Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  “Oh, hello! Mrs. Carson, I haven’t seen you in here for ages.” She comes to greet me with a hungry smile, probably assuming I’ll be dropping a couple grand like I used to.

  “Good morning Anita, lovely to see you.” I had actually forgotten her name, but I was able to Google the store for a reminder. Anita is somewhere in her late forties, a willowy brunette who wears her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She’s obviously surprised and proud that I supposedly remembered her name, and after giving me an appraising look, she jumps right into sales mode.

  “Is there something specific you’re looking for today, Mrs. Carson? Or perhaps I can show you the delicious new stock I imported directly from Paris.”

  “I’m actually here on business,” I say, noting the pride in my voice.

  “Oh?” Anita looks pretty shocked and gawks at me, wide eyed.

  “That’s right. My partner and I have launched a new residential design consulting service and we’d like to showcase ourselves at the January home show.” I pause to take a breath, and Anita stares at me as though I’m speaking Martian.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, her face blank.

  “I happened to notice your company has purchased a booth at the show and was told by the organizer I could share a booth with another company, as all booths are sold out.”

  “You want to share my booth?”

  “That’s right. And of course we would share the fee.”

  After a beat, Anita’s face scrunches into a frown and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carson. I can’t share my booth; I have a lot of merchandise to showcase. Cutting that down by half would be, well, it would be impossible.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, disheartened. “Well, perhaps the savings of a thousand dollars would enable you to offer in-store credits to get customers through your door.”

  “Well, thank you, but I’m doing that anyway.”

  Oh. Shit. Anita has lost interest now that she sees she’s not going to make money off me. Still, not wanting to burn any bridges, I pretend to browse and make small talk for a couple of minutes, before giving a friendly wave goodbye. I hold my smile on my face until I’m safely outside.

  Now what? I’m sure the other companies will feel the same about sharing a booth. I just have to call the organizer and—

  “Lane?”

  Hmm? I turn around in wonder.

  “Lane, is that really you?” Victoria Hughes is making her way toward me, her stiletto heels clicking along the sidewalk. She’s in head-to-toe black and her platinum hair is slicked back, showing off diamond earrings the size of skating rinks. The last time I talked to Victoria was to cancel attending one of her luncheons. That was just before things blew up with Micky; it feels like a lifetime ago.

  I smile at Victoria, and we air kiss each other. I haven’t air kissed in ages either. It now feels exceptionally awkward and artificial.

  “My God, Lane! Where have you been? You look fantastic by the way; you’re absolutely glowing.”

  “Victoria, lovely to see you. We moved to Kits, actually.”

  “Oh! Well, that explains it. We all thought you fell off the face of this earth.”

  Yeah, but nobody bothered to even call or text to check in. “Well,” I pause, “a lot has happened. I mean with Micky’s business and all. And losing the house, as I’m sure you’ve already heard all about.” I try a little laugh in an effort to make light of things, but Victoria just gawks at me, perplexed.

  “I don’t follow, Lane. What happened?”

  “Oh, you know.” I really don’t want to get into all this, especially here, standing on the street. “Micky lost our money—as in all of it. And he was pretty crushed to say the least. So I have the kids with me in Kits.” That about sums it up.

  “I can’t believe this. I mean, I could have sworn—”

  “It’s all right really. I actually have my own incredibly successful business now,” I say with a triumphant smile.

  But Victoria seems as though she’s hardly heard a word. She’s frowning—or at least I think she’s frowning; it’s hard to tell with all the Botox—and she appears lost in her own thoughts. “Lane. Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what? My business?”

  “No, no, about Micky. Because…well, I guess I misunderstood.”

  I shrug, unsure of what she’s talking about. Anyway, I don’t have time for this. “Victoria, I’m sorry to rush off but I have a meeting.”

  Slowly, she raises her eyes to mine, a troubled look on her face.

  What a weirdo.

