Riley can’t stop looking at her glasses.
On their way back, Samantha invites Riley to see her place. After previewing that fancy lobby, Riley is dying to see what the apartment looks like.
“It’s a little messy right now,” Samantha says as they walk along the mezzanine that leads to her apartment. “The cleaning girl doesn’t come until tomorrow.”
Riley nods. Of course Samantha has a cleaning girl. Samantha has everything.
At the door, Riley looks on while Samantha punches in numbers on the keypad.
0808
A rather simple code for such high-security digs, Riley thinks. Much simpler than that gate code I made off with.
As she expected, the place is expansive and gorgeous. The living room floor is covered with dark wood that does not look like laminate. Even the lighting is top-notch and stylish. Black domed lamps hover at varying heights like flying saucers coming in for a landing.
She won’t be seeing my place, that’s for sure, she decides, then wonders what Samantha would say if she knew Riley’s dump was right next to this building.
And that sofa set . . . soft, supple leather! Her favorite. The mark of extravagance. Riley walks up to it, breathes in its glorious smell, and runs her hand across one of the pillows, admiring the look and feel of it, the quiet, rugged beauty, sexy and sumptuous and classy all at the same time. Temptation takes hold, and all she can think about is falling into the plush leather cushions, then leaning back and drowning herself in the pleasure.
She goes for it.
“That was the first piece of furniture I bought for this apartment,” Samantha yells from the kitchen. “I absolutely love leather. So strong and soft at the same time. Don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh,” Riley quickly responds with enthusiasm she can’t contain.
She leaves the couch to join Samantha in the kitchen. There, it’s all about the built-in stainless steel appliances, accentuated by red-and-black-spattered granite countertops.
“Samantha,” Riley says, “your place is great.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet to say that,” Samantha replies with her silver-tongued southern twang. She grabs the handle on her refrigerator door, then adds, “I really do like it here.”
What’s not to like?
When Samantha opens her fridge, there isn’t much food to speak of inside, but she definitely likes her vitamin waters and cold-pressed juices, which stand tall and in great numbers, filling every shelf, including the ones on the side. Even her vegetable bins are crammed with drinks.
Samantha notices Riley noticing the lack of food. With a bashful smile and shrug, she says, “I do a lot of takeout. It’s easier.”
Riley acknowledges the comment with a single downward bob of her head, and Samantha asks her which drink she’d like. Riley opts for the blue vitamin water. Even though she has no idea what blue is supposed to taste like, the idea intrigues her.
“Let’s show you around,” Samantha cheerily says after grabbing herself a bottle filled with a liquid that looks like green, sludgy plant matter.
Samantha’s sleeping quarters are almost as big as Riley’s entire apartment. A California king bed, indeed fit for a king, rests in the room’s center and faces a series of floor-to-ceiling windows, which boast a much more flattering view than Riley’s place ever could. Stylish furniture pieces made of sleek ebony rest beneath recessed ceiling lights that fill in all the right spaces, showering them with soft, pale-blue illumination.
Riley absorbs downtown’s dramatic skyline and nearly has to catch her breath. Never before in her life has she seen anything like this. Never before has she experienced on such an intimate level how remarkable a privileged life can feel. The kind of life she and Jason would sometimes dream about. But deep down, they always knew that as long as they had each other, it would be enough.
Samantha appraises the view as if it were her kingdom, then through a long sigh says, “My Lord, I wonder what all the poor people are doing today.”
Riley flinches.
Samantha says, “I’m totally kidding!” She gives Riley a playful shove.
Riley’s smile feels tiny.
“Sorry,” Samantha says, looking down and placing a finger against her lips to suppress the grin. “Everyone tells me I’ve got a weird sense of humor.”
Riley cuts herself loose from the conversation by finding distraction in the bigger-than-big-screen TV mounted to a wall. She examines the bed’s positioning and asks, “How in the world can you watch television without getting a crick in your neck?”
