Erin, Girl

by Sandra Cunha

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  LADY BETTENCOURT PREVIEW

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ERIN, GIRL

  Copyright © 2014 by Sandra Cunha

  Preview of Lady Bettencourt copyright © 2016 by Sandra Cunha

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-9939429-0-7

  Author website: sandracunha.com

  To my three favourite ladies:

  My "Irish twin" sister, Elizabeth (a.k.a. Lizzie Lizard), for being my first best friend.

  My niece, Sophia Rose (a.k.a. Soapie Soaps), for coming along when needed the most.

  And, especially, Maria Gorete (a.k.a. my mommy), for loving me unconditionally. I miss you and think about you every single day.

  “My life didn’t please me, so I created my life.” ~ Coco Chanel

  CHAPTER ONE

  I LIKE TO PLAY this game. I made it up myself, but I get to play it only once a year.

  There are specific instructions to my game. First, I get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Then, I pull my hair back into a low ponytail. And finally—this is the crucial element—I put on a pair of dark sunglasses. (Wearing a hat is optional, depending on my mood and level of play.)

  My playground is Yorkville: Toronto’s hamlet of luxury and splendor. It’s where the rich come to show-off that they’re indeed rich, and where those of lesser financial means come to gawk.

  This population of gawkers increases a thousandfold in September during the Toronto International Film Festival as Hollywood movie stars descend upon the city and get added to the mix.

  And I’m one of them: a gawker, not a movie star. But I pretend I’m famous.

  Or hope to get mistaken for someone famous. I’d even settle for up-and-comer, on the verge of major stardom, currently featuring in independent films.

  That’s the game.

  Once I’m in character, the key is to never make lasting eye contact with anyone. If someone catches my eye, I have to look away quickly—as if I’ve just been spotted. It’s also important to have a coffee cup in my hand at all times. Caffeine is the only reason a celebrity would brave the potential onslaught of crazed fans.

  I tried having my sister act as my fake publicist one year. She wasn’t good at following the rules or staying in character. It’s better to play alone.

  And so here I am on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. But I’ve been walking around for hours, and no one seems to recognize who I am. I mean, who my celebrity lookalike is. My Starbucks is long gone, and I’m feeling slightly foolish drinking from an empty cup. I’m questioning whether to invest another five bucks in my game and get a fresh one, but I’ve completed so many laps around the main loop, most of the gawkers must be on to me.

  I’m about to call it quits when I hear, “Anne! Anne! Ms. Hathaway!” I glance over and see a crowd forming . . . and it’s making its way towards me.

  Oh, my God. They think I’m Anne Hathaway.

  I can’t believe this is happening. After all these years of playing my little game, people actually think I’m somebody!

  I guess I sort of look like her: my hair is lighter—she’s definitely skinnier—and my eyes aren’t quite so big. But, maybe, from a distance . . .

  As I’m psyching myself up to play the role of Anne Hathaway, I see the crowd has found the real Anne, standing a few feet away from me.

  Of course.

  I contemplate joining them, but if I do, I’ll return to gawker status. Instead, I sneak a candid photo of Anne with my phone and leave her to her fans.

  Sigh. There’s always next year.

  My self-consoling is interrupted by a sudden flash in the distance. I can’t make out what it was because the afternoon sun is too strong, but I’m curious now and want to find out. So I head in the direction of where the flash came from.

  It’s only when I’m standing directly in front of it that I see what drew me forward: the glint of a gold lock.

  There before me in a store window display is what I’ve been searching for, without realizing it until this very moment.

  A vintage Chanel 2.55 bag. Medium. Navy.

  I’m not into designer labels. (That could be because I’ve never owned a designer label.) But this bag is different. This bag belonged to my mom.

  Okay, maybe not this specific bag. My mom had one exactly like it. I remember her wearing it when I was a kid. All the ladies would paw at it, asking if it was real.

  It was real.

  My grandmother passed the bag down to my mom when she got her first job, and it would’ve been mine, except my mom had to sell it. I was probably thirteen-years-old at the time, but I can still see the expression on her face as she handed it over to the hairy, gold-chained man who responded to her newspaper ad. She had such a hard time letting it go.

  I’d forgotten all about the bag until today. Now that I’ve seen it again, I want it back. I need it back.

  The odd thing is, I’ve never noticed this store before, not that I shop in this area. It’s somewhat (totally) out of my budget. Normally, I stay on the street. I’m intimidated even stepping foot into expensive stores, but it looks as though it’s a vintage shop, so it can’t be that bad.

  Mustering up some courage, I go inside, where I find a sales assistant wearing an excessive amount of hot-pink lipstick for daytime hours.

  “Excuse me?” I ask her. “How much for the Chanel bag in the window? The navy one?”

  “You mean, the vintage Chanel 2.55, it’s . . .” She pauses to look me up and down, then says with a smirk, “Two.”

  “Two hundred?”

