Retail Therapy

by Roz Bailey

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

With Party Girls, Roz Bailey took on sex and the city. In Girls' Night Out, she turned dating into the funniest reality TV experience ever. Now, she's back with a pack of friends whose extravagance knows no credit limit. Because when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. . . When Roz Bailey was five she danced on the cocktail table at the summer cottage while the adults weren't looking and quickly learned that a very ordinary moment could be parlayed into extraordinary fiction. After winning two poetry awards, in suburban Maryland (with thanks to the nuns at St. Philip Neri), all roads led to bull. . .er, fiction. Roz still enjoys dancing, cocktails, and summer places. She lives in New York City with two roommates who also enjoy living beyond their means.

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Strapless

Print pages: 304

Sample

There is nothing quite as sweet as the taste of success. At this particular event, the accolades were being showered upon my friend Pierre, a young couture designer who was showing his line in Europe for the first time; however, since I had been linked to him in the press, I felt that my fashionable presence elevated his turnout here in London. The fact that they’d called me an Aztec princess had made me laugh, though I knew that if my father, the descendant of slaves from the Underground Railroad, ever saw the piece, veins would pop in his forehead. Poor Daddy took these things way too seriously.

Now cameras flashed around me as Pierre dashed onto the stage and took a dramatic bow. I was already on my feet in the first row, clapping as loudly as my gold lame gloves would allow. Not that my applause would be noticed amid the audience roar. London’s celebrity crowd adored Pierre’s fashions almost as much as they adored the skinny, self-effacing brother who now blew kisses to the audience. Let me tell you, he’d come a long way from his days as Pete Brown, the ambiguous genius at Harvard who was afraid to tell his parents that he was minoring in design. My boy Petey had hit the big-time, and I was happy to be counted among Pete-turned-Pierre’s supporters.

“You go, Pierre!” I called, lifting my chin slowly so as not to tumble the gorgeous gold Aztec-princess headdress he’d designed for me. It was the perfect centerpiece of my Pierre original—a black sheath trimmed in gold, gold gloves, strappy black Manolo Blahniks.

Just then Pierre turned toward me and extended a hand, and the spotlight turned my way. In a gush of exhilaration, I moved sleekly toward the stairs, stepped up to the stage, struck a sultry pose that showed off Pierre’s couture and my well-toned curves to advantage.

Let me tell you, there is a sensual thrill that hits when you are the object of so much admiration. Not the personal rush of the big O, but a real power rush. Yes, success is sweet.

We rode that sweet river of honey backstage, hugging each other and doing air kisses with the bony models.

“You are the ultimado!” Pierre told me.

“No, you are!” I insisted, nudging the shoulder of his dapper silk brocade jacket. He staggered back, the little twig. “Did you see who was out there?”

“Someone mentioned Uma. And Sir Ian. Sarah Jessica. And Ms. Hilton straight from the farm. Could it be true? Here in London?” He clasped his hands to his face. “How did I ever pull this off? I am so unworthy.”

“Get out!” I linked my arm through his, tempted to remind him of the way his parents had disowned him, the catcalls he’d elicited on the streets of Cambridge when trying out his own designs, the pervasive misery he’d been mired in at the math department. “Sweetie-Petey, you endured a lot to get here. Own it and enjoy it.”

His boyish, cutie-pie face dimpled with joy as he squeezed my arm. “Thanks, Alana. You’re the best ...”

His words faded as the stage manager let loose a swarm of reporters who thronged around Pierre, looking for quotes and off-color remarks for the London tabloids. Someone insinuated that I was Pierre’s mistress, and I managed to keep myself from laughing, wondering how they could look at my dear friend and see a heterosexual bone in his body. Not that I really cared if they started rumors about us. Neither of us was involved with anyone at the moment, and if a little posing could land Pierre in the scandal sheets, more publicity to him.

Someone tapped the shoulder of my silk gown—Darla, one of Pierre’s “people.” “We got two calls during the show from a Judge Marshall-Hughs,” she said. “Says he’s your father. He’s trying to reach you.”

