by Amiee Smith
Alex walks toward the door. I follow behind.
“School will just be starting back, so I probably won’t have time to meet next week. You sure you can’t hang out for a bit?”
“No. But I’ll call you to schedule a dinner,” he says, patting my shoulder.
And then he leaves. For a moment, I just stare at the closed door.
This monstrous house is eerily still. The giant grandfather clock chimes in the corner. It’s 4:00 p.m. on a Thursday.
Now that I’m rich, it’d be awesome to treat my friends to a happy hour. I wouldn’t tell them I got married, but I could say I came into a little cash.
But they are all hella busy right now: Dana is at work at the agency. Lynn is in SF preparing to start her new job at Google. Claire is at work at the florist. Jen is doing promo for the last season of Sunset Moon.
My eyes fall on the Manolos I rented on shoelady.com for my wedding. I retrieve them from the floor. They are such beautiful shoes. If I had purchased them in the store, I would have paid close to $900. That’s half of my rent on the Venice Beach apartment.
But now I don’t have rent to pay. Now I have enough money in my account to by 2,785 pairs of Manolos (give or take).
I laugh inwardly at the excessiveness of owning that many shoes.
Though, buying one new pair of shoes wouldn’t hurt. They’d be a gift to myself to celebrate my nuptials.
I slide on my rented Manolos, grab my purse, and head out to the Glendale Galleria. Cruising the mall seems like way more fun than kicking it alone in this unfamiliar house.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“Hi... ah, Mr. Cah...Cah...Cah... thank you, Mr. Callahan. I’m Alex Willingham. You were referred to me because I hear you may be looking for a wealth manager. Hello? Hello?”
I pound my fist on the wood table, resisting the urge to throw my phone against the wall. This is the eighth time I’ve been hung up on this morning. I spent $5,000 on this list of prospects and I haven’t converted a single cold call.
And it doesn’t help my childhood stuttering has reared its ugly head again.
Last month, I attended a weekend sales seminar and I killed it. The leader said I was a natural. But when I get on the phone, my skin prickles, my mouth gets dry, and my mind goes blank.
Most salespeople would just read from their script, but when I scan the page all I see is letters, not words, and my head pounds.
How can I grow a business if I can’t master a simple cold call?
To add more shit to the pile, I’m behind on my coursework for my Series 7 exam, my website developer is dragging his geeky feet, and I can’t reach my attorney about the filing of my incorporation paperwork. I could have invested in better support, but I’m trying to stretch the start-up money I received from Brit.
Speaking of my unblushing bride, I haven’t heard from her in weeks. No calls. No voicemails. She’s cancelled all our scheduled dinners via email. She didn’t even respond to my shit-talking voicemail when the Lakers beat the Warriors. She’s converted me to a Dubs fan, but it was a good excuse to call her.
To make matters worse, the stress of starting a business has caused me to start smoking again. I stopped three years ago, but nicotine cravings came back with a vengeance last month. I pull a cigarette from my pack and head outside.
To pass the time between puffs, I give Brit a call. Maybe she’ll want to meet up later after she’s done with classes?
The phone rings twice.
“Dragon! You gotta get down here! Bring your debit card.”
“Are you on campus?”
“No. I’m at Dior on Rodeo Drive. My card has stopped working.”
“It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Tuesday. Why aren’t you leading discussion?”
The discussion group she leads for JAZZ 401 meets on Tuesday. I know because I was in her section last semester.
“That’s not important right now. I think there’s a banking crisis occurring. I heard a talk about the possibility of one happening on KPFK a few years back. My card didn’t work last night when I stopped for gas nor did it work this morning when I tried to buy a breakfast burrito. I need you to get down here!”
Her voice sounds oddly frantic, causing my heart to race. I chuck my cigarette and go inside. Something is wrong.
“Brittney, you’re not the best at taking care of your card. You probably demagnetized it. Did you call the bank?”
