The alternative, a real job, is too painful to think about. Proving my Nana right after all these years would be like taking my last gasping breath before allowing my face to disappear into the quicksand. I just can’t do it. I have to try one last time. It has to be my turn. I can’t bear to think of the contingency plan. Working in finance was like being monetarily rewarded for a lack of creativity.
I stand up and take my bowl to the sink. “We’re going to make it, Kim.”
“We’re not, Lilly. We didn’t, in fact.” Kim tries to smooth a brush through her dyed tresses, but it appears something has encrusted from the night before, and she throws the brush across the room.
“So I’ll give you, maybe we’re not going to make it at Sara Lang. Maybe our time’s up there, but we’re not giving up for the likes of Shane Wesley. He’s not the designer he thinks he is,” I say, feeling guilty for finally admitting the truth out loud.
“Think practically. Your grandmother is not getting any younger. Would you have her retire here in this dump with us? As if you don’t deaden the party as it is, we need a seventy-five- year-old woman cramping our style?” Kim rolls her eyes.
“I’m leaving for work,” I say, parking the dirty dish in the sink as she so often does for me. “Are you coming?”
“No. I quit. Why should I suffer the humiliation of Shane in my job? In your job? He’ll be walking around dressed like Steven Tyler, bossing anything that moves, whisking his scarf around like the drama queen he is. You know he’ll have a scarf today. I don’t have it in me to watch. There’s not enough hangover left. I’d have to start from scratch to stomach it, and I’m broke.”
“What if it is our turn, Kim? And we get off the highway one exit too soon?” I don’t want her to give up. Part of the reason is that if Kim gives up, I might give up, and I’ll be back crunching numbers for the rest of my days. I’ll be waiting for the accountant of my dreams to darken my wood-paneled doorway.
“Lilly,” Kim says as if I’m slow. “There are illegal aliens in L.A. sweatshops doing our jobs. Your degrees are being wasted, my talent is evaporating, and you think ignoring these things will make them go away. We either go with some dignity intact or we suck up to Shane, pretend nothing happened, and see how long Sara will let us hang around. What’s it gonna be? Self-respect or perpetual failure?”
I look around at our hovel. “You mean there are consequences worse than this?” I pick up my Sara Lang bag, toss it over my shoulder, and head for the door. “I’ll see you at work. I’ll make excuses for you being late.”
“I’m not coming, Lilly. Have some dignity, will you?”
“Dignity can wait. I need a paycheck.”
“Everyone who has gotten a promotion is gone, Lilly. It’s like Sara’s chaining us, and this is our last chance to break free! You’re handing her your wrists and begging her to lock you up!”
I think about this. I felt locked up when I was in finance. Deciding whether people like James Huntington III would make more money with a sagging property as a tax write-off or with a 1031 exchange for a high-end rental that would bring in more income…that was locked up. It’s not that James Huntington III doesn’t have the right to make as much money as he pleases. This is a free country, and capitalism is an important part of that. I just had no passion for that life, other than pleasing my Nana. She seems to think that if I get rich, all of my problems would be solved.
But I’m a poor excuse for a rich person. I don’t have the right hair, for one thing. Money just doesn’t motivate me, which is a problem when you’re in finance. I didn’t really care if James Huntington III made more money. He’d buy a new Mercedes convertible to use on the weekends, and I’d feel empty inside. Even if I could buy a new Mercedes, what’s the point?
Being a real, live fairy godmother, transforming an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan with the right design, the right fabric—that was my dream. That would give me total job satisfaction. So I prayed for God to make my path and purpose clear. I prayed while bent over my sewing machine, and I realized that I felt the most alive when I was creating something out of material, when there was something beautiful at the end. So I jumped the finance ship and hopped aboard the world of fashion—at Sara Lang. I would have worked for Sara for free if I could still eat. Three years later, I’m still barely making ends meet, but I love what I do. I take problems and construct solutions out of fabric. Sure, it’s a small thing in the scheme of life, but it’s important to me.
