Chapter 6
The ride down to the Woods Hole terminal inspired a new sense of resolve in Weslee. If Boston, with its icy populace and antiquated infrastructure, could be so beautiful around its edges, then maybe there was hope. For everything. She’d heard vague things about the South Shore, the Cape, and the Islands, but she’d never ventured out this far. So she only half-listened to Lana prattle on about this or that while she kept her eyes out the passenger window. Shortly before they reached Hanover, the salt in the air began to come through the vents of Lana’s Mercedes. Weslee inhaled it deeply. The reedy authority of the marshes along the highway fascinated her. The color of the soil—a raw and distressed brown—was not what she was used to seeing in Chicago. And the closer they got to Cape Cod, the sandier the soil and the saltier the air.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been down here before!” Lana said more than once. “My parents know people from the Midwest—Michigan—who come up here every year.”
Weslee hadn’t bothered answering. She drank in all the sights: sand, salt water, spindly vegetation. Not even Lana could spoil this for her.
Though she hadn’t wanted to be here, she was glad she’d come. She’d been trying to pull away from Lana, immersing herself in the cultures of the less flashy international students, whose only focus seemed to be Harvard Business School case studies, Blockbuster DVDs, and ethnic restaurants, which had suited her just fine the last couple of weeks. It was a change of pace she could comfortably keep up with.
It had become too exhausting and scarily expensive, this Lana lifestyle. She thought back to the weekend before, which had confirmed for her why she wanted to go back to her old boring self.
They’d been sitting outside a restaurant on Newbury Street, and as Lana people-watched—and, like a golf-tournament announcer, provided commentary on the parade of fashionistas that Saturday afternoon—Weslee had a tiny epiphany. What am I doing here? she’d demanded of herself. She’d been freezing in the midfifties weather, her new D&G jeans bit into her inner thigh, and those pointy Robert Clergerie sandals that Lana’d told her she “just had to get” were pinching her little toe as her feet trembled on the skinny heels.
“This is supposed to be fun?” Weslee had asked again.
“Oh, relax. Just enjoy the scenery,” Lana had snapped back.
Weslee had sipped her lemonade as if to swallow the retort that was rising, not wanting an argument. She was silently, resentfully counting the money she had just spent on their all-day shopping extravaganza, and the beginnings of a headache slowly climbed from the base of her skull as she tallied the damage. The five hundred dollar leather jacket had been on sale—and Lana had turned up her nose at it for that reason. The seven hundred dollar Christian Dior boots had been on sale, too. Those had received Lana’s seal of approval—“Those are sweet”—though Weslee had thought them showy and a bit too black patent leather. The only thing she’d truly loved was a three hundred fifty dollar cashmere sweater from TSE. It was royal blue and the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. But she’d felt miserable about everything else in those stacks of bags that were piled into Lana’s trunk. My retirement money, she’d lamented when she saw all those bags. But once she started to compare what she had bought with Lana’s purchases, she began to feel better.
“Three thousand three hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty-eight cents,” the stunning saleswoman at Saks had said, her perfectly lined, wine-colored lips forming each word beautifully.
Weslee had gasped, thinking she’d heard wrong. Lana, without missing a beat, handed over her Platinum Amex.
“It’s just money,” she’d shrugged as they walked out of the store.
It occurred to Weslee then that she needed to run away from Lana as far and as fast as possible. Three thousand dollars was not just money. It was almost half a year’s salary for some people. My goodness, Weslee had thought. Who is this woman, and what is she doing in my life? She immediately devised a plan to extricate herself from the situation.
“Hey, so what are we doing tonight?” Lana had asked, still scene-beholding the busy stretch teeming with tourists, townies, and Boston’s conservatively fashionable set.
“I’m kinda tired. I think I’ve done enough today.” She didn’t feel physically weary. What she felt was a materialism mental overload. She needed to decompress. Maybe, Weslee had thought, she could regain her sense of responsibility and perform some fiscal penance by living in a convent, wearing sackcloth and ashes, and consuming nothing but saltines and tap water for about a month.
“Come on! It’s Saturday. You can’t just stay home.”
