by Gina Messina
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Hooked
By Gina Messina
Copyright © 2016 by Gina Messina
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any for, stored in a retrieve system or transmitted in an form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
“Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.”
Marilyn Monroe
“You need to let go of the past, Charlie.”
Charlie Murphy rolled her brown eyes as she flopped against the back of the uncomfortable tufted leather sofa, a prerequisite for every therapist’s office on Lexington Avenue. God knows she’d been under the care of enough psychiatrists over the last few years to recognize the standard décor. Unfortunately, one by one, they had all let her down. Every last one of them! She shut her eyes for a long minute and fought the unbelievable urge she was feeling—the urge to scream, seriously!
After nineteen sessions with this chick and that’s all she gives me? Letting go of the past? It was too cliché. Like the tufted leather sofa. Too predictable of a statement. Charlie had expected more from the highly reputable Dr. Emily Harrison, III. Her psychiatrist’s name alone usually caused her to pop another Xanax before each appointment. Sitting there, she could just about envision her doctor’s ancestors prudently disembarking from the Mayflower and adamantly declaring Plymouth their birthright.
“Let go of the past?” Charlie repeated in disbelief while gaping at her doctor. “Christ! Do you think?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Dr. Harrison said, her voice still calm and even. Nothing seemed to rile her. “We’re supposed to be working together, like a team.”
Charlie swallowed the bile that formed in the back of her throat while trying to force down the rancid taste in her mouth. She reasoned with herself, somewhat convincingly, that truth be told, Dr. Harrison was supposed to be the best. At least according to New York Magazine’s latest Best Doctors List, a featured “Who’s Who” of the medical field. The crème dé la crème of New York City’s psychoanalytic minds.
A Yale graduate for fuck’s sake.
Charlie quickly dismissed the notion that just because she went through therapists like she went through mixed nuts at a cocktail party, discriminately picking the most desirable ones out of the dish—the cashews were her favorites—while discarding the big fat Brazil nuts that nobody ever liked, would actually imply that she’s compulsive or crazy. She couldn’t help but think that she’d made it almost five months with this particular nut. Although, admittedly, she had expected more than ‘let go of the past.’
The past has nothing to do with it, she told herself, then almost did an eye roll for a second time. But instead, she looked down as her attention shifted from Dr. Harrison’s recent statement to something that was equally disturbing: the incredibly horrid, shit brown Birkenstocks that adorned her psychiatrist’s feet.
Charlie was convinced that Birkenstocks were designed strictly for lesbians. However, the “third” after her shrink’s name and the garish three-carat emerald cut diamond that bejeweled her left hand, nearly blinding her, fundamentally contradicted this theory of hers (unless, of course, her shrink was married to a very rich lesbian). Old money, the rock not so subtly stated. Charlie peered into her doctor’s horsey face—a face that eerily resembled her soon-to-be ex-mother-in-law!—and suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of defeat.
Dr. Harrison stole a glance at the clock that hung on the wall behind Charlie’s head and above the cliché leather sofa. Every time the doctor looked at it, Charlie had to fight the urge to turn around, curious to see what could possibly be so fascinating that her psychiatrist paid more attention to it than to her!
“So Charlie,” Dr. Harrison said, a clear indication that they still had enough time for her to ask another probing question, “What’s the one thing from your past that’s holding you back?” She tilted her head slightly to the right and added, “Hmm?” while donning her most rehearsed professional expression.
“When are you going to fucking realize that it’s my obsession with shoes that’s gotten me in this mess?” Charlie practically screamed, then reluctantly reached down to mute her cell phone that incessantly vibrated deep in the bowels of her purse, sending her text message after text message each time a shoe she had her eye on was a mark down at Barneys. It gave her great comfort to know that her personal shopper, Marco, was on top of his game. She knew that if there was one person she could truly count on, it was him. They made the perfect team. Charlie was his most loyal client and, in return for her loyalty, Marco always put her needs first. “This fucking obsession!” she continued, her voice quivering and her hands shaking like a heroin junkie that was anxiously wondering where their next fix would be coming from. “I just can’t kick it.”
“Your…obsession?” Dr. Harrison echoed with a puzzled tone. “The one with the shoes?” she asked as she awkwardly crossed her ankles in an attempt to hide the foulness on her two large feet then glimpsed at the clock for the umpteenth time that afternoon.
“Haven’t you even been listening to a single word I’ve said over the past six months?” Charlie whimpered as she leaned back and popped her third Xanax of the day and washed it down with what little spit she could muster. “And, what are you writing in your notes? Are you doodling? Is that a smiley face I see?”
“Calm down, Charlie. Teamwork, remember?”
