Retail Therapy

by Roz Bailey

  “Hailey?” Alana touched the sleeve of my jacket. “Don’t you remember? I’ve brought you here before.”

  Ah, yes. The members only bar with the dance floor, the pick-up palace that was supposed to be safe since you had to be a millionaire to join. Alana was addicted to this place, though I didn’t understand its allure.

  “You OK, honey?” Alana asked.

  “Perfect!” I straightened and took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  “Watch your step on the stairs,” Alana told me. “And maybe you’d better pull over to the slow lane. Try a few Christian cosmos until the world stops spinning in your head.”

  We descended into the basement club, where the bass beat was thrumming like an approaching subway train. Wait a second, maybe that was an approaching subway train ... Alana led the way, her shoulders back, her chin held high as she passed the crowded tables like a princess reigning over her subjects.

  Not that Alana was a snob, but maybe Xavier was on to something with that princess thing.

  We meandered through rows of tables with leopard-print upholstered chairs whose dots danced before my eyes. Alana cut toward the back of the club, and there, lighting up a large table at a tiger-print banquette was Rory. My Rory! Fresh and crisp as if he’d just hopped out of the shower—and maybe he had. It was known that he often napped through the evening and started his partying late at night.

  I tripped on the step leading up to his table and nearly fell into his arms, interrupting his conversation with some generic-looking man—probably a fan.

  “Hailey!” He saved my dignity and gave me a big hug before tipping me back onto my feet. “Glad you could drop by!”

  “Rory, what are you doing out on a school night?” Alana asked.

  He bowed and kissed her hand. “Lovely ring. A Gerrard, I see. And who’s this vision of cosmopolitan chic?”

  While Alana introduced Marcella, and the Rory wannabe disappeared, I slid into the booth and took a steadying breath. “Great table.”

  From here you could see most of the club and the dance floor, and the soft lighting in this area eased my queasiness.

  “Can I get personal with you?” Marcella asked Rory.

  His eyebrows shot up, but there was no stopping her.

  “’Cause I just gotta tell you, that is a kick-ass suit you’re wearing. I saw it in the Brooks Brothers catalog, and I know it cost a fortune, but seeing it on you, it’s probably worth it. It’s a really classy suit.”

  “And you have a classy name ... Marchhhellla,” he said with relish. “Are you Italian?”

  She waved him off. “Puerto Rican.”

  He said something in Spanish that I didn’t catch—not that I’d understand it, anyway—and she nearly melted at his feet.

  I leaned back against the tiger-print cushion and sighed. “This is much better.”

  “Don’t be shy,” Rory told me as I pushed the flower vase aside for a better view. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t work on me,” I said, motioning for everyone to sit. “Besides, we know you’ve been pining away here, all alone.”

  “Were you expecting friends?” Alana asked.

  “If he was, his plans have changed,” I said, feeling a bit more steady. “Rory, you have to help us. We’re trying to spend Alana’s inheritance in one night, and the stores have all closed. Marcella here helped us out at Bon Nuit, but now we’re running out of steam.”

  “What a pity you can’t buy a penthouse in Trump Tower at this hour,” he said. “Though we can order a pricey bottle of Dom Perignon. Any takers?”

  Marcella raised her hand eagerly, and Rory called the waiter over to order some ridiculously expensive drinks. I ordered a ginger ale so I could pretend to be imbibing, and the talk turned, as usual with Rory, to All Our Tomorrows. First, Marcella gushed about how she wanted to start watching the show now that she’d met Rory (note that she did not mention me, not that I took offense). Then Rory launched into complaints about the ineptitude of the writers who kept tossing him lackluster story lines.

  “I just got my sides for the next week of taping,” he said, folding his arms defensively, “and the minute I saw the first line, I smelled a rat. I could see exactly where they were going with Stone’s story line.” He reached across the table and squeezed my wrist. “Want to take a guess? It’s to be the new disease of the year; they want Stone to test HIV positive.”

  “No!” I gasped. “But Stone isn’t gay.”

