So Much for My Happy Ending

by Kyra Davis

  I hesitated. The question seemed simultaneously valid and ridiculous. “You seem—” I grappled for the right word “—down. You seem kind of down.”

  Tad mechanically reached for his wineglass. “I’m tired. I’ve been working a lot of hours.”

  That was true enough, another reasonable excuse, but…but what? He had a right to be tired. Hadn’t I broken down in Liz’s office today for the same reason? I looked down at my throbbing feet. Earlier today I had planned to unburden myself to him about Liz and more importantly about my mother’s latest rejection, but after I found out about Jackie I had set my mind on having it out with him. Looking at him now, I couldn’t imagine talking to him about any of those things.

  “I’m tired, too.” My response came too late to be considered casual. “I think I’ll got to bed early…Care to join me?”

  “In a bit.”

  I nodded and waited for something unknown, an explanation? A sign of tenderness? Finally I turned around and went to the bathroom to prepare myself for sleep.

  I had woken up just in time to hear Tad’s car pull out of the garage. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave for work in the wee hours of the morning, especially recently, but considering his bizarre behavior of the night before his early departure felt like a method of avoidance. Not that I had a problem with avoidance, particularly since I didn’t know what we were avoiding.

  I went about my morning routine, and when I got to Dawson’s it was unusually quiet. Liz was off, so I didn’t have to deal with her reprimands for skipping out the day before (yet), and the customers were sparse. The few that did come in seemed to be set on returning unwanted Christmas gifts. By two o’clock we had done two thousand dollars’ in sales and twenty-five hundred in returns. Just another reason why I hated the holidays.

  It figured that on the day I desperately needed to be distracted I was forced to stand around and think. There was something that Tad wasn’t telling me. Was it about Jackie? Jeremiah? Or was it something else entirely? When someone acted like that on One Life to Live it usually meant they had a brain tumor or a split personality. I tried to compare Tad’s behavior to Victoria Lord’s when she was having one of her many bouts of dissociative identity disorder. It didn’t really fit. For one thing, Tad wasn’t locking anyone up in a secret, previously nonexistent, underground room. The brain tumor seemed more likely.

  “April?” I looked back to see Sally waving the phone at me as she credited another dissatisfied customer’s MasterCard. “It’s Marilyn.”

  I took the phone from Sally and stretched the cord so that I was still standing on the outside of the register. “Hi, Marilyn, how are you?”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I take it you’ve pulled up our numbers.”

  “Damn good thing I did. Do you have the department roped off or something?”

  “Yes, I have it roped off and every time a customer comes within ten feet of the department I hold up a pair of your jeans and say, ‘I bet you’d like to buy this, huh?’ It’s really driving them crazy.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I leaned back against the counter and rolled my eyes up toward the recessed lights. Sarcasm loses its therapeutic qualities when you’re constantly having to apologize for it. “I’m sorry, Marilyn. I’m just feeling frustrated about all the returns.”

  “Are you even trying to turn them into exchanges?”

  Again sarcasm was called for and yet perversely forbidden. “We’re doing what we can. I have a few personal customers coming in later and they all love Hardtail and Versus jeans.”

  “Well, that’s something. Remind your staff that they need to be selling a Michael Stars tee with every sale. Everyone needs a Michael Stars tee.”

  Everyone who’s a size four with a B cup. “I’ll remind them.”

  I hung up the phone and stepped behind the register to look at the credit slip for the last return. Eight hundred dollars.

  “Excuse me, are you April?”

  I looked up from the credit receipt to stare into the face of a future Playboy centerfold. Everything from her leather pencil skirt to the blond streaked hair that fell over the burgundy fauxfur collar of her tightly fitted sweater was pure sex kitten. I tugged at the sleeve of my own top self-consciously. “Yes, I’m April, can I help you?”

  “Gigi Messinger.” She reached over the counter and shook my hand a little too vigorously. “I sell in the 532 store. I just moved here from SoCal.”

  “Welcome to northern California. What can I do you for?”

  “Is it true that you’re looking for an assistant? Because if you are, I’m, like, totally your girl.”

  No way was I hiring someone named Gigi who referred to southern California as SoCal. “I am looking, but I’ve already had a lot of other people call about the job.” Total lie.

  “I promise you, I’m the one you want. My sales are, like, awesome. I’ve been a Dawson’s Super-Seller every month for the last two years.”

  “Well, that’s great, Gigi, but I’m looking for someone who has some managerial experience under her belt—this is a large-volume department and I demand a lot from my staff.”

  “I totally hear you.” Gigi put her hand on her rather well-endowed chest for emphasis. “You don’t want some slacker taking up space. I was the assistant in San Fernando Valley’s Rhapsody department for a year before I moved up here. I figured it would be good for my career to move to a store that was closer to the buying offices—you know, get myself noticed and then get promoted. I’ve been at Dawson’s for a total of two years and before that I was at Bloomie’s managing handbags.” She retrieved a folder out of her briefcaselike handbag and pulled out a résumé printed on pink marbleized paper.

