Retail Therapy

  WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GO SHOPPING

  Alana Marshall-Hughes has her priorities. They’re Prada, Tiffany, and Gucci. The African-American princess has never met a pricey retailer that didn’t practically cry with joy the minute she pranced in. But now that her credit-card bills have exceeded the price of her college tuition, her parents have cut her off. They even want her to get a (gasp) job! Alana’s not going down without a fight. After all, she gets credit-card applications in the mail every day, and where there’s a will to shop, there’s a way ... right?

  Tall, blond Hailey Starrett grew up on a farm, making jams with her hippie parents. Now, she’s making up for lost time by shopping till she drops. Hailey’s determined to make it as an actress in NYC, and she just might succeed ... if she can keep herself from spending all her money on shoes, clothes, and accessories. The blond beauty’s just been given the chance of a lifetime—starring on a soap opposite daytime’s hottest hunk ... and nastiest diva. But being in the spotlight means even more pressure to look good, and looking good doesn’t come cheap. Or does it?

  Witty, wicked, and laugh-out-loud funny, Retail Therapy is a nonstop romp through New York’s dressing rooms, green rooms, VIP rooms, and rooms-for-improvement—proof positive that with a little ingenuity, a lot of moxie, and true friends, any girl can live the high life without breaking the bank.

  “If readers thought Becky Bloomwood of

  Shopaholic fame was bad, wait until they meet

  Alana Marshall-Hughes ... The author of Party

  Girls and Girls’ Night Out again delivers a

  lighthearted, entertaining comedy.”—Booklist

  Books by Roz Bailey

  PARTY GIRLS

  GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT

  RETAIL THERAPY

  POSTCARDS FROM LAST SUMMER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Retail Therapy

  ROZ BAILEY

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GO SHOPPING

  Books by Roz Bailey

  Title Page

  Part One

  1 - Alana

  2 - Hailey

  Part Two

  3 - Alana

  4 - Hailey

  5 - Alana

  6 - Hailey

  7 - Alana

  8 - Alana

  9 - Hailey

  10 - Alana

  11 - Hailey

  12 - Alana

  13 - Hailey

  14 - Alana

  15 - Hailey

  16 - Alana

  17 - Hailey

  18 - Alana

  Part Three

  19 - Hailey

  20 - Alana

  21 - Hailey

  22 - Alana

  23 - Hailey

  24 - Alana

  25 - Hailey

  26 - Alana

  27 - Hailey

  28 - Alana

  29 - Hailey

  Part Four

  30 - Alana

  31 - Hailey

  32 - Alana

  33 - Hailey

  34 - Alana

  35 - Hailey

  36 - Alana

  37 - Hailey

  38 - Alana

  39 - Hailey

  40 - Alana

  41 - Hailey

  42 - Alana

  43 - Hailey

  Part Five

  44 - Hailey

  45 - Alana

  46 - Hailey

  47 - Alana

  48 - Hailey

  49 - Alana

  50 - Hailey

  51 - Alana

  Part Six

  52 - Hailey

  53 - Alana

  54 - Hailey

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  LONDON LEDGER

  Page Six—Fab New Designer Linked

  to Aztec Princess

  Are They Playing “Hide the Bangers,”

  Or Simply Playing to the Crowd?

  1

  Alana

  There is nothing quite as sweet as the taste of success. At this particular event, the accolades were being showered upon my friend Pierre, a young couture designer who was showing his line in Europe for the first time; however, since I had been linked to him in the press, I felt that my fashionable presence elevated his turnout here in London. The fact that they’d called me an Aztec princess had made me laugh, though I knew that if my father, the descendant of slaves from the Underground Railroad, ever saw the piece, veins would pop in his forehead. Poor Daddy took these things way too seriously.