He’d left a message earlier at the hotel, but since it didn’t sound frantic, I’d tucked him into the back of my mind until the show ended. “Thanks, Darla,” I said, moving away from the reporters. Perhaps now would be a good time to deal with Daddy, who didn’t abide having his calls dodged. I told Darla that I’d meet the group down the block at Taman Gang, the restaurant we’d booked for the after-show celebration. Then I retrieved my tiny little beaded black bag and headed out.

Contrary to London’s reputation, it was not raining but cool and sunny—early May. I turned on my cell and retrieved Daddy’s progressively agitated messages. Lord, give that man some patience! As I strolled toward the restaurant, quite aware I was turning heads in my Aztec-princess garb, I came upon a shop I couldn’t resist called Solid Foundations. It was a tiny little place that featured men’s underwear in endless varieties: briefs, boxers, and bikinis in cotton, silk, and various blends. I found myself drawn in by the frank presentation of underwear on plastic mannequins with rather appealing bulges. Did I mention that it had been a while since I’d had a boyfriend? Maybe too long ...

In any case, I couldn’t resist acquiring a few “foundations.” Not sure what Daddy preferred, I got him three pairs of Dolce & Gabbana ribbed boxer briefs—a conservative design befitting an elder statesman, judge, and father. For Pierre, I found black jersey trunks with the sweetest little heart buttons closing the fly—so precious I was tempted to snag a pair for myself, though I knew these tapered shorts would lack the capaciousness my little butt required. Did I say capaciousness? I would have to tell Daddy those two years of Harvard tuition were paying off.

I was waiting for the clerk to wrap my purchases when my beaded bag began to vibrate—my cell. I flipped it open, not bothering to look at the caller ID. “Daddy! I was just about to call you.”

“Alana!” he barked, clear as a bell. Hard to believe he was across the pond in New York City. “Where the hell are you? Yesterday I got a call from the credit card company about approving an over-the-limit charge from Paris. What in God’s name are you doing in Paris?”

“Paris was yesterday! Today I’m in London.” The Foundations clerk, a gangly young man in an ill-fitting tie, shot me a look of awe. I smiled back; maybe that would just make his day.

“London! What are you doing in London?”

“At the moment, I’m buying you some underwear.”

The clerk smirked, and I rolled my eyes as Daddy began to sputter. “Why would you do that? I don’t need underwear!”

I held the phone away for a second. “No need to shout,” I said. “I can hear you just fine. I’m here to support Pierre in his fashion debut. He’s been doing shows in all the key cities. A little off-season, I know, but people seem hungry for some new designs. Milan is next, and then—”

“I don’t want to hear about Milan! I want you to tell me why I’m supposed to pay a two-thousand-dollar restaurant tab from Paris.”

“Did it come to that much?” I sighed. “I wasn’t sure about the conversion rate.”

“You need to come home.”

“Next week.” I gathered up my purchases and mouthed a “thank you” to the clerk. “I’ll be back next Sunday. Didn’t Mama tell you? I’m taking her shopping for new furniture for the Hamptons house. I’ve already done the sitting room, but—”

“Apparently there are many things your mama has not seen fit to illuminate.”

Uh-oh. A big uh-oh. Daddy had discovered a breach—possible budget violation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked in a teasing voice.

“Your charges have come up on my American Express account. How did you get a card on my account?”

Mama, of course, but I wasn’t about to give her up. “Is that what’s bothering you? No problem. I’ll stop using it.”

“Come. Home. Now.” His voice was packed with a powdery anger.

“Daddy, is everything OK?”

“Everything will be fine when you get yourself home and sit down with me and set the record straight.” His voice boomed, imperious, commanding. Can’t you just imagine the scales of justice upon his shoulders? Judge Daddy sometimes acted as if the world were his courtroom.

“Can it wait till after Milan?” I asked sweetly.

“No, it cannot wait. I want you home. Tonight.”

“But the Concorde doesn’t fly anymore ...”

“That ... what the ... ?” he blustered. “I wouldn’t want you spending that kind of money even if it flew you to the moon and back! Get yourself on the next flight home, Alana. If not, punitive measures will be taken.” Ever the judge, but the man was serious.