“Dragon, I don’t need a lecture right now. I need you to get down here! Bring your card. It’s the last one!”
She disconnects the call.
Something is really wrong.
Without a second thought, I change out of my shorts and into a deep gray suit and a white dress shirt. As a part of my act-as-if-I’m-successful ritual, I now never leave the house without a suit on.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at the Dior location on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I’m immediately greeted by a sales clerk.
“Are you shopping for anything in particular? For your wife, mother, girlfriend... mistress?” the flamboyant clerk asks.
“Ah, actually I’m looking for... for... my wife. Tall. Long dark curly hair. Tattoo on her forearm.”
It’s the first time I’ve said “wife” out loud.
“Brit! So, you’re her sugar daddy who’s going to save the day. It’s none of my business and Lord knows I’ve made enough in commission on her purchases this month to finance my holiday in Aruba, but she doesn’t need another coat. She needs to be in Canyon.”
I’ve worked the floor at my mom’s Beverly Hills location enough to know what he means. While Canyon is in fact a location, it is also used in 90210-retail-lingo to make fun of a certain type of customer. My head violently pounds. My palms sweat. I want to punch this skinny ass dude in his smug face.
“Where is she?” I demand, my mouth tight.
“Fitting room. Last one on the right.”
Hustling across the store, I take a deep breath before I knock on the door. I need to be calm. I need to be calm. I need to be calm.
“Brit?”
She immediately cracks the door. The expression in her cognac eyes is both rabid and comical. She reminds me of Daffy, the crazy-eyed gremlin from Gremlins 2.
“Dragon! I’m so happy to see you. Get in here,” she says, clenching my hand and drawing me inside a luxurious fitting room almost as big as my apartment.
She shines like a million bucks.
Her long, curly hair is now straight and four shades lighter; a mix of caramel, blond and bronze strands.
She’s heavily made up, like a girl searching for a husband.
Every silver hoop in her nose and ears now replaced with gold.
The thin silver rings she used to wear on each finger, replaced with chunky gold rings of every shape and size.
Her once always dark nails, now a bit shorter and a natural shade of pink.
But her clothes are the most dramatic change.
Brit always wore a mid-priced or vintage outfit with a designer pair of shoes she bought in a consignment shop.
Today, she stands in new black suede ankle boots, tight, dark-wash designer jeans, a black halter, and a white short-waisted wool coat exactly like the one hanging in the Dior showroom. Everything shapes her body to perfection.
Brit was pretty before, now she’s striking.
“Have you been working out?” I ask.
She gives me a big grin. Her teeth glow like they’ve just been whitened.
“You can tell? I bought one of those NordicTrack incline trainers from The Shopping Channel one night. I called the number and two days later it arrived. I’ve been using it every day.”
My heart picks up speed. “Sweetheart, they don’t just send it to you. You have to give them your credit card information.”
“Duh, Dragon. Nothing in this world is free. Speaking of which, I need you to swipe your card for this coat.”
“It’s just like the one you have on.”
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“Yes. But I got to thinking this morning. If this one is at the dry cleaner and I want to wear it, I’ll need a back-up. Please, Dragon? It’s the last one in my size. Please?”
Her voice goes up an octave, pleading like a child begging their parent for a toy. More appalling, she’s tugging on every string surrounding my heart.
Before I can think twice, I’m at the register signing a receipt for $6,500.
“Canyon,” the sales clerk whispers, returning my debit card with a business card for the exclusive rehab nestled in the mountains of Malibu.
The sight of the white card breaks the trance my crazy-eyed gremlin put me under in the fitting room.
“Come on, Brit. We’re going for a drive.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” plays through my head, drowning out Alex’s incessant lecturing as we drive the endless stretch of Pacific Coast Highway. It’s late November and the coastline appears as gray as I feel.