“I’ll see you, Kim. I’m off to the office,” I say, tucking my Bible under my arm. I’m going to need all the ammunition I can get today.
After a harrowing ride on Muni, I open the office door to see everyone swarming Shane’s desk, fawning over him. Gag. The fiber cereal is roiling, and I’m wishing I ate Cap’n Crunch instead of wasting anything healthy on this day. Shane is completely in his element, laughing uproariously and sharing the design that cinched the job for him. I amble to my desk, limp with disbelief. Oh yeah, Shane will do for design what Mad Max did for buttless chaps. You know, God, there are days I just don’t get what You’re doing in my life.
“Lil-lyyy!” I hear Shane yell with overemphasized vowels. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“I did. Yesterday. Remember?” I fear that’s all I can stomach without retching.
“Oh, so you did. I must have been so impressed by your freshly-pressed hair that I forgot. You really give us a shock when you get that done. It makes us all fear the run on John Frieda products will temporarily lower the Dow Jones!” He laughs aloud. Now I’ll admit I keep my share of John Frieda products in my office, but do I look through the baker’s dozen of pill bottles in his desk? No, I don’t.
I have never once made fun of his fake lisp, or his penchant for evening eye makeup during the day. Not even of his inability to eat lunch without wearing some of it. And yet every chance this man gets, he picks on my Achilles heel: my hair. If them’s not fighting words, I don’t know what is. I mean, at least I have hair.
I land a playful slap on his arm. “You’re so funny, Shane.” On that note, I saunter—at least I aim for a saunter—over to my desk and unpack the variety of fabrics from the canvas bag. I’ve picked some great material for the next spring collection, and I’m betting the whole bundle on spring. If it doesn’t happen then, I’ll give up. Color, I think to myself. I have to understand color better!
Shane follows me into the office. “You’re not going with that, are you?” He bunches up his nose, as if something smells even more overwhelming than his cologne. “Lavender is so last year.”
“It’s from last year,” I counter. “I use scraps to create my design. It’s easier on Sara’s budget that way. If we’re ever going to go public, we need to be conscious of costs.” But as I say it, I wonder if my need for cheap—excuse me, cost effectiveness—is getting in the way of my learning the full spectrum of color. Besides, I sorta like lavender.
“Little old ladies worry about budget. You’re designing couture, Lilly; act like it. Or next thing you know, you’ll be designing painted T-shirts with matching leggings for the Pier 39 set,” he says, referring to San Francisco’s tourists. “Now thatyou’re a part of my team, it’s important we’re on the same page.”
“We’ll never be on the same page, Shane.” As I stare at him, I think, At least I hope we’ll never be on the same page. Shane’s love in life is the society set, and this is his route into the realm of people he hopes to hang around and model his life after.
Me? I just want to dress them and run for cover.
“I suggest you bookmark my page, Lilly, because I am taking this company to the next level, and only those of the highest caliber are coming with me.” He snaps his fingers back and forth in the air.
Is it possible that rolling your eyes too much can lead to permanent brain damage? I say nothing as Shane gets to the door, his navy-outlined eyes threatening me.
“Don’t give me that look, Lilly. Your association with
greatness means nothing to me. Unlike Sara, I’m not afraid to fire you because you’re friends with Morgan Malliard.”
I gasp. My fingers fly up to cover my mouth, but it’s too late. “Morgan Malliard wouldn’t wear anything you designed if her life depended on it!” I hiss. Mostly because I’d kill her if she did, but also because she has taste. Shane’s style emulates the Bratz doll, for those with fathers who have more cents than sense. Those willing to pay for the hoochie couture look. I understand Sara’s rationale behind Shane’s promotion. She’s going after the Paris Hilton type, becoming the Chanel for the spoiled generation. A business model that makes my Stanford MBA curl on the wall. Can you say “fad,” “trend,” and “soon-to-be irrelevant”? Instead of her former understated elegance, Sara and Shane have recently marketed stick-figure jeans and skull-and-crossbone T-shirts.
