When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  I begin to root about one of my larger designer handbags, withdraw my wallet, pull open the bill pocket, and that’s when the reality dawns on me.

  I glance at the useless row of credit cards before dropping the wallet back into the dark deepness. I crinkle my nose. “Well that just blows chunks.”

  I cast back at the broken shoe—the broken dream. Oh, how easy things used to be.

  For a brief moment I tabulate the amount I’ve saved up from working at the bookstore. I then consider the cost of a cheaper replacement pair of heels over at Nordstrom or Macy’s. It’d be tight, but I could definitely find a dashing replacement pair, borderline knockoffs, for under a hundred. Easily. And now would be the best time to snag up such a colorful pair! Summer’s rolling on out, which means the fall line is already on the front shelves, beautifully glittering in the shop windows, enticing me to buy…

  I look at the shoes again and thumb gingerly at the cracked line.

  Surely I can find a great replacement pair. Even if I can’t afford the new line, some summer stuff will still be up for grabs, and probably at bargain-basement prices!

  My stomach begins to do delightful flips, and I’m about to get lost in the euphoria that is shopping. Then that small, logical, practical, although not very familiar side pokes its head around the corner. It tells me that one lost pair of heels, no matter how beautiful and flashy, is not a big deal. There is no real need to go out and replace them.

  I thumb at the cracked line some more, each brush over the edgy break making my heart feel a touch heavier, my face grow a little longer.

  As if on cue, Bella barks and grabs my attention.

  “What is it, girl?”

  She yaps some more, then trots up to me, tiny tail wagging playfully.

  “You’re right,” I say with a resigned sigh. I place the heels on top of the recently cleaned dresser. “I’ve got more important things to take care of.” I give a small, friendly pat to the spiky toes of the high heels. “You served me well.”

  About a half-hour later, the bedroom slowly losing its look of a walk-in closet devastated by a grenade, I get a brilliant idea. No, it has nothing to do with finding a way to buy a replacement pair of Balenciagas, although it is inspired by the gaffe.

  The fact is, I have a ton of clothes. Even without access to my closet full of treasures back home, I have more than I need right here at Em’s. It’s really too much if we get right down to it. What’s more, I haven’t even worn some of this stuff since I moved in. Granted, a lot of it is more suitable for dance clubs and nights out on the town—certainly not wholesome bookstore attire.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m the last woman who’s going to throw on a baggy pair of jeans, a floppy old t-shirt, and call myself dressed for the day. There’s still plenty of fashion to have and flair to flaunt wherever you work. But five-inch stilettos, sequined boobie shirts (as Emily calls them), and tight, hip-hugging pants aren’t exactly appropriate for each and every occasion.

  I have scads of minis and flimsy dresses, so many fishnet stockings, chic hats and fascinators, and pearled accessories. And don’t even get me started on the leather handbags and designer clutches! The patterned silk shawls and neckties, too! I have at least five high-quality scarves from Hermès and Chanel lying about here. I love them all—I love all of this stuff. But do I really need it all? Given my predicament, do I really need five luxury scarves? Do I really need to switch out my handbags every few days? Is it necessary to have three pairs of red heels, each one just a shade or two lighter than the others?

  It’s in the middle of all this questioning, in the middle of stacks and piles of sorted clothes and accessories, my broken heels staring at me, that I get a brilliant idea!

  ***

  “You’re what?” Lara bellows into the phone.

  “It’s such a clever idea, isn’t it?” I cradle the cell phone in the crook of my shoulder as I tie off the second to last large plastic sack. It’s bursting at the seams with clothes and accessories and shoes I’ve decided I no longer need.

  “B-but Jack,” Lara stutters. “Are you sure you’re not thinking irrationally? Is now really the time to get rid of the only clothes you have?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I heave the heavy sack to the front door and pile it among the other three. “And when I need new clothes, I can go get some more—some reasonably priced clothes, of course.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “What? No. Although I am so overdue for happy hour.”