No one on my team would be caught dead wearing fucking Birkenstocks, Charlie wanted to shout. But instead, she ignored her doctor and started to pick at her cuticles. She was long overdue for a mani-pedi. She gazed up at the ceiling and longingly remembered how she used to treat herself to a spa day at Elizabeth Arden’s every Tuesday and Friday without fail. Charlie had always made sure that she looked perfect for her husband, Sean. Now she was lucky if she could find the stamina to get her nails done once a week, let alone the full body waxing’s he demanded. She ran her fingers through her long brown hair and realized that it, too, was neglected. Her once shiny locks felt dry and frizzy and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper haircut or even a simple blow out! I’m not even thirty-five, but I feel like an old hag, she thought, while making a silent promise to find the time to pamper herself again.
“Now, let’s go back to the beginning. Shall we? What’s your first memory that relates to shoes?” Dr. Harrison not so smartly asked, but did so with enough conviction to give Charlie the distinct impression that her psychiatrist believed she’d just posed the most profound question of her illustrious career.
“Well, apparently I have a thing for shoes.” Charlie hesitated then squinted down again at the Birkenstocks, not hiding her disdain. And then, just in case her doctor hadn’t noticed the obvious plethora of price
y footwear she wore to each of their sessions, she stretched her long legs to highlight today’s selection (Yves Saint Laurent signature mules) and added, “For good shoes.”
“Once again, sarcasm won’t help,” Charlie thought she heard her doctor say. However, she wasn’t quite sure because she wasn’t really listening. Instead, she was daydreaming about her massive walk-in closet. Her breath-taking custom-designed California Closet with the many shoeboxes that were neatly sorted in alphabetical order and lined up on the mahogany shelves, three deep, and she started to feel giddy.
“Sling backs. Stilettos. Platforms. It really doesn’t matter. I just adore shoes!” she practically sang, while her eyes, like two magnets, fixated again on those hideous Birkenstocks.
“When did it begin?”
“Huh?” Charlie looked up in surprise, having almost forgotten where she was. One of cuticles on her right index finger had started to bleed. She grabbed a tissue from a box of Kleenex on the end table (another prerequisite of every therapist’s office) and wrapped it tightly around her finger. “I’m not sure when it began, but I do remember my first pair. I absolutely loathed them.”
“Why don’t you describe them to me? What was it about them that made such an impact on you?” her doctor asked and then, for the love of God, suggested that perhaps if she closed her eyes, she might have an easier time recalling those repressed childhood memories.
“Uh, seriously? Do we have enough time for that?”
Dr. Harrison peered up at the clock. “Yes. Yes, we do.”
Charlie shrugged her shoulders while hugging the oversized quilted goat skin bag that sat on her lap. She was comforted by the knowledge that it perfectly matched the pricey Yves Saint Laurent heels on her feet. Then she began slowly.
“They weren’t sexy. Hell, they weren’t even pretty.”
She could still see them. Smell them. Feel them. She shuddered at the memory. Tan and white saddle shoes with a perforated design on the seams, the kind most toddlers first learn how to walk in, with heavy unyielding leather, stiff sides and soles that looked like a flattened piece of moldy Wonder Bread. Her eyes were shut tight, just like her shrink had suggested, and she fought an overwhelming urge to add that those shoes were almost as ugly as the dyke shoes that the good doctor was wearing, but bit her tongue.
“God! I detested everything about them,” she declared with such conviction it caused Dr. Harrison to lean forward and take notice. “Saddle shoes! Who does that to their children?”
Her psychiatrist’s face brightened and she nostalgically announced, “I used to have a pair of saddle shoes when I was a kid!”
Charlie shot her a look of disgust then considered, well, that explains everything.
Ignoring the doctor’s comment, she continued. “Now my second pair of shoes were everything they weren’t.”
Charlie vividly remembered the day her mother had taken her and her two older sisters, Carrie and Stacey, school shopping, along with their live-in nanny, Sofia (known as Fia to her, due to the annoying stutter she’d spent years in speech therapy trying to conquer.)
“Go on. Tell me what it was that you found so exceptional about them?”
Charlie sat there in a daze and called to mind the trolley ride across town to John Wanamaker’s, an upscale department store in Center City, Philadelphia where she grew up. Her mother, with her heavy Brooklyn accent, had told the children that they could each choose one pair of new shoes. School shoes. She started to feel antsy as she dredged up the memory of being overwhelmed and stressed by all of the options as they ran excitedly from aisle to aisle, knocking over displays and scampering in different directions in an unruly frenzy. Their mother, oblivious to the chaos they were creating, which was so very typical of her, made a bee line for the perfume department.
Her sisters took only a few moments to choose but Charlie labored over the task. How could she pick only one pair when the possibilities were endless? She tried on pair after pair until Fia was flustered and worn out.
“Charleee, if you don’t make a deeecision soon, your mother will make it for you,” she had purred in her thick Brazilian accent that rolled off her tongue as if she had a mouth crammed full of maracas.
Charlie doubted that her mother would appear anytime soon as she was most likely creating her own damage at the jewelry counter by that time. Nevertheless, she gathered her small self together and concentrated on the looming challenge ahead.