There’s a reason for Sara’s abrupt left-turn in fashion, her attempt to appeal to a different kind of clientele. Sara’s husband left her for a hoochie couture type. Now, if you’d ever seen Sara talk to her husband (or should I say yell mercilessly?), you’d understand that his acquiring the underage girlfriend was merely a symptom of the marital problem. Not that Jeff Lang is innocent, mind you, but it takes two to tango. Once he left, Sara had only one thought: revenge. When she was ordered to pay alimony, I think her dream became for Jeff “the lying, cheating scum” Lang to see every young woman’s bum covered with his ex-wife’s signature. Hence the jeans.
At some point, of course, she will want to return to opera gowns and wedding dresses. At least, one can only hope.
Shane leaves my office and goes running to his desk where his fans await him. He’s all bark.
Now Sara Lang walks quietly into my office and shuts the door behind her. To say that Sara would eat her young is, of course, an exaggeration. But she would steal her daughter’s boyfriend. I watched the attempt. When young Lina, a mousy antithesis of her mother, came in with a new beau, Sara did everything she could to wrench the boy’s attention away from her daughter. To his credit, he rebuffed my boss’s advances, and he’s been my hero ever since. But seeing that side of Sara opened a whole new world for me.
I realized some people are just narcissistic to the core. The world does not turn unless it’s in relation to them. Oh, I know that everyone’s a sinner. That’s plain scripture. I understand it well, in fact, but some people are hideously egotistic and never take another’s well-being into account, even their own flesh and blood. That’s my boss in a nutshell, and it ain’t pretty. I’ve seen the most gentle people feel sorry for her and try to soften her heart, only to run screaming at something she does. She’s known for toddler-like tantrums, screaming expletives at employees, and now for keeping her ex-husband on a very short financial leash.
Looks-wise, Sara Lang is above average, though past her prime and a big fan of the chemical peel and Botox. It’s not her looks though, that garner attention. She oozes sensuality and speaks to men without talking. It used to work like a charm. Now it’s just sort of pathetic, especially with her face not moving the way it once did when it wasn’t full of muscle zapper. She’s no Demi Moore, and the schmoozing talk with a hint of more to come is just plain frightening to men. I know it’s certainly terrifying to watch.
Sara leans against my office wall, pausing dramatically to give me the effect that she really is upset the promotion did not go to me. “I’m sure you’re wondering why Shane got the promotion,” Sara says, pacing the four square feet in my office, trailing her hand along my sewing machine. I see her eyes stop on the couture gown sketch on my desk, but I quickly turn it over.
“I figure you must have your reasons,” I state coolly. “Yesterday, you said something about my designs not being unique. You’ve been more than clear that you’re fond of his talent over mine.”
“As you know, I’m thinking of taking this company public soon.”
“I’ve heard rumors.” Though in my heart, I know with the new hoochie direction, this company’s like an anchor on a kite string. It’s not going anywhere because it completely strays from her customer base: San Francisco’s sophisticate crowd.
“I need a chief financial officer who knows the business,” Sara says, smacking her glossy, freshly Restylanepumped lips. “A CFO who has the education to please investors. Something akin to an MBA from Stanford.” She looks pointedly at me and crosses her arms, letting her black-manicured hands slide down her arms like two long-legged spiders.
“I’m a designer, Sara, not a CFO.” I grab a stack of papers and smack them against my desk like the local TV news anchor.
“You can design when there’s time, but a CFO has so much more say in the direction of a company.” She slides a paper in front of me like a bad car salesman. “This is what our CFO will make.”
My heart begins to palpitate as I look at the number. My mind reels: my Nana’s home…designer handbags…windows…a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti stilettos. I had all those things once, but they came with a life I hated.
I slide the paper back toward her. “Why not hire an experienced CFO?” I ask, leery. Sara is as cheap as a Vegas showgirl. Remember when Courtney Love turned couture? Didn’t exactly take, and Sara’s sudden turnaround in wanting to keep me is, most likely, no different. I should have listened to Kim and stayed home today.