  “Is it that time of the month? Are you down and depressed more than usual?”

  “What?” I wince. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Okay…” she draws out curiously.

  “I figure at some damn point Andrew will send his dumb divorce lawyer over. When that happens, I’ll be able to access my wardrobe again, and I’ll be fine,” I say breezily. “What good will all my clothes do in Andrew’s hands, anyway? I’ll obviously get them back in the settlement.” I switch the phone to my other shoulder.

  “Or you’ll get your clothes back when Andrew realizes how much he loves you,” Lara says optimistically. “He’ll come racing over, demanding you back.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, that’d be the better option, but I’m trying to be realistic.”

  “Well,” she says through a sigh, “are you eBaying the stuff or what?”

  “No, too much work. I don’t want to spend the time, don’t have the patience.” I tie off the last sack. “I don’t even know how to work all that stuff. It’s fine. There’s this place nearby that will buy back lightly used clothing and accessories, and they really look for high-end stuff.” I wipe my moist brow with my forearm. “It’ll be some nice extra cash.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed, Jackie.”

  “Eh, it’s no biggie. It’ll help me from letting Em’s bedroom turn into a mess again, and I could so use the instant cash.”

  “Let me help you out some,” she offers in a gentle yet insisting tone. “I’m proud of how you’re really getting on so well. Let me lend you some cash, as a gift. You don’t have to go and sell everything you own.”

  “It’s not everything… You really think I’d sell all my stuff?” I cackle loudly, and she tells me I’m right.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I say, “but unless I’m in really dire straights—like starving and out of smokes—I won’t take you up on your offer.”

  “All right…”

  “Besides,” I say as I drop the last of the sacks by the front door. I dust off my hands and grip the phone. “This way I’ll be completely finished with paying Emily back, and I’ll be able to get her place redecorated. Finally!”

  “Nice.”

  “And maybe I can snag some new fall-season heels…”

  “Jackie.”

  “A girl can dream! Anyway, the minimal budget Em left me will mean I’m working with my hands tied.” I dive onto the sofa and flip on the TV. “She loved the furniture I bought for her last year.” I give a proud thump to the luxe sofa. “They cost a small fortune, so she obviously can’t expect these kinds of wonders again.”

  “Emily won’t care; you know that.”

  “I know, but I still want to fix her place up nice. I’ll just have to do it on a budget.” I flip the channel to HGTV. “Like all these designing-on-a-dime TV shows. I can do that, too.”

  “Erm…like on PBS? I didn’t know they had shows like that.”

  “HGTV, Lara. Such a helpful channel.”

  “Since when did Emily have cable?”

  “Oh, yeah, that…” I rub at an eyebrow.

  “You spent money on a cable package?”

  “I’m selling my clothes,” I quickly point out. “Being responsible, getting some extra cash, and I am working. I’m trying, Lara. Really, I am.”

  “Jackie,” she says through a high-pitched sigh.

  “You upset?”

  “No, you’re just a character.”

  “I promise; I’m getting t
his clothes money and putting it towards the apartment. And I’ve obviously got to cover the cable bill. You know this is like the first actual bill that I’ve had in a long time?”

  “Someone who’s not covering your exorbitant credit card bills for you?” she says with an ironic laugh.

  “Exactly. It sounds superfluous, but this cable bill makes me feel responsible. And!” I hurriedly add. “It is for research. HGTV, Lara. Come on.”

  “All right. Well, if you change your mind and want to hang out tomorrow, you know where to find me.”

  “You and Worth not have a roomaaaantic date planned? No saucy rendezvous?” I titter.

  “He’s out of town on biz.” She adds this part in cautiously, “With Andrew.”

  My mind immediately flips to images of Andrew, carry-on piece packed, jacket strung over one arm, briefcase in hand, out the door and away on business.

  “I didn’t think Worth traveled that much for business,” I say at last. “So what is it? Caymans? Singapore?”