  Shit, she was going to make it hard not to hire her. I glanced down at the current month’s schedule that was proudly displayed next to the register. In less than three weeks I’d be flying to Spain, and if I didn’t hire someone for the assistant job by then I might as well draw a bull’s-eye on my forehead and hand Liz a rifle. I took the résumé from her and scanned the information. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk.”

  Gigi eagerly agreed and I took her to the more casual of the two Dawson’s cafés and bought us both nonfat lattes. I couldn’t help but notice the way the cashier was drooling when he handed Gigi hers, but she seemed oblivious.

  “Love, love, love your floor,” Gigi gushed as we maneuvered ourselves to a table with a view of the street below. “The way you have the Michael Stars tees mixed with the formal skirts—I mean, wow!”

  I almost laughed, but one glimpse into her almond-shaped blue eyes told me that she was unfathomably serious. “Tell me exactly why you want this job.”

  “Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t want it?”

  I had to work extra hard not to throw my hand up in the air and scream, “Me! Me!”

  “I mean,” she continued, “this is the flagship store! This is where it happens!”

  “Uh-huh. Where do you want to go with your career?”

  “When I was a little girl I used to dream of being a buyer, but then I found out about merchandise managers and I knew that was the job for me, right at the top of the food chain. And to do it at Dawson’s, God, can we say heaven?”

  Merchandise managers were so far above department managers that it was hard for me to even contemplate the day when that position might be in my grasp. Buyers couldn’t so much as go to a trade show without getting the approval of their merchandise manager, and the thought of someone with Gigi’s temperament wielding that much power was more than a little scary. “You mentioned that you used to manage at Bloomingdales,” I said. “Why did you leave?”

  “Bloomies was cool but even though I love fashion I’ve never considered myself a New York type and…”

  I waved my hand to indicate that she didn’t have to continue. Dawson’s was one of the few top upscale large specialty stores that didn’t have its corporate headquarters in New
York, which would be important for someone who wanted to move up the corporate ladder but knew that she was too obnoxiously perky for the Big Apple.

  “I must say, your enthusiasm is…overwhelming. As I’m sure you remember, assistants are expected to sell an average of $180 per hour worked.”

  “My SPH, sales per hour, has never dropped below two hundred and that includes the time I was an assistant in SoCal.”

  “I’ll need you to work at least two nights a week, and most Sundays.”

  “I’m all over the nights-and-weekends thing.”

  “And I’ll expect my assistant to be able to keep on top of the crew when I need to be off the floor.”

  “Of course, you’ll never have to worry about anything.”

  I wish. “You must remember that assistants don’t make that much on top of their commission. It’s kind of a ‘prove yourself’ position.”

  “And that’s exactly what I plan to do.” Gigi leaned closer to my side of the table. If all models had skin like hers there would be no need for airbrushing. “I’m going to prove myself. While I was at the San Fernando store I helped plan five fashion shows in eight months. My sales are always the highest of all the salespeople in whatever department I work in. I have a personal trade that is so loyal they let me send them merchandise sight unseen just based on my recommendation. If you give me this job I will not only make your job easier, I will make it my mission in life to make you look good. After all—” she sat back and sipped her latte “—if you make buyer, and let’s face it, the only reason anyone ever becomes a department manager is to get to the buying office, I’ll be in the perfect position to take your job as department manager. The way I see it, it’s win-win.”

  Gigi scared me. People on amphetamines usually did. But it was hard to argue with her dedication. This was her dream job, as sick as that was. I nodded and pushed my business card toward her. “Okay, I’m a believer. I’ve still got to interview the other applicants and I have to do reference checks, but you can count on my calling you in the next few days. If you have any questions before that—”

  Gigi waved the card in the air. “I’ll ring.” She bounced up and extended her hand once again.

  “Right,” I said, shaking her hand briefly. “Either way, we’ll talk soon.”

  I took advantage of Liz’s absence and left Dawson’s at five o’clock sharp. If Tad’s schedule of the last few weeks was any indication, I would have a few hours alone before I would have to face him. I wanted to wind down before being forced to interpret whatever explanation he planned on giving me. I got home, made myself a gourmet meal of Top Ramen with hot sauce and then curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a murder mystery. I turned the television on so that the house wouldn’t be too quiet. USA Network was having a Kim Basinger movie marathon. Currently she was having a sexual fantasy in her office, probably not the most opportune location. She should try working at Dawson’s. That’d knock the sex drive out of anyone.

  I heard the sound of keys scraping against the lock of the front door before finding the correct slot. Tad walked into the living room and threw his coat on the back of the love seat before bending over me to gently brush his lips against mine. The faint scent of wine clung to his breath.

  “Wow, don’t tell me you were drinking at the office.”

  “I stopped at a wine bar on the way home. It’s been a long day.” He lifted my legs and then placed them on his lap as he took his place beside me. “What are we watching?”

  “Nine and a Half Weeks.”

  “Really?” Tad’s voice lifted with a note of enthusiasm.

  “It’s been edited for television.”

  “Oh,” he said, his enthusiasm gone. “Sooo, it’s just two hours of Mickey Rourke being an asshole.”

  I laughed and put my novel down on the coffee table. Tad was acting normal. So normal that I couldn’t help wondering if I had imagined the tense mood of last night.