  He nodded, his blue eyes glistening with anger. “And he’s not an IV drug user, and he didn’t have surgery in the years before they began testing the blood supply. So I ask you, how was Stone exposed to HIV? Through the mints at a diner? On a toilet seat? Through the mail? I am livid at the irresponsible behavior of these writers. If they want a character who is HIV positive, the least they can do is portray an accurate depiction of the disease in the story line. These writers! Why don’t they do their jobs?”

  “It’s a problem everywhere.” Alana lifted her champagne glass, her slender fingers delicately gripping the narrow flute. “People just don’t do their jobs, and when they do, there seems to be a real lack of follow-through and commitment. I see it all around me—incompetence. It’s sad.”

  “Not everyone is a loser,” Marcella objected. “But in this case, I agree that the writers are wrong. Especially with you and your character. I mean, what are they doing? Are they trying to kill you?”

  Rory shot me a look of panic. “I think my head is going to explode!”

  “They can’t be planning to kill you off,” I said, though I had been thinking the same thing. It’s so frustrating to be on the receiving end of the writers’ whims, not knowing what tragic twists of fate were in store for your character from one week to the next, but it was a hazard of acting in daytime television. “Hey, maybe they’re planning to fake your death! Those are great stories!”

  “The empty coffin trick.” Alana wagged a finger at him. “I love that, when the coffin is empty. Or the body disappears and then comes stomping into the room, scaring the bejesus out of everyone.”

  “Or the coma device!” I piped in, on a roll. “You get to play sick in a hospital bed while the cast members cry over you, confess their evil deeds, vow revenge ... You have to admit, that is one great story line.”

  Rory cocked one eyebrow. “I would like that. Maybe I’ll mention it to the writers. God knows, they’ve stolen worse plots.”

  I bit my lower lip, worried about the long-term prospect of losing Rory from the show. “So what are you going to do? Have you called your agent?”

  “Immediately! She was trapped in a deadlock negotiation and couldn’t take my call. Such timing! I decided to take the bull by the horns; I rushed right down to the production office and demanded a meeting.”

  “You did?” I admired his gumption. Not everyone could barge in on the producers and live to tell the tale, but Rory was fairly well-liked on the show.

  “When Janet the receptionist told me the producers weren’t available, I threw myself across the door, barring their exit.” He flung his arms out dramatically, clearing the top of the champagne bottle, much to my relief.

  “You did?” Even Marcella was impressed.

  “Why, they interrupted their closed-door session and finally gave me a moment. They listened, heard me out. Gabrielle suggested that perhaps this is just an HIV scare—faulty testing, or else some evil vixen has switched the test results.”

  “The big switch! Yes, yes, people love that,” I agreed, feeling my perky self returning.

  “Of course, she and Dirk made no promises.”

  “Well, you can’t expect much out of Dirk,” I said. Known as Dirk the Jerk, Dirk the Dick, and Dirk the Money-Grubbing Suck-Up, he was the money man on the show.

  “Dirk is a waste of time, but Gabrielle is usually true to her word, and we all parted as the best of friends.” Rory sighed. “They’re going to talk to the writers on my behalf, and I’m going to send
them all Cartier cuff-links.”

  “Oh, no, get them from Tiffany’s,” Alana cut in, touching Rory’s sleeve. “I know just the ones! With black jet and mother of pearl.”

  “Sweet mother of pearl!” Rory rolled his beautiful eyes. “Sounds just like SpongeBob!” Rory did the voice-over for a character who appeared on that cartoon occasionally, and he never let anyone forget it.

  “Call me tomorrow and I’ll set it up for you with my sales associate there,” Alana said. “They’re so lovely, you’ll want a set for yourself.”

  “Not that I have any shirts with French cuffs,” Rory said.

  “Oh, please!” Alana shook her head. “Like that matters!”

  16

  Alana

  “Alana! How are you?” asked Zackary Nieder-man, an old friend from high school. He leaned over our table to kiss each of my cheeks, and I did the introductions. Zack was followed by a string of men, young and old, who were old friends, family acquaintances, and Le Bar regulars. A few asked Hailey and Rory for their autographs, but mostly they wanted to dance with me.