Before our “drive,” we stopped by my mansion to drop off my car and to pack a bag. At which point, he discovered my bedroom— all 600 square feet of it— filled with clothes, coats, shoes, accessories, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t totally remember buying.
Dragon really lost his shit when I told him I let a day laborer crew I met in the Home Depot parking lot convert the bottom floor of the mansion into a home recording studio.
I don’t know if Alex was more pissed that I paid them $40,000 to do the job, or that their unpermitted work was poorly done, or that I didn’t call him to have Willingham Contractors do the renovation.
He really started to breathe fire after he logged into my Wells Fargo account. Not only was my account balance negative $136, but he saw I donated $250,000 to Greenpeace and bought $100,000 of cryptocurrency.
In my defense, I attended this dope party in Malibu with Jen and a bunch of famous people. They were all buying crypto. I didn’t want to feel like her poor friend. So, while Jen hooked up with a guy who just got drafted to the Lakers, I bought cryptocurrency.
Okay, I may or may not have been under the influence and accidently added an extra zero to my transaction... but I don’t need to tell Dragon all my business.
Through the driver’s side window, I watch a flock of seagulls swarm the beach and a thought slaps my already bruised ego.
“Holy crap, I’m married.”
“Yeah, Brit. You are,” Alex says with a side glance, his blue-green eyes intense.
***
We sit in an impeccably neat office. With my hands folded in my lap, I listen as Dragon recounts the last 90 days of my life to the intake administrator of Canyon Rehabilitation Center of Malibu.
He conveniently leaves out the fact he married me not because he thinks I’m pretty or because he wants to spend the rest of his life loving my specialized brand of crazy. No, he married me for $500,000 so he can build a business helping the ultra-wealthy become even more wealthy.
“Mr. Willingham, all of our residents have the same issue as your wife, and you will find our 30-day program will offer her the unique help she needs.”
“Thirty days! I’m going to miss the Thanksgiving night sleepover with my friends!”
Alex mutters in Italian. I bet he said something hella negative about my sleepover plans.
The intake administrator looks at me with compassion.
“Brit, our Thanksgiving celebration is top-of-the-line. Every year we bring in the best chef in Los Angeles to prepare the meal.”
She has the voice and appearance of a librarian, but not the librarian at the Pasadena Central Library who used to lecture me for returning my books after their due date. No, this woman is dressed in a last season Chanel jacket.
In my bedroom, somewhere, is the same jacket. I outbid a woman in Georgia for it on fashionheads.com last month. Those were the days. Those were the days when I was rich.
Now, I’m poor again. And spending Thanksgiving in rehab.
“Will I be able to have seconds at dinner? Will there be leftovers?” I ask, suspiciously.
“Yes, we will do everything to ensure your comfort.”
“She’ll also need hot sauce at every meal and lots of snacks in between.”
“Yes. Yes. I see she wrote SNACKS in all caps under meal preferences.”
“Brit will also need at least an hour a day to practice piano,” Alex says.
“We do have a piano, but it’s being repaired. We recently had a singer songwriter join us and she plays her guitar in her room every day after lunch.”
“I don’t have a guitar,” I pout.
Why didn’t I buy a guitar for rehab when I was rich?!
“Don’t worry, dear. We have lots of crafts to keep you engaged in between therapeutic sessions.”
“She’s not some housewife tinkering with instruments. She’s a jazz prodigy in a doctoral program at USC. Music is her life.”
Awww, Dragon is so hot. If I didn’t have to go to rehab, I’d totally let him go down on me.
I rest my palm on his muscular thigh, his large hand covers mine. His flesh against my flesh cracks me wide open. All my bratty antics disintegrate.
“I took a leave of absence from school,” I say, not fully making eye contact.
Alex recoils, moving his hand away. His perfect facial features contorted in repugnance.
“What?! Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Classes. Teaching. Practicing. Performing. They were all getting in the way.”
“In the way of what, Brittney?”
“Shopping,” I say in the smallest voice.