  Now cameras flashed around me as Pierre dashed onto the stage and took a dramatic bow. I was already on my feet in the first row, clapping as loudly as my gold lame gloves would allow. Not that my applause would be noticed amid the audience roar. London’s celebrity crowd adored Pierre’s fashions almost as much as they adored the skinny, self-effacing brother who now blew kisses to the audience. Let me tell you, he’d come a long way from his days as Pete Brown, the ambiguous genius at Harvard who was afraid to tell his parents that he was minoring in design. My boy Petey had hit the big-time, and I was happy to be counted among Pete-turned-Pierre’s supporters.

  “You go, Pierre!” I called, lifting my chin slowly so as not to tumble the gorgeous gold Aztec-princess headdress he’d designed for me. It was the perfect centerpiece of my Pierre original—a black sheath trimmed in gold, gold gloves, strappy black Manolo Blahniks.

  Just then Pierre turned toward me and extended a hand, and the spotlight turned my way. In a gush of exhilaration, I moved sleekly toward the stairs, stepped up to the stage, struck a sultry pose that showed off Pierre’s couture and my well-toned curves to advantage.

  Let me tell you, there is a sensual thrill that hits when you are the object of so much admiration. Not the personal rush of the big O, but a real power rush. Yes, success is sweet.

  We rode that sweet river of honey backstage, hugging each other and doing air kisses with the bony models.

  “You are the ultimado!” Pierre told me.

  “No, you are!” I insisted, nudging the shoulder of his dapper silk brocade jacket. He staggered back, the little twig. “Did you see who was out there?”

  “Someone mentioned Uma. And Sir Ian. Sarah Jessica. And Ms. Hilton straight from the farm. Could it be true? Here in London?” He clasped his hands to his face. “How did I ever pull this off? I am so unworthy.”

  “Get out!” I linked my arm through his, tempted to remind him of the way his parents had disowned him, the catcalls he’d elicited on the streets of Cambridge when trying out his own designs, the pervasive misery he’d been mired in at the math department. “Sweetie-Petey, you endured a lot to get here. Own it and enjoy it.”

  His boyish, cutie-pie face dimpled with joy as he squeezed my arm. “Thanks, Alana. You’re the best ...”

  His words faded as the stage manager let loose a swarm of reporters who thronged around Pierre, looking for quotes and off-color remarks for the London tabloids. Someone insinuated that I was Pierre’s mistress, and I managed to keep myself from laughing, wondering how they could look at my dear friend and see a heterosexual bone in his body. Not that I really cared if they started rumors about us. Neither of us was involved with anyone at the moment, and if a little posing could land Pierre in the scandal sheets, more publicity to him.

  Someone tapped the shoulder of my silk gown—Darla, one of Pierre’s “people.” “We got two calls during the show from a Judge Marshall-Hughs,” she said. “Says he’s your father. He’s trying to reach you.”

  He’d left a message earlier at the hotel, but si
nce it didn’t sound frantic, I’d tucked him into the back of my mind until the show ended. “Thanks, Darla,” I said, moving away from the reporters. Perhaps now would be a good time to deal with Daddy, who didn’t abide having his calls dodged. I told Darla that I’d meet the group down the block at Taman Gang, the restaurant we’d booked for the after-show celebration. Then I retrieved my tiny little beaded black bag and headed out.

  Contrary to London’s reputation, it was not raining but cool and sunny—early May. I turned on my cell and retrieved Daddy’s progressively agitated messages. Lord, give that man some patience! As I strolled toward the restaurant, quite aware I was turning heads in my Aztec-princess garb, I came upon a shop I couldn’t resist called Solid Foundations. It was a tiny little place that featured men’s underwear in endless varieties: briefs, boxers, and bikinis in cotton, silk, and various blends. I found myself drawn in by the frank presentation of underwear on plastic mannequins with rather appealing bulges. Did I mention that it had been a while since I’d had a boyfriend? Maybe too long ...

