Someone Like You

by Timothy J Beck

  “You can’t afford not to,” the associate said. “You should trust Mr. Mercer’s judgment.”

  Christian was surprised that she knew his name and said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m Kiki,” the woman said. The name seemed familiar, and Christian tried to place her. She laughed and said, “You don’t know me. You helped my boyfriend’s ex-wife when they were going through their divorce.”

  “Oops,” Christian said. “Do you hate me?”

  “Are you joking? Her demands were killing us. Then she went to your ‘Don’t Look Back’ seminar. Now she makes twice as much as he does. I think I got the wrong half of the couple.”

  Leslie looked at Christian and said, “Shoes,” in the submissive tone of a Stepford wife.

  As they neared Women’s Shoes, Christian regretted his decision. Two associates were with other customers, which left him at the mercy of the department manager, Natasha Deere, who was circling a display table like a marauding shark, followed by a young man in a dark suit. Christian did a double take, sure that the suit was Hugo Boss. Pricey for someone who appeared to be not only very young but a trainee.

  He was relieved when an employee summoned Natasha to the cash wrap area, leaving the young associate free to approach Christian and Leslie.

  “How can I help you today?” he asked Leslie, who turned toward Christian.

  But Christian, having had a few unpleasant shopping encounters with Natasha in the past, was still keeping a wary eye on her and said, “I’ll bet if you cut her open, that Kintner boy would fall out.”

  Leslie giggled, and the associate looked confused and said, “Who, Natasha? What?”

  Christian laughed and said, “Maybe you’ve never seen Jaws. That woman’s always reminded me of something that should be approached only from the protection of a cage. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun of your manager. I’m Christian Mercer, and this is Leslie Harper.” He paused to unzip the garment bag he was holding and said, “Ms. Harper is looking for a pair of shoes to go with this suit.”

  “There’s got to be something around here that will match that color,” the associate said blandly.

  Christian resisted the urge to ameliorate his selling skills, merely asking, “Is there anything in particular you might suggest?”

  The boy looked at the suit, then at Leslie, and asked, “Is there a style that appeals to you?”

  Christian wished he’d gotten something to eat after all as his temples began to throb. At that moment, Natasha advanced on them and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer, Derek is still in training. How can we assist your client today?”

  Within seconds after seeing the gray suit, Natasha rattled off a list of brands and styles at Derek before sending him to the stockroom. Christian dreaded seeing what he’d bring back, but to his surprise, the stack of boxes included exactly what Natasha had requested plus a few of Derek’s own selections. Just as he was ready to revise his assessment of Derek, he saw Leslie wince when Derek amateurishly slid a shoe onto her foot.

  “Snug?” Derek asked sympathetically. “If you’ve been shopping a while, your feet may be a little swollen. Let’s try this one.”

  Natasha watched with a sour expression as Derek exchanged the Marc Jacobs for a Cole Haan. Christian was startled, wondering if Derek understood the concept of commission. When Natasha was pulled away again, Derek looked up at Leslie and softly said, “These are on sale for half the price of those others, and they’re twice as comfortable. They’ll look great with your gray suit, and no one should work with aching feet.”

  “Thanks,” Leslie said, smiling down at Derek. She looked so grateful that for a minute, Christian thought she was going to kiss him.

  Christian conceded that Derek was nice, but if he wanted to continue to buy expensive suits, he’d have to learn how to be nice and sell.

  Natasha surfaced again, baring her teeth in what could have been mistaken for a smile if her jaw muscles weren’t twitching. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, then frowned as she saw which shoes Derek was boxing up for Leslie.

  “I sure did,” Leslie said, smiling again at Derek.

  Once the transaction was complete, Christian carried Leslie’s bags to her car and sent her on her way with a few more reassuring words. When he walked back through Drayden’s, Derek was straightening a display and Natasha was nowhere in sight. Christian paused and said, “That was nice. Bringing Leslie the less expensive shoes. Even though you’re a trainee, aren’t you working on commission?”

