Shop Till You Drop

Chapter 9

Helen put on her St. John knit like she was strapping on body armor. It had cost her two thousand dollars six years ago, and it was still her best-looking suit. Now she wore it like a shield. If Helen looked rich and secure, nothing bad could happen to her.

She was going to work at a shop with deep carpets, soft music, and fresh flowers, but she felt as jumpy as if she were hitchhiking through Skid Row with a suitcase stuffed with cash. The uncertainty was wearing her down. In the short time she’d worked at Juliana’s, she’d seen a drug deal, money skimming, and what might have been a murder for hire, except nobody was dead.

Helen dreaded another day alone with Christina. She knew there would be another surprise. But she didn’t expect it five minutes after she walked through the green door that Friday.

“Meet your replacement,” Christina said. “I’m leaving for vacation after work tomorrow, and you will be in charge of the store. Guess who’s going to work with you?”

It was Tara, the cute Asian customer with the crude boyfriend. Tara looked adorable in a blue scoop-neck top with white lace insets down the sleeves, and Brazilian lowrise jeans so lowcut they looked like bikini bottoms with legs.

“I thought it would be fun for a few days,” Tara said, flipping her long black hair back from her face. “I know the clothes and the customers. Christina gave me a terrific discount.”

Helen couldn’t even afford the discount, much less the clothes.

“Paulie loves that discount part,” Tara said. She giggled and flipped her long hair to the other shoulder. “He doesn’t mind me working for a little while. It’s like a vacation.”

Some vacation, Helen thought. She eyed Tara’s high-heeled sandals. Wait till Tara’s little feet started hurting in those shoes.

“I’m doing it under one condition, Christina,” Tara said, flipping her hair in the other direction. “You have to find me a maid as reliable as the one you got for Brittney. You know where to get the best. Brittney raves about Maria.”

Good lord, thought Helen, another role for Christina: domestic service bureau.

“Do you mind a Haitian?” Christina said. “What about someone who doesn’t speak English?”

“I don’t care what they speak as long as they scrub my floors,” Tara said. “Brittney has a real gem. She pays Maria almost nothing but room and board. The woman is practically a slave.” Tara seemed happy to be a slave holder.

“I’ll have one for you when I get back from vacation,” Christina said. “But we have work to do now. I have two days to train you, Tara, and show Helen her new duties. Then I’m gone until next Friday.”

Helen didn’t know and did not care why Christina was taking a sudden unscheduled vacation. Christina did not say where she was going, and Helen didn’t ask. She wanted that woman out of her sight. Maybe then Helen could figure out what to do about her crooked, drug-dealing boss. Even better, maybe she could land another job.

There were so many new things to learn that Helen did not have time to think, and that was good, too. The day passed in a blur. Christina showed Helen and Tara how to lock up and set the alarm. Helen learned what to do with the invoices and new shipments. Tara learned to size and fold stock and ring up sales. She cheerfully absorbed her new duties and seemed to find them interesting. Tara clearly loved clothes, enjoyed their colors and textures, and had a good eye for accessories.

Helen and Tara both learned to close out the register. They even had the combination to the store’s safe. “There’s only two of you. I’ll just have to trust you,” Christina said. “If you steal anything, I’ll track you down and kill you.” She laughed wickedly.

These new tasks were harder to learn because Christina could not keep her mind on her work. She kept leaving out steps when she explained a complicated procedure on the cash register.

“No, wait, you hit this button first,” she told Helen. The cash register made a rude grinding sound, and the drawer refused to open for the third time.

“Damn. I’ve messed it up again,” Christina said. “I can’t concentrate. I see Doctor Mariposa tonight. I’m getting my wrinkles injected with biopolymer. It’s all I can think about.”

“Maybe if you wrote the steps down,” Helen said.

That worked. Christina wrote out the instructions and taped them to the register. “That’s all you need,” she said.

