She Who Shops

by Joanne Skerrett

  Spending time with Lana over the past few weeks was showing her that there was a whole other world that she had unwittingly become part of but that she was horribly unprepared for. It irked Weslee to have this twenty-seven-year-old tell her what kinds of clothes she should be buying, the type of restaurants she should eat in (“Oh, sweetie, I don’t care how good the food is, you should never be seen at Cheesecake, or any other chain for that matter), that her nails should always be done (“Not long; that’s so ‘ghetto’ ”), and how to style her hair (“Highlights, highlights—you want to look a little exotic”). She had reluctantly signed the three-hundred-dollar credit slip at the salon, hating the haughty stylists who gave her the same appraising look that Lana had given her the day they met.

  Weslee was having trouble with all of this. She didn’t see anything wrong with the way she looked, and she hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to transform herself into a fashionista. Since the only magazines she ever read were Fortune and Newsweek, she really wasn’t even very familiar with the term.

  “Weslee, you’ve never heard of Roberto Cavalli?” Lana had asked incredulously one day. “You’re never going to get a date with that mass-market, department-store wardrobe, sweetie.”

  That had stung. Weslee defended herself. “Lana, why would I spend one hundred dollars on a tiny tank top? That’s such a waste!” They had been standing in the middle of Neiman Marcus, Lana in tight Seven jeans, halter top, and her customary heels. Weslee in a Banana Republic khaki skirt, slides, and a pink T-shirt from Ann Taylor. They looked like the before and after in a Glamour magazine makeover section.

  Though Weslee would never describe herself as cheap, she had always been sensible with her money. It was what had allowed her to quit her job worry-free and head off to business school for two years with only a minor dent in her total savings. She couldn’t have done that if she was the type to spend most of her eighty-seven-thousand-dollar yearly salary on designer clothes and shoes. Such things had never even been a temptation; she went to the mall in Skokie only when she was really in need of something to wear, and that was not very often. Spending two hundred dollars at Ann Taylor was her idea of a splurge.

  What Lana had tried to explain to Weslee was the wisdom behind dropping huge sums of money on designer clothes. “Trust me. Men care. They say they don’t. But they do. And it’s not just that; they make you feel better. Great clothes will change your attitude. You’ll feel better about yourself, trust me. You’ll walk taller. The right shoes will make you forget all about that old boyfriend you’re always depressed about.”

  Weslee wasn’t convinced. But she had gritted her teeth and purchased the Cavalli tank top anyway.

  Now she looked at the top in her roomy closet.

  Something nice, Lana’s message had said.

  The Cavalli top, despite its price tag, could not be considered “nice.”

  Weslee grabbed her trusted black cocktail dress.

  I’m trying, she told that voice in her head that was making her clench her teeth because she would have to shove her feet into these high-heeled shoes after an eleven-mile run and no doubt have to stand around and smile and chat with people whom she did not know. I’m trying.

  The phone rang. Lana was on the other end, making sure that Weslee would be ready when she picked her up.

  “Why me?” Weslee wanted to ask her. Why didn’t she pick one of her more glamorous friends? But Weslee knew that Lana would just laugh off such a question. It was not for Weslee to understand. Lana just did whatever she wanted—like a child.

  Lana seemed to totally live in and for the moment, shrugging everything off her slender shoulders as if nothing mattered except her needs—or rather her wants, for there was very little that she actually needed.

  While Weslee guarded her money—cashed-out stock options and savings—with military discipline, Lana let loose with her cash . . . or her credit cards, to be more exact. Lunch, drinks, dinner—all on her. It seemed that she was either always shopping or going somewhere that required spending a lot of cash. Knowing that she didn’t work, Weslee had gone on a sleuthing campaign to find out who was footing the bill for Lana’s glamorous lifestyle.

  She found out that Lana’s family had owned one of the few black-owned banks in the country. They had sold out to a bigger bank and made a ton of money. Her father was now an executive at the biggest bank in New York and on the boards of several other Fortune 1000 companies.

  That money had seen Lana through six years at Brown, three years of traveling all over the world, and now business school. Nothing took much effort for her. Looks—she had high-society light caramel skin, light eyes, and flowing hair, thanks to her biracial mother; education—she was no genius, but she had a respectable pedigree and enough cultural exposure to make up for her not getting into Wellesley or the big H. She had almost everything, it seemed. She was generous, eternally optimistic, and except for an occasional streak of meanness, a “nice person.” This was how Weslee had described her new friend to her sister, Terry.

  “Hmmm. She sounds interesting,” was all Terry would say.

  But as different as they were, Weslee saw the beginning of a friendship. They both had the same biting sense of humor, though Lana’s was toothier. Weslee hoped that once they got to know each other better, Lana would turn things down a bit, stop trying so hard to dazzle her—at least that’s what Weslee thought was going on. There was potential there, she thought.

  Well, she did always have that gift for seeing the good in other people.

