Secrets of a Shoe Addict

by Harbison, Beth

  Yeah. Monkey business. Charlie was positioning himself to leave her, Tiffany realized with great clarity. And he thought she was too stupid to understand that. He thought he could baffle her with talk of expense accounts and liabilities.

  Her whole body shook with anger and pain that bounced around inside her without an outlet. This was surreal. And yet, at the same time, it felt inevitable. Somewhere inside she’d known her marriage wasn’t right. She wasn’t sure what hurt more: the fact that the man she’d spent so many years with, and had two children with, wanted to leave her and apparently was willing to leave her high and dry; or the fact that after all this time, he clearly didn’t know her at all.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, tapped her fingers for a minute, then stood up again. Where should she go? What should she do? She needed a drink. First things first.

  She opened the freezer and took out the frosty blue bottle of Skyy Vodka. Then she took out a glass and poured some vodka in. The first sip she took burned down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. Good. Maybe it would burn all traces of Charlie out of her.

  The second sip went down easier.

  The third made her pick up the phone and dial a number she knew by heart even though she rarely called it.

  “Hi, it’s me. Can you . . . um . . . can you come over? I’m having sort of an emergency. No, no, everyone’s okay, it’s just—” Sudden tears filled her eyes, and her voice faltered. “I need to talk.”

  Chapter

  13

  So,” Sandra said, after having a shot of vodka at Tiffany’s insistence, and nibbling at the cheese and crackers Tiffany had set out. “You’ve told me about Kate hating her ballet class, Andy wanting a bike, your neighbor killing her azaleas with too much Miracle-Gro. . . .” She looked at her sister, frowning. “Is this really what you needed to talk about?”

  Tiffany sliced off a big chunk of Brie—highly unlike her—and popped it into her mouth. “Mmmn.” She shrugged, then swallowed. “It’s just been a while since we got caught up.”

  “Okay.” Sandra wasn’t buying it. “So what’s really going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is Mom or Dad sick or something?” Though that didn’t make sense. They probably would have told Sandra first, knowing she could handle it better than Tiffany. “Just tell me straight.”

  “Mom and Dad are fine,” Tiffany said, then looked uncertain. “Why, do you know something?”

  “Tiffany!” Sandra said, exasperated. “You called me up, sounding like the world was about to end, asked me to come over right away, and so far you’ve had three shots of vodka, more fat than I’ve ever seen you consume in one sitting, and you’ve told me absolutely nothing of import. What is going on?”

  “Charlie’s having an affair.”

  Sandra opened her mouth to speak, then clapped it shut. Had Tiffany really just said that? “Are you sure?”

  Tiffany nodded solemly. “And he’s a jerk.” Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, fast and furious. “I’m not sure which is worse.”

  “They certainly go hand in hand.” Sandra shook her head. “Did you talk to Mom?”

  “No!” Tiffany looked stricken. “You can’t tell her. Promise me.”

  “Sure, okay, I promise. I just thought, you know, she might have a suggestion.”

  “Mom would tell Daddy, and Daddy would kill Charlie first and ask questions later.”

  “True.” Sandra wasn’t sure what to do. Tiffany had entrusted her with the most important news of her life, but she was totally unprepared to deal with it. This might be the first time anyone had ever fully counted on Sandra. She had to do the right thing. Even if the right thing was to first make sure that asshole Charlie wasn’t getting blamed for something he didn’t do. “Now back up. Tell me everything that led up to this. That way we can figure out what to do next.”

  So Tiffany talked. She told Sandra about the call from Cleveland, which sounded a lot more like a call from the islands, she told her about the late nights and the scant explanations for them, and she told her about his wanting to divide their accounts.

  “That definitely sounds like he’s up to something,” Sandra said when Tiffany finished.

  “I know,” Tiffany agreed. She sounded thoughtful now, not miserable like she had at first. “He is. I think I knew it even before he gave me all the evidence.”