  Of course.

  I don’t know what it is, but once inside Le Bar, men are quite susceptible to my charms.

  Within minutes, I was on the dance floor, doing the moves in a circle with Rory, Marcella, and Hailey. Men kept dancing up to us, trying to push in, but once they got near me I just turned and butt-bumped them away.

  That cracked Marcella up. “You’re a pisser! How do you stand it?”

  “You get used to it,” I said, shimmying in the shoulders.

  “No, really!” Marcella shouted over the music. “How do you fend off these leeches? It’s like they want to do you right here on the dance floor.”

  “When they’re really persistent?” I smiled. “I just tell them I’m a lesbian. Works like a charm.”

  Back at the table, Marcella expressed her amazement at my guy-magnet ability. “You are like chum in a shark tank, honey! They gather around you for the feeding frenzy.”

  And why did that surprise her? This was my territory, my place. At Le Bar, I rocked.

  “Our Alana is a true princess,” Rory said, “our very own African-American princess.”

  I felt myself tense at the comment, but Hailey took care of things, nudging Rory with her elbow. “Don’t ever say that again.”

  “What? What did I say? Alana rules! Every straight man wants to hook up with her. Some gay men, too,” he said, blowing a kiss across the table.

  “That’s better.” I wasn’t usually so caught up in what people thought of me; Xavier had shot a few holes in my ego, and it took time to repair that sort of damage. Time, champagne, and a few strolls through the tables full of socialites at Le Bar.

  “You know,” Marcella began, “I have always been dying to get in here, but now that my curiosity is resolved, I must admit I don’t see the allure. I mean, these people are so fake, and these men are so obvious. What’s the satisfaction in strutting for a pack of leering old men?”

  I felt my jaw drop. “They’re all prospects, you know. No one can join here unless they’re financially qualified.”

  “They’re not prospects,” Marcella scoffed. “Honey, for all your passion about the dating scene, you don’t have a clue how to really do it.”

  Rory’s mouth formed a round O.

  “And I’m not talking about sex,” Marcella snapped. “Any baboon can manage that function. I’m talking about meeting a partner, finding a mate. Don’t you girls know you’re not going to find him in a bar?”

  “That’s news to me,” Rory said.

  I agreed, but I didn’t want to admit that there might be a guide to dating that I’d missed in girl training.

  Hailey scratched her head. “OK, then, where do we find Mr. Right?”

  “If you’re looking for a partying boozehound, this would be the place,” Marcella said.

  Rory winced. “Ouch.”

  “Otherwise, get yourself in the environment of Mr. Right. If you want someone in big business, go to a really nice office building and ride the elevator up and down. You’d be surprised who’ll talk with you on an elevator. If you want a doctor, volunteer at a hospital. Want someone who does investments? Get your butt down to Wall Street for lunch. I’m telling you, the men you want don’t have time to go out and wiggle their fannies on dance floors at three A.M. They’re working hard, living their lives, and you have to find a way to put yourself in their faces, insert yourself in their lives. You step into his path.” She folded her arms. “That’s how you do it.”

  “Marcella has spoken,” Rory said, holding his hands out. “And it was good. So, when do we start riding elevators?”

  “When it’s right,” I said. “I like the way you think, girl.”

  “No big deal,” Marcella said. “It’s just common sense.”

  “Do ya think?” Hailey asked. “It’s a very direct approach. So obvious and yet, elusive.”

  The only part I didn’t like about it was the way it discounted all the men here at Le Bar. Not that I was interested in any of them, but it undercut all the networking I’d done in the past three years, all the late nights I’d remained at the bar, hoping someone new and interesting would appear. Was it possible that my work had been in vain?

  Only one way to find out.

  I lifted my champagne glass and took a sip. “Who wants to have lunch on Wall Street tomorrow?”

  17

  Hailey

  “Love your shoes, darling,” Rory told Marcella as she returned from another spin on the dance floor.

