Shoe Addicts Anonymous

by Beth Harbison

  Phil smiled. “I’ll be here to help. And I’ve got some ideas and suggestions for chipping away at the debt faster.”

  “You do?” That sounded hopeful. “Like what?”

  “Ever sell anything on eBay?”

  She’d never even been to eBay. She’d always just thought of online auctions as a place where grown-ups who should have better interests got online and bought Beanie Babies and Who’s the Boss? lunchboxes and Hummel figures.

  But maybe she was wrong.

  The idea of selling stuff instead of taking on an additional job certainly appealed to her. “Like what? What do people sell, or buy, there?”

  “Anything. Collectibles, cookware, knickknacks, clothes, even shoes—”

  Shoes!

  Oh, no, no. She couldn’t. It was bad enough that she had people coming over tonight to perhaps trade shoes with. She wasn’t going to sell them off to faceless strangers for money. Money that would just be thrown into a dark, deep, pool of debt.

  She’d make sacrifices. Work longer hours. Babysit in her off time, if necessary. Mow lawns, like she did in junior high.

  But she wasn’t getting rid of the shoes.

  No way.

  “You know, I just don’t think that’s my thing,” she said, cutting him off.

  He stopped. “Okay. That’s fine. It was just a suggestion.”

  “I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong.”

  “You’ll come up with something,” he said. “Everyone has different levels of comfort with this. And I know it can be difficult to face at first.”

  “I’m facing it,” Lorna said, perhaps a tad defensively. “Head-on. This is me facing it.”

  He looked at her. “That’s good.”

  She felt like an ass. “It’s just that…” The words dissolved. She was saying too much, without really saying anything at all. She did that when she got nervous. Better for her to just shut up now. “I’ve got a few ideas of my own about how to bring up my income,” she lied.

  She did, at least, have a good idea about how to get shoes now that she couldn’t afford to actually purchase them, but something told her that Phil Carson wouldn’t be very impressed by her plan or the fact that she’d taken care of that before thinking about the more serious matter of her income.

  “Excellent. Now.” He cleared his throat and held out his hand. “If you could pass all of your credit cards this way, we can get started….”

  “I’m going to place a small metal bar into the cartilage of your ear right here.” Dr. Kelvin Lee pinched a spot on Sandra’s earlobe.

  “Will it hurt?” Sandra asked. A silly question, considering the fact that she was lying on the acupuncturist’s table with about forty needles sticking in her at this very moment.

  But Kelvin Lee had the tact not to point that out. “It might hurt for a moment when I insert it. But little more than a prick.”

  “So how long does it stay there?” she asked, wondering if the fifteen minutes for the needles had passed yet.

  “A month.”

  “A month?”

  “Auricular therapy is different from acupuncture,” he explained patiently. “It continues to work as you leave the bar in.”

  The way it said that, leave the bar in, she pictured herself like one of those tribal women who put bigger and bigger tubes in their ears until eventually their lobes hung down lower than their sagging boobs. “I don’t know about this—”

  “I assure you, it will not be painful.”

  She swallowed. If it would help her get the hell out of her apartment now and then, she shouldn’t care if it was painful. “Okay.” She squinted her eyes shut. “Go ahead.” She waited a moment while he felt around on her earlobe for the spot. She opened her eyes. “It’s okay, you can do it.”

  “I just did.” He smiled, displaying the kind of quiet confidence that made her wonder how she could have doubted him.

  She lifted her hand to her ear and, sure enough, felt a little metal bar, much like the post of an earring, running through the back of her lobe. “That’s it?”

  He nodded. “That’s it.”

  She was still for a moment, trying to see if she felt any different. But she didn’t. “When will I notice a difference?”

  “I cannot say for certain. It’s different for everyone. More than likely you will notice what you’re not feeling in terms of panic and stress, rather than feeling something new.”

  Three hours later, Sandra, despite a healthy dose of skepticism, started to think maybe he was right.