  “A relatively new LA account,” she says. “It’s turning out to be more work than Jennings & Voigt thought, so Worth’s over there. The client’s a real hard-hitter, he says.” Lara sighs heavily. “Anyhoo, like I said, if you change your mind about your organizing and design-on-a-dime shopping plans, let me know. Or if you want company.”

  “Will do.” I pat the sofa next to me, and Bella jumps up, prancing straight into my lap.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” she adds hastily. “You wouldn’t by any chance have that Prada wallet in the to-go pile, would you?”

  “The little black one with the silver hardware?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Sorry, babe,” I say with a small, sneaky grin. “That one’s a keeper.”

  “Bummer. Okay, never mind. Talk to you later!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Al said you came in to his shop yesterday and nearly cleaned him out,” Tom says with a smile. “Antiques flying so fast out of there.”

  “I wouldn’t say cleaned out,” I reply as I run a dry dust cloth over the books along a high shelf.

  “You needed help carrying all the stuff out to your car,” Tom exclaims, laughing. “Three trips!”

  I crane my head around, gripping the side of the sturdy wooden bookshelf. “Two-and-a-half, kind of.”

  “Two-and-a-half trips?” Tom gives a silly look. “Now how does that work?”

  Returning to my dusting, I say, “It’s for a good cause.”

  “Oh yeah? Good for old Al, I can say.”

  “I’m redecorating a friend’s apartment.” I carefully step down from the ladder on my new pair of bargain-basement black and white polka-dotted peep-toes. I couldn’t help myself as I drove past Macy’s with some newfound cash in hand yesterday.

  I move the ladder over a skosh, then climb back atop it and continue with the first set of my Monday afternoon chores at Hodge’s Bookstore.

  “Awfully generous of you,” Tom says.

  “Wouldn’t go that far.” I give an extra hard scrub to a particularly dirty book spine. “My friend gave me a budget, and I’m working with it to get the job done.”

  “Aha, so like one of those fancy interior designers or something or other, huh?”

  “Something like that. I’d hardly call myself a designer, but it’s enjoyable.”

  Yesterday, while I didn’t exactly clean out Al’s antique shop next door, I did just about empty Em’s replenished jar over there. After a very successful deposit of my used designer wares, I took my wad of cash and headed out to make some progress on Emily’s project (with a slight shoe-shopping detour along the way).

  As tempting as it was to abruptly turn my car down Pine or 6th Ave and go on a total shopping spree like I used to back when I had a credit card to my name, I ignored the urge, fought the temptation, and forced myself to keep on driving, all the way to Pioneer Square. (Although in addition to Macy’s I did get weak and make a small stop near the waterfront for a strawberry smoothie, a pack of Parliaments, and a copy of Seattle Socialite. Oh, and a quick look at the back of the day’s newspaper to check my horoscope. Today’s your day, grab the bull by the horns and live like there’s no tomorrow! it read. How fabulous is that, right?)

  It was at Pioneer Square Antiques where I got almost everything I thought I’d need for a full-on apartment makeover. It felt exhilarating not just to do some shopping once again but to do something for someone else. You know, the feeling of helping others is kind of addictive. So long as I’m not cleaning out latrines in Africa or slogging it at the YWCA with epidemics of lice cropping up, this giving-back and selflessness thing feels pretty good. I see why Emily’s such a fan. Helping out keeps me busy, I’m doing some good, and in turn it makes me happy. And talk about killing the boredom! I’m finding that the busier I am the less focused I am on my problems.

  “Hey, uh, Jackie?” Tom asks later in the afternoon. His voice sounds a little unsettled, almost nervous, maybe confused.

  “Yeah?” I peer around the doorway of the small back room where we keep the new stock that’s not yet inventoried.

  “Can I bother you for a second?”

  “Shoot.” I put another tick-mark on the index card labeled Romance, A-C.

  Tom appears in the doorway, hands in his pockets and eyes trained on the floor.