  Chapter 4

  “Bad girl,” Weslee giggled as she looked at her striking image in the mirror. “Bad girl.”

  Her black dress was snug around her slim hips and modest B-cup breasts. Her high-heeled shoes made her long legs absolutely breathtaking. She smiled at her image. Maybe Lana was onto something with her “great clothes will make you feel better” philosophy.

  She reapplied her reddest La Mer lipstick as she waited for Lana to pick her up.

  The great thing about going out with Lana was that you were sure to arrive in style. Lana’s red convertible Mercedes CLK always set the tone for the grand entrance she tried to make everywhere she went, and Weslee couldn’t help but begin to feel a hint of importance, too, every time she stepped out of the passenger side.

  When Lana arrived, Weslee took one look at her and immediately felt like kicking her shoes off and spending the night in front of the TV. Lana was wearing a tiny little white dress with the teeniest straps over her bony but attractive shoulders. She wore long, skinny earrings and a silver necklace with a diamond pendant to match, of course, as well as the requisite strappy sandals.

  “Girl, you look gorgeous,” Weslee said to her friend. “I feel like such a cow next to you.”

  “Uh-uh,” Lana said, grabbing her hand. “You look like the girl that every guy wants to go home with and wake up with the next day. I’m just the girl they want to go home with and send packing two hours—in some cases, two minutes—later.”

  They both laughed and headed for the door.

  Lana was not exactly wrong. Next to her, Weslee looked nice, very nice. But Lana was the one who would turn all the heads.

  A woman like Weslee had the kind of beauty that took careful study to be fully appreciated. All her facial features were in the right place, yet she didn’t possess a cute button nose or long, straight hair down to her back, light-colored eyes or any of those pretty-prerequisites. There was an inner strength and grace that combined with a hard-to-describe quality to her looks that made everything about her fit beautifully. So, for those out for a quick, head-snapping look, she wouldn’t do the trick.

  Minutes later they walked into the crowded art gallery, and Weslee immediately felt heady from the aroma of expensive perfume and cocktails that pervaded the air. Everybody looked great, the women as well as the men. Lana grabbed a table in the center of the room near the makeshift dance floor, where they were certain to be seen.

  It was a
fund-raising event for a new African art gallery in the city’s South End neighborhood. The crowd was young and diverse, lots of Junior Leaguers and former debutantes mixed in with upwardly mobile professionals.

  It seemed that Lana knew every other person there. Weslee stopped counting after the fourth or fifth handsome, nattily dressed young man stopped by their table to say hello, and although Weslee knew she wasn’t the source of it, she was starting to enjoy all the attention they were attracting. Well, that Lana was attracting.

  A tall, light-skinned guy strode over, and at first Weslee thought or hoped he was going to speak to her. Wrong.

  Lana immediately got up.

  “Hey, Jeffrey,” she chirped, giving him a hug. “Let’s go dance,” she said, waving good-bye to Weslee.

  For some reason, the jazz band had stopped playing standards and had begun to liven things up a bit with more modern covers.

  Weslee sighed. She was on her own. She decided to walk around and observe this crowd of attractive, intelligent young people. She was having so much fun just looking. She’d never done the party scene. In school it was always studying, training for basketball, and Michael. The few parties she had gone to in college were in her senior year—with him. Before that, she never socialized much. Most weekends, she would take the train down to the South Side to spend time with her family, excluding herself from the social atmosphere of college.

  Now, as Weslee observed the crowd of pulsating bodies on the dance floor and the lively conversations at the bar, she couldn’t help but feel that she had missed out on a lot. Maybe this breakup with Michael was meant to teach me some new things about life, she thought.

  But then she saw a couple sitting on one of the red leather couches underneath a wall-sized painting. They were oblivious to what was going on around them and seemed so in love. Weslee looked at the woman’s finger and felt a pang of jealousy at the beautiful engagement ring that she wore. She forlornly made her way to the bar. Maybe she would have one of those cocktails that Lana seemed to love so much.

  She tried to wiggle her way through the bodies that had massed at the bar. As she tried to work her way in, a voice said angrily behind her head, “Will you watch it?”

  She spun around. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the knot of the angry stranger’s tie. She looked up into the most amazingly beautiful set of golden-brown eyes she had ever seen. Boy, was she sorry. Those narrow, honey-colored eyes showed a mix of irritation and fury that made her recoil but yet drew her in to them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, more softly. “Did I spill your drink?”

  “Just watch it,” he sneered and walked away.

  She shook her head and ordered a whiskey sour from the bartender. It was what Lana was drinking.

  Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Lana.

  “So, who’s that cutie you went off dancing with?” Weslee asked.

  “Oh, that’s just Jeffrey. He’s this guy I’ve been trying to get with since my freshman year at Brown. He had this girlfriend up at Smith, and no matter what I did, he wasn’t about to cheat on her. I even tried to spread rumors that she was a lesbian.”

  “Lana, you didn’t!” Weslee wasn’t faking the shock.