  It was hard to pinpoint exactly what the difference was. It wasn’t like she was suddenly ready to get on a crowded Metro car, but the idea of going out and, say, picking up groceries wasn’t quite so daunting as it would have been even yesterday.

  The next morning, the improvement was still there. In a way, Sandra felt like she could take on the world, but she knew there was a bit of false confidence to that. If she went out and hopped on a bus, she’d probably be clawing her way out of it at the first stop.

  So the bus was out. But the corner grocery store seemed doable. She went out for salad fixings and Skinny Cow ice cream bars. And while it wasn’t exactly a party, she found she wasn’t panicking so much as she usually did.

  She went back to her apartment in some amazement, wondering if that little stick in her ear could really have the power to help her get over her agoraphobia.

  There was one pretty good way to find out.

  Tomorrow was Tuesday. The day Shoe Addicts Anonymous met. She could just go once, she told herself. If it worked, great. If it didn’t, she could at least say she’d done it and move on in her therapy with Dr. Ratner.

  She’d do it.

  Just once.

  Just once.

  She repeated that chant to herself as she went to the phone and picked it up to make the call.

  The people were due to arrive in fifteen minutes, and Lorna was having serious second thoughts. What if they weren’t who they said they were? What if they weren’t women even? What if one was a deranged man who wanted to strangle her with her own underpants, take her belongings, and leave her to rot in the apartment until the smell drew the attention of the neighbors (something that could take a while, considering how foul the garbage outside sometimes got when the trash collectors were on one of their many strikes).

  It wasn’t impossible. What about that guy who’d called? That was so weird. He kept insisting that he “needed to get out” and that he could buy women’s size 7½ shoes and participate in the swapping. Like they were baseball cards, or Hello Kitty puffy stickers, or something, and they’d all meet on the playground to swap. Really, it had been hard to get him to take no for an answer. Maybe he was just some hound dog who figured he could meet women that way, but on the other hand, maybe he was a psycho who had called back, done a convincing imitation of a woman’s voice, and gotten her address so he could come cause trouble tonight.

  She’d been cautious and put her cell phone number in the ad so she couldn’t be traced—so much for Phil Carson’s suggestion that her cell phone might not be an expense she needed!—but when Helene, Florence, and Sandra had called, Lorna had readily given them her address after a short chat.

  Maybe one of them…like Florence. Was anyone really named Florence, or had Lorna fallen for a really stupid ruse, perpetrated by some deranged Brady Bunch fan?

  With a knot of anxiety in her stomach, Lorna went to the door and made sure the bolt was on. She could look through the peephole and make sure whoever came looked…normal.

  Then she waited.

  The first knock came at three minutes to seven. Lorna hurried to the door and looked out. It was a very tall, thin woman with frosted black hair that reminded Lorna of Cruella de Vil. She was holding three large shopping bags, and she was frowning.

  Lorna opened the door. “Hi,” she said, suddenly aware that she hadn’t concocted any sort of opening line. “Welcome to Shoe Addicts Anonymous. I’m Lorna.”

 
“Florence Meyers,” the woman said, bustling through the doorway and knocking Lorna with a bag as she passed. “First thing, we’ve got to change the name.”

  “Change the name?” Lorna repeated.

  “Absolutely. It sounds like a drug or alcohol rehabilitation program. We don’t want that.”

  Actually, that’s exactly what it felt like to Lorna. “We don’t?”

  “Mm-mm. How does everyone else feel about it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You haven’t talked to them?”

  “Not about that, no.”

  Florence looked exasperated for a moment, then shrugged. “Where should I put these?” She lifted the bags.

  “What are they?”

  Florence looked like Lorna had just asked her what came after three. “Shoes, of course.”

  That was a lot of shoes. “All of them?”

  Florence began opening the bags, lifting out shoes, and laying them across the floor. Some of them were scuffed, a fact undoubtedly made worse by throwing them into a bag together, but most of them were…Well, they were ugly. And unrecognizable, style-wise.

