and today’s director, Percy Blake, didn’t want any of us to leave our positions. Group scenes are tricky to tape, orchestrating the moves of a dozen or so players; if the actors are allowed to leave the set, chances are someone will return with an altered hairstyle, a new shade of lipstick, a donut crumb on their collar—some telltale change that will stick out when the editors try to cut the scenes together.

  “Ok, then, ladies and gentlemen.” Percy paused, pressing his fingertips against his lips. He’s one of those gorgeous black men who exude charm and creativity, always a pleasure to work with. When it comes to containing Deanna, Percy is a pro. Fortunately, she wasn’t in any of my scenes today, so I didn’t have to face her and follow up on the nasty shoe comment. Percy came out of his trance. “I think we’re ready to move on to our Act Six scenes.”

  “Act Six, Scene Two!” Sean announced. “We have Bella approach the piano and confide in Stone. Lizzie Slate meeting Doc Willoughby at the door.”

  “Ah, yes!” Ian Horwitz waggled his eyebrows at Susan Lazlo, who plays Lizzie. “I believe this is the scene in which I diagnose you with a debilitating disease based on the dry condition of your cuticles.”

  Susan folded her hands and took her place without comment. She’s a short-term contract player, like me, and you never hear her complain (though I can imagine what she’s thinking!).

  “And ...” Sean continued, “we have Ariel crossing to Kostas in the corner booth.”

  At last! The scene I’d been waiting for: my first significant exchange with the lean, dark, mysterious Kostas, played by daytime heartthrob Antonio Lopez. His beautiful face lit up the covers of the soap opera weeklies, his wide, white smile and smokey eyes tucking into your soul and giving a joyous little squeeze. I had to agree with the viewers—Antonio was magnifico, despite the fact that he had never paid much attention to me, perhaps due to the fact that he had spent most of the last year sucking up to Deanna. Smart man. From his first day on the set, he buttered her up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and she lapped up the attention. Gobble, gobble.

  And I must begrudgingly admit, the heat was rising from their scenes together. Although Deanna is probably a good ten years older than Antonio, they were a hot soap opera couple until her character learned that he had once killed a man in a Salvadoran prison ... and that man just happened to be her brother. Or maybe it was her father? I wasn’t paying close attention. Who could focus when Antonio’s tan, rippled muscles were flexing against the satin bedsheets?

  “Excuse me, Percy?” Rory called to the director, stretching his hands over the keyboard. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I take five? I need to”—he lowered his voice to a stage whisper—“use the facilities.”

  “Good God, man! You took the words from my mouth!” Horwitz exclaimed, shoving a cigarette into his mouth and striding toward the door. “I shall return!”

  “Don’t go far!” Percy called, pressing his hands to his jowls. He took the clipboard from Sean’s hands and checked the schedule. “Next time I agree to tape an episode with a group scene, please, just shoot me.”

  Amused, Sean scratched the soul patch on his chin. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  I stood up and began to stretch and do some yoga twists. I was sucking in energy air when someone jabbed me in the ribs.

  Rory flashed me a sneaky grin and chanted, “Nanny, nanny, foo-foo, you get to kiss Antoonioo.”

  I grabbed his shoulders. “Would you put a cork in it?” Fortunately, Antonio had left the set for the moment. “Lucky he’s gone, or I’d have to kill you on the spot.”

  “I think he likes you,” Rory teased, his blue eyes flashing.

  “Don’t be silly. He’s more your type.”

  “No, no, no! I have it from a reliable source that Mr. Lopez is quite hetero. Score one for your team.” Rory is sort of a daytime TV pioneer, having revealed his sexual orientation eight years ago at a time when it could have cost him future roles, but fortunately, viewers responded with approval. Since then, he’s become a fixture on the show.

  “You are such a troublemaker,” I told him.

  “I’m not kidding, Hailey. Antonio is hot for you. I hear he’s got a poster of you taped up in his dressing room.”

  “Would you stop it now?” I smoothed down the ugly ruffled teal shirt of my costume and dabbed at my forehead with the back of my hand. “How do I look? Got any Altoids?”

  He reached behind the bar and produced a tin of cinnamon-flavored, my favorite.

  “Why, thank you!”
/>   “Shh! I stole them from props. And you look glam, despite the unfortunate costume choice. When is Jodi going to stop dressing you like a moray eel?”

  “As soon as the diva realizes I’m not a threat.” I popped a breath mint and smiled. “Curiously strong.”

  “Are you nervous?” he prodded, leaning across the bar. “I think he likes you.”

  “Get out!”

  “I’m serious.” He cocked an eyebrow. “For once in my life.”

  “Really?” I stole a glance back at the booth where Antonio had been sitting. Still empty. “Do you mean ‘like’? Or ‘like-like’?”

  “Honey, I’m talking throw you down and—”

  “OK, OK, you don’t have to draw a diagram.” I could feel my face heating up, and it ticked me off that Rory was so good at embarrassing me.

  Rory folded his arms, clearly on a roll. “So on a scale of one to ten, one being you’d let him peek at your panties and ten being you’d swing naked on his chandelier, what would you say—”

  “OK, people, we’re ready to continue!” Sean shouted. “Places everyone.”

  There was a flurry of movement as the actors and crew returned to work.

  Rory winked. “Good luck, doll.”

  I scowled at him, but he ignored me. He sauntered back to the piano and started playing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?”

  Taking my place at the bar, I tried to suppress the flurry of nerves Rory had elicited.

  This isn’t your first stage kiss. It’s acting. It means nothing, said the professional actress.

  But you get to kiss Antonio Lopez! squealed the yearning girl.

  As the hairstylist fluffed up my hair, I let the yearning girl win me over. A little excitement wasn’t going to hurt my performance, and since the kiss was in the script, what was the harm in enjoying it?

  Sean called for everyone to settle down, and Joanne counted off to begin the scene. I started my cross to Antonio, pretending not to notice him at first, then agreeing to join him for a second as he—I mean, as Kostas—spilled his troubles to Ariel.

 

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