by Roz Bailey
Across the table, my father snatched off his reading glasses to stare at me. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re pulling my leg.”
“Daddy ... it’s what I do.”
“Shopping!” he said explosively. “Good God, Alana! You’ve got to get your life under control!”
“Ernest ...” Mama shot a nervous glance over her shoulder at the Schnabels’ table. “No need to raise your voice.”
“Really,” I muttered. “And you don’t need to have conniptions. Shopping isn’t a crime, Daddy.”
“When will you take responsibility for your life?” he demanded.
“You want to talk about responsibility?” I felt the thread of anger unraveling, and I couldn’t stop it. “How about the person responsible for paying the Bank of Freedom bill? Were you aware that you’re behind on the credit-card payment?” Try that on for size, Daddy dear.
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “The account is up-to-date. I simply cancelled your card when the accountant informed me that you had charged more than ten thousand dollars on that card alone in a single month. Ten thousand dollars. Do you realize that is more than three times your budget?”
“I can do the math,” I said, though multiplication facts had always bored me. “What you don’t realize is that many of those expenses were for the Hampton house. I bought two brand-new bedroom sets that will be delivered next month. Some fabulous Tiffany-shade lamps. Bed linens, quilts with matching wallpaper, statuary, and the most elegant antique secretary.”
“Sounds lovely,” Mama said.
I told her, “I’m working on furniture for the sitting rooms, but you may want to give me some input on what you’d like to see in the master bedroom.”
“Don’t encourage her, Rose,” my father snapped. “We are going to put an end to this spending madness.” His last words sent saliva spraying onto the table.
I pushed my plate away and folded my hands. “Daddy, when you calm down, I think you’ll realize that it costs money to redesign a summerhouse. It may seem expensive, but I promise you’ll be delighted with the end results.”
“No, I won’t. I want it stopped—the orders cancelled, the sheets and statues and lamps returned. I like the old lamps. I can sleep on the old sheets another season or two. In fact, I don’t care if they carry me out on those old sheets. I want it stopped!”
His voice carried well. At the table beside us, the conversation stopped while faces turned our way. My father was making a scene—my father the conservative, low-profile judge. This moment was history.
The waiter stepped up to our table tentatively. “Everyone OK here, ladies? Judge Marshall-Hughs?”
The silence burned my ears; my father didn’t even answer but slapped his hands to his face.
“We’re fine, thanks,” Mama told the waiter.
But I knew it was a big lie. We were not fine. My father and I were on the verge of declaring war.
“I want it to stop,” Daddy said from behind his hands. He rubbed his eyes, then dropped his hands to the table, the strain evident on his face. “I’ll cancel the rest of your credit cards tomorrow. Your monthly allowance will end as of now. I will pay off your previous debts, and I’ll continue to pay the fees on your co-op, so you’ll at least have a roof over your head.”
Panic rose in my chest, booming there like an oversize heart. He wasn’t bluffing. This was for real. The man was trying to kill me.
I turned to Mama, who merely shrugged, her eyes rueful. “He does have a point, Lanny.”
His point eluded me, but I wasn’t going to stick around and ask for clarification. I picked up my Gucci bag and, head held high, I marched from the table.
In the coat-check room I spied the two tiny shopping bags containing my parents’ gifties and felt a wave of sickness. I hadn’t had a chance to give them the things I had brought for them, the items I had chosen so lovingly.
After I tipped the coat-check person, I thought of taking the gifts inside, chasing the bad feelings away and putting an end to my father’s brutal edict.
I turned toward the dining room, then paused.
This was not a breach that would be healed by a few small gifts.
I slipped into my cashmere coat and headed toward the door, calculating the cash refund from my Tiffany purchases.
Many unhappy returns.
9
Hailey
Maybe 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 parents—probably 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 house—Dad had gone there determined to escape the invasive pressures of society, of which telephones topped the list—and 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 post–Wall 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.
“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.
“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-by
e, 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
What’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 Lauren—and 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, ‘That 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,” Marcella—I finally remembered her name—went 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
“So 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 ri
ght 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.
“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.