  That’s more than I’ve ever paid for a bag, but with some cutting back I could—

  “No, two thousand.”

  “But—but it’s used!” That can’t be right. How can one bag cost that much?

  “It’s a classic. It’s Chanel.”

  “Okay, um, thank you,” I say, walking away deflated.

  I’m back where I started, standing outside the vintage shop, gazing through the window at my mom’s bag.

  It’s gorgeous. It should already be mine. But two grand for a purse? That’s insane.

  Or is it?

  Maybe I could charge it to my credit card and promise myself I’ll pay it off as quickly as possible. It’s not as if it’s a frivolous purchase. It’s an heirloom.

  My missing family heirloom.

  Hope restored, I turn to reenter the shop.

  But then, I remember something. Something very, very bad: I had a “plasectomy” last month. That’s where you cut up all your credit cards into teeny, tiny, little bits. And to top it off, I had the brilliant idea of cancelling them to avoid the temptation of calling the credit card companies to get them back. It felt so good at the time. Why couldn’t I have waited one more month to fin
d divine financial intervention?

  So now thanks to debt guru Dave Ramsey, I’m on a cash-only system. (I’m not a big fan of Mr. Ramsey at the moment.)

  But the image of the bag won’t leave my mind.

  I find myself back inside the shop, where I tap the same salesgirl on the shoulder. “Um, excuse me?”

  She turns and frowns when she sees it’s me.

  “Hi, again,” I say. “I was wondering . . . do you have a layaway plan?”

  “We don’t do lay-a-way,” she says, then walks away from me.

  Rude! Whatever. They can keep their overpriced bag.

  I leave the shop and manage not to look back.

  More than once.

  I make it back to my apartment with zero purchases, one (real) celebrity sighting, and two blisters on my feet. I linger in the hallway before entering. Someone is having something delicious for dinner tonight. It smells so good.

  I drop my crummy, old purse in the one luxury of my studio apartment: a walk-in closet. Sometimes I lie down in there and daydream. It’s my form of meditation.

  If only I could call my sister, Betty, and tell her about the bag. But she’s in Boston with her boyfriend, Matt, and I have strict instructions to limit calls to emergency situations. This seems urgent to me, although Betty may not see it that way.

  She’s been travelling back and forth to Boston every weekend for the last few months because Matt’s on a consulting project there. They’ve been dating since high school and are a bit codependent.

  As for Betty, she’s an accountant at one of the Big Four firms. I can never remember which one; probably because I zone out at the very mention of the word accounting. But she likes it. Her actual name is Beatrice, which she doesn’t like, so she goes by Betty. And as our last name is Bettencourt, this makes her Betty Bettencourt. It’s a crowd-pleaser.

  We’re twins. Well, what is known as “Irish twins,” as we were born within twelve months of one another. (Being Irish isn’t a necessary requirement.) I was born in February, and she came along later that same year in December. Although we couldn’t be more different, we’re really close. We’ve been through a lot together. She’s my best friend.

  And I can’t even call to tell her my news.

  So I settle for the next best thing: a frozen dinner and a night with my other friends—the ones who live inside the TV.

  I dozed off sometime between the opening monologue of a Saturday Night Live rerun and an infomercial for a gadget that can chop an onion a hundred-and-one different ways. Before I’m tempted to buy this spellbinding gadget, I turn off the TV.

  Lacking the energy to convert my futon sofa once again into a bed, I leave it as is and vow to permanently keep it in the bed position come the morning. It’s not as if I get many visitors, anyway. I’m also too lazy to get up to wash the makeup off my face and brush my teeth.

  I accept the future consequences and go back to sleep.

  Betty’s flight comes in at six. I debated surprising her at the airport, but that would mean giving up one of my precious Sunday evenings. Instead, I catch up on some reading. I subscribe to a few fashion and gossip magazines. I’m still on the summer issues, and it’s practically fall.

  I'm so deeply immersed in a “How to Get Bikini Ready in 6 Weeks” article that I almost don’t hear my phone ringing.

  It’s Betty!

  “Hey, Betty Boop,” I say when I answer.

  “Stop calling me that already.”

  “You love it.”

  “Not so much. How was film fest?”

  “Good. I saw Anne Hathaway.”

  “Cool, but did you see any actual films this time?”

  “Um, no. I was kind of busy. Betty, you won’t believe it. I saw—”

  “Hugh Jackman? Was he with Anne? Is he cuter in real life? Was he taller or shorter than you expected?”

  “I didn’t see Hugh. I saw—”

  “Did you finally see Ryan Gosling? Can you stop stalking movie stars now?”

  “What? I don’t stalk movie stars. Just listen! This is important.” I take a deep breath and continue, “While I was in Yorkville yesterday, I saw the most beautiful bag. Not any old bag, the bag: a vintage Chanel 2.55. And . . . it was navy!”

  “Chanel? Why do you need a Chanel bag? You already have a bunch of purses.”