“Jump on and see!”
Riley does.
“Go ahead,” Samantha urges her. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Riley does that, too. She sinks into the silky down pillows, then lets out a screech of surprise when the bed vibrates and rotates toward the big screen. She looks at Samantha, standing a few feet away, aiming a remote at her and giggling.
“Oh. That’s how,” Riley says, trying for carefree.
“Pretty cool, right?”
“Pretty damned amazing is more like it.”
Samantha waves off the comment. “It’s just stuff.”
Riley sits up to visually assess Samantha, who responds by angling her head.
“Where does all your complexity come from?” Riley asks.
“The School of Hard Knocks?”
“One thing we’ve got in common.”
“We have plenty in common,” Samantha says. “More than we probably realize, I’ll bet.”
39
“Oh my Lord,” Samantha breathlessly says, clutching Riley by the shoulder with one hand and pointing with the other. “Would you look at those shoes? They’re gorgeous!”
“Four-and-a-half-inch red pumps aren’t exactly my style, but you’d look amazing in them.”
Samantha lifts one to examine it, and her face lights up like a pinball machine. “My size, too. Seems like they’re meant to be.” She puts them back and moves on.
“Aren’t you going to buy them?”
“I don’t know.” Samantha shrugs. “Maybe I’ll grab them later. Let’s take care of you first—that’s what we came here for.”
About fifteen minutes later, Riley steps out of the dressing room to model a pair of blue jeans and a white top beneath a red leather jacket. She readjusts the waist, then self-consciously tugs the jacket lower.
“Quit fussing.” Samantha rises from the waiting chair and walks up to Riley. She repositions the collar and says, “Perfect. You look awesome in this.”
“I look like a wilting American flag.”
“Now stop that. You do not.”
“It’s awful contemporary for this body. Feels like I’m trying too hard.”
“Are you kidding? You can totally pull it off. Trust me, that looks amazing. We’re grabbing the whole outfit for sure. Now go try on the others.” Samantha retreats to her chair.
Slap, slap, slap.
Riley’s eyes whisk toward the source.
With one leg crossed over the other, Samantha flexes her foot, forcing the heel on her shoe to snap on and off. She notices Riley’s startled expression, cringes, and stops. “Sorry . . . it’s one of those annoying habits I’ve never been able to shake. Like cracking your knuckles. I swear, half the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it.”
Riley relaxes. It’s just a coincidence, a common behavior lots of women have. This has nothing to do with Patricia. Through a conciliatory laugh, she says, “Don’t even worry about it. We all have our hang-ups.”
“Hell, I’ve got so many I’d lose count trying to tally them all up. Oh, hey, I want you to try on another top I love.” Samantha snaps her fingers at a teenage salesgirl and says, “Yoo-hoo. You! Go and fetch me that emerald top I saw earlier.”
Teen Clerk shakes her head.
“For heaven’s sake, you saw me looking right at it. Don’t you remember?”
The girl appears to be putting her mind into rewind. She shakes her head ag
ain.
Samantha’s laugh shows shades of irritation. “Never mind. I’ll find it.” She rolls her eyes at Riley, then walks out onto the floor.
Teen Clerk looks apologetic. Riley offers her a peacemaking expression and says, “She’s just feeling a little rushed today.”
The girl tries to shrug it off, and Riley goes into her dressing room to try on a few more items.
Minutes later, Samantha knocks on the door. Riley opens it and peers through the gap to find her holding up the blouse.
“Right?” Samantha says, baby blues dancing with zeal. “What did I tell you? Absolutely beautiful, yes?”
Riley takes it and closes the door. When she emerges wearing the top, Samantha says, “I adore this. It’s gorgeous. We’re buying that one, too.”
“We’ve already done a lot of damage. There’s got to be over a thousand dollars’ worth of clothing in those shopping bags. I think maybe we should call this a day.”