  “Oh, all right, Lane. Take care.” She moves forward to air kiss me, and I lean in to do the same with her, careful not to actually touch her, lest we ruin our hair or smear lipstick on one another.

  I give a little wave and walk away to the bus stop a block up. It’s one thing to admit we lost our money, but it’s another altogether to be seen waiting at a bus stop. Plus, I said my business was successful, didn’t I?

  I make it to the next block, my feet starting to pinch, and cross the street to wait for the bus. Today is a gray day, but at least it isn’t raining! There’s nothing worse than riding a damp, smelly bus. Ugh! I stand among the riders and try to keep my face passive, as though I’m not eager for the bus to arrive.

  This could be a bit embarrassing should someone from my old life happen to see me. I pull out some sunglasses to cover up. Bloody bus, where the hell is it? A sleek, black BMW convertible approaches and rolls to a halt, and my heart sinks as I recognize Victoria’s car. The window slides down, and Victoria’s face appears as she leans over from the driver’s seat.

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  This is so humiliating. “No, no worries. Thanks!”

  “Really? I’m going downtown to Holt’s before heading home.”

  “Oh. Uh, okay then.” The door swings open, and I slide inside as a car horn blares behind us.

  “Fuck off, fucker!” Victoria screams, flipping the bird. I stifle the desire to giggle.

  “Thanks for the ride, Victoria. I…uh…loaned my car to a friend, but then realized I had a meeting.”

  “Of course,” she waves her hand. “Lane, do you still have the same cell number?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, good. I might be in touch. Do you mind?”

  “No.” I’m looking out the window, already thinking about my next step with the home show.

  We make small talk, but we really have nothing in common anymore. Victoria doesn’t have kids, and I don’t have money. We pull up to the parkade for Holt Renfrew, and I thank Victoria, then hop out, and walk the rest of the way to St. Paul’s Hospital.

  I find the cardiac ward and George’s room. I quietly slip into his room in case he’s sleeping and find his bed in the upright position. George is awake and staring out the window, and he slowly turns his head I when I come in.

  “Hi,” I say with a shy smile as I approach him.

  “Lane,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask. Man, I haven’t seen him since the heart attack. His coloring is somewhat back but he looks so frail. He’s connected to countless cords and his arm is completely bruised.

  “I’m sick of this bloody place! The food, the staff. It’s all dreadful.”

  “I don’t blame you. So, when are you coming home?”

  “I’m getting to the point where I just want to discharge myself. These doctors know nothing!”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, amused. “Well, they obviously were able to help you. You gave us all a scare.”

  “It was just a bit of heartburn, really.”

  “Uh-huh. Well…your cat has outstayed its welcome in my attic, so you better come home soon.” Just not before Thursday, I want to add. And for good measure. “You know you really should just stay and rest until you’re a hundred percent.”

  George grunts. “So, Piper’s okay?” he asks, curiosity etched into his voice.

  “Yeah, but she ripped my canopy with her c
laws. So, you know. I’ll need a rent reduction to fix that.”

  George narrows his eyes, a deep frown setting into his already-wrinkled face. “Is this why you came?”

  “No. I actually kind of…miss you—just a teensy bit. I mean, don’t hurry home.”

  The old man’s lips twitch, and I break into a smile. I take his hand in mine, and then, feeling a sudden warmth of goodwill, I lean forward and brush a little kiss on his cheek. “I have to go pick up Rory, but you get your strength back and I’ll see you soon. Who knows, maybe this weekend?”

  “Lane, these idiots don’t know what they’re talking about. But they insist I have some…you know…help for a bit.”

  “Help? You mean like a cleaner.”

  “No. A live-in.”

  Oh. George is so frail, yet so proud. This must be monumentally difficult for him.

  “It’s temporary,” he says.

  “Obviously.”

  “So, if you and Liam can just conduct interviews. Narrow it down to three candidates.”

  “All right, but I’ll probably need to be compensated for my time,” I say, half joking.