Weslee had sighed. Yes, it was Saturday. And, of course, she could just stay home.
“Are you just the most boring person in the world? Or is something wrong?” Lana had asked in that seemingly offhand, smiling way of hers that was like a bee sting laced with honey.
Weslee had winced but found herself apologizing. “Lana, I’m really sorry that I can’t come out tonight. But I’m just so tired. It’s been a long day.”
I’ll never speak to her again, Weslee had vowed as she saw the red Mercedes speeding off that Saturday night. It was too much. The unpredictable moods, the constant cattiness about who was wearing what or whose shoes were cheap, the constant feeling that she, Weslee, would never meet Lana’s fashion specs, and that she never knew what to expect from Lana on any given day. It was exciting, yes, but burdensome. And totally unnecessary. There were other girls out there who would make better friends. I just have to get off my lazy butt and go find them.
But Lana wouldn’t let go that easily. Once she noticed Weslee’s coolness, Lana did all she could to get back in Weslee’s good graces. She brought Weslee coffee in class, called incessantly, even complimented her on a pair of shoes she’d picked out herself, and finally apologized for falling asleep on her couch. Before Weslee knew it, Lana was almost begging her to go out shopping again. The gesture was touching, Weslee thought. This friendship is worth something to her.
At last Weslee had decided to loosen up and give Lana another chance. She allowed herself to attend another and yet another of Lana’s must-be-seen-at events: a party—hosted by the Hennessy-drinking, Hummer-driving, First Friday set, who reveled in their buppie-dom with grand style—that was a fund-raiser for the Boston Public Library, which on its own was worth a million snores. But the event made her realize that Lana was as known among elderly, old-moneyed people as she was among the young up-and-comers. “Lovey” is what the white-haired society ladies called Lana as they beamingly embraced her and eyed Weslee skeptically. Lana’s Junior League and Jack and Jill–type friends had said polite hellos before dismissing Weslee with disinterest. But Lana had laughed at them as she and Weslee left the fancy event that night. “What a bunch of brownnosing, uptight idiots!” she’d hooted. Weslee had thought, relieved, Okay, so Lana’s not totally blind to the real world. So she’d laughed along with Lana. It took away some of the sting from feeling so out of place the entire night.
This was part of the reason Weslee was doing the Vineyard trip. She was beginning to feel something of a bond developing. It was her and Lana against all the brownnosing, uptight idiots of the upper class. Also, it would reveal even more about Lana, since her family was hosting the party. Of course, Weslee had never been on Martha’s Vineyard before, and she was more than a little curious—even though it was almost fall and the air was a little nippy. She wanted to see what all the fascination was about. She kept waiting for the color and class-lines drama from Dorothy West’s books to start playing out in front of her eyes.
She didn’t have to wait long.
As soon as they drove up to the parking lot at Woods Hole in Falmouth, Lana began to spot people she knew: the ticket seller, the parking lot attendant, and other passengers buying tickets to get over to the island. Lana introduced Weslee quickly—when she remembered—and apologized afterward when she didn’t.
There were very few tourists on the
ferry. Lana had pointed this out—triumphantly, in fact—and Weslee was starting to get it. Apparently, the people who had owned homes there for generations and generations, or even just a few years, made that fact known in the tried-and-true New England way of ignoring those who did not. Weslee was shocked and more than a little embarrassed when a young black woman boarding ahead of her had not even smiled back in response to Weslee’s “How are you?”
She raised the point with Lana, who told her that it was all her imagination. Yet there was Lana chatting happily along with some other long-haired, near-white debutante and artfully ignoring her. My imagination, all right, Weslee sighed. She knew better than to try to join their conversation; the introduction had been frosty enough. She looked around at the ferry passengers; everyone knew everyone, it seemed, except for her. Out of place again. I could get used to this, or I could try to play this game, Weslee thought. Smile a bit, glad-hand and ingratiate myself into this world, maybe. She looked over the edge of the ferry. Jumping into the water seemed like a much better idea. She laughed to herself. Nah. I’ll stick with this outcast thing for a while. See how it plays out. She smiled at the bobbing waves. See, I’m making friends already!
