34
Alana
Disappointment is not good for my soul. Some people seem to wallow in it as if it’s a warm fuzzy blanket on a winter night. But me, I have no patience for bad feelings, and as soon as something like that hits me, I run fast till the stink of it wears off.
Of course, if you’re running through the cosmetics section at Saks, the stink wears off that much faster.
That was where I started my therapy after the bad audition—first floor Saks, accessories and cosmetics. A girl can’t have too much face cream.
Then, I did a big naughty. I strolled right down Fifth Avenue in the bright July light, turned right at Fusion’s holographic door, and rode the elevator up to three, where I stepped into the very chic, close-your-eyes expensive, appointment-only Fusion boutique that featured clothes from the newest, craziest designers.
“Alana!” Vespa has a shrill, nasal voice that she cracks like a whip. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Welcome! Sit! Let me get you a coffee. Sumatra or Black Sultan’s Roast?”
“No coffee, no, thanks. I need a ...” I dropped my shopping bags down beside the green-velvet couch and sought to put words to the longing in my soul. “I need ... something special.”
“Aah, but you don’t know how to describe this elusive object of your shopping quest.” Vespa’s violet eyes glittered under her pouffy auburn bangs. “You need that je ne sais quoi.”
“Yes!” I clapped my hands together as that tiny bit of college French came back to me. “That I-can’t-say-what.” I sat down and crossed my legs with a feeling of accomplishment. “Can you show me something like that in a size six?”
Sitting back on the couch, I began to feel human again as Vespa shimmered out with a high-waisted Chanel skirt, tiered ruffles covered in silver and gold spangles. Not me. The second Chanel radiated my palette—antique satin in blanched stripes of copper, gray, and gold. The skirt was looped with beaded cords and black and copper spangles, but the drop waist was a problem. Never put a drop waist on a big-butt girl. Next!
That was when it appeared—a black cashmere skirt and jacket that took my breath away. The skirt was a delicate full swirl screened with glittery gold feathers that fanned out over the hips—an exquisite design, a perfect cut for my body.
All the familiar symptoms arose within me, the accelerated pulse, slight warming of the face, slight tickle at the nape of my neck. I had to have it.
“Ah, this is the one, is it not?” Vespa laid the garment in my lap and my hands savored the rich folds of cashmere. “It’s a Giles Deacon. Do you know him? A new designer from the UK who had his first show just this year. He fancies his designs ‘misplaced chic.’ ”
“I like it!” I said.
In the fitting room, I discretely stole a look at the price list. The skirt was only $970! The jacket, a tad more at $1500, and I wasn’t as crazy about it—a double-breasted design with gold buttons and gold epaulets that hung down to my knees. Unusual, yes, but really not me. Still, did I dare break up the set?
Vespa and I were debating the merits of black Chanel heels or nude Manolo Blahniks when my cell chimed “Celebrate.” I checked the caller ID—Dad. Oh, blast it. Did he have a camera hidden in my Louis Vuitton bag? Or maybe he was calling to invite me to the beach. Wouldn’t that be a relief? In the thick of July’s heat and humidity, nothing was better than the cool nights in the Hamptons.
I flipped it open. “Hi, Daddy.”
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
I smiled over at Vespa, trying to think of an honest answer. “Therapy. Some serious therapy.”
“You talk on your cell phone during therapy?”
“I miss you, too.”
“Don’t get cute with me!” Daddy had gone ballistic. I tried to think of what I’d done to set him off. “We’ve intercepted a letter for you here and I’m calling to learn the meaning of this correspondence.”
The man was a federal judge, and he still did not know the language of the people. “What was that, sir?”
“You know,” he went on in one of his familiar ranting tones, “I thought we taught you respect and responsibility, but from what I see here, you ... your ... oh, damn it all! You talk to her!”
“Alana, we just got to the Hamptons house and there’s a bill here from the National Bank of Integrity. Looks like a Viva card. Have you any idea what this is in reference to?”
“Oh, let me think ...” But I had changed the address on the account! I’d been receiving mail from them at my apartment. They’d sent me my shiny new card. Why were they ruining my life? “Of course, I remember. Do you want to pop that in the mail for me?”
“What’s this about, Alana?”
“Mama, I will take care of it.” Silence. “It’s my own account, OK? I’m trying to demonstrate my new sense of responsibility.” A scuffling sound over the phone line. “Mama? Don’t you open my mail, Mama ...”
“Seven thousand dollars?” she screeched.
Seven grand? And that was without my new Giles Deacon suit, which would add another twenty-five hundred. And what else had I purchased recently? I was usually on top of inventory, but the phone call from my irate parents had thrown me.
“Alana, when did you get this credit card?”
“Now didn’t I just tell you I would take care of it? But no, you have to go and open my mail without permission when ... That’s not fair, Mama. I said I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re damn right you will. You will take care of this bill, and you will see a counselor.” Her voice held an unusual edge—Mama Godzilla.
“A counselor, Mama? I’ve tried those people. Wanting to blame all my problems on you and Daddy, that’s what they do.”
“I’m talking about a financial planner. You’re a big girl now, Alana, and it’s time you learned how the financial world operates.”
I rolled my eyes. I wouldn’t mind ringing that bell to open the stock exchange one day, but otherwise, the financial world bored me. Oh, and the jackets those traders wear on the floor? Please!
“I’m going to call right now and make an appointment for you. Carol recommended someone, says he’s excellent.”
“Carol recommended her? Carol Graystone? Then she must be expensive. Does the counselor have an office in Bergdorf’s? Or maybe a suite at the Stanhope.”
“The name is Lee Leventhal, a downtown address.”
“Mama, this is crazy! Don’t you want me to stop spending money? You do, and I hear these financial wizards are pricey. Very expensive.”
Silence. Had I won?
“You can put the fee on your new Viva card.”
And then, for the first time in my life, my mother hung up on me.