  “Get out!” George growls, and I flash a smile and dash out before he can ask me to do anything else.

  I’m feeling pretty wiped from all this running around. Outside, I consider grabbing a coffee, but I really have no money, so decide against it. I sigh and turn in the direction of Billy’s condo. As I’m walking, I pull my phone out and find the number for the home show. I press talk and wait till I’m put through to the director I spoke with the other day.

  “Good afternoon,” I purr, “we spoke the other day and you suggested we share a booth with another company. However, the challenge is the other companies really need all the space they can get to showcase their products and services, so I was thinking. How about we have a walking booth?”

  “A walking booth?”

  “Well, yes. But minus the booth of course. Since there aren’t enough booths how about we have some kind of pass that permits us to still engage with attendees about our services?”

  “You want to just walk around and not have a booth?” the director asks. He sounds floored.

  “That’s right. We’ll have minimal handouts; it’s more about networking and building rapports.”

  “Hmm. I’ve honestly never considered that. But…well…why not, since we don’t have any booths left? Next time, just be sure to book in advance.”

  “Great,” I cry, grinning. I stride past some women in suits and shoot them a victorious look. I’m conducting business too!

  “So, let’s see. If half a booth is a thousand dollars then a walking engagement would be, well, how about two fifty?”

  “Two hundred and fifty?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Correct.”

  YES!

  “I think that’s fair,” I confirm, keeping my voice casual. “Thanks so much.” I ring off.

  Two hundred and fifty bucks! No freaking way! And we don’t have to stand behind some stupid booth all day. Mission for the day accomplished: home show, here we come!

  23

  We’re meeting with the designers in the ballroom today! I wake up with all the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. We have nine design companies confirmed, who we’ll meet with every hour on the hour from ten o’clock onward—it’s going to be a hell of a busy day. Everything was laid out last night for Margo, so I’m able to breeze through the morning routine and get her off to school. Unfortunately, Dad is out sampling wedding cakes today, so he won’t be able to watch Rory. I actually think he’s still a bit disgruntled with what happened to Riley when I was supposedly looking after him. Oh well. Instead, Juliet will watch Rory—but the logistics are going to be a little off, because she’s also supposed to be answering the door and fetching refreshments.

  The first person to arrive is Liam, wearing silver-gray suit pants and a white, pocket-less Armani shirt. His hair is swept back with mousse or something, so it doesn’t look slick, but rather perfectly groomed. When I open the door to greet him, my heart jumps into my throat. He’s the most breathtaking creature I’ve probably ever seen, and when he smiles, it’s like a thousand angels erupting into song.

  “Good morning, love,” he says, and leans forward to brush a tender kiss on my cheek. I inhale with greed, wishing we could just stay like this all day. But then Rory squirms in my arms, having being squished between us. “It’s the little love.” Liam opens his arms to take her.

  I hand her over and race upstairs for the final touches. I grab our sleek brochures, which outline the benefits for designers who work with us. The images on the brochure are from the renos I oversaw in our West Van house. I may have hired contractors, but the design concepts were all mine, down to the last minute detail. I slip the brochures along with my notepad and pens into a leather case I borrowed from George’s study, and inspect myself in the mirror. My hair is flat ironed and sleek, my makeup is smoky eyes and nude glossy lips, and my outfit is a black top with a pleated satin design down the front—to resemble an abstract tie—and a fuchsia pencil skirt and six-inch platform Jimmy Choo’s. I pop some diamond studs in my ears and spray on Coco Chanel Mademoiselle scent. Satisfied with the finished product, I grin at myself, grab Rory’s diaper bag and the leather case, and teeter my way down the stairs.

  Billy has arrived and is wearing a fitted, black top paired with black skinny pants. A gray-and-black canvas Louis Vuitton bag is draped on his shoulder, and his Izimiaki cologne hangs in the air.

  “Laney, you ready?” His green eyes twinkle as he reaches out to give my hand a little squeeze.