The pert, perky girl to whom Lana was talking also belonged to the sisterhood of the shallow and phony, or so Weslee gleaned from the conversation. The girl was brandishing a massive engagement ring in Lana’s enthralled face.
“Yes, well, I just couldn’t turn him down again,” the girl was saying breathlessly, the ring gleaming in the sun. “Mummy would have just killed me. You know how she is. Finish having the babies by thirty, that way you can still lose the weight.” She said this and erupted in a weird cackle of laughter that made heads turn. Lana joined in with her own maniacal laugh. “And of course you know I’m going to have to quit working. He just won’t have any wife of his working.”
Weslee turned away, marveling at the sitcom quality of this exchange, and looked at the ocean. It was such a beautiful late-summer day, just a few see-through clouds accessorizing the sky. The water looked peaceful and inviting, though she knew it must be at least twice as cold as the briny air. The last time she was out on a boat had been with Michael on Lake Michigan. The memory elicited a pang of victorious surprise. She hadn’t thought about him in weeks, she realized. Her life was now full, bursting at the designer seams almost. School took up most of her time, and Lana took care of the rest. She was transforming, caterpillarlike, from a dowdy, grieving dumpee into a social butterfly. She had to admit that as annoying as Lana could be, she had brought something to her life that Weslee never could have found on her own.
Yes, it bothered her that she was using her credit cards so often to buy new clothes, for weekly trips to the beauty salon, and to the spa for facials, manicures and pedicures. But she was beginning to run out of things to wear for those endless outings—so it was all necessity buying. And it was not that she wasn’t having fun. She was starting to see a change in her appearance that she liked. Now she looked more put together. She no longer frowned when she opened her closet in the mornings. In just a matter of weeks she’d amassed an inventory of clothing that would be the envy of any editorial assistant at one of those Manhattan glossies that were piling up on her living room floor. Issues of Allure, Vogue, Essence, and Elle were now filling the spaces that Jane Austen, Maryse Conde, and J. California Cooper previously occupied. Those former Saturdays spent engrossed in dusty pages of worn paperbacks were over. She now heeded the siren song of the shiny pictures in those magazine pages—all the way to Saks and Neiman’s, along with Jasmine’s and the other funky shops on Newbury Street. And then she’d spend hours in front of her mirror trying on those outfits, matching bags to shoes, tops to bottoms, earrings to necklaces. Yes, her life was quite full now.
How had it all happened, she wondered. When exactly did she stop wagging her finger self-righteously at Lana’s sprees and begin to partake herself? She couldn’t put her finger on the minute. The fever had been stealthy, creeping up on her slowly like the effect of a cocktail, deceptively innocuous in its sweetness but packing a dangerously addictive high. Just the day before, she’d found herself purchasing Ralph Lauren linens for her bed. She cocked her head to the side as the memory of that purchase sent a geyser of guilt from her belly to her throat. But it had been the aesthetician’s idea! she tried to console herself. The woman at Rosaline’s Spa had suggested—admonished, really—that “You can’t sleep on just anything. You have to think of your skin!” Yes, Weslee had thought as she caressed the rich bedding material, I must think about my skin. It deserves so much better than Linens ’n Things. And she couldn’t buy just one set. What would she do when the one set was at the cleaners? So she’d bought four. And as she lugged the bloated bags through the store, she’d stopped in the shoe department. And there was no arguing there. It was not often that a girl who wore a size 11 shoe found beautifully crafted, supple, sumptuous, sexy footwear that made her want to walk around wearing nothing but those shoes all day long. She’d tried on one pair, and they felt so right, so comfortable in the way the leather wrapped itself around her foot. And with the three-and-a-half-inch heel, they put her well over six feet. But she felt empowered, even more Amazon-like as she strutted through the shoe department. She had to own that feeling forever. Why in the world did I never wear high heels before, she asked herself as she took in her image in the store’s full-length mirror. These shoes make me look like a fierce, fierce sistah! The kind, encouraging salesgirl brought another pair of Christian Louboutins; Weslee tried them on and believed she could walk on water. And another. And another. They began to pile up. “I’ll take them all,” she’d said to the smiling salesgirl, who was no doubt counting her commission. Afterward, Weslee had felt like Goldilocks. But she ate all three bowls and then after that went back to the kitchen, made more porridge, and ate that, too.