  Derek shrugged and said, “Did you see her eyes when she saw the price of those Marc Jacobs pumps? She seemed like someone who needed a break. I pictured her as a single mom, struggling to dress herself on a budget. I couldn’t see forcing her kids to eat mac and cheese out of a box just so I could make a few more bucks.”

  “Leslie is a top seller in a commercial real estate firm. She’s trying to be promoted to their Indianapolis office. She is single, but I don’t think her goldfish eats mac and cheese.” He felt contrite when Derek blushed, adding, “It’s the thought that counts.”

  Derek’s face fell as he looked past Christian, who turned around and spied Natasha at a perfume counter. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” Derek said glumly.

  Christian laughed and said, “So you have seen Jaws! You’re funny, Derek. I have to run; I’ve got another appointment. What time do you get off?”

  Derek blushed again and stammered, “Uh…well…I close tonight.”

  “Would you like to meet for a drink or something?”

  “Well…um…”

  “If you feel like a drink after work, I’ll be at the Aurora piano bar in the Congreve at about nine. If I don’t see you, no big deal.” He smiled at Derek again and escaped just as Natasha glided up.

  When he left the store, he had to maneuver his way through the usual crowd of children who surrounded Gert, a fiberglass cow that had once been part of the Chicago Cows on Parade exhibit. Gert was dressed in an original Drayden’s Cattle Cozy and was a silent testament that someone in the Drayden’s organization had a sense of humor. She seemed to be staring balefully toward the moon that hung outside the planetarium at the center of the mall. The only things missing were the Dish and the Spoon. His observation reminded Christian that he was hungry. He grabbed a veggie wrap at Sirius Dogs and ate it while he walked to the Congreve, listening to his messages on the way.

  It wasn’t until midway into his seminar that it struck him why Derek had been flustered by his suggestion that they meet for a drink. Maybe he’d thought Christian was asking him out. Which meant that Derek was probably straight and now thought Christian was gay. It was a misunderstanding that would clear itself up if the need arose. Christian had actually intended to disguise a mini lesson in salesmanship as a social meeting. Derek could use the help.

  A couple of hours later, Christian let a dirty martini work its magic, bringing him down a notch from the high energy level of his seminar. With the smoky tones of the piano bar’s chanteuse in the background, he read over his notes for a self-help book he intended to write as a supplement to his classes. When he spotted Derek entering the bar from the hotel lobby, he quickly gathered up the papers and placed them in his bag, then stood as Derek gave a meek, self-conscious wave before he walked toward him.

  “I’m glad you made it! Can I get you something from the bar?” Christian asked cheerfully.

  “I’ll get it,” Derek said.

  Christian noticed that the bartender slid a drink across the bar before Derek had a chance to order. Nor did Derek pay for it. He was apparently a regular at the Aurora and ran a tab. That interested Christian as much as Derek’s casual attire. The blue-and-green-striped shirt was definitely Paul Smith, and Christian was sure he saw the signature red stripe of Prada at the back of Derek’s black shoe. There had to be a story that explained Derek’s clothes. Maybe he was selling shoes because he’d been disowned by a wealthy family. Or he was a Lvandsson grandson wo
rking his way up the ladder.

  When Derek plopped down in a chair across from his and slung one arm over its back, Christian decided that Derek would benefit not only from a lesson in salesmanship but in posture. Since it was obvious that he’d endured a harrying day, Christian merely asked, “Tough day in the trenches?”

  “It wasn’t so bad. I was actually able to help a few customers without Natasha the Hun spearing me.”

  “I think Attila would have been afraid of Natasha Deere. I do admire her selling skills and good taste, though.” Christian grimaced as he heard “Morning Train” blare in ring tones from his bag. He thought he’d turned off the phone before the seminar.

  “Do you want to get that?” Derek asked.

  Christian pulled the phone from his bag, squinting apologetically at Derek as he flipped the cover open.

  “Chrissie! It’s your mother.”