  “As ready as ready can be. Is Juliet here yet?” The doorbell rings as I say this, and Billy pulls it open. Juliet is standing on the stoop, her auburn hair curled and her makeup perfect.

  But it’s not her face I’m gawking at.

  “Wow!” Liam says coming from behind me. I choose to ignore his enthusiasm.

  “Is this okay?” Juliet asks, eyes big.

  Somehow I find my voice. “I thought your maid outfit was, like, a simple, black, knee-length dress; not…”

  “French maid,” Liam finishes.

  Right. Juliet is wearing the shortest black, frilly dress, with a frillier white apron and stiletto heels. All she’s missing is fishnet stockings and a pink, feather-duster dildo!

  “Is this really appropriate?” is all I can mutter.

  “She’s fine.” Billy waves his hand, so I hesitate for a beat, then step aside to let her in.

  “At least put your hair up; that would be more professional,” I say with dismay and check the hall clock, which shows 9:45. Fifteen minutes to go. “Billy, take these brochures to the ballroom, and make sure everything is perfect. Liam, can you make sure the champagne is ready to go, along with glasses and cocktail napkins? I’ll take Rory.”

  Liam plants a kiss on Rory’s head before passing her back to me. She squirms to get down. I know she wants to walk holding my hand, but there’s no time. I turn back to Juliet who has piled her hair on top of her head and now has sexy cascading curls. It’s no use.

  “Try a braid,” I snap and stalk off to follow Liam to the kitchen. What is Juliet thinking, showing up like a sex goddess? I should never have asked her to come today. We could have done without a maid.

  “Don’t you think Juliet looks ridiculous?” I ask, barging into the kitchen and taking Liam by surprise.

  “Oh, I don’t know. She looks pretty gorgeous to me.”

  My frown deepens. “Yeah, but it’s unprofessional,” I whine.

  Liam stops and gives me a deadpan look. “I wouldn’t worry about it; nobody ever notices the maid.”

  “I suppose,” I say, feeling a tad better. Nobody ever paid much attention to Denise. Why didn’t I ask Denise to come? It would have been ideal!

  “Juliet is really sweet,” Liam says, as he lines up the champagne glasses.

  I shoot him a look to shut up. So much for nobody ever noticing
the maid!

  At 9:59 Billy and I hover near the front door with expectant smiles on our faces while Liam and Juliet stand a few feet away, ready for action. Billy and I keep going over what we’ll be saying to the designers and try to anticipate questions they may have. At ten o’clock, we’re peering through the windows.

  “Is that them?”

  “Is that them?”

  By ten twenty-five, Liam and Juliet have apparently lost interest and have retreated to the kitchen with Rory. Billy and I sit side by side on the foyer stairs, shoulders slumped, each staring into our flutes of champagne.

  “What if they all don’t show?” I whisper, too afraid it might be true.

  “I doubt we’ll get shafted by every designer. I mean, why would they? This is a respectable address in Kitsilano; they’d have to be loony not to show.”

  True. We sigh together and the hall clock ticks on.

  After what feels like forever, the doorbell rings and we straighten, glancing at the clock. It’s 10:50. Either a designer is a bit early, or incredibly late. Juliet materializes with an eager smile, and Billy and I scurry into the ballroom. Liam is there, playing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” on the piano, with Rory on his lap. Rory notices us and waves, her little face bright with excitement.

  “If only he were gay,” Billy says with a wistful sigh.

  “If only I were single,” I echo, watching the sun pour through the window, illuminating Liam and Rory. I could watch them all day.

  “And here we are.” We turn around. Juliet has entered the ballroom, followed by two women standing at slight odds to each other. It’s clear both women are awestruck at seeing the ballroom—their eagle eyes are avidly taking in the details, and I can just see the ideas swarming in their minds. Liam continues to play the piano for Rory, so Billy and I glide across the ballroom floor with wide smiles plastered on our faces.