Retail Therapy

by Roz Bailey

  “Yeah, OK, I’ll do it,” I said, “but you can’t expect me to sit around all day and not go shopping. At least I can look, right?”

  “That’s the biggest part of the problem!” Marcella pointed a finger at me. “You have too much time on your hands. But we’re going to take care of that right now. You need a job.”

  “Really?” I started brushing lint off my T-shirt. “Great. Hey, how about if I get a job being a personal shopper for the stars? It’s my specialty, and I could go out all day and spend someone else’s money. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  Marcella shook her head. “Too close to your addiction. Come on, it’s just two blocks this way.” Already she was on the move, Hailey dutifully walking alongside her.

  Oh, what the hell? I followed, picking my shirt clean and thinking that my Prada mules were feeling a little snug. Was it the humidity, or was it time for a new pair?

  When Marcella started up the stone stairs of LA Minute, I wanted to shout my approval. At last, the girl had come to her senses and we were going to have lunch at the “hottest spot on the planet.”

  “What a great idea!” I called to them. “I’m parched, and they have the most delicious Hollywood salad here.”

  But Marcella shook her head as she held open the big glass door. “You can’t afford to eat here anymore. I’m taking you in to apply for a job, honey.”

  I laughed. “What? Here? I can’t cook.”

  “True, but you know what people like, you have a strong sense of style, and you know how the rich like to be treated. Doesn’t hurt that you’ve got a damn pretty face. You’ll make a great hostess.”

  “A hostess? What kind of a job is that?” I blurted out to a woman in a gypsy costume hooked up with a headset right out of mission control.

  “It’s a super fun job,” she said cheerfully, acknowledging the three of us. “Table for three?”

  “Oh, I’m not staying.” Hailey shook her head in a panic, turning to Marcella. “I can’t work here. It’s too public. People will recognize me.”

  And I thought my cage was rattled.

  Hailey was frantic. “They’ll think I’ve given up,” she blubbered. “I’ll never get another role—”

  “Don’t panic, honey.” Marcella put her hands on Hailey’s shoulders. “I’ve got a different strategy for you. A little career advice. If you haven’t heard, you were mentioned on ET and Dateline: Hollywood last night. You’re the new bad girl of soaps.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Hailey protested.

  “See, that’s the thing. You keep proclaiming your innocence and people don’t want to hear it. The public wants to hear how naughty you’ve been. People love fallen angels. I say you stop fighting this thing and go after the bad girl market. Exploit the villainess image. Go to another network and sell yourself as a stinker.”

  “It’s so ... not me,” Hailey objected.

  “Was Ariel you? Are you half fish, half girl?”

  Hailey sighed. “I guess I could make it a game. Like acting.”

  “That’s right, honey. What have you got to lose?”

  “Hey? Sorry to interrupt,” the hostess prodded perkily. “How about that table?”

  “We’re here to see Minute Man,” Marcella answered, “about a job. Would you please tell him Marcella is here?” As the hostess radioed to a distant planet, Marcella was back on Hailey. “Now the first thing you do is call your agent. You tell her you have a three-point plan. You’re gonna start with the trades, and she’s going to set you up to be interviewed... .”

  As Marcella spelled out the details for Hailey, I surveyed the lobby of LA Minute. Customers were whisked through here quickly; a good thing, because the lobby decor reminded me of the waiting room of a dentist’s office—unsettling, with a promise of pain to follow.

  “OK, I’m going to go call Cruella.” Hailey held up crossed fingers. “Wish me luck.”

  “You go, girlfriend,” I told her, giving her a quick hug. A minute after she ducked out the door, a heavyset man with slicked-back sandy hair sauntered out of the elevator.

  “Marcella! What’s happening, babe?” He lumbered over and kissed her on each cheek.

  “Things are good,” she said. “I just stopped by to save your sorry butt. My friend Alana is in the market for a job, and since you need a hostess, I thought I’d put you two together.” She introduced us, and he shook my hand.

