Retail Therapy

by Roz Bailey

  “Now, didn’t they tell you in group that you can’t do this alone?” Xavier objected.

  Trevor held up his hands. “You’re twisting my words, bro ...”

  “Whoa, wait!” I held up my hands. “Before you deck each other here in the lobby, let me get someone to cover and I’ll go on my break so we can catch up.”

  I called in Ginger to cover and showed the guys to a table on the second floor, one of the very private screened-off tables near the kitchen door—not a great spot for clients, but secluded enough so that employees could take their meals without looking like slackers. Minute Man didn’t like the idea of his people appearing in uniform in the local Burger Heavens and yogurt shops, and when I agreed that it looked unprofessional, I was able to talk him into accommodating staff right here in the restaurant. The boss was a reasonable man. Lucky for me, as I don’t suffer fools gladly.

  I placed an order in the kitchen, filled three glasses with Coke, and returned to the table. “I ordered us some pork chops, today’s special.”

  “Pork chops?” Xavier tapped a finger against his dimpled chin. “Now what if we didn’t want pork chops?”

  “You’ll eat them, and you’ll like them,” I said sternly.

  “Same old Alana.” Trevor stirred the straw around, making the ice in his drink jingle. “Tell me how you managed to walk into this place and become the boss so fast. What? You sleeping with the owner?”

  “Minute Man?”

  The guys nearly sprayed Coke out through their noses.

  “I don’t think so. Not that he’s not a great guy, but I don’t think Danny’s wife and daughter would take kindly to me rolling down to their breakfast table. No, my rise to fame and fortune at LA Minute has been based on hard work and merit—hard for you to believe, I know, but there you go. I know there’s no real future in the job, but I do have a knack for it. I guess it’s just the party girl in me; I feel right at home in this venue.”

  “And you look right at home in that uniform,” Xavier said. “It’s a damn good fit.”

  “Probably because I designed it,” I said, taking a sip of my Coke.

  “You mean, like, in your dreams?”

  “In my apartment.” Stephanie served our pork chops with gravy and greens and apple sauce, and I said, “Eat it up while it’s hot! It’s a pet peeve of mine—can’t stand it when they serve lukewarm food. It’s always nice and hot here.”

  “Listen to yourself, Alana,” Trevor said. “Did they brainwash you, or insert an LA Minute microchip?”

  “Always competing with me, Trev. Does it bother you that I like my job, and I’m good at it, too?” I told them how the LA Minute uniform had suited none of the girls, with fabric that didn’t breathe, no darts in the bodice of the white blouse, and a fat sash at the waist that kept dipping into customers’ entrees. When I’d pointed out the problem to Minute Man, he told me to bring him some solutions. So I set to work with a needle and thread, trying various fabrics and styles. I adapted a white cotton blouse from a discount store, gave it three-quarter sleeves capped with pearlized buttons, a sewn-in bib in the front to cover any “nipplage,” a jaunty collar, and plenty of darts to accentuate the female shape. When one of the waitresses modeled my design for Danny, he pronounced it “killer cute” and wanted the entire female staff to switch over, just as soon as I could alter twenty-some white blouses.

  “That’s when I realized the little Sew-Right that I bought from a late-night TV ad wasn’t going to cut it. So I had to sneak into the parents’ apartment when they were out east and pick up the sewing machine Daddy gave me for my birthday when I was taking ninth-grade home ec.”

  “They still had that old thing?” Trevor asked.

  “You know it. Daddy is a saver.”

  “I remember when you got that,” Xavier said. “Pitched a fit, didn’t you? Made your poor father miserable.”

  “It was a dud gift. Thirteen years old, what did I want with a sewing machine?”

  “But the way you cried about it,” Trevor said. “Cried and cried till your eyes were little red onions. I was scared you were really sick or something, but my mama said you were just a spoiled brat.”

  “I was not!”

  “Alana, you cried till your Daddy peeled some bills out of his wallet. A few hundred, as I remember.”

  “That doesn’t mean I was spoiled. I just appreciated nice things.”

