50
Hailey
“Good afternoon, Ms. Starrett.” Mr. Barnes tipped his hat as he held the door open for me.
“Thanks, Mr. Barnes.” My heels clicked over the marble floor of the Manchester lobby, and I felt tempted to break into a tap dance. Good news does that to me.
“Ms. Marshall-Hughs had some visitors up there, but they just left. Three fine-looking gentlemen.” He lowered his voice to add, “Mrs. Abraham in 8-F was complaining, but I told her she should enjoy those fellas while they’re here.”
I smiled. A few of the neighbors had expressed concern over the stream of men visiting our apartment lately, but Alana didn’t think she needed to explain herself, and she had so little time to do the alterations for the entire male staff that she had stopped going back and forth to LA Minute and started calling the guys to stop by the Manchester instead.
Upstairs, I turned the key and pushed open the door. “Honey, I’m home!” I teased. “And I’ve got news.”
Alana tipped her head back from the pool of light around her sewing machine. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail atop her head, and she was dressed in skinny gray sweats with an oversize Harvard T. “Hey, there! What’s the word from the outside world?”
“People like me!” I threw up my arms. “Cruella called me at work to let me know that I’m getting a Soap Opera Lovers Award. Can you believe it? Viewers voted me for it! But the ceremony is this Thursday and I need a dress. Dante let me tape early so I could leave and go shopping, and you have to come with me.”
“Hailey, that’s great!” She was already turning off her sewing machine and ducking into her bedroom to change. “That ceremony is televised, right?”
“Yup. I have to write a speech. Oh, God! Think of some pithy bad girl comments.”
“For that you need to call Marcella.”
“And you have to come with me to the ceremony. I can bring someone, and we’ll have a blast. I mean, you should be finished with all your uniforms by then. So you need a gown, too.” A few weeks ago, this would have been a disaster, but now that I’d earned some money on Heartbreak, I could afford a new gown. Even Marcella would agree, it was a business expense. “Where should we start? Bergdorf’s? Saks?”
“The garment district.” Alana emerged from her room in a smart red-and-white print sundress with a white duster. After an entire week in seclusion here, she still knew how to step out. “I know a place where we can get last year’s designs for wholesale prices.”
“Last year’s?” I winced.
“Trust me. You’ll save thousands of dollars, and with a few alterations, which I can do for you, no one will ever know the difference.”
“But honey, you have no time. Those uniforms have got you sewing round the clock, and I need my gown by this Thursday.”
“I’ll fit it in,” Alana said. “Besides, I need a break. Those jacket alterations have me seeing pearl gray in my sleep. Do you know how complicated an alteration is when you have to cut into the lining? Please! Thank God the fabric is exquisite. Otherwise I’d be suicidal.”
After we rode the subway downtown—I know, pee-yew, but it’s one of Marcella’s rules—Alana took me around to half a dozen places where she knew the vendors well enough to negotiate. We found a few possibilities but settled on a fabulous Dior—a bright red, off-the-shoulder gown that needed just a tiny bit of alteration in the waist. For Alana, we went with a Prada, a layered chiffon in various shades of brown from chocolate to russet to terra-cotta. Hers needed to be taken up, but Alana was up to the task, and the price was right. After Alana bartered with the vendor, the two gowns cost us less than five hundred dollars. Of course, we’d had to endure trying things on in tiny closets in the back of the shops, but it’s all a trade-off.
On the subway ride home, I realized how much the tenor of our shopping trips had changed. And there was something else: Alana had changed. She was distant, a little too thoughtful.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
She frowned. “My head is all tied up in my work. And in Xavier.”
“Uh-oh.” I shook my head. “Men are always trouble, aren’t they?”
“That’s for damn sure. And I’m crazy about him. Can’t stop thinking about him, though I’m hoping it’s just a phase. That’s possible, right?”
“If you feel that way, why do you keep pushing him away?” I asked. “Why not tell him exactly how you feel? I think he’s got a thing for you, too.”
“Nah.” She waved me off. “It would never work.”
“Why, Alana Marshall-Hughs, I think I’ve finally found something you’re afraid of. You’re afraid of falling in love.”
She bumped into my shoulder as our train skidded to a stop. “That’s a crock. I’m just overwhelmed with work right now. My perspective is all warped.”
I just smiled. We both knew she was lying through her teeth.