  “I don’t think you heard me properly. It’s not any Chanel bag; it’s the 2.55. As in, mom’s bag.”

  “That’s what it was called? I didn’t know it had a name.”

  “I need this bag, Betty. It’s our birthright.”

  “How much was it?”

  I tell her.

  “Two thousand? Are you kidding me?” she says, laughing.

  “You can’t put a price on a birthright!”

  “Are you nuts, Erin? You don’t have twenty bucks, much less a couple of grand. Forget about it. Go to H&M and buy a purse there. No one will know the difference.”

  I should’ve known she wouldn’t get it. Betty’s pretty frugal. She’s the one who told me about this Dave Ramsey guy and his cash-only system that inspired my credit card cutting last month. Ever since she bought a one-bedroom-plus-den condo last year, she’s been on a mission to get me on the property ladder. But I don’t want a stupid condo, I want the Chanel bag.

  “Betty, please! I need it! It’s mom’s bag!”

  “All right, all right. Relax. It’s not actually mom’s bag; I hope you know that. How much do you really want it?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I say, “Enough to bring my lunch to work every single day for a year to get it.”

  “Wow. Maybe I can think of a way for you to buy the bag, without wrecking the progress you’ve made. Give me a couple of days to come up with a plan, but I have to go now, I’m starving.” Betty is always hungry.

  I feel better as soon as I get off the phone. My sister is a financial wizard; she’ll think of something for sure.

  She has to: this is meant to be. What are the chances of my finding the bag after all these years? It’s a sign from my mom. She wants me to have it, too.

  I know it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I HATE MONDAYS.

  I’ve hated Mondays ever since I began working full-time. Maybe not those first couple of weeks when the prospect of getting paid was still exciting but every Monday after that. I’m not too fond of Tuesdays, Wednesdays, or Thursdays, either. Fridays, I can handle, but only because we’re allowed to wear jeans.

  Usually, I’m at least fifteen minutes late for work. But on Mondays, it’s closer to twenty. It takes me five extra minutes to realize it isn’t the weekend anymore.

  So on this particular Monday, I’m taking my leisurely time getting to the subway station, racking my brain for a reason why I don’t have to go to work that I’ve somehow forgotten. Like, maybe it’s a statutory holiday. Or perhaps my real purpose in life is to become a missionary in Africa, and I should go sign up right now. Random stuff like that.

  I also hate the subway.

  When did I become such a hater? I used to be a happy-go-lucky sort of person before I started working. At least, I think I was. It’s hard to remember.

  But who could enjoy the subway during rush hour? I become a different person as soon as I pass through the turnstile. My blood pressure immediately goes up—almost as though I’m ready to do battle. And I am. I’m willing to push and shove with the rest of them if it means I can get on the train and not wait for the next one. The next one may never come.

  Monday morning rush hour is particularly busy, so I stake my ground behind the yellow line, holding out my arms slightly to the side, just slightly, so it’s not obvious. I also act indifferent about getting on the train. That fools them every time. Oh, and I always say, “Oops, sorry!” as I’m pushing and shoving people. It makes it easier to get away with.

  This is what the subway has turned me into.

  What’s even more morbid is, sometimes as I stand behind that yellow line with the crowd
s pressing against me, I think it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I fell onto the tracks . . . or if I jumped. Then, I wouldn’t have to worry about going to a job I hate. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything at all.

  But that’s the sort of decision you can’t come back from, so I wait behind the yellow line.

  There’s only one good thing when it comes to taking the subway: Suit Guy.

  I first met him three years ago. Well, we haven’t actually met in the conventional sense, although we seem to end up in the same subway car, at the same time, a lot. To increase the chances of serendipitously running into him, I do have to wait farther down the platform than I normally would, and I try to get on the train at a certain time. I almost never see him on Mondays, as I’m extra late, but today is my lucky day because there he is.

  He’s wearing his navy suit (my favourite), along with monogrammed cufflinks attached to what must be a custom-made shirt. I’ve figured out one of his initials: “S.” I imagine it stands for something that equals his level of refinement. Until I know what that is, he’s Suit Guy.

  I spoke with him once. There was a seat available, and he asked me if I wanted it. I stuttered that he could have it, as I preferred to stand. He said he preferred to stand, too, and then . . . he smiled at me. I haven’t sat down during morning rush hour since.

  That’s the closest I’ve ever been to him. He smelled so good: a concoction of soap and sandalwood. Bliss.

  But I’m too far away to inhale his intoxicating scent this morning. I can only sneak peeks at him in the train windows whenever we go into a dark tunnel.

  Have there ever been eyes more blue?

  I sigh loudly. The lady standing next to me slowly inches away. (Hmm, I’ll have to remember that trick.)

  Suit Guy gets off at King station. I got off once and followed him. (Maybe it was more than once.) I’m convinced he’s a high-ranking executive or something equally impressive-sounding. One of these days, I’m bound to find out.