  The two guys exchanged a knowing look.

  “Stop the collusion. Can I help it if I have refined tastes? People just don’t understand me.”

  After we finished eating, Xavier excused himself to go out for a smoke.

  “Smoking again?” I scowled at him.

  He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t even start on me, woman.”

  As Xavier disappeared down the stairs, Trevor nodded toward him. “Now there’s a good man. He gave up drinking so he doesn’t influence me in the wrong way. Only problem is, he’s back on cigarettes. Unhealthy, I know, but he’s doing it for me.”

  “Xavier’s a nutcase in his own right,” I said. “And how about you? What are your plans? I’m glad you’re OK. Is there anything I can do to help you stay that way?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t know what I’m going to do, just know I can’t go on the way I’ve been. The family business is no good for me, and honestly, I’m probably no good for the family biz. Mama never wanted a million dollar business; expansion means nothing to her. She wants to cook and fill folks’ bellies and bring them comfort. And you’ve probably heard the family scuttlebutt about me, how I lost her some money with bad investments.”

  I didn’t want to admit that I’d heard and I’d chimed in with my own condemnation of Trev, partly out of cousin rivalry, but mostly out of jealousy. Trevor had an enviable gift for charming people.

  “It’s been a heavy burden, thinking that I had to fill my Daddy’s shoes, that I had to prove myself and make Mama’s catering business an even bigger success. And all along, everything I did, she tore it down, worked against me ’cause it wasn’t what she wanted. I was banging my head against a wall, hating her, hating myself.” He wiped a hand over his face. “Man, I was really down on myself. One miserable brother.”

  “Trev ...” I put a hand on his back and rubbed between his shoulder blades, wanting to say more, wishing I could tell him I’d believed in him all along, but I couldn’t bear to lie when he was being so honest with me. “I was worried about you,” I admitted. “Sometimes ready to kill you myself.”

  He let out a laugh, though his eyes were shiny with tears. “Yeah, I bet. But at least you gave a shit. You cared enough to want to kill me.”

  We both snorted. “Honey, I’ll still kill you if you start abusing yourself again.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll count on it. You know, I’ve always wondered how you do it. How you keep pushing on, don’t let shit bother you, you just keep going and finding things that make you happy, smiling and all. I mean, look at you in that outfit that you sewed, and you sewed ’em for all the girls because it seemed right and you knew what to do and you got a kick out of it, too. That’s a gift, Alana. To get yourself out there and pick what you want from life, like it’s yours for the taking. And the joy ... you really feel it, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?” I asked.

  “Nah ... sometimes, I think this earth might have been better off without me. I’ve wished myself away, thinking it would have been better not to be born at all, not to feel the pain we all have to go through.”

  “Oh, Trev, no.” There was a catch in my voice as the level of his pain hit me, and I squeezed his hand on the bar and closed my eyes and tried to send him positive, warm vibes through my palm.

  After a minute, he complained, “Hey, you’re squeezing all the juice outta me.”

  “Damn you, Trevor Marshall-Hughs. Don’t you ever, ever think the planet would be a better place without you. And don’t be telling me it’s not worth the ride. The good times make it worth the ride.
”

  He sucked in a breath. “I don’t know, maybe I’m too numb to feel anything good anymore.”

  I smacked his hand. “Then give yourself some time. That numbness is going to wear off and that pain is going to lift, a little every day. And one day you’re going to wake up and smell the fresh air and lift your head to the sun and say, damned if my cousin Alana didn’t tell me I’d feel this good again one day!”

  “You’re full of shit,” he said.

  “Come on, brother, give me an alleluia and an amen.”

  “Get out!”

  I curled my fingers at him. “Come on. Come on, come on, come on!”

  He sighed. “Yeah, OK. Alleluia.”

  When he rolled his eyes, I smacked his arm playfully, all the while hoping it was true. My cousin couldn’t go on with this heaviness in his heart; he needed relief, some source of joy.

  “You are one sorry black man,” I said. “But just you wait. A few months down the road, you’re going to be singing it like you mean it.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I really do.”