She’d bought and bought and felt like she’d gotten away with murder when she signed the credit card slip. Almost five thousand dollars. Almost five grand! But I’ve worked hard for this, she comforted herself. It’s not like I do this all the time. Like Lana! Besides, I deserve this after all Michael’s put me through. And I look so good in these clothes. Lana’s right. If I don’t treat myself well, who will? Five thousand dollars! But I’ve saved so much over the years. I deserve this.
Now her apartment resembled something out of a heady daydream. Her bathroom was a splash of Kiehl’s, La Mer, and Chanel jars, tubes, pots, and bottles. Her closet burst with Stella McCartney, Tracy Reese, and Chloe tops and bottoms. She had her pick of Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, Dior, and more in purses. Three months before, she would have heard these brand names and thought they belonged to girls from South Side or West Side Chicago. But she cared for those names now as if they were family members. Much more than she wanted to admit. Her life had been invaded by things; her body, her skin, her very soul sometimes felt immersed in lush fabrics, soft, rich smells, and creamy textures. It felt so warm and cozy, like that Ralph Lauren comforter.
But common sense had a way of occasionally insinuating itself into her newfangled luxurious existence. It was unwelcome and unyielding. She was out of control, and she needed to perform triage on her finances. So she’d flirted with the idea of getting a part-time job to help counterbalance the steady outflow from her savings to MasterCard and Visa. The idea kept her up nights with its constant buzzing in her ear. You’re spending too much. You’re spending too much. You’re spending too much. But a job? That would be deviating from her carefully crafted plan. She wanted to give school her full attention. She had budgeted business school down to the last penny. Of course, that was before knowing the cost of a friendship with Lana. She couldn’t keep up the spending, she knew. But work just seemed so unpalatable an option.
Out of all the possibilities she had considered, a job as a personal trainer had sounded the least painful. She had done it for six months after college, and it had been fun. She had been running and was still in great s
hape; it wouldn’t take a major effort to become certified in Massachusetts. She could make just enough money to start to pay off some of the debt she had been racking up.
Ugh, work, on top of all this studying. Weslee grimaced.
She could see houses on Edgartown in the distance. I could live here, she fantasized. Maybe someday.
She looked over to where Lana was talking excitedly with her friend.
“Oh my God! Yes, we were in Milan the same time. Where were you staying?” the girl was saying, her eyes wide.
Weslee sighed. Bet the last thing on Lana’s mind right now is getting a job, she thought. It wasn’t fair. Lana, who appreciated nothing, was given everything. Weslee, on the other hand, felt that she had to work so hard for every single little thing she got out of life: her academic scholarship to prep school in Chicago, her basketball scholarship to Northwestern, those grueling interviews and ridiculous tests for her job at Research Associates. She had been given nothing, though her parents always told her how lucky she was. She wasn’t lucky, she realized. Lana was lucky. Weslee knew without a doubt that she was smarter than Lana, but she hadn’t been accepted into Brown. When all the other teenagers in her high school went overseas for vacation to exotic countries in Europe and Africa, she either spent the entire summer in Chicago working at church camp or went back to the Caribbean for a week or two with her father while he worked on his business back there. She didn’t play the piano like Lana did. She’d wanted to and had asked for lessons, but her mother had said it didn’t make sense since there was no piano at home to practice on.
What was irking Weslee now was that she’d thought those feelings were hidden, buried, silenced forever. They had always been near the surface in high school, and in college sometimes. She had always seemed to be meeting people who had so much more than she did that nothing she had done or accomplished ever seemed to measure up. Well, she got into Northwestern on an athletic scholarship; but Jenny Matheson got in on an academic, which was so much more prestigious. That had been high school. Now she was starting to feel like that insecure, angry person again. Someone she barely recognized anymore.
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