  In any case, I couldn’t resist acquiring a few “foundations.” Not sure what Daddy preferred, I got him three pairs of Dolce & Gabbana ribbed boxer briefs—a conservative design befitting an elder statesman, judge, and father. For Pierre, I found black jersey trunks with the sweetest little heart buttons closing the fly—so precious I was tempted to snag a pair for myself, though I knew these tapered shorts would lack the capaciousness my little butt required. Did I say capaciousness? I would have to tell Daddy those two years of Harvard tuition were paying off.

  I was waiting for the clerk to wrap my purchases when my beaded bag began to vibrate—my cell. I flipped it open, not bothering to look at the caller ID. “Daddy! I was just about to call you.”

  “Alana!” he barked, clear as a bell. Hard to believe he was across the pond in New York City. “Where the hell are you? Yesterday I got a call from the credit card company about approving an over-the-limit charge from Paris. What in God’s name are you doing in Paris?”

  “Paris was yesterday! Today I’m in London.” The Foundations clerk, a gangly young man in an ill-fitting tie, shot me a look of awe. I smiled back; maybe that would just make his day.

  “London! What are you doing in London?”

  “At the moment, I’m buying you some underwear.”

  The clerk smirked, and I rolled my eyes as Daddy began to sputter. “Why would you do that? I don’t need underwear!”

  I held the phone away for a second. “No need to shout,” I said. “I can hear you just fine. I’m here to support Pierre in his fashion debut. He’s been doing shows in all the key cities. A little off-season, I know, but people seem hungry for some new designs. Milan is next, and then—”

  “I don’t want to hear about Milan! I want you to tell me why I’m supposed to pay a two-thousand-dollar restaurant tab from Paris.”

  “Did it come to that much?” I sighed. “I wasn’t sure about the conversion rate.”

  “You need to come home.”

  “Next week.” I gathered up my purchases and mouthed a “thank you” to the clerk. “I’ll be back next Sunday. Didn’t Mama tell you? I’m taking her shopping for new furniture for the Hamptons house. I’ve already done the sitting room, but—”

  “Apparently there are many things your mama has not seen fit to illuminate.”

  Uh-oh. A big uh-oh. Daddy had discovered a breach—possible budget violation.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked in a teasing voice.

  “Your charges have come up on my American Express account. How did you get a card on my account?”

  Mama, of course, but I wasn’t about to give her up. “Is that what’s bothering you? No problem. I’ll stop using it.”

  “Come. Home. Now.” His voice was packed with a powdery anger.

  “Daddy, is everything OK?”

  “Everything will be fine when you get yourself home and sit down with me and set the record straight.” His voice boomed, imperious, commanding. Can’t you just imagine the scales of justice upon his shoulders? Judge Daddy sometimes acted as if the world were his courtroom.

  “Can it wait till after Milan?” I asked sweetly.

  “No, it cannot wait. I want you home. Tonight.”

  “But the Concorde doesn’t fly anymore ...”

  “That ... what the ... ?” he blustered. “I wouldn’t want you spending that kind of money even if it flew you to the moon and back! Get yourself on the next flight home, Alana. If not, punitive measures will be taken.” Ever the judge, but the man was serious.

  Disappointment seeped cold into my veins as I stepped out onto the trendy London street. “Would tomorrow be OK? Remember, we’re a few hours ahead of you.”

  “Today,” he barked, and I imagined his gavel falling in the background.

  Case closed. Defendant to return home.

  As I strolled past a shop window filled with tempting lotions and perfumes and waited to connect to the airlines, I couldn’t shake a pang of worry over the tone in Daddy’s voice. He sounded angry, frustrated, impatient. Typical Daddy, ruining my little junket with Petey. But that curvy, lavender bottle of lotion looked so delicate in the window. I could picture it on the console in the guest bathroom of the Hamptons house, right beside a bowl of floating sterling roses and that blue mosaic sculpture I’d had shipped home from Paris.

  I plugged the earpiece into my cell and pushed into the boutique. I had to have that lavender bottle. Daddy would understand, once he saw the way it all came together at the beach house.