  46

  Hailey

  “Not to imitate Donald Trump or anything, but, Cruella, you’re fired.” There, I’d said it, now I just had to say it to my agent’s face.

  I took a sip of my grapefruit martini and checked the time on my cell phone. I was early; those old habits died hard. When would I remember that bad girls keep other people waiting?

  Cruella was right on time, smiling that brittle, cheeky smile of a skeleton whose lips are starting to stretch away from its teeth. “Hailey? You’re looking well. I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve changed so. Is it your complexion has cleared, or you’ve lost that midwestern innocence?”

  This time I refused to cower at her insults. “I thought I’d give you one last chance to buy me a drink before I hit it big and move on to another agent.”

  She tried to fake cool, but I could see the skin tighten above her eyes. “Yes, I guess you have lost that midwestern innocence. Waiter? A vodka mart, with three olives.”

  “So ... not to point out your lack of accomplishment, but what have you found for me?” I asked her, feeling almost as if I were possessed by Marcella. “I wasn’t joking about that deadline. With the way my face is in the press, I know I’m a hot commodity in daytime TV. Sometimes it just takes an agent who’s willing to exert a little muscle, make a few calls, beat the bushes, as they say?”

  Cruella got her drink and tipped half of it back as if it were water. “I think I’ve got something, but I wasn’t sure you’d want it. They need a villainess to kill off one of their lame story lines, but you need to think long and hard about taking that sort of turn in your career.”

  “Who’s looking?”

  “One of the networks. Days of Heartbreak.” She popped an olive in her mouth as if it were the last piece of Lembas bread in Hobbiton. “They need a player fast for a two-week commitment.”

  “When do I start?”

  “But dear, think about it. You could be acting yourself into permanent villainy. Typecast forever.”

  Did I have a choice now that Deanna had typecast me as a kleptomaniac?

  I picked up a toothpick and stabbed an olive from Cruella’s martini. I took my time swallowing, then smiled. “Bring it on.”

  I tucked my silver Fendi bag under my arm, pushed the check in front of Cruella, then walked out of the restaurant.

  Funny, but being bad felt kind of good.

  “I’m telling you, the bad girl act worked like a charm. Cruella almost choked on her olives when I left her with the tab,” I told my friends later at LA Minute, where Alana had gotten us a piece of prime real estate—a large round table near the foot of the fountain, so close that the occasional breeze kicked up cooling fizz from the base of Oscar’s gold feet. “So I start tomorrow on Days of Heartbreak!”

  “You’re going to be on Heartbreak!” Rory clutched his chest. “I’m smitten with jealousy. Take me with you!”

  “It’s great news, Hailey.” Alana’s dark eyes glimmered with mischief. “But I’m a little sorry you didn’t get a chance to fire her ass. Cruella sounds like she needs a little attitude adjustment therapy.”

  “Good for you, honey,” Marcella said. “You went for it and you got it.”

  “Thanks to you, all of you. I’ve gotten so much mileage out of Alana’s wardrobe, Marcella’s advice and Rory ...” He preened. “Well, you always make me laugh.”

  “Is that it?” Rory flicked a drop of condensation from his water glass my way. “That’s like getting an honorary award at the Emmys. One of those ‘we don’t know how to thank you, because we don’t know what the hell you did’ awards.”

  “You know what I mean.” At the moment, I was feeling high on my success, giddy and happy and light. It was a gorgeous August evening, my friends were enjoying my victory, and the restaurant around us was buzzing with word that a celebrity was in the house. They were talking about me and this time I was thrilled. I was going to be in the limelight again, on a show. Just a two-week stint, but certain to lead to other things.

  A photographer came over to take our picture, and Marcella made sure they spelled my name correctly and noted that I’d be appearing in Heartbreak. It was exciting to think my picture might join the other celebrity photos lining the hallway outside the first floor restrooms.

  “Look at it this way,” Marcella pointed out. “At least it’s not in the john.”

  “OK, now for the bad news,” Alana said. “The kitchen tells me they’re out of scallops, and the cold lamb salad has mint in it.”