Christina spent the rest of the afternoon examining her face in the triple mirror. “I can’t wait,” she said. “By eight o’clock tonight, this line will be gone. And this one.” Christina pointed to the furrows between her nose and lips. They were getting deeper.

Helen still thought the injections were a mistake, but she didn’t try to argue Christina out of them. The woman was determined.

“Wait till Joe sees me,” she said. “I’ll make sure he sees my new face. I’ll buy myself the red Versace that’s cut down to my navel and go dancing at all our clubs.”

Christina was nearly cackling in anticipation. Her fury at Joe was frightening. Christina’s unrelenting anger distorted her face until she was almost ugly. Her nose seemed long and witchlike. Her lips were locked in a snarl. Her eyes were mean slits.

“Tomorrow, you’ll see a new me. I’m going to look younger and better,” Christina said. “I’ll find me a new boyfriend. Better than that jerk, Joe. He’ll be sorry.”

But it was Christina who was sorry.

The next morning, Christina came into work wearing a huge Hermes scarf that put her face in shadow. When Christina pulled off the scarf, Helen saw what she was hiding.

One side of Christina’s face was grossly swollen. Her cheek was the size of a grapefruit half and covered with knoblike lumps. The other side was smooth and wrinkle-free, turning Christina into her own grotesque before-and-after picture.

Despite the Brazilian doctor’s promises and Brittney’s testimonial, the biopolymer injections were not safe and simple. Christina’s face was a horror show. Helen had braced herself when the scarf came off, but the shock must have shown on her face. Still, she said nothing. But Tara had been expecting a cosmetic miracle. She looked at Christina’s bloated cheek and blurted, “What’s that horrible thing on your face?”

Tara tried to recover her blunder with, “I mean, your face looks a tiny bit swollen.”

“Doctor Mariposa said I had a bad reaction to the biopolymer. She says I should be patient.” Christina’s voice was mumbly, distorted by the swelling.

“When will the swelling go down?” Helen asked.

“The doctor doesn’t know. She said I might have to wait for the body to reabsorb it.”

“How long will that take?” Tara said. She looked genuinely concerned.

“Four or five years,” Christina said. Tears coursed down her face. The ones on the swollen side slid down faster as they hit the grotesque hump of flesh on her cheek. Helen tried not to stare.

“I look like a chipmunk,” Christina wailed.

“You do not,” Helen said. It was true. Chipmunks looked cute and cuddly.

Christina spent the whole morning bemoaning her swollen face. When even the biggest spenders came into the store, Christina refused to come out and wait on them. She stayed in the back room and wept until her eyes were red. Christina called all her friends, except the beautiful biopolymered Brittney, and cried on the phone. She used all the ice in the store’s mini-fridge, making cold packs for her bloated cheek. By the time she left for lunch, Christina’s eyes were glassy, and Helen suspected she’d been in her special purses for pain killers.

Helen tried, but she could not feel sorry for Christina. Maybe your deeds showed on your face, she thought. But then, what will I look like?

Christina came back after lunch in a vintage black hat with a wisp of a veil. The hat’s brim swooped down on the right side and cleverly hid the worst of the damage to her face.

Even Helen had to admit the good side of Christina’s face looked ten years younger. Now the skin was firm and plump. The trench between her nose and mouth was gone, and so were the deep frown furrows between her eyebrows.

Christina must have gone home to change. She wore the hat with a long slinky black top and skinny pants. The Ferragamo pantsuit had such style. Even the buttons were beautiful. That afternoon, Juliana’s customers raved about Christina’s chic new look. Those who didn’t know any better praised the wonders of her wrinkle injections. Christina looked almost happy. She seemed to forget the ruined right side of her face. In the unreal world of Juliana’s, half a youthful face was better than none.

About three o’clock, there was a sudden lull in the stream of shoppers. Helen and Christina leaned against the counters for a rest. Tara boldly stretched out on the black loveseat. She knew the rule that sales associates had to remain standing, but Tara also knew she’d be a customer