  “See these?” Florence lifted a pair of what looked like the kind of patent leather sandals Lorna would have adored as a child. They were the color Lorna thought of these days as biological pink. “Jimmy Choos. Limited edition.”

  “Jimmy Choos?” Lorna repeated skeptically.

  Florence nodded. Smug. “He almost never does flats.”

  “Well, he does…” No sense arguing. Lorna reached for one of the shoes and examined it. The label looked like the real thing, but it was glued on a little unevenly. “Where did you get them?”

  “New York.” Florence took the shoe back. “On the corner of forty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t really know New York that well. What store is that?”

  “It wasn’t a store,” Florence said, like Lorna had just said something incredibly stupid. “It was a guy who had a bunch of high-end shoes and purses for sale. I’ve sold a lot of them online. Made a fortune. But these.” She glanced admiringly at the shoes. “They’re special. Someone might have to give me two pairs for these.”

  “So you’re saying you bought them from a street vendor.”

  Florence shrugged. “I know they’re probably stolen, but that doesn’t make them any less valuable.”

  It was on the tip of Lorna’s tongue to point out that the fact that they were knockoffs did make them less valuable, but she stayed quiet. She’d been raised too polite for her own good.

  Fortunately there was a knock at the door, and Lorna had to get up to answer it. Her fear of a dangerous man had gone, replaced by the fear of spending the evening with a bunch of crazies in her apartment, trying to trade orange man-made uppers for butter-soft leather Etienne Aigners.

  Lorna didn’t even look first; she went ahead and opened the door to find a statuesque redhead in a fitted ivory linen dress and exquisite brocade Emilio Pucci mules. She had a Fendi baguette purse in one hand and a small Nordstrom shopping bag in the other.

  It was obvious it had a shoe box in it.

  Lorna could spot that kind of thing a mile away.

  The woman smiled a bright white movie-star smile and said, “Am I in the right place? Are you Lorna?”

  Lorna had been too dazzled by the woman—and the shoes!—to speak first. “Yes,” she said at last. “I’m sorry, you are—?”

  “Helene Zaharis.” She held out a bottle of wine, revealing a slender, evenly tanned arm. “It’s nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure what this was going to be like, but I figured wine was always appropriate.”

  “That was really nice of you.” Lorna shook her hand warmly and stood back to usher her in. “I love your Emilio Puccis. I don’t think I’ve seen that pattern before.”

  “I haven’t seen it here either. I got them in London.” Helene smiled and looked at Florence. “Hi.”

  “Florence Meyers,” Florence said briskly. “Don’t you think we should change the name?”

  “I’m…sorry?” Helene looked puzzled.

  “Shoe Addicts Anonymous.” Florence shook her head. “It just sounds bad.”

  Lorna resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own guest. “I don’t mind changing it. It was just sort of, I don’t know. A joke.”

  “It’s cute,” Helene reassured her. “I like it. And I am a shoe addict. I’d be embarrassed to tell you the lengths I’d go to.” She hesitated, then smiled.

  She looked familiar for some reason, but Lorna couldn’t quite place her.

  “Me, I can take them or leave them,” Florence said, her voice still as crisp as ever. “But my customers like them.”

  Lorna glanced at the clock on the wall. This had the makings of a really long evening. Wasn’t someone else coming? Sandra?

  “What can I get you all to drink?” Lorna asked. “There’s beer, wine, soft drinks. Helene, we could crack open that bottle you just brought.”

  “How about a Dubonnet?” Florence asked. “Do you have any of that?”

  Dubonnet. Jeez, Lorna hadn’t thought about that in years. Like, since the seventies, when they played those “Dubonnet for Two” commercials all the time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have that. But—” What was Dubonnet anyway? Wine? Brandy? “—maybe something else?”

  “White zin and club soda,” Florence said, continuing to set one cheap, ugly pair of shoes out after another. “Like a spritzer? That would be all right, I guess.”