  “What’s up?” I ask. I pull out the index card for Romance, D-F. “Did I screw up the alphabetizing again?” I roll my eyes. “I’m dyslexic with it sometimes, I swear.”

  “No, no.” He shakes his head, eyes still focused on the floor. “Nothing like that. It’s about William.”

  “Oh?”

  “His divorce should be finalized in the next couple of weeks, maybe sooner than we expect,” Tom explains.

  He slowly lifts his head, and our eyes meet—his filled with a twinge of gloom, mine with enquiry. “William will be taking things over, as you know. I’m really much too old for this all the time.” He gives a forced chortle. “William says he’s planning on diving right in, getting things organized, and really getting this place off the ground running.”

  “Oh?” I’ve known this conversation was headed my way sooner rather than later, but I honestly didn’t expect it so soon. I’ve started to really get the hang of things around here, and it all comes almost second nature to me, minus the occasional alphabetizing flub-ups.

  “I’ve talked to him about you,” Tom goes on. “I told William what a great worker you are and how helpful you’ve been.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leans against the doorframe. “He’s made it pretty clear, though, that it’s the bottom line that matters.” He clenches his fist and pumps it up and down. He then holds out his hand flat and says, “Bottom line. We’re not making much profit around here, and William wants to turn that around.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can’t say that I blame him.” He returns his hand to his pocket. “He has a daughter, high school age, and he wants her to have some work experience, get that résumé polished up and all that jazz.”

  “I see.”

  “He wants her to help out around here, volunteer, intern, or something or other. He says there’s just not any money on the books to pay an extra set of hands, especially since she’ll be doing it for free.”

  “Ahhh,” I say, trying to fight sounding as disappointed as I am.

  “The rent’s going up next quarter, life’s not getting any cheaper.” He clears his throat loudly. “I told William you’re not working many hours, anyway, but he says the point of hiring on extra help was to help take the pressure off of me…and what with the summer season over and the slower months of the year now…William’s coming back full-time…”

  “I get it,” I say sweetly. “Don’t worry about me, Tom.” It’s evident my words are calming Tom’s nerves, judging by the release of his deeper-than-usual wrinkles around his eyes, cheeks, and brow. “This experience has been great, and we both knew it was only temporary. It�
�ll give me a huge leg-up when I find something else.”

  “Really?” He looks at me with those warm eyes of his.

  “Absolutely!” I force myself to smile as I stand, setting the index card down on the upturned wooden crate I’ve fashioned as my inventory desk. “I’ll hate to leave, but I understand. I’d rather see this place succeed than drive itself into the ground just to keep silly ol’ me around.”

  He smiles and waves a hand. “Now, now, Jackie,” he says as I slip out of the room.

  He follows me into the front of the store. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere just yet, now,” he says. “We’ve got lots of inventory, and William’s not back yet.”

  “I know,” I say through a laugh from behind the cash register. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

  I ring up a sale for the price of two of the vintage Vogues, and Tom asks what I’m doing.

  “I’ve been saving to pick up something here,” I explain. “Something I’ve had my eye on for a while.”

  “Now, Jackie, I’m not asking for sympathy sales.” He makes his way over to me.

  “And I’m not making sympathy purchases.” I insert the cash into the register and close the drawer. It makes its high-pitched cha-chiiing-ping sound as it shuts. “You have some rare magazines I want, and there’s no arguing about it. A regular sale.”

  And without an argument more, and with no time to dwell on what it’ll be like when my employment ends at Hodge’s Bookstore, I continue with the rest of the day’s chores, quipping, laughing, and even swapping a few jokes with Tom along the way.

  ***

  Tonight and all day tomorrow, since I’ve got the day free, I’m pulling out all the stops for Emily’s apartment project! On the way home from work I even picked up some paint supplies as well as a large bucket of taupe-colored paint and a small one of black to make some borders. I dropped by an arts, crafts, and decorating store for some Mod Podge so I could get to work on refinishing the damaged frames I found at a garage sale this weekend.