“Please, this is nothing. You should see me when I’m out doing retail therapy. What you have here is a mere fraction of what I can run up. I’m constantly finding clothes in my closet I don’t even remember buying. It’s like a sickness.”
“But in those cases, you’re spending the money on yourself, not me.”
“Riley, please. Let’s not do this again. You’re my friend. You’ve been through a rough period. I’m helping you out a little. Besides, I get something out of this, too.”
“Yeah, the bill.”
“No, not the bill.” Samantha gives Riley another of her playful shoves. “For real, I can afford this. I love to buy people things. That’s how I am. It makes me feel better about myself.”
Riley blinks at her.
Before Samantha can respond, a commotion starts up across the room. An older clerk is questioning the teenage salesgirl, but from this far away it’s difficult to hear the conversation.
Teen Clerk presses both hands against her cheeks and shakes her head. Lady Clerk walks away, shaking hers.
“I’m sorry!” the girl says to the woman loud enough that Riley and Samantha can hear her.
“I wonder what that was all about,” Riley remarks.
“I’d say the kid didn’t do what she was supposed to, and someone opened a can of whoop-ass on her.” Samantha glances down at her watch and says, “Hey, we need to pay for this stuff and jam. You’ve got a hair appointment in a few minutes.”
40
Zoey, Samantha’s new stylist, is probably not much older than Samantha. A rocker, for sure, as illustrated by the black and faded Foo Fighters concert tee, but girlfriend’s got a lot more than that going on. She wears the obligatory wire nose ring, and her hair is quite interesting. The base color is blonde: blonde as blonde can be, almost white, accented by tendrils of many colors, which look like they shot out from a Play-Doh can. Some green here, blue there, and pink in other places.
Despite Zoey’s rock-and-roll fantasy, the salon is well-appointed, the theme a brand of industrial chic. Metal pipes painted black crisscross high ceilings that meet redbrick walls, the room fronted by windows made entirely of refurbished factory-paned glass. The appointment won’t be cheap. Not that it matters. Samantha is footing this one, too.
Riley sits in the hairstylist’s chair and thumbs through a cut-and-color book she’s been considering for the last five minutes or so. Samantha looks on, sipping her fourth glass of wine, which comes courtesy of the salon.
“I like this one.” Riley points to one of the pages.
Samantha drinks some wine and considers it. She swallows fast, shakes her head, and says, “I don’t think that will work for you, sweetie. Her hair is longer, and the style doesn’t fit the shape of your face.”
Riley flips through more pages, then stops and says, “Ooh, I love this!”
Samantha again shakes her head. “The color’s all wrong. Too light. It doesn’t match your skin tone.” She considers Zoey for support.
“Oh, I don’t know . . . ,” Zoey says. “We might be able to make it work with the right highlights.”
“I’m thinking you’ll need to go much darker,” Samantha insists. She steps in closer, almost loses her footing, then saves herself, but not before nearly spilling wine onto Riley’s shoulder.
“Floor’s a little uneven in that one spot right there,” she burbles under her breath, then clumsily sets her glass on the console. She takes the book from Riley and says, “I’ll find you something.”
Riley waits and observes Zoey, who makes a valiant effort to hide her growing impatience—an attempt foiled by the periodic checking of her watch. But oddly, she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about Samantha’s drinking, which makes Riley think this is not an unusual situation.
Samantha’s face brightens. She turns the book around and says, “This.”
“That?”
“Yes. It would be perfect on you.”
It looks exactly like Samantha’s—same dark shade, same cut. Riley stares at the page, unsure what to say or even how to say it.
“Well?” she prompts. “What do you think?”
“Samantha, this is the same as yours.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
With unsteady hands, Samantha holds the book farther away, studies it, and says, “Okay, maybe it’s kind of similar.”
Riley examines the page again. Are they looking at two different pictures? She points to the photo and says, “That one, right?”