  “So what do you want to do next?” Sandra asked carefully. This marked the first time in her life she didn’t envy Tiffany’s life over her own. Not that she ever coveted a life with Charlie—far from it—but it had looked, from the outside, like Tiffany was blissfully happy and secure.

  Sandra should have looked a little deeper.

  “I’m not sure.” Tiffany sighed. “I know I can’t stay with him. I’m just not sure how to proceed. You always hear stories about women who get totally screwed in divorces, and I don’t want that to be me.”

  “So cover your financial bases first,” Sandra said. “Buy your credit report online and make sure he hasn’t put your name on anything that can get you into trouble. Real estate, credit cards you don’t know about, and so on.”

  Tiffany looked grateful. “Good idea.”

  “And get your name off of anything you can that has both your names on it.”

  Tiffany nodded. “Except the house. That could be tricky.”

  “If it gets tricky, you hire a lawyer.”

  Tiffany took a long breath. “I don’t want to let him know I know anything until I’ve got all my ducks in a row.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “It’s going to be hard. I’m afraid he’ll see it all over my face.”

  Sandra shook her head. “You’ve had some practice acting lately,” she said with a smile. “Just . . . act.”

  The garage door sounded then, and Tiffany said, “He’s home!” Then, in a very casual voice she said, “You know, I love those shoes you’re wearing.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Sandra said. “Where’s my bag?” She reached for her oversize hobo bag and produced a pair of simple black satin ballet pumps, with leather soles and comfort pads at the heel and toe. “These are for you. You always say you can’t wear heels without towering over Charlie, so I thought these were perfect for you. They’re the Carfagni Bowen models. Size ten.”

  Tiffany took the shoes. “Wow, they’re so cool. Like something Audrey Hepburn would wear.” She kicked off her shoes and slipped the new ones on.

  Sandra nodded. “They’ll go with just about everything, too.”

  Tiffany took a few steps. “Comfy.”

  “I’ll get you hooked yet.” Sandra smiled.

  “Hooked on what?” a gruff voice asked.

  Sandra noticed Tiffany stiffen.

  “Hey, Charlie,” she said drily, before she even turned around. “How are you doing?”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent.”

  Tiffany looked . . . It was hard to say just what that expression was. It was like every negative feeling she could have rose into her face and she was trying to cover it up. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working late.”

  “Game’s on tonight. A few of the guys are coming over to watch. Make some of those little hamburger things you do, okay? Gliders?”

  Andy, who had been playing quietly with his blocks, got up and toddled over to Charlie, saying, “Dada!”

  Charlie gave him a dismissive brush on the head. “Hey, bud.”

  “Sliders,” Tiffany said, reaching for the child. “I can’t, Charlie. I’m having people over, too.”

  He barely glanced at Sandra. “It’s just your sister.”

  Lord, Sandra wanted to slap that smug, condescending look right off his face.

  But she and Tiffany were raised to be polite.

  Hence, Tiffany’s response, “No, I’m having other people over, too. Maybe I could order a pizza or something for you and the guys.” Andy played with Tiffany’s hair, pulling and tugging
, but she continued to talk to Charlie and work in the kitchen and hold the child without missing a beat.

  Did Charlie know he was married to a superwoman? Or did he just take that for granted?

  “Gah.” He waved the notion away as if Tiffany had suggested she could just sneeze on toast for him instead. “Come on, babe. Those burgers don’t take long. And since when do you have people over anyway?”

  Tiffany’s glance flitted toward Sandra, who immediately took the cue to give them some privacy. “You know, Tif, we could just go to my place so Charlie can crank the game.”

  “Now that’s thinking.” Charlie pointed at Sandra like she was the model wife. “You and your girls can clear on out of here after you make the burgers.”

  “If you two will excuse me a moment, I’m going to get some fresh air.” Sandra took Andy from Tiffany’s arms, gave her sister a give him hell look, and carried the boy away, thinking about how Charlie’s bullshit wasn’t about burgers at all, but about power.