Disappointment seeped cold into my veins as I stepped out onto the trendy London street. “Would tomorrow be OK? Remember, we’re a few hours ahead of you.”

“Today,” he barked, and I imagined his gavel falling in the background.

Case closed. Defendant to return home.

As I strolled past a shop window filled with tempting lotions and perfumes and waited to connect to the airlines, I couldn’t shake a pang of worry over the tone in Daddy’s voice. He sounded angry, frustrated, impatient. Typical Daddy, ruining my little junket with Petey. But that curvy, lavender bottle of lotion looked so delicate in the window. I could picture it on the console in the guest bathroom of the Hamptons house, right beside a bowl of floating sterling roses and that blue mosaic sculpture I’d had shipped home from Paris.

I plugged the earpiece into my cell and pushed into the boutique. I had to have that lavender bottle. Daddy would understand, once he saw the way it all came together at the beach house.

In the end, he always mellowed with me, realizing I wasn’t some icky lawbreaker yammering away in his court. I was his baby, his little pork chop. I tried to keep that endearment under wraps, but in tense moments the recollection seemed to soothe my father. Yes, a tender hug from the little pork chop was good for ten grand on the Visa bill. Ha! Maybe even twenty!

First, let me tell you how I was dressed that day on the set, because I’m the kind of person whose confidence hinges on the right attire. I was wearing my favorite pair of jeans—worn soft on the thighs and knees, the blue washed out to a powdery shade, the pockets jutting hard over my hipbones to reveal just a hint of tight tummy. I have always been thin with the long legs of a dancer (though I don’t have the moves to survive Simon on American Idol) and jeans suit me well. Denim can be so flattering on beanpole legs, and I think blue jeans are reminiscent of the good things about America, like baseball and apple pie. With my golden blond hair—not from Bergdorf’s, I swear!—and my wiry, athletic legs, I think the jean thing sort of rings midwestern for me, which should give me a squeaky edge when I’m competing for a part against scores of cold, semi-goth beauties and sultry brunettes with a blue henna sheen on their hair that makes your eyes fritz.

Of course, I dressed up the jeans with a fabulous shell pink tank and off-the-shoulder three-quarter sleeve T from Nine West, with matching pink sandals that tied around my ankles. The sandals and the tank had tiny pink and black polka dots—maybe you saw them recently in Vogue?—and the two-inch heel in the back made my legs look impossibly long, combining denim cool with flirty spring fashion.

Not that I think I’m all that or anything, but I figure that if I want to be a major player in daytime television, it’s time that I started dressing like a star. Two years ago, I landed the part of Ariel on All Our Tomorrows. I’m the girl found swimming in the river under Indigo Falls—the one who may or may not be a mermaid, may or may not be the sneaky heir to the fortune of Preston Scott, may or may not be the child of Meredith Van Allen, the megadiva of daytime played by Deanna Childs. Ten or so years ago Deanna’s baby was snatched from her crib by a pack of wolves and reportedly carried off into the hills where she was raised by toothless mountain men. By my math, that would make me about ten years old; fortunately, soap-opera time can be conveniently warped.

Need the Soap Opera Digest version? Suffice it to say that I’m a young actress from the Midwest who got a thirteen-week contract to play a mysterious character in the show that stars the Hope diamond of daytime—Deanna. The show’s producers have re-signed me a few times, but so far, reception to my character seems to be a little lukewarm, which really hurts me. Even if I don’t write the story, it’s me that’s stepping out there. That’s me, Hailey Starrett, on your TV screen, and although I played it cool and even on the set, inside I was crumbling.

“I’m not sure if people like me,” I’d worried to my friend Alana one day over a skim decaf cappuccino. I’d been suffering a self-confidence freak prompted by a phone call from my agent during which she’d relayed that the show’s executive producer wasn’t sure she wanted to sign me on for another thirteen weeks. My agent, whom I’d nicknamed Cruella, for obvious reasons, never minced words when delivering bad news. “I don’t know what to do,” I whimpered as I tore at the cardboard sleeve around my coffee cup. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Of course they like you,” Alana had insisted. “Don’t be getting all misty-eyed over the whims of a bunch of producers who talk up their asses. You’re a talented actress, and you know it.”