Samantha gives her a quick nod and grin.
Riley labors to sound self-reliant when she says, “I just don’t want to have hair like yours. I want my own.”
Zoey has taken to organizing hair products on a shelf, clearly pretending she can’t hear a conversation on the verge of boiling over.
“I really don’t see what the problem is,” Samantha says through mild laughter that sounds a tad more critical than reassuring. “You have to trust me here. I really know what I’m talking about when it comes to this stuff. Just do it. You’ll love it once it’s done. Zoey? Come here and see—”
“No!” Riley explodes, feeling cornered and bullied. “I said no!”
Samantha takes a step back and shoots her a wide-eyed stare.
“I’m sorry,” Riley says, trying to speak calmer, “but you weren’t listening to me. I don’t want your hair.”
Samantha nods toward the top of Riley’s head and says, “You think that looks any better?”
“Okay, now you’re just being cruel. I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“Oh, come on . . .” Samantha’s expression softens. Her tone is placating. “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I really don’t see how it could mean anything else.”
“I just can’t win here.” Samantha throws up her hands in frustration. “I won’t say another word.”
The only sounds at the moment are loud, staccato ticks from Samantha’s shoes as they march across the tiled floor toward the waiting area. She takes her seat.
Riley leaves her chair and follows. Standing before Samantha, she asks, “What’s gotten into you today?”
“What do you mean? You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.”
“Then you insulted me when I didn’t agree with it?”
Samantha picks up the glass, tosses back her last bit of wine, and says, “Look, pick whatever style you want. I’m done here.”
“You know what? So am I,” Riley says. Then to Zoey, “I’m really sorry about this, but I think I’ll wait on the hair.”
41
Things are uncomfortable on their way out.
And extremely quiet.
It seems as though Samantha has managed to shed some of her irritation, but she still looks bruised, and Riley is still put off by Samantha’s behavior inside the salon.
“Samantha,” Riley starts when they’re at the parking lot, “we should talk about this.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Samantha says, moving too qui
ckly with a slight stumble in her gait. “You didn’t like the hair I suggested. I get it.”
“We’ve been through this, and I explained myself. Would you just listen to me? The whole purpose of this trip was to discover a new identity. My own identity. Changing hairstyles—especially the color—is a big deal for me. I’ve been away from society and want to fit in again, but how you acted in there wasn’t the way to help me do it.”
“Me? What did I do wrong? You were the one who blew up.”
“I told you I was sorry, but you made me feel pushed back, then you tried to punish me for it. You were being so aggressive that I could barely defend myself.”
“Honestly, Riley, it’s just hair. You can always change it.”
“Samantha, that’s not the poi—”
“And did you ever consider that maybe—just maybe—the hair suggestion wasn’t about looking like me? Did you even consider that my intentions could have been purely innocent? That I was actually trying to help you find the fresh new start you want? Going from light to dark is a fresh new start. And you could have easily gotten a different cut to make it more you.” Samantha holds a gaze on Riley, one that demands a reply.
Riley wavers for a moment and reconsiders the conversation. Was she the one who overreacted? No, wait, she thinks, then says, “But you never explained that in the salon. And . . . and you were making me nervous with all the wine.”
“Oh, great. So now I get to hear a lecture about my drinking habits.”
“I was not lectur—”
“I swear.” Samantha grabs her hair in clumps and looks upward. “You’d think I was trying to sabotage your life. Why can’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then maybe you should act like it. Why not give the hair a try? I’ll be fine if you don’t like it. I’ll even pay for a new style.”
“Money isn’t the point here, and I wish you’d stop trying to—”
“What, to pay for everything? Believe me, I know. You remind me every damned time I try. It’s insulting.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is how you overreacted in there. You were unkind when I was trying to help. You completely twisted my good intentions. You yelled at me, right in front of Zoey, then marched out of the salon. For crying out loud, I brought you to her. It was embarrassing!”
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 11