  She hated to see Tiffany bow to it.

  Leaving Tiffany’s and Charlie’s rising voices behind her, she stepped outside and let Andy down. “See if you can find Aunt Sandra a dandelion,” she told him. “Can you find one? A little yellow flower?”

  “Dandlon!” Andy ran off into the yard, looking for weeds in the dusky light.

  Sandra, watching him, opened her phone. She had Loreen’s number but not Abbey’s, so she called Loreen.

  “Are you on your way to Tiffany’s?”

  “I’m about three blocks away,” Loreen said. “Why?”

  “Charlie showed up and he’s being . . .” She swallowed a bunch of expletives. “Difficult.”

  Andy ran over to her and handed her a dandelion, then said, “I get more!”

  Loreen hesitated, then said, “Difficult. That’s code for Charlie’s being an asshole, right?”

  Sandra nearly bit her tongue. There was a fine line between betraying family and trying to help by talking to Tiffany’s closest friend. “You’ve seen him like this before?”

  Loreen gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Like, every time I see him at all. He treats Tiffany like dirt. I don’t know why she puts up with it.”

  Neither did Sandra.

  In high school, Tiffany had been the belle of every ball. She’d had many, many wealthy, attractive guys after her. And it had continued on through college. Sons of senators and pro football players, who had gone on to be senators and pro football players themselves—all of them had vied for her attentions.

  How she’d ended up with domineering Charlie, Sandra couldn’t figure out.

  “I don’t either.” She gave a heavy sigh. “And I hate it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So we need to go someplace else tonight. We can go to my apartment, but that’s in Adams Morgan, and I know you’ve got Jacob with you and he needs some sleep. Would you rather we go to your place?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. I don’t mind either way. Did you talk to Abbey?”

  Andy returned, breathlessly, with another dandelion.

  “No, I don’t have her number. I was hoping you could—” Sandra stopped as a light-colored sedan pulled up in front of the house. “Never mind, I think she’s here. Look, I’ll send her your way, and Tiffany and I will be along soon, okay?”

  “Great,” Loreen said firmly. “See you in a few.”

  Sandra flipped her phone shut and walked over to Abbey’s car, keeping an eye on Andy the whole time.

  Abbey rolled the window down as she approached, like she was already ready for trouble.

  “What’s wrong?” Abbey asked.

  “Tiffany’s husband came home unexpectedly.”

  “And he doesn’t want a bunch of women in the house, right?” Abbey laughed.

  “You’ve met him.”

  “Yes, but more than that, I’ve met his type. Time and again. So is the meeting off or are we going someplace else?”

  “Loreen’s.”

  “Yay!” a child cried from Abbey’s backseat. “Jacob has the coolest Transformers.”

  Abbey glanced toward the backseat and then gave Sandra a smile. “Hard to argue with that. Is Loreen already there?”

  “Probably, by now.”

  “Okay.” Abbey put her car in gear. “Get Tiffany out, and we’ll see you over there.”

  Sandra watched her drive away and took a moment to appreciate the fact that both Abbey and Loreen had been quick to understand and quick to change plans without a lot of awkward explanation.

  Sandra got Andy, and went back in the house to tell Tiffany their plans had changed and they were going to Loreen’s.

  She found her at the stove, frying up little square hamburgers. On the counter there was a platter of sliced buns, with a bowl of chopped onions, a bowl of relish, and bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayo.

  Just like Charlie wanted it, Sandra had no doubt.

  “And the burger wars have a winner,” Sandra said, sitting down on a stool beside the counter.

  “It’s easier than arguing,” Tiffany said. But her face had lost some of its glow. She looked stressed.

  And, for the first time, Sandra noticed she looked older.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Sandra said. “You can stop right now and we can leave and order a pizza on the way out. That might send a powerful signal.”

  Tiffany flipped the burgers on the skillet. “This will just take a few more minutes.”