“But I want to keep this part. I need this part.”

“Honey, you don’t need them.” Alana tapped powdered cocoa onto the foam of our cappuccinos and handed me a spoon. It was a ritual of ours—savoring the foam of our skim cappuccinos as if they were ice cream sundaes. She lapped up the foam and stared off into the distance, calculating and dreaming as if a vision were playing out like an MTV video. “You know what you really need?” she said, her eyes alight like a clever cat. “You need some retail therapy. A shopping trip.”

While I knew my budget wasn’t ready for Alana’s whim, there was no denying the therapeutic charms of an inspired purchase. Although Alana and I had been roommates for a year at that time, the moment had forged a bond like no other. We’d decided that an aspiring star needed to dress like a real star. Before our lattes could cool, we’d hopped a cab up to Bloomingdale’s, where I’d found a fabulous Marc Jacobs skirt with a flounced ruffle at the bottom and matching sleeveless top. After that it was Saks Fifth Avenue for new jeans, which is where Alana decided that denim was to be my trademark.

“You wear jeans so well, and with your blond hair, it just speaks of fields of daisies and cornflowers,” Alana said from her throne in the dressing room. She leaned over her brown legs to wipe a speck of soot from her Prada mules, then smiled in inspiration. “You’re the leggy, midwestern girl-next-door, the girl every mama wants her son to date, the girl every boy wants to marry.”

“Do ya think?” A ball of insecurity, I modeled the jeans in the mirror.

“Absolutely. Jeans will be your trademark.”

From that day on, I worked to fulfill the image of myself as the young actress spotted around Manhattan in her casual jeans and designer tops. Alana’s decree had reassured me, but it was the shopping process that provided the real breakthrough. Shopping eased the pain. Shopping washed away my insecurities. Shopping was something I could do pretty darned well.

And now, shopping was something I could do to advance my career.

That revelation had brought on a flurry of retail excursions with Alana, a girl with a fashion sensibility so powerful it should be bottled and sold in the boutique section at Henri Bendel’s. Nurturing, generous, stylish Alana ... thank God for her! A store crawl with Alana made up for all the thrills I never had as a kid, the child of two latent hippies who fled their Wall Street investment careers to put up jams on a farm in Wisconsin. While girls in my class were stocking up on the latest “it” jeans and boots and sweater sets from Neiman Marcus, I was stuck wearing caftans made from weird fabrics hand-woven by alpaca ranchers in the Peruvian mountains. Rule to live by: never wear clothes designed by alpaca ranchers.

Anyway, it was Alana who had insisted that I spring for these amazing pink-and-black polka-dotted shoes, which I now admired. I sat in a director’s chair on the set of All Our Tomorrows, flexing my ankles, worrying over a smudge of gray near the pinkie toe of my left foot. Had I stepped in chewing gum on the subway, or was it just one of those indeterminate spooge stains that plagued shoes that walked the streets of New York? Let me tell you, contrary to the mythology of Sex and the City, it is quite difficult to maintain the pristine condition of your favorite shoes in New York City; one misstep in the park and your favorite mules are history. Pigeons, pollution, and urinating men be damned!

As I admired my retro Nine West shoes, the set began to perk up, with assistant directors summoning staff, the props guy wheeling out his cart, the cameramen taking their places and chatting with each other on their headsets. It was early in the morning and none of the actors were in makeup yet, since we would do a quick run-through to figure out blocking and camera angles. My friend Rory Kendricks stumbled over, coffee cup in hand, mimicking a zombie.

“Rough night?” I asked.

He checked his watch. “I closed the Rum Room about, oh, three hours ago.” In real life, Rory was a snappy piano player—a blast at parties—and at the moment, he was filling in for Karen, the regular late-night performer in the bar of the Hotel Edison. My closest friend on the cast of All Our Tomorrows, Rory played Stone, an aspiring songwriter who earned a living banging out tunes at the local inn. If you’re filling in family trees, Stone was also the bastard son of Preston Scott, but that old story had run out of steam a few years ago.