  “The name’s Danny Slane, but everyone calls me Minute Man.” Danny’s green eyes seemed to have a smile lurking behind them. “What do you think, Alana? We’re a very service-oriented business. Do you think you would be happy here?”

  “I can be happy anywhere, as long as I’m surrounded by style. And I like what you’ve done here. I’ve always enjoyed myself here—delicious food and a fun theme.”

  Danny grinned. “Great.”

  “However,” I went on, “I have to be honest with you, Minute Man. Silk flowers in the reception area?” I shuddered. “And that doormat has to go. It just screams ‘final sale at Kmart.’ And the mints on the counter? Who are we kidding? Can you spell ‘hepatitis law suit’? And that gypsy costume you make your staff wear?”

  “Now, the costume is important. It’s part of the theme,” he explained. “We want them to look like extras in a big-budget film.”

  “From the 1940s? Please. That thing will make me look like a runaway slave. ‘I ain’t never seen no babies being birthed!’ Is that the look you want for your staff?”

  “Of course not, but we need to follow through on the theme.”

  “Then change the costume. I’m sure we can come up with something more flattering for the staff, a little classier for your establishment.”

  “Yes, please!” the hostess called over as she led a group of diners toward the stairs.

  “I don’t know.” Leaning against a marble pillar, Minute Man scratched his chin. “You’ll have to show me some designs for uniforms. But I have to say, I like your honesty. And you seem to have a sense of what people want.”

  “Trust me, I’m an experienced consumer.”

  Marcella nodded. “That’s for sure.”

  “OK, then,” Danny said, shaking my hand. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  43

  Hailey

  “Zoe will be in soon,” the receptionist told me as she paused in the doorway. She had just escorted me into the office of Zoe Lemonda, editorial director of Soap Opera Diaries, and my new pipeline to the world. At least, that’s what I’d been hoping for when I set up this meeting. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I grinned. “Do you have any scotch?” I got that response from Marcella, and it worked like a charm.

  The receptionist paled, looking nervously out in the hallway. “Water, coffee, or tea?”

  “Guess I’ll stick with water, thanks.”

  I pushed the visitor’s chair closer to Zoe’s desk and sat down. None of that friendly personal space, Marcella had instructed. “Get right up in her grill, honey.” I straightened the elegant beaded black Dolce jacket I’d borrowed from Alana. A totally new look for me, the dress and matching jacket revealed miles of leg and a tease of cleavage. I hadn’t worn jeans for a week now. Marcella had suggested that the new, bad Hailey needed a new look, and so far I was having fun stepping out in style—mostly in items from the depths of Alana’s closet.

  A young, pencil-thin woman with a blond pixie haircut came in and grinned. “Did you really ask for scotch! You boozehound!”

  I laughed. “I figured it was worth a try.”

  “I’m Zoe,” she said, extending her hand. “And I’ve heard that you’ve changed your look recently, but I must say, this is working for you. No more of that corn-fed midwestern girl, right?”

  I crossed my legs. “I’m afraid we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  Zoe smiled. “Let’s close the door. We’ve got a lot to talk about, I think. As you know, my specialty is behind-the-scenes info on the soaps.”

  I nodde
d. “And I’ve got a few dozen Deanna anecdotes for you. I’ve sorted them in my mind by level of severity from nasty to depraved evil, but you can do with them what you like.”

  Zoe’s blue eyes went wide in amazement. “Do you mind if I tape you? You’re the first person who’s ever been willing to go on record with Deanna dirt. The woman is so powerful in this industry, well, not to scare you off, believe me, but no one has ever been willing to cross her.”

  “I used to feel that way, but she’s crossed me one too many times. She’s gotten me fired, she’s intimidated my boyfriend—”

  “Antonio?” Zoe turned on the tape player. “I’d love some juice on him, too. You can imagine, he’s a big seller for us, too. But first thing’s first: Deanna and her insipid evils.”

  “The thing to remember about Deanna is that she’s truly the queen of mean. No one on the set is safe from her tantrums and orders. She’s gotten makeup artists fired, and once she actually stuck a costume assistant with a straight pin.”