“Lilly, you’ve done a great deal for this company. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve managed the collections financially. I think this is your true gift. If designing comes, great, but this is where I need you. This is where the company needs you.”
My true gift? Is it? Part of me wants to salute and tell her, “Lilly Jacobs, reporting for duty.” But I revert to my overly cautious self. “Can I have the weekend to think about it?” The Spa Girls will know what I should do. I hate to think I can be bought, but staring at this number, I’m thinking maybe it’s easier than I thought to purchase Lilly Jacobs. The idea of staying in design at a decent salary, even if it’s not exactly the job I want…well…it’s tempting, I’ll admit. I picture myself walking up with a Marc Jacobs bag, and it’s nearly over.
“Take the weekend,” Sara says agreeably. “If you’re worried about the public offering, you won’t have to go through that. The venture capitalists will put someone in place who specializes in going public when the time is right. If I didn’t think you were capable of the job, Lilly, I wouldn’t offer it.” Sara licks her lips, which is like watching a dog eat peanut butter. “Is Kim in yet?”
I stammer a minute. “No, but she’s coming. Muni was having big issues today.” Not a lie; Muni always has issues. Not the least of which is the smell.
Just as I say it, Kim comes sauntering into the office, carrying a Starbucks cup (a splurge for her). I feel my shoulders relax. Slowly, Kim looks into my doorway and smiles at me. I feel a spark of hope ignite.
chapter 3
Spa Del Mar’s brochure reads like this: Nestled in the wooded hills of the Central California Coastal Range, Spa Del Mar offers an extraordinary healing retreat away from the busyness of life and the bustle of the city. Your peaceful accommodations include freedom from ringing phones, unpleasant smog, and traffic jams. Enjoy the tranquil setting of our redwood hot tubs with soothing mineral water, and experience our therapeutic massages and state-of-the-art skin care. Retreat to our labyrinth meditation garden to allow nature’s serenity to soothe your soul.
Translation: Spa Del Mar is in the middle of nowhere. We haven’t got any phones or televisions because we can’t afford an operator or the cable bill. When you think you’re bored out of your skull, take a dunk in our redwood hot tub with sulfur water that smells like rotten eggs, and select from two spa treatments: facial or massage. Take your pick. We make decision-making easy here at Spa Del Mar because we only offer two choices. It’s all we’re legally entitled to perform. When you’re done with that, you can fight for the single bench under the sycamore tree outside.
Altogether, Spa Del Mar is so not state-of-the-art. But we lov
e it.
After a four-hour ride, we drive up to the spa’s front door in Morgan’s BMW, which is the size of a small airplane and has just as many buttons. You might think that a bellman would come running out, wearing a red suit with smart, gold buttons. But no, at Spa Del Mar you park the car and schlep your own bags up the hill to the speckled Formica front counter. Spa Del Mar runs your credit card (or in this instance, Morgan’s credit card) through that machine that still uses carbon, and we’re on our way—with a complimentary warm bottle of mineral water and a key. (Apparently, cold water can upset your digestive tract.)
Spa Del Mar’s well-appointed balcony room (which we get every time) includes two lawn chairs and a plastic table outside, plus two queen beds decorated in a palette of seafoam and jungle green inside. Whichever one of us really needs the spa weekend gets a bed to herself. This time, that would be me. See? There are distinct advantages to being a failure and having hair that ruins your life. Naturally, since I’m not able to pay, I don’t call too many spa weekends of my own, but I knew it was bad when my straightened hair didn’t even cheer me up. This weekend was a necessity.
It may sound like Spa Del Mar is a complete dump, but it’s not. It’s beautiful, with canopied sycamores and oaks and lush greenery surrounding—even a jacaranda tree that is bright purple when it blooms. The room is clean and neat, just nothing fancy. Plus, it has windows! Still, it is a bit shocking that Morgan is willing to come here. I think she equates it to “roughing it.” The evenings are spent enjoying fine spa cuisine by a chef from California’s wine country. Throw in plenty of giggling and those forbidden organic truffles, and how could I not love it?
She's All That Page 3