  “She was a lesbian; I know it for a fact. That’s why they broke up three years later,” she said.

  Again, Weslee wasn’t sure if she should believe Lana. She had the tendency to embellish the truth or just twist it to suit her own purposes.

  “So, did you make any progress?”

  “Nah, I think he thinks that I’m evil and materialistic or something.”

  Weslee laughed. “He’s wrong, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lana said, tossing her long hair back, and they both laughed.

  Weslee wondered at how Lana dealt with such things in a totally offhand way, as if it didn’t matter to her one bit what other people thought of her. Why did Lana make it look as if being bad was so much fun?

  Weslee continued to survey the room as Lana chattered on and on about Jeffrey. Weslee spotted Mr. Honey-colored Eyes across the room. He was talking with a tall, exotic-looking woman who looked like a runway model. Her hair was jet black and pulled back tightly into a fierce ponytail, and she wore a slim-fitting black pantsuit. If she weren’t so beautiful, she’d look like a librarian. Humph, Weslee thought. Morticia and Count Dracula. There’s a perfect match if I’ve ever seen one. At that moment, he suddenly looked at her. Their eyes met and she quickly looked away. A minute later she could see that he was walking toward her and Lana. She panicked. She wanted to run, but why, and to where?

  “I’m going to go find the ladies’ room, Lana,” she blurted, but it was too late.

  “Hey, Lana,” he said in a deep, slightly hoarse voice as he looked at Lana.

  “Duncan, what are you doing here?” Lana asked, her light mood suddenly changing.

  “What are you doing here, Lana?” he asked, looking down at her like a concerned father. He must have been at least six feet five.

  “I’m here with my friend, Wes—”

  “I can see that you’re here with your friend, but I thought you were going to take it easy on the parties and concentrate more on school,” he said, the whole time ignoring Weslee, who was just happy he wasn’t there to remind her that she had almost spilled his drink.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business? Aren’t there some hoochies in here you should be trying to get with?” Lana snapped.

  “Watch your mouth. Remember I’ve got your dad on speed dial,” he said. He turned to look at Weslee and started to walk away.

  “Get a life,” Lana muttered.

  “What!” he said, narrowing his eyes, which flashed again the way they had in the no-doubt ill-fated drink encounter.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said and stalked off.

  “Who was that?” Weslee asked.

  “My cousin, Duncan. Thinks he’s my father,” Lana replied, annoyed.

  Weslee decided not to tell her about the drink incident.

  “Sorry I didn’t properly introduce you, but he likes to get in my business. It drives me crazy,” she said.

  “That’s OK,” Weslee replied. “Seems like he’s just looking out for you.”

  “Do I look like I need looking after?”

  Weslee didn’t dare give her honest opinion.

  Just then she felt someone nudge her elbow. She turned to her left, and there stood another tall, dark, and handsome man. What is with this party? she thought. And women say there are no men out there!

  “Wanna dance?” he asked.

  OK, she thought. He’s not very smooth. But she did want to dance. The band was doing its best adaptation of James Brown’s “Get Up.” Not her favorite song, but a lot of people seemed to be dancing, even the uptight debs in their tightly pulled-back white-blond updos. “Sure,” she said, letting him lead her to the dance floor.

  He was a decent dancer. Yet you could tell he didn’t spend all his Saturday nights in the clubs. He isn’t going to be in anybody’s rap video, Weslee thought, but at least he has rhythm. Kinda like me.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked when the song was over.

  She almost said yes, but then remembered that she had already had two and that her low tolerance for alcohol could not endure another. “No thanks, I think I’ve had enough to drink tonight. You’re a great dancer, though,” she smiled.

  “Thanks, so are you,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m William.”

  “Weslee.”

  “That’s a beautiful name,” he said.

  Cute but unoriginal, she thought.

  “Are you Jamaican?” She could tell that he was by the tiny hint of accent in his voice, but she asked anyway.

  “Yes, man.” They both laughed at his attempt at an exaggerated lilt.

  Just then Lana walked up to them.

  “William,” she cooed. “I see you’ve met my friend.”

 
Did Lana know every single person in the city of Boston?

  “Hey, Lana, isn’t it past your bedtime?” he said to her, smiling and revealing the most perfect white teeth Weslee had ever seen.

  Lana rolled her eyes. “Where’s the after-party?” she asked.

  “My after-party days ended years ago,” William said, scoring big points with Weslee. “Besides, I have to work tomorrow,” he added.

  “On a Sunday?” Weslee asked, glad to get back into the conversation.

  “Yes, young entrepreneurs don’t get weekends off,” he said.

  “Oh, what kind of business are you in?” Weslee asked, suddenly interested. Starting her own business had always been a dream of hers. Perhaps this man could give her some advice, she thought.

  “I’m an architect. I have two partners, but we’re all equal owners,” William answered.

  “Wow, that’s impressive,” Weslee said, unaware that she was gushing. “I’ve always wanted to start a business. How did you do it?”