  Christian flinched, sure that Derek had heard his mother call him by his childhood nickname. “Mother, you know I’ve told you—”

  “Yes, they’re both two syllables. I remember, Christian.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the memory of “Happy Birthday, Chrissie!” on his ninth birthday cake. Assuming the cake was for a girl, the baker had frosted it with tiny yellow roses and daisies embellished with pink swirls. Of course, his friends had howled, and until they moved, he was stuck with “Chrissie.”

  He came back to the present when he heard his mother saying, “So I need you to call a few galleries. The Rania, Lee Young, um…Who else is showing my work?”

  “Wait, you need what? Where’s your manager?” Christian asked.

  “Simon? He ran off to Acapulco for the week with his latest bimbo.”

  “Mother, you can’t afford to have unreliable people in charge of your career.”

  “But I have you, dear! Anyway, Simon’s not unreliable. He just cracked the West Coast market for me. Beverly Hills, no less. So I want to move some paintings around—”

  “Okay, I’ll make the calls.” Christian looked remorseful and made talking motions with his hand, though Derek didn’t seem the least bit fazed. In fact, Derek was barely able to tear his eyes from the stage, where the singer was crooning a melancholy ballad. Christian began to feel a bit melancholy himself as his mother rattled off the names of people she wanted him to call while he made notes in his PalmPilot.

  “I love you, Chrissie,” she finally said to signal that she was finished with business.

  “Love you, too, Mother,” Christian whispered into the phone before he snapped it shut. “I’m so sorry about that. You know how mothers can be.”

  “What does your mother do? She sounds like a busy woman. Does she live around here?”

  “She’s a self-absorbed artist. Patricia Mercer. You may have heard of her?” When Derek shook his head, Christian said, “It doesn’t matter. We lived all over the place when I was growing up, ending up in Terre Haute. When she moved back to Manhattan, I stayed. What about your family? Are they nearby?” Derek shook his head, then shifted his eyes, gazing at a couple a few tables away. After a few seconds, Christian asked, “Is that someone you know? Do you want to invite them over?”

  Derek jerked his head around as if he’d been caught putting a sale tag on a full-price pair of Bruno Magli pumps, and said, “No. I mean, I don’t want to invite them over.” He must have noticed Christian’s curious expression because he said, “That’s Hannah. She comes from a wealthy family who sent her to the best schools and had high expectations of her. Then she met him.”

  Christian glanced again at the man with Hannah, seeing nothing about him that warranted Derek’s ominous tone. “Who is he?”

  “Damien? He’s a drug dealer.”

  “He doesn’t look like a drug dealer,” Christian said after a more circumspect peek at Damien.

  “That’s why he’s so good at it. No one suspects him. It’s really sad, because you just know he’ll ruin Hannah’s life. But she loves him. Love is such an irrational emotion.”

  Christian frowned and said, “They look like a couple of tourists. Are you sure—”

  “I told you, appearances can be deceiving,” Derek said, interrupting him. “See that guy at the end of the bar?”

  Christian looked where directed and saw an older man staring at the bottom of his empty glass. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “What do you think he does?”

  Christian looked again and hesitantly said, “Sells farm equipment?”

  “That’s really good,” Derek praised. “He does sell farm equipment. Including backhoes. Which is exactly why his next-door neighbor has been calling the police about him for the past five years.”

  “His neighbor doesn’t approve of backhoes?” Christian asked, bewildered.

  “The neighbor insists that Ralph—that’s his name—dug up his backyard and installed a fish pond about the same time his wife ran off with another man. The neighbor is sure that Mrs. Ralph is actually buried under the fishpond.”

  “Oh, my God, are you serious?” Christian asked, gaping at Ralph.

  “No.”

  Christian swung his eyes back to Derek, who was grinning like a little kid. “You made that up? About Ralph?”

  “His name’s not Ralph. It’s Buzz.”

  “Buzz?”

  “Yes. They call him that because he’s a beekeeper. It’s kind of funny, because his wife’s name is Honey. It’s her real name, not a nickname.”