  Zoe was writing furiously, a look of amazement on her face. “Is it true that she demands rewrites?”

  “Won’t leave her limo if she doesn’t get them.”

  “Ugh! I used to work production on a soap. No more. And the size-two costumes? I just have to ask ...”

  “Actually, size six.” I nodded. “You heard it right. She’s been lying all these years. God knows why. I’m a size six and proud of it.”

  “This is so great,” Zoe said, holding her hands up like I’d scored a goal. “But I’ll stop interrupting and let you dig into the whole stories. Like the time she threatened you. How’d that happen?”

  “Well, she was waiting for me outside my dressing room, hiding in the shadows, when ...”

  I told the story with relish, careful not to inflate any of the details. In some cases, the truth was odder than fiction, and when I’d decided to step forward, I promised myself I wouldn’t stoop to Deanna’s level. I was sticking to the real story, period.

  The old Hailey would have hated this, but the new me was ready to rumble. If Deanna was going to sling the mud, I was willing to get my fingernails dirty and slop it right back.

  Fire away.

  Part Five

  MAKE A SPLASH WITH AN

  AUGUST SALE

  You Won’t Want to Miss!

  44

  Hailey

  There is nothing worse than having irate fans up your wazoo when you’re buying feminine-hygiene products.

  I had just placed my tampons and deodorant on the counter at the corner CVS when a woman behind me in line gave a loud sigh. I shot her a look.

  “Oh, you’re that mermaid girl,” she said, loud enough for everyone in the line to turn around to stare. She had black hair that was growing in shocking white, making her resemble a skunk. I could only hope she was in line to buy some Clairol Dewy Chestnut. “You’re that one who got caught stealing Deanna Childs’ clothes,” she said smugly.

  I pulled my straw hat down over my forehead and muttered. “I wasn’t stealing anything.” Didn’t anybody get that?

  When I turned back to the cashier, skunk lady added, “Better watch her! She’s a closet thief!”

  The clerk’s eyebrows rose, and I shook my head. Sometimes, the bad girl image just doesn’t work for you, but then nobody thinks of defending the rights of Mata Hari or Madonna to buy tampons in peace. I routed through the bottom of my bag for the thirty-seven cents in change. I would have to talk to Marcella about budgeting in some more cash for necessities.

  “That’s her!” The white-streaked woman pointed to the copies of Soap Scandals in the checkout-counter rack. She even stepped up and tapped my face, a photo of me leaving Mosquito with Jackie Chan, my face a little pale from overexposure, though Jackie looked adorable. We’d had a chance to meet him that night, and we just happened to leave the restaurant at the same time. See how the press twisted things? “She’s Hailey Starrett, the thief from All Our Tomorrows.”

  At least she got my name right. I turned slowly and folded my arms in front of me. “I didn’t steal those clothes, and they didn’t belong to Deanna in the first place. They were costumes, and I was in the wardrobe department doing fittings. I was just doing my job as an actress when Deanna Childs threw one of her famous tantrums.”

  I realized that the eyes of customers in the line were all over me, assessing my testimony. One woman with rectangular eyeglasses and a briefcase scowled. A girl with too much mascara was nodding in approval. One man from the back called out, “You tell her, Ariel!”

  My testimony complete, I turned back to the counter and fished out the coins. I was waiting for the receipt to print (for Marcella) when the woman behind me added, “How about Antonio Lopez? Is it true that he broke your heart?”

  Now that was too personal, and way too complex to answer in five words or less, though I was beyond the early scratch-his-eyes-out stage. By my count, the first seven days after any breakup should be termed as a cooling-off period, a time when each party needs to work through the hurt, rejection, blame, regret, disbelief—not to mention the tests for STDs, which may have been the cause of the breakup in the first place.

  In my case, after that first week of misery over Antonio, I realized that I didn’t miss him that much, and that the worst part of our breakup was the humiliation of allowing Deanna one more shot at me.

  “You know,” Skunk Lady said, yanking me back to reality, “you’re not as pretty in person.”

  I turned to her and just rolled my eyes.

