by Roz Bailey
I knew she was probably putting it all together by the time I flew out of the closet, but I just couldn’t stop. Adrenaline was pumping madly through my body, pushing me on. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my heart thudded a message that I couldn’t stand to hear: Deanna’s got you now.
You crossed her line.
She’ll screw you over.
By the time I reached my dressing room, I was gasping for breath, not so much winded, but feeling frantic. What had I done? Was I that stupid?
“Hilly?” Antonio popped out of his dressing room, his dark brows drawn up in confusion. “What is the matter? I just heard Jodi paging security to the wardrobe closet. Are you all right?”
“I’m scared,” I admitted, swiping a hand over my sweaty forehead. “Deanna’s after me. She’s mad. She caught me wearing her wardrobe.”
“What?” His gorgeous eyes went wide in horror. “How did that happen?”
“It’s a long story.” And I had a feeling it was getting more and more twisted by the minute. I opened the door to my dressing room. “Look, can you cover for me while I change?”
“I ...”
Obviously, I’d asked too much. As he floundered for words I wondered at the level of his acting ability; was it so difficult to drum up a little improv in a pinch?
“I can’t. I must go. Didn’t I tell you? There’s somewhere I have to be.”
“Right,” I said, hurt that he wouldn’t defend me. “You go. Take care of your business. Don’t worry about me.”
He turned away without a kiss, without a good-bye. A total stranger.
Un-fucking-believable.
At least I had the bittersweet pleasure of slamming the door behind him.
That afternoon the streets of Manhattan roiled with rank humidity, the sticky, cloying air that tears at your skin and pinches your sinuses. As Alana and I walked out of the studio, it overwhelmed me. “Hell. It’s the new theme of my life. I’m over my spending limit. Out of a job. Probably out of love. And now I’m wading through an urban swamp of sweat.”
“Oh, honey, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” I said. “At least I had a life, for, like, ten minutes. It’ll be something to talk about over sewing circles back in Wisconsin.”
“You’re suffering from sunstroke. Come on. We need an oasis in the desert.”
She led me to Henri Bendel’s. The door whispered open with a puff of dry, cool air. I stepped inside the rarified retail atmosphere and felt a glimmer of hope refracting through the large gold bottle of perfume. Maybe my life wasn’t over. I had an agent, right? So far, Cruella hadn’t done much beyond carving off her twenty percent, but why couldn’t that change? Today might be the day that she earned her salary. I was worth fighting for, wasn’t I?
Without a word, Alana and I descended the stairs to the brown-and-white-striped ladies’ lounge, a feminine refuge in a decidedly male metropolitan city. First I washed my hands and toweled my face with a cool cloth. Then, I chose a comfy chair and called Cruella.
“I don’t care about Deanna Childs,” Cruella said. “The last I heard, this new network guy wanted to see more of you in the shows. The youth thing. That does not include Deanna.”
“But apparently she’s got some weird clauses in her contract,” I said. “At least, that’s what Gabrielle told me.”
“Gabrielle Kazanjian? You met with the executive producer?”
“Twice today. The last time, she told me I should just leave the studio before Deanna had a major hissy fit. Gabrielle was going to work on damage control, but she couldn’t guarantee anything. She kept implying that Deanna could fire people. Is that true?”
“Unlikely but possible. Let me make some calls. I’ll get back to you.”
“At least she didn’t yell at me,” I told Alana.
“Of course not! You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You know, you’re right. I’ll bet Cruella will get Gabrielle on the phone and straighten everything out. I mean, why not? I’m overreacting. And Antonio ... he’s going to realize what an ass he was.” I laughed and collapsed against the chair as a tear slipped out. “What a day! I’ve been through the wringer, but maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Once Deanna’s tantrum winds down, the worst will be a stern reprimand from Jodi.”
Alana took the chair beside me, folding her legs. She wagged the toe of her Dolce & Gabbana sandal playfully. “What do you think? Should we, maybe, shop a little?”
I rubbed my palms over the thighs of my jeans and took a deep breath. “You just read my mind.”