The reality of my situation washes over me like an ice-cold shower.
My life has become an unmanageable mess.
Over the last 90 days, I’d stand at the doors of the Beverly Center or Fashion Island in Orange County or the Glendale Galleria holding a half-caf mocha, waiting for the stores to open, instead of going to campus.
Not once. Not twice. But more times than I can count until I had no choice but to take a leave from my program. In a blink of an eye, I became an overconsuming capitalist whore with a shopping addiction.
My shoulders slump, tears flood my eyes.
“I have a problem. I need to get better. When can I start?” I ask, quietly.
“Now. All I need is a check for $25,000 and then I’ll show you to your room.”
“Do you accept American Express?” Alex asks.
“Yes, of course.”
***
“Alex, can you afford this? If it’s going to stop you from starting your business, I’ll just go to meetings. There has to be a 12-step program for my...ah, issue.”
“All that matters to me right now is that you get better.”
I sit on the edge of the full-size bed in my private room, kicking off my Alexander McQueen 4.3-inch block heel booties. This morning when I put them on, they were the most beautiful shoes ever, now all I see is $1,700 of wastefulness. (I still love them.)
Canyon is beautiful. Cream-colored walls and marble floors. Views of the Pacific Ocean from every window. Five-star hotel accommodations, with a team of professionals dedicated to healing and supporting the rehabilitation of compulsive shoppers.
A part of me wants to scoff at the over-privileged opulence of Canyon, a rich-people-problems type of place. However, a bigger part of me wants the opportunity to explore all the dark nooks and crannies in my psyche.
I need to know why I couldn’t stop swiping my card. I need to recover from the last 90 days.
“I promise to do my best to get better, Dragon.”
Alex leans down to plant a kiss on my forehead.
“No. No. Not a forehead kiss. Those are reserved for bad 90s movies.”
Alex glares at me like I’m nuts.
“You haven’t seen The Best Man? We’ll do a movie night when I get out of here. I’ve recently acquired a very large TV,” I say with a chuckle.
“I saw it in your bedroom. 70
inches? Really, Brit?”
I nod, shrugging my shoulders with a goofy grin.
He chuckles, wrapping his masculine hand around a lock of my hair.
“Damn, you’re pretty,” he mumbles, before releasing my hair and moving in the direction of the door.
“Wait! What did you say?” I call to him.
“You heard me, Brittney. I’ll see you in a month,” he says, disappearing down the hallway.
Two days later, a guitar arrives from “your husband, Alex Willingham.”
I spend the next month learning to play it, making new friends, punching the pillow, meditating, shedding a few tears, exploring my childhood abandonment issues, identifying my feelings, and dodging text messages from my friends.
Luckily, everyone is too busy to question my whereabouts. Dana is working full time as a junior agent and attending classes for her joint MBA and JD degrees at Pepperdine. Claire is expanding her florist business and flying back and forth to San Francisco to complete the Executive MBA at U of Penn. Lynn is putting in insane hours at Google. And Jen will start an MFA in theatre at UCLA in the spring now that Sunset Moon finished its final season.
I’ll tell them everything eventually... just not any time soon.
CHAPTER 7
ALEX WILLINGHAM
We’re in line at Yoshi’s will call to pick-up our tickets for the show. Located in the Jack London Square neighborhood of Oakland, it’s both a sushi restaurant and a jazz venue. The space is filled with an eclectic mix of people. Some dining. Some drinking at the bar. Some waiting for a jazz show to begin.
I feather Brit’s hand with my index finger. It’s the closest we’ve come to holding hands in public over the last eight years. She removed the bandages from earlier, revealing calloused fingertips and partially healed guitar string cuts. Tonight, on our date night, her music battered hand, feels as smooth as silk.
“Will I get to hear your album?”
I want to hate the album because it’s turned Brit against me, against what we have together. But underneath my frustration, I long to hear what “the space between the notes” sounds like to her.