When the exhausted sales clerk, who was perspiring profusely by that time, pointed to a pair of pale pink ballet flats, her brown almond shaped eyes glazed over with sheer joy. They were the prettiest things she’d ever seen. Made of soft deerskin leather with gold sparkles on the toes, she knew right away that they were the ones. It was truly love at first sight. “I will n-n-never t-t-take them off!” she painfully stuttered to the sweaty sales clerk when he kneeled down and slipped them onto her small feet.
“Dr. Harrison, they were beautiful,” Charlie said while trying to suppress the horrific memory of the ill-fated day she could no longer jam her little toes into the much worn but still supple leather. She suddenly recalled her sixth grade World Culture’s class when she’d first learned about the Asian ritual of foot binding. She’d become obsessed with the barbaric practice. If only I’d been born into a Japanese family that crushed my bones and bound my feet like a Geisha, I could’ve worn those beloved shoes forever, she fantasized.
Charlie opened her eyes and looked up. What the fuck? From the repressed yawn on her doctor’s horsey face, she knew that her shrink was bored stiff. There was something about her expression that was beyond disinterested, almost as though it had been wiped clean of emotion. Really? You can’t even pretend to be interested? A good jolt is what you need, she figured, then continued purging herself within the confines of the unseasonably cold office.
“Can you turn down the air? It’s like a fucking igloo in here.” Charlie wrapped her arms around herself and wished she had brought a sweater. She had forgotten to grab it off the back of the kitchen chair when she dashed out of the apartment, knowing that she was already late for her appointment. The only thing Charlie was ever on time for was a designer shoe pre-sale. Sometimes she would even arrive two hours early just to make sure she was the first one in line when the doors opened.
“Keep talking,” Dr. Harrison replied, ignoring her request.
Charlie took a few deep cleansing breaths of the artificially cold air, before profoundly realizing that her youth was dotted with memories that all included shoes. It suddenly occurred to her that her own milestones weren’t measured by dates and times but by designers, colors and textures, countries of manufacture and heel height.
Gazing out the window while freezing her ass off, she remembered the day her father had returned home from a business trip to Paris. She couldn’t have been more than six years old at the time. When he greeted the family at the door of their contemporary Society Hill brownstone, his three children crowded around him, eager for hugs and kisses (and gifts too, as he always brought them something amazing from his many trips abroad). Her mother, however, watched from the first step of the modern circular staircase, patiently waiting while her husband doled out gifts for the children (a small gold charm of the Eiffel Tower, for Charlie).
Charlie felt a touch of dread overcome her as she clearly recalled the moment her father had reached his hand into his suitcase and pulled out a shiny black box with the word ‘Chanel’ boldly printed on the lid in white letters. It was a plain box, but what emerged from inside was unmistakably the most spectacular pair of shoes she’d ever seen. Made of black silk crepe with long, wide burgundy ribbons that wrapped endlessly around each ankle and adorable kitten heels; in the innocent eyes of a six-year-old, they could have only been meant for a queen. She was confused when her mother burst into tears. At first, Charlie had thought they were tears of happiness. Three days later she learned about her father’s affair, (which turned out to be one of many) while overhearing a
n argument her parents were having regarding his ‘Parisian whore.’
“Did you buy your Parisian whore a pair of Chanel shoes, too?” she’d heard her mother shout at her father.
The screaming and yelling that came from her parents’ bedroom that night would have frightened any child. Luckily, just the day before, Carrie and Stacey had been shipped off to Camp Seneca in the Adirondacks for the summer; a fate she was fortunate enough to escape due to her younger age.
The distant memory made her shudder. Between the excessive air conditioning in the room and the chilling recollection of that night, her teeth were practically clattering together. Charlie sat on the sofa and pictured herself as a small child, quietly tiptoeing to her parents’ bedroom door and watching the scene unfold from the hallway. Her mother (in what she believed was a state of madness) had grabbed the black and white shoe box, opened the bedroom window and thrust it into the narrow alley behind their brownstone. In her mind, she could almost hear her mother’s sob’s and the dull hollow thud that the box had made when it hit the cobblestones two stories below.
“There was this one pair of shoes that I’ll never forget,” she whispered. “A pair of Chanel shoes that were my mom’s. They were a gift from my dad. I still have them.”
She cringed thinking about how she’d peeked through the crack in the bedroom door with her heart beating under the thin fabric of her Hello Kitty nightgown and watched her father grab the slim straps of her mother’s evening gown.
Charlie rubbed her eyes and looked up at her psychiatrist. “I saw my parents having violent sex,” she announced then dramatically added, “I was six!” confident that this factoid would pique her doctor’s clear lack of interest. When she latched onto that juicy tidbit, like a drowning man to a life jacket, Charlie felt hopeful. Maybe there’s something to be said for that best doctors list? she wondered and felt guardedly encouraged to continue.