A few purchases later, I stood tall again, my spirits lifted and my face refreshed with a tangy little moisturizer that could be applied right over daily makeup. Alana and I had both grabbed two bottles, then had them gift wrapped in the customary brown-striped boxes with bows—because we could.
The heat wasn’t quite so oppressive as we headed out the door to meet Marcella, who was just getting out of work and wanted to lend her moral support in my time of crisis. She had picked a little French restaurant in the Fifties, and I walked with a spring in my step that wasn’t caused by the heels of my Manolos. Shopping had restored my faith in the future; things would be fine.
As we came up to the restaurant, Alana slowed her step. “What is that, a line?”
I paused, equally put out. “I hope she made a reservation.”
“Hey! You guys!” Marcella hollered down the block like a street urchin calling in his dog. “How’s it going! I hate to ask, but have you heard anything?” she continued as we caught up to her. When I shook my head, she bulldozed on, “This place is always crowded, but worth the wait.”
I was too tense to comment, and I think Alana was dumbfounded by the new dining experience as we squeezed through the lobby, staying with the line. La Bonne Soup was crowded with people clustered around tables the size of chessboards. Once we got a table, we had no space for our shopping bags and were forced to shove them uncomfortably under our legs. But the red wine and crisp salad plunked down in front of us were surprisingly good, and the soup that passed by our table smelled delicious.
“Soup when it’s eighty degrees outside,” Alana said, “who would think people would wait in line for it?”
“I love this place.” Marcella pulled off a crust of bread. “You get a whole meal, plus drinks, for less than twenty bucks.”
“And you choose a restaurant based on price,” Alana said, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Next time I’ll know not to bring any packages. We’re really stuffed in here.”
“I was meaning to ask you, why do you have packages, anyway?” Marcella shot a look under the table. “And from Henri Bendel. Whatever it is must have cost you a pretty penny.”
As Alana defended our need to shop, my cell phone went off and I fished it out. “Cruella ...” I flipped it open. “Thanks for calling back. I was wondering.”
“I don’t know how you did it so fast, but sounds like you’d better plan your tomorrows without Tomorrows. Ducky, I know you came from Iowa, but don’t you know that you never attack the centerpiece of the show?”
“I’m from Wisconsin, and I didn’t attack anyone.”
A man with sweat-tipped bangs at the next table eyed me suspiciously. I turned away, realizing I was breaking one of my etiquette rules and talking on a cell phone at a table in a restaurant. It’s so rude, but looking at the line blocking the door, I knew I’d never make it out.
“Make sure they have it straight,” I went on in a low voice. “I would never hurt anyone.”
“True, you went after her clothes, but to some women when you pinch the Prada you might as well be cutting out the gallbladder.”
“They weren’t her clothes. They were costumes. Did Deanna say they were hers?”
“Listen, Kansas, it’s over for you at that show. The EP told me you’re lucky they don’t press larceny charges. Those clothes were worth a few shekels.”
“Larceny! But I didn’t take anything.
Did you point that out?”
“They’ll write you off next week. No more tapings for you, Montana. Now, normally they would have to buy off the rest of your contract, but I thought you might want to trade the money for their word in writing that they won’t press charges.”
“For what?” I rasped, trying to keep my voice low, my temper in check. “Costume abuse? Illegal fittings?”
“I’m glad you’re taking this with a sense of humor,” Cruella said.
Humor? I held the phone over my soup bowl and scowled at it. The diners at La Bonne Soup were about to see a woman spontaneously combust, and my agent thought I was coining quirky one-liners?
“Give me that.” Marcella grabbed the cell away. “You the agent? Well, let me tell you, honey, you had better get off your fat ass and do your job. Your client needs work, and what are you going to do about that?”
I watched in amazement as Marcella listened. “Don’t give me that boollshit. And pardonez moi my French, but if you can’t find Hailey a spot on another show, I will.... Oh, that’s not a threat, honey, it’s a promise.” She flipped the phone shut and handed it back to me.