  Marcella kicked up one heel behind her in a sassy pose. “Thanks, sweetie. They’re Liz Claiborne. I got them at an outlet in Jersey for a fraction of retail price.”

  “Really?” Rory gushed. “They make you look like you’re dancing on a cloud.”

  The lovefest between Rory and Marcella tickled me.

  “You do the outlets?” Alana grabbed Marcella’s arm. “You have to come with me to do the Hamptons outlets. I drive by them all the time, but they’re so lacking in charm, I just can’t muster the enthusiasm.”

  “Not even for a bargain?” Marcella seemed appalled. “Fifty percent off retail. Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “I love a sale!” Alana said. “Oh, don’t tell me I’ve been missing out all this time. We have to do this together. Why don’t you all come out with me? We’ll go during the week when the traffic is light and do the outlet thing. The weather has warmed up, and there’s plenty of room at my parents’ summerhouse. Though it’s in the throes of redecoration.”

  “I would love to do the Hamptons,” I said, “but with my schedule on the show, it’s so hard to get away.”

  “In that case, there’s definitely a shopping trip in your future. I’ve gone through the thumbnail story lines for the next two weeks and none of them mention Ariel. Looks like you’re going to have some time off,” Rory told me.

  “Oh, then I can go,” I said lightly as a wicked, sick feeling began to seep in. “Wait a sec, is Ariel even mentioned? Two weeks of shooting and I don’t appear in any of the scenes? Not even one day?”

  Rory pressed a finger to his chin. “No, I definitely didn’t see your character mentioned. It’s like ...” His eyes flickered with realization of the grim reality. “You’ve disappeared without a trace.”

  “No wonder I haven’t heard about a new contract!” My queasiness turned to a full-burning panic. “And they promised me more appearances. Gabrielle said so. Or at least that’s what my agent said.” No wonder Cruella hadn’t called; probably too busy chasing puppies on her broomstick.

  “Now, don’t have a freak-out,” Alana said, pinning me with her dark stare. “Look at the facts, honey. Ariel is too popular to be cut from the show.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I lamented. “Maybe they’re going to recast my part, give it to someone else. Oh, this feels very bad to me.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions, Hailey,” Rory said reassuringly. “Yo
u know the ever-changing world of daytime! As soon as you get used to having things one way, they go and change things on you!”

  “Yeah, like axing your character,” I said sadly. “Excuse me, but I’m going to go leave a message for my agent.” I tucked my bag under my arm and headed off to the ladies’ room, where I left a call-me-or-you’re-fired message on Cruella’s voice mail.

  Afterward, I flipped my phone shut, feeling a pang of remorse.

  Was I overreacting?

  Having an artistic tantrum?

  Somehow it didn’t feel very creative, and if my agent couldn’t return my call after a week of pleading, well, maybe it was time to move on.

  On my way back to the table, someone called my name. I turned to find a familiar face—a middle-aged, bald man, grayish and pinched around the eyes, but familiar.

  “Daryl,” he offered his name. “Malkowitz and Malkowitz Theatricals. Remember? We met at the Emmy celebration.”

  “Oh, right!” An agent. Well, maybe that was good timing. Fire an agent, hire an agent.

  He was sharing a booth with two Middle Eastern men, who smiled. “Come, sit. I want you to meet my friends.”

  Daryl introduced the men, men with heavy accents who shook my hand, never taking their eyes off me. Since the others didn’t seem too quick with English, Daryl bulldozed through the conversation, telling me about the people he had once represented.

  “Halle Berry, before she got her big break. Vic Taylor, country and western singer ...” As he spoke, his hand went to the nape of my neck, stroking gently. I thought about what Marcella had said about worthwhile men not partying all night. Did that make Daryl worthless? I tried to be objective, but the neck massage was nice. Ordinarily, I would have flicked him away, but I was feeling low, my defenses down, and when he turned to me and leaned in for a kiss, I just let him.

  His breath was minty—apparently he’d popped a few in preparation—and his tongue wasn’t as goopy as you’d expect. Mostly, he molded my lips with his and rubbed my back, which did feel comforting.