  Christian narrowed his eyes and said, “You’re making that up, too, aren’t you?” When Derek didn’t answer, Christian said, “Hannah? And the drug dealer?”

  “Probably here on their honeymoon from Billings, Montana.”

  Christian started laughing and said, “You’re insane, Derek.”

  “Maybe,” Derek agreed. “But I never buried anyone under a fishpond.”

  “There’s always Natasha Deere,” Christian said, laughing again as Derek’s eyes brightened.

  8

  Down in the Valley of the Dolls

  Natasha flew across the sales floor, having just come from a meeting of the department managers, the expression on her face leaving no doubt that it hadn’t been positive. She made a beeline to the sales desk, looked at the schedule, then demanded, “Where’s John?”

  “He’s at lunch,” Missy answered.

  “Lunch? He’s only been here an hour!”

  “He had something he had to do, and we’re slow, so Erik said he could—”

  “Erik.” Natasha spat the name in disgust. “Hasn’t he done enough damage around here?”

  Missy wisely kept her mouth closed, and Natasha scanned the schedule, comparing it to Erik’s list of the staff’s responsibilities for the day. The “Chore List,” as the sales crew referred to it. She made a mental inventory of all the tasks that were supposed to have been done by now and weren’t, then retreated to her office.

  She sank to her desk, exhausted. It had been quite a day, not at all like the one she’d envisioned when she got up that morning. First she’d had to intervene when that imbecile Derek screwed up a phone order. After nearly a month, he remained one of her most inept employees. Then she’d been stuck in that endless meeting, where Oscar, manager of Men’s Shoes, had complained about Natasha encroaching on his floor space and his sales. For months, her requests to get Men’s Shoes moved away from her department had been ignored. But all Oscar had to do was whine about her, and suddenly the idea of separating the departments was treated like a brilliant concept that Oscar had come up with. She mentally filed her grievance against him, knowing that sooner or later, she’d get her revenge.

  As if she hadn’t endured enough, she was informed that her only competent assistant manager was being promoted and relocated to one of the Wisconsin stores. The regional manager had suggested that she replace the assistant with Erik. Natasha had pleasantly replied that she’d be considering all qualified candidates for the job, but inside she was seething, recognizing his suggest
ion for the decree it was. Especially after Hershel, the store manager, mentioned that he’d gone to business school with Erik’s father. There was no doubt about it; she was surrounded by fools of the Old Bores Network.

  She sat motionless for a few moments, wondering if she shouldn’t just pack up her things and head home. This was, after all, her day off. Not that she ever really took one. She grabbed her phone when it rang and snarled, “Natasha Deere.”

  “I got it,” a gravelly voice on the line said with no other greeting.

  Natasha gasped and looked over her shoulder to make sure there was no one in the stockroom with her. Her voice was almost a whisper when she said, “I told you not to call me here.”

  “Do you want it or not?” the voice responded.

  “Of course I want it.”

  “Meet me at the usual place. One hour.” The line went dead.

  Natasha felt her heart race with adrenaline as she fumbled to hang up the phone. This was so wrong, and she knew she shouldn’t be doing it. If anyone ever found out, her reputation would be ruined. But although she could barely admit it to herself, and certainly to no one else, it was her compulsion. Her only other compulsion besides work, and the one thing that made her daily suffering of fools bearable.

  She quickly gathered up her things, threw her bag over her shoulder, and strode toward the sales floor. She could hear the associates scurry like rats at the sound of her approach. By the time she set foot on the floor, they were scattered throughout the department, attempting to look busy. It was a dance that had had many rehearsals. Erik was the only person behind the counter when she approached.

  “That will be four-hundred forty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents,” Erik enunciated loudly. “Would you like to put that on your Drayden’s card today?” He glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure Natasha had heard the size of the sale he’d just made.

  Natasha stepped in closer, saying softly, “I have to leave. You’re in charge.”