  “Why are you so cowed by him?” Sandra asked quietly.

  “I’m not.” Tiffany met Sandra’s eyes. “It’s just easier than arguing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I argue, there’s always some sort of retribution, and I’m not in the mood for that today.”

  A cold chill ran through Sandra. “Like what kind of retribution?”

  “Stony silences, being short with the kids. Just big, impossible-to-ignore unpleasantness. You know, it doesn’t matter how big your house is, the strongest mood always wins. And if I piss him off”—she peeled the plastic off American cheese slices—“it’s going to put him in a pretty crappy mood.” She finished with the cheese and looked back at Sandra. “And I just don’t want to deal with it.”

  “I get that.” It was clear that Tiffany knew she was dealing with a jerk. Sandra decided there was no point in hammering her about the injustice of it now. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No.” Tiffany smiled, then picked up Andy, who had come to tug on her shirt. She picked him up, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said to Sandra, “But it means a lot that you would ask.”

  Two days later, despite the fact that she was half-ready to spend the rest of her life alone on the couch eating Ben & Jerry’s, Sandra had another blind date. One she’d screened as carefully as possible for any signs of bossiness or domination, like Charlie. It was hard to tell from an online profile, but she was at least aware of it from the word go.

  From what she could tell, Zach was a normal beta male, more sensitive than bossy.

  As she drove to the restaurant, Sandra wondered if it was a bad idea to keep meeting blind dates for dinner when she was so self-conscious about her weight. Maybe it would be better to wait a few months, until she’d slimmed down some, and then set about the task of presenting herself to the small world of available men in D.C.

  At the moment, the very fact of meeting in a restaurant put her in the position of feeling defensive and embarrassed.

  The auricular therapy bar in her ear—an acupuncture needle that was supposed to stay in and keep her from overeating—wasn’t doing a lick of good, and the problem with the homeopathic appetite-suppressant tablets, apart from the fact that they didn’t do squat, was that they sort of tasted good.

  Dieting was making her nuts, but it wasn’t making her thin.

  But if she was going to date, what were the alternative meeting places? A bowling alley? The carousel at Glen Echo Park? The mini-mart at Tenley Circle, in front of the processed c
heese food or the motor oil?

  Restaurants just made sense. They were neutral, public, and everywhere.

  Besides, if a guy was going to judge her that way, she was better off without him, right? Which meant she was, indeed, better off without the scores and scores of boys and men who—all her life—had overlooked her because of her appearance.

  The ones who didn’t dismiss her because of her appearance wanted to be her buddy.

  It was getting old. It was getting really, really old.

  And Sandra wasn’t getting any younger herself.

  So she went to Sephora at Montgomery Mall before the date, hoping to get some miracle cream or eyeliner or something that would make her miraculously beautiful. Or at least reasonably attractive, since she didn’t seem to be making at least that modest goal.

  “Are you finding everything all right?” an impossibly thin black-clad girl of about nineteen asked her when she was wandering the Stila aisle, marveling at the names and descriptions of the products.

  “Actually,” she said, “I haven’t really found anything yet. I’m looking for . . . something great. Something that maybe won one of those Allure awards. Is there a product here that’s a real desert island keeper?”

  By this time another employee had walked up on the conversation and seemed as interested in the challenge as the first.

  “What about Bad Gal Lash?” Number two (whose name tag identified her as Belinda) said to number one (whose name tag labeled her Estelle).

  “I don’t need more mascara,” Sandra said. “I’ve got my Maybelline Great Lash, and no one can tell me there’s something better. No, what I’m wondering about is some miracle concealer or foundation or something.”

  “Have you tried Smashbox Photo Finish?” Estelle asked. “It’s just a primer for foundation or blush, but it fills in fine lines and large pores.” She narrowed her eyes and looked more closely at Sandra’s skin. “You should try it.”

  Physical scrutiny was, of course, Sandra’s kryptonite. “Do you have any samples?”