“Well!” Alana forced a smile. “Another problem solved. You never liked Cruella, did you? Bet you’ll be glad to have her off your ass.”
“I’m fired.” I blinked, trying to grasp the reality. “I’m really off the show.”
“And you’re probably minus one agent, too,” Marcella admitted, “but you can do better than that old goat.”
“You know, Marcella,” Alana eyed her shrewdly, “you should be an agent. You’re tough and smart and diligent ...”
“No, no way. Not interested. Retail is my thing. I know what I like and where I belong. But I would like to help you, Hailey. Actually, let’s be honest here: you both need a lot of help.”
Alana rolled her eyes. “You sound like my parents.”
“Mr. Big Nose was all wrong for you, honey,” Marcella said, “but your parents have their hearts in the right place. You’re spending money you don’t have—both of you. Look at you two! Both out of work and you spend the afternoon at Bendel’s? Helllloooo?”
“It was therapy for us,” I explained.
“Retail therapy.” Alana turned her wineglass on the table thoughtfully. “To be honest, it’s the only thing that works.”
“Not for nothing, but you both need therapy, and shopping is not it.”
I was intrigued. “What’s your take? What do you think we need?”
“Abstention. A total fast, for starters. Then you could ease back in on a sensible plan—like Weight Watchers or the South Beach Diet Plan.”
Alana lifted her wine. “I’m horrified. And riveted.”
“My friend Susan loves the South Beach Diet,” I said casually, turning to glare at the sweaty man who was eavesdropping. I lowered my voice and asked Marcella, “Do you think we’re fat?”
“Honey, you have perfect bodies. It’s your loosey-goosey spending habits that are cluttering your lives with problems—and a hell of a lot of merchandise you don’t even need. I hate waste. That’s why I’m prescribing the Marcella Budget Plan. Let’s call it the MBP.”
“That’s good,” Alana said. “Everybody likes a trendy name.”
“How do we start?” I asked.
She gestured us forward. “Put your credit cards on the table.”
I opened my silver bag. “I’m down to one. I thought that would be a good thing, but I keep going over the limit, and then they fine me. And then I’m OK until I forget my balance and I go over the limit again.”
Alana proudly clicked her card on the tabletop. “See the hologram dove? I got to personalize mine when I ordered it.”
“Very nice,” Marcella agreed. Then she slid the cards in opposite directions, handing Alana’s card to me, mine to Alana. “You’re going to hold on to each other’s cards. I know you’re good friends and you can trust each other to take care of them. But at the same time, you won’t use them.”
“But what about our expenses?” Alana asked.
“What expenses? You’re on a budget now. You two can’t afford all this cacky you buy. From now on, you are not to open your designer handbags.”
I winced. “We’ll starve!”
“You can use cash for bare necessities. Like milk. Or bagels.”
“Starbucks,” Alana added.
But Marcella was shaking her head. “Time to start brewing your own at home, honey. Those designer javas cost, and you don’t have that much cash in the bank, right? You gotta prioritize. Make a budget and stick to it.”
I slapped my forehead. “I am so bad at numbers.”
“Not a worry. I’ll help you,” Marcella offered. “We’ll help each other. Believe me, this is the first step to fixing all the crap in your lives.”
“I believe, I believe!” Alana laughed.
I wasn’t quite so enthusiastic. “I don’t even know how to make coffee,” I lamented. “Though I guess I’ll have a lot of time on my hands to learn in the next few weeks.” A lot of time.
Alana’s cell phone rang, and she spoke with enthusiasm. “Guess what I’m doing? Going on the MBP with Hailey. No, it’s not a cruise ship. Mm-hmm. You don’t know what it is? Marcella told us all about it. Well, maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. What’s that?” She glanced up at us. “Trevor wants to know if we’ll meet him and X at the Uptown Comedy Clinic.”
“For starters, I don’t think you can afford a night out,” Marcella said.
“Can’t we use our optional cash for it?” Alana asked. “I could really use a little lift.”