  Lorna caught Helene’s eye as she went into the kitchen and asked, “Anything?”

  Helene gave a sympathetic smile. “Not right now, thanks.”

  In the kitchen, Lorna glanced out the window and noticed, directly below outside, there was a man leaning against a car—a small nondescript economy car—and looking up in the direction of Lorna’s apartment.

  Her nerves tightened. Was he the guy who had called her about Shoe Addicts? Was he so pissed that she’d rebuffed him that he’d come to stalk her or something?

  No, that was crazy. It was a largish apartment complex, and plenty of people came and went every day. She was letting her imagination carry her away. Still, she tried to make out his description, just in case she’d need it later: bland, blond, medium build. Could’ve been anyone.

  She turned her attention back to searching the fridge for some club soda to make Florence’s drink. She mixed the club soda with chardonnay, since she didn’t have white zinfandel and she doubted Florence would notice the difference.

  There was a knock at the door, and Helene called, “Do you want me to get that?”

  “Would you?” Lorna asked gratefully. She could already tell Helene was fabulous. She was the kind of person who walked into a place and just felt right at home, taking command of whatever she could in order to make life easier for her hostess.

  Now this was the kind of guest Lorna liked.

  Florence, on the other hand…

  Lorna took a generous gulp of the wine herself before putting it back in the fridge. In the other room, she could hear Helene talking to another woman.

  Good. It was definitely a woman. There was no way a man could imitate one that well. She glanced out the window and noticed that, although the car was still there, the man who had been leaning on it didn’t appear to be around. So he was probably just visiting someone.

  It was nothing for Lorna to worry about at all.

  At least not this time. There was plenty of time to worry later, and she had all the reason in the world to do it.

  Chapter

  8

  Lorna took the spritzer to Florence and saw a short, heavy woman with long light brown hair hanging midway down her back. She wore granny specs under thick, dark eyebrows.

  Lorna tried to hide her surprise, but the woman looked so unlike her voice that it took her aback. “Hi,” she said, overcompensating with a wide smile. “I’m Lorna. You must be Sandra.”

  Sandra
touched her ear with a hand that seemed to tremble slightly. “Yes. Sandra Vanderslice. I hope I’m not late. Or early?” She looked at the flea market–style shoe display Florence had just finished arranging. “I didn’t bring that many shoes.”

  “I only brought one pair myself,” Helene said quickly. “Well, two counting the ones I’m wearing.”

  Lorna’s heart quickened. Was Helene willing to trade those amazing Puccis?

  “Would you like a drink, Sandra?” Lorna asked. She decided she’d have some wine herself. She needed it. “Beer, wine, soda?”

  “Um.” There was definitely a tremor in her voice. The girl was nervous as a cat for some reason. “Soda would be good. Thanks.”

  “Coke okay?”

  Sandra nodded and took a breath.

  “Helene?” Lorna said. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Some wine?”

  “You know, on second thought,” Helene said, with a downward glance that went by so fast, Lorna almost missed it. “White wine would be great.”

  “Oh, I’ll have one, too,” Sandra chirped, then added, “instead of the Coke. If that’s okay.” She reached up and touched her earlobe again, then, catching Lorna’s glance, went pink and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “You got it.” Lorna poured the drinks and brought them in.

  Helene had taken the box out of her bag, and Lorna saw that it was a pair of pink high heels.

  “Oh, my God,” Lorna gasped.

  Helene looked startled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Are those Pradas?” Lorna pointed at the shoes.

  “Oh. Yes. They’re a couple of years out of date, though. I wasn’t sure what kind of thing to bring.”

  Lorna was in heaven. “I love them! I wanted those so badly when they came out, but I twisted my ankle”—one of many embarrassing shoe stories she could tell later if things got too quiet—“and my crappy insurance didn’t cover it, so I couldn’t get them.” She looked closer. The shoes appeared to be in perfect condition. Like they’d never been worn.