  It was ironic, but ever since I was fired from the show, I’d been recognized more than ever. Marcella had been right about being unable to shake the bad rep. Not that I minded being the bad girl of soaps, but I wasn’t even being paid for the honor or the invasion of my privacy. I wouldn’t have minded the attention if I had a job!

  “Is it true Deanna threatened you?” the woman asked.

  “Read Soap Opera Diaries,” I said, plugging Zoe’s publication. “They’re the only ones who got it right.” Snatching up my plastic bag, I swept out the door, nearly snagging Alana’s lilac silk print summer dress as I swept past the rack of Soap Scandals. It was an issue I’d already read, which quoted Deanna saying, “Hailey Starrett will not be back. If that girl wants to return to this show, she’ll have to step over my dead body.”

  A tempting invitation, I thought. Very tempting.

  45

  Alana

  “This is Alana sending five to the caves, party of five to the caves. Do you copy?” I spoke quietly into the headset mike, as I guided five female exec secs into the elevators.

  “This is Bear. Copy that, Alana.”

  Bear was a nickname for Brandon, my associate manning LA Minute’s third floor, which was otherwise known as the caves. Everyone employed at LA Minute had to wear a headset, and the lingo was just a shorthand that had evolved over the course of conducting hundreds of people through a multilevel facility. Today I was assigned to my favorite “hot spot,” the main entrance, which was truly the land parallel to air traffic control. Here I got to meet and greet everyone coming in, charm them in the first thirty seconds, then hustle them along to “one of my favorite tables” with that high-voltage energy that was trademark LA Minute. In less than a month here, I had mastered the pace of one of the trendiest new restaurants in Manhattan. Perhaps it was just the flavor of the month, but LA Minute was the hot, hot, hot place to see and be seen, and I was fine, fine, fine at keeping on top of the friendly chaos.

  I sent a few more parties off to their tables—the most stylish guests landing tables in the fountain room on the first floor, where all the stars and models and power players were seated. The main structure in the center of the fountain was shaped like an Oscar, the gold statuette given out to winners of Academy Awards. The second floor, called the balcony, was a little more quiet and reserved. The chairs were actually movie seats in rows of two or three. To break up the auditorium sterility, the tables were separated by screens made of rice p
aper, painted canvas, or stained glass. Somehow the overall look came together: kitschy, eclectic, and cozy. Chaos reigned in the caves on the third floor, designed to resemble a movie set for Planet of the Apes meets Jurassic Park. Our dark, wild dance floor and funky bar was favored by college kids and overage debutantes. The restaurant’s owner, Danny Slane, affectionately known as Minute Man, offered incentives like half-price happy-hour appetizers to lure customers up to the caves, and people had responded in droves. I guess the lure of a discount works in the restaurant industry, too.

  “Hello, Ms. Tong! Step in out of that humidity! Our garden is nice and cool today.” Over my mike, I said, “Two coins for the fountain,” and sent the local newscaster and her companion to the celebrity area.

  I assumed that the next tall black brother in the lobby was a pro basketball player, until I got a look at his face.

  “Trevor!” I gave him a hug, pounding on his back. “You’re looking good, you bad boy!”

  “Hell of a lot better than I looked the last time you saw me. And you’re kicking some butt yourself, cuz. Got yourself a job at the see-and-be-seen place in town.”

  I slipped out of Trev’s embrace and noticed that Xavier was behind him. Somehow I’d known I would see him again, though it had bothered me to have the situation out of my control. For a guy who almost invited me to move out to LA with him, he had certainly dried up quick and fast. In fact, when I’d tried to get information about Trevor in rehab, I’d had to call his mama and try to sort fact from Aunt Nessie–fiction.

  So what could I say to cover the awkwardness? “Oh, you.” I didn’t intend to sound so mean. “What, are you visiting from the West Coast?”

  “Actually, I’m sort of bicoastal. You didn’t think you’d be rid of me so easy, did you? Besides, someone had to spring your cousin from rehab.”

  “Nah, it’s not that way,” Trevor insisted. “It’s my call now. I’m the one who’s gonna make this work.”