  He started to massage my bare feet. “So, tell me, what’s new with you? I feel like I never get to see you these days.”

  Clearly this was not a man who planned on explaining himself. I chewed my lip and considered bringing up the incident myself but realized I just wanted to sit here and enjoy getting my feet rubbed. “I interviewed a woman to be my assistant today, Gigi Messinger. She’s got to be the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  “Love you. No really, she’s a knockout. If she worked in men’s suits they’d have record sales.”

  “But does she have what it takes to be an assistant in a women’s department?” he asked as he gently pulled on each of my toes.

  “Maybe, she’s done it before. There are a few things about her that concern me, though.”

  “Such as?”

  “She’s annoying—Southern California Valley Girl annoying.”

  Tad ran his thumb up the center of my left foot. “But you’ll be working opposing shifts right?”

  “Always. I’ll probably only overlap with her twelve hours a week or so, and that doesn’t include any lunch breaks or time I take off the floor to put together promotions and the like.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “No, but there’s something else. She’s very…ambitious.”

  “Good, then she’ll work harder for you. Can’t have too much ambition.”

  “Oh, really? Ever hear of Napoleon? And let me tell you something, if Napoleon had been a woman she would never have been defeated by the European monarchies.”

  “So, women are superior, is that it?”

  “Just different. If Napoleon was a woman she wouldn’t have been bad-mouthing the political system of the Brits and all the rest of them. She would have announced that while France and its, um, acquisitions should not be under a monarchy, the British monarchy is just lovely for the Brits. She would have gushed about how the two nations should be the best of friends and she would have baked them cookies for starters.”

  Tad nodded solemnly. “And considering the disparity between French and English cuisine, the cookies alone would have won the love of the king and queen.”

  “Exactly,” I said, snapping my fingers in the air. “So the British would have loved Napoleonette. They would have invited her to parties and asked her for fashion advice and just when she had truly won their trust, bam!”

  “Bam?”

  “She’d invade! The English would be taken completely off guard because they would have thought France was their ally and before you could say ‘fascist tyranny,’ all of Europe would have been under one empire.”

  “So what are you saying? You think Gigi is going to stage a military coup and invade Canada?”

  “No, I’m saying that she might be the type to stab me in the back.”

  “I see.” Tad abandoned my left foot for my right. “Before we go further into this, might I say that your analogy was…excessively elaborate.”

  “I’ve always been a woman of extremes.”

  “Right. My other point is that you told me that Blakely has imminent plans to promote you. You don’t have to be Napoleon, or Napoleonette, to see that the best strategy for Gigi is to do whatever she can to expedite that promotion so that she can step into your current job.”

  “Yeah, she mentioned something along those lines.”

  “If her references check out, hire her.” I felt my jaw tighten; Tad’s tone was a little too decisive considering it wasn’t his decision to make.

  “Maybe,” I said vaguely.

  “You need someone, April. You work way too many hours.”

  “Look who’s talking.” I slid into a more horizontal position as I enjoyed the sensation of his hands that were now working their way up my calf. “My mother’s not coming to our wedding.”

  Tad’s hands stopped. He looked into my eyes and immediately his face became the picture of empathy. “She actually said that to you?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to spea
k. It’s always like that. You think you’ve blown something off and then you say it out loud and suddenly you’re all choked up and pathetic.

  “Goddamn her,” Tad whispered, and leaned back into the cushions. “You realize this isn’t about you.”

  “That’s exactly what she said—that I wasn’t considering her needs.”

  “What she ‘needs’ is a kick in the pants.” He loosened his tie. “She’s refusing to come to our wedding because it will remind her that she’s always been alone, and she can’t handle that.”

  I scooted myself into a more upright position. I hadn’t considered that possibility. I liked it. With a little work I could convince myself of the idea and maybe even forgive her in a year or two.

  “That doesn’t make it okay,” Tad continued. He reached out and gently caressed my hand. “Look, it doesn’t take a shrink to see that your mother’s a mess. She doesn’t know how to manage her affairs, she doesn’t know how to make a relationship work and obviously she doesn’t know how to be a decent parent. But that’s what makes you so incredible.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not following.”

  “She never offered you the guidance, emotional support or security that children are supposed to get and yet…well, look at you.”

  I looked down. I was wearing a Vivienne Tam shirt paired with a charcoal Vertigo miniskirt. Was this outfit the result of a bad childhood?

  “It’s not a fluke that everyone loves hanging out with you,” Tad said. “You’re fun, warm, generous and you know how to be a supportive friend. And perhaps more importantly, you know how to take care of yourself. You figured it all out on your own, April. You’re…amazing.”

  “Oh. My. God. I so want to have sex with you right now.”

  Tad let out a gentle laugh. “Well, I think that can be arranged.” His hands gently stroked the insides of my thighs. “I noticed you didn’t wear nylons today. Has Dawson’s stopped requiring employees to wear them?”

  “No it’s just that I already took them off.”

  “Ah, one less barrier for me.” His hands disappeared under my mini. I smiled as I felt his hands stroke the outside of my panties. “That’s what I like about you Tad. You always get right to the core of the issue.”