“Give me that!” Marcella snatched Alana’s cell phone and started barking at Trevor. “I have two financially overextended girls here, and I’ve got to tell you, the only way they will meet you tonight is if the evening is free. You promise? ’Cause if I cab it all the way up there and find out you’re lying, I’m going to be steaming mad. OK, then. Yes, honey. We’ll see you then.” She flipped the phone closed and handed it to Alana. “All set. The night’s on him.”
“Wow. You really handled that.” I slid my unnaturally flat wallet back into my silver Fendi satchel, feeling vulnerable. I was glad that Marcella was taking care of things, though she couldn’t be with me twenty-four hours a day. How was I going to manage?
How would I survive without credit?
What emotional lows would I fall to without shopping therapy?
I couldn’t stand to think about it. There would be time to worry tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow.
Tonight ... everything would be paid for. Time to celebrate like it was the last party on earth. For Alana and me, it was!
40
Alana
The uptown club was one of those high-energy places where you feel obliged to laugh and applaud because the lights are so bright and everyone else is having a roaring good time and you can’t stand to be the only sourpuss in the crowd.
Yes, the club was hopping, popping high energy, and Trevor was wavering, waxing, low-energy drunk. The big news was that Xavier was flying out to Los Angeles in two days, a trip to start developing his comedy show now that the cable network had picked up his pilot.
“The networks usually do this in the early spring,” Xavier told us in the bar outside the club as we lingered in the smaller room. “But in cable, anything goes.”
“Right,” I said, realizing that Xavier’s departure was Trevor’s excuse for falling into the bottle.
“I’m proud of you, bro.” Trevor clapped a hand over Xavier’s cheek, nearly falling off his stool. “Really proud. Stand-up, bro.”
“That is so exciting!” Marcella raved. “I can’t believe we’re all gonna know a famous comedian with his own show on TV.”
“Yeah.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “Aunt Nessie always said you were a real comedian.”
The hostess corralled us out of the bar and showed us to a table inside. The comics hadn’t started, and with the lights up, I spotted a few acquaintanc
es in the crowd. Lydia Jackson, the daughter of one of my mother’s friends, would no doubt report back on everything from the stiletto heels on my feet to the sheen on my face. Izzy Daniel, an ex of mine, grinned across the room, that big, warm smile that lets you know you’re looking fine. Izzy wasn’t a bad guy, just a little too into his blues creations to suit my lifestyle. Not that I didn’t enjoy sitting on his mattress and listening as he wrote songs, but there were other activities on my calendar, the more basic being eating, sleeping, and showering. I waved across the room, hoping he would stay on the other side, then realized he was with a woman—Izzy had a girlfriend. And from the way they seemed to be joined at the hip, things were serious. Well, good luck to her!
I forced a smile for the two women I’d met on the bar circuit, Nayasia and Sharon. Sisters, I think. They always dressed to kill, with matching accessories, shoes, earrings, etc. I’d give them an A for effort, but the overall effect was way too pat and monochromatic. Everything red with patent accessories. Or a profusion of plum. For some reason, their look reminded me of the hookers who work Ninth Avenue late at night.
Did I mention that people just don’t know how to dress themselves?
The sisters rushed right over to our table and made a fuss over me, though I smelled the real lure. When you travel with three attractive black brothers, you get a lot of female attention. The sisters had no way of knowing that one of the guys was gay, another wasted on booze, the third wasted on ego.
“And who are these gorgeous escorts of yours?” Sharon asked. Tonight she was decked in peach, an unfortunate shade that made her look like the spokesperson for the Society of Easter Bunnies. Also, though I hate to sound catty, I would swear there was polyester in her skirt. Meow.
I introduced everyone, rising to the standards Mama had drilled into me as a child.
Nayasia wasn’t so polite; she quickly scooted into the chair between Trevor and Kyle, leaving Marcella stuck with her Seven and Seven and a sardonic “can you believe this chick?” expression. Trevor managed to pull himself together enough to impress Nayasia. Or maybe she was smelling his mother’s millions in the form of southern fried chicken. Hard to say.