  “Oh, the trauma,” Rory pined. “Who can count when they’re accompanied by mint jelly?”

  “Deal with it,” Marcella told him.

  “I’m so glad you were able to reserve this table for us tonight,” I told Alana. “It’s nice to have reason to celebrate. And after this, I’ll need to keep a low profile for two weeks. I’ve got a job to go to in the morning!” I felt so giddy with joy; nothing could ruin this evening for me.

  Then I saw Alana tense. “What is it?”

  One of the hostesses came over to our table, pushing her headset aside. “Houston, we have a problem,” she told Alana, then whispered something to her.

  “Oh, no, she doesn’t.” Alana tossed down her napkin, stood up from the table, and took the transmitter off the other girl’s head.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  Marcella sniffed suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

  “Looks like they’re patching through someone important,” Rory said. “David Geffen? Ryan Seacrest? Mary-Kate and Ashley?”

  “It’s Deanna. She’s here, and she wants seating on the first floor.”

  I let out a brittle laugh. “Oh, great. She wants to join us.”

  She pressed the button on the headset. “This is Alana. Make sure Deanna Childs is annexed to the caves. Do you copy? Deanna to the caves.... What do you mean, you can’t?” Alana glared up at Oscar. “OK, fine. I’ll seat her myself.”

  “Alana ...” the hostess called after her. “Ms. Childs always gets a seat in the fountain room.”

  “Don’t worry, Sage. I’ll take full responsibility,” Alana said as she hustled toward the door.

  But she was too late.

  Deanna Childs already stood poised at the entrance to the first floor dining area, sucking the life out of the room with one of her trademark mincing expressions.

  Just the sight of her gave me a little cramp in my stomach.

  Then my eyes glommed onto her escort and I nearly choked on my cosmo. “Watch out,” I said to my friends. “Any minute, steam is going to shoot out of my ears.”

  Marcella groaned. “Holy shit.”

  Antonio Lopez stepped closer to Deanna and linked his arm through hers. I could tell he was unaware of the controversy brewing on our side of the dining room, until he noticed Alana heading toward him.

  Like falling dominos, he and Deanna got the big picture. Antonio’s gorgeou
s tan face went yellow, while Deanna seemed to suck more power from the promise of a confrontation.

  “Oh, dear,” Rory sighed. “Looks like Mom and Dad caught us out with the Caddy again.”

  “Are you OK, honey?” Marcella asked.

  “I just want to kill him, the snake,” I said. “But first, I’d have to torture him. Years of torture. Somewhere secluded, with no cable or Starbucks.”

  “You know, this is all beginning to sound uncannily similar to a story arc we did in the late eighties,” Rory said. “I really must get out of daytime.”

  Alana was talking to them a mile a minute, but Deanna shook her head, pushing past my friend.

  “Hailey?” Deanna said in a snotty voice. She hustled within spitting distance, then paused, as if I were supposed to bow or curtsy. “I take it you’re the reason these girls are reluctant to seat us here?”

  “Do you think?” I rolled my eyes. “Because honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass whether they seat you here or down in the Columbus Circle subway station. I’m beyond you, Deanna. Yup. I’m moving on to Days of Heartbreak, and it’s going to be interesting, playing in a show that runs opposite yours.”

  “You don’t have a chance,” she said, dismissing me with a wave.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m going to kick your sagging butt right out of the time slot.”

  It was satisfying to see her hand slide down, as if checking the sag of her ass. The power of suggestion.

  “Guess I should thank you for giving me the kick in the pants I needed on Tomorrows,” I said. “But you know what? I don’t really like you enough to be that civil.”

  Deanna lifted her chin to answer, but without writers, I think she was at a loss for a dramatic rebuttal. Instead, she just huffed.

  “So ... move along. Go on,” I said gently. “Scat, you two. Bye, bye, now. We’re having a little celebration here, and I hate for you two to suck up any of the love flowing so freely here.”

  Deanna pivoted and stomped away, but instead of leaving the dining room, she wove around to the other side of the fountain.