  In the end, he always mellowed with me, realizing I wasn’t some icky lawbreaker yammering away in his court. I was his baby, his little pork chop. I tried to keep that endearment under wraps, but in tense moments the recollection seemed to soothe my father. Yes, a tender hug from the little pork chop was good for ten grand on the Visa bill. Ha! Maybe even twenty!

  NEW YORK SOAP SCOOP

  Will Daytime’s Undersea Maiden

  Be Sent Swimming?

  2

  Hailey

  First, let me tell you how I was dressed that day on the set, because I’m the kind of person whose confidence hinges on the right attire. I was wearing my favorite pair of jeans—worn soft on the thighs and knees, the blue washed out to a powdery shade, the pockets jutting hard over my hipbones to reveal just a hint of tight tummy. I have always been thin with the long legs of a dancer (though I don’t have the moves to survive Simon on American Idol) and jeans suit me well. Denim can be so flattering on beanpole legs, and I think blue jeans are reminiscent of the good things about America, like baseball and apple pie. With my golden blond hair—not from Bergdorf’s, I swear!—and my wiry, athletic legs, I think the jean thing sort of rings midwestern for me, which should give me a squeaky edge when I’m competing for a part against scores of cold, semi-goth beauties and sultry brunettes with a blue henna sheen on their hair that makes your eyes fritz.

  Of course, I dressed up the jeans with a fabulous shell pink tank and off-the-shoulder three-quarter sleeve T from Nine West, with matching pink sandals that tied around my ankles. The sandals and the tank had tiny pink and black polka dots—maybe you saw them recently in Vogue?—and the two-inch heel in the back made my legs look impossibly long, combining denim cool with flirty spring fashion.

  Not that I think I’m all that or anything, but I figure that if I want to be a major player in daytime television, it’s time that I started dressing like a star. Two years ago, I landed the part of Ariel on All Our Tomorrows. I’m the girl found swimming in the river under Indigo Falls—the one who may or may not be a mermaid, may or may not be the sneaky heir to the fortune of Preston Scott, may or may not be the child of Meredith Van Allen, the megadiva of daytime played by Deanna Childs. Ten or so years ago Deanna’s baby was snatched from her crib by a pack of wolves and reportedly carried off into the hills where she was raised by toothless mountain men. By my math, that would make me about ten years old; fortunately, so
ap-opera time can be conveniently warped.

  Need the Soap Opera Digest version? Suffice it to say that I’m a young actress from the Midwest who got a thirteen-week contract to play a mysterious character in the show that stars the Hope diamond of daytime—Deanna. The show’s producers have re-signed me a few times, but so far, reception to my character seems to be a little lukewarm, which really hurts me. Even if I don’t write the story, it’s me that’s stepping out there. That’s me, Hailey Starrett, on your TV screen, and although I played it cool and even on the set, inside I was crumbling.

  “I’m not sure if people like me,” I’d worried to my friend Alana one day over a skim decaf cappuccino. I’d been suffering a self-confidence freak prompted by a phone call from my agent during which she’d relayed that the show’s executive producer wasn’t sure she wanted to sign me on for another thirteen weeks. My agent, whom I’d nicknamed Cruella, for obvious reasons, never minced words when delivering bad news. “I don’t know what to do,” I whimpered as I tore at the cardboard sleeve around my coffee cup. “What if they don’t like me?”

  “Of course they like you,” Alana had insisted. “Don’t be getting all misty-eyed over the whims of a bunch of producers who talk up their asses. You’re a talented actress, and you know it.”

  “But I want to keep this part. I need this part.”

  “Honey, you don’t need them.” Alana tapped powdered cocoa onto the foam of our cappuccinos and handed me a spoon. It was a ritual of ours—savoring the foam of our skim cappuccinos as if they were ice cream sundaes. She lapped up the foam and stared off into the distance, calculating and dreaming as if a vision were playing out like an MTV video. “You know what you really need?” she said, her eyes alight like a clever cat. “You need some retail therapy. A shopping trip.”