He yawned. “Really, why do I let myself get into these situations? I need my beauty sleep.”

“You can sleep when you get old.” I crossed my legs so he’d spy the shoes.

“Hellooo? This may be the face of an angel, but the party days are over for me.” In truth, Rory does have a gorgeous face. He was just a teenager when he got his start as a print model for Northland, a shopping center outside Detroit. With stunning blue eyes and cheekbones Michelangelo would have liked to sculpt, he would have had a long future in modeling if he’d continued growing. But since it was not to be, Rory had moved to New York and worked as a lounge lizard between acting gigs.

“Don’t try the hermit act on me,” I said. “Every time we go out, you’re the one who stays to close the bar.”

“That’s because I’m looking for love, darling.” He began singing, “Looking for love in all the wrong places ...”

I winced. “Please! It’s too early for country and western, and I think your voice is a little strained from all that rum-running.”

He smacked my knee lightly, then stood back. “And what have we here? A new purchase, I take it?”

“You like?”

“I love.” He lifted one foot for inspection, then gasped. “Tell me these aren’t the ones in this month’s Vogue!”

I nodded like a bobblehead. “With the matching top.”

“Oh, you bad, bad girl. I thought you were on a new budget crunch?”

“Well, I am, but I figure Gabrielle is bound to give me another contract here, don’t you think?”

His gaze darted back and forth across the set. “Ixnay on the op-shay alk-tay.”

“What? I never did get that code.”

He lowered his voice. “Our esteemed EP might be on the set this morning.”

I scanned the dark shadows at the edge of the set in search of the EP—the executive producer, Gabrielle Kazanjian—who is the show runner for All Our Tomorrows. She’s the big boss, the figurehead at the top of the pecking order, though sometimes network people and stars like Deanna Childs try to elbow her to the side.

There is a very well-defined pecking order on the set of any soap opera, something I learned with chagrin the first day I showed up with my short scene in my sweaty little hands. One of the cameramen had slid his camera beside me, with an enthusiastic “Hey, how’s it going?”

I spun around full of warm, fuzzy feeling. I was making a friend my first day on the set! “I’m fine!” I chirped.

But he had already gone on to something else, talking into his headset. “Yeah, he’s on vacation this week. Taking time off to renovate the house.”

“Excuse me?” I said, not getting the fact that he was not talking to me. Since then I’d learned that his name was Les, but he’s never spoken to me since the day I mistook his greeting and he responded with an awkward look. I had breached the cultural barrier, trying to engage someone from another social class, another union—Camera Operators Local 385. Unbelievable. A few more friendly words and the snob police would storm the set and rip up my Screen Actors Guild card.

Two years later, I had learned a few valuable lessons. Never mess with the props or the furniture on the set, as most of it is flimsy junk. Knock on a door too hard and it will pop off its hinges. Bang on a wall and the whole flat might fall to the ground.

Another rule of our show: Diva Deanna reigns supreme.

“Are we ready to rehearse?” one of the assistant directors, Sean Ryder, shouted, holding up his clipboard. Sean Ryder’s booming voice usually quieted things down, and today was no exception.

I slid out of my chair, ready to work, but the crowd seemed to turn inward, parting for a tiny figure dwarfed by cascading red curls. Deanna Childs.

Rory lowered his head to my ear and muttered, “All hail, the queen.”

“I’m still waiting on a rewrite,” Deanna said sweetly, her lips gleaming with supergloss. “I’ll be across the street at Chez Jacques.”

As she marched off in a dignified exit, Rory sighed. “The bitch has left the building.”

Sean waved him off and tuned into headsets—panic mode. Deanna was refusing to do the scene as written. Nothing new, as she’d pulled this stunt a few times before.

“Can someone contact the writers?” Sean Ryder spoke urgently into the mouthpiece of his headset. “Do the writers even know that Deanna wants a rewrite?”

I crossed my arms and took a deep breath, wishing that one of the overhead lights would fall on her bobbing head and send her into a soap-opera coma that lasted until February 2006 sweeps. From the bored faces of the cameramen to the nervous flurry of the AD’s clipboard, I knew I was not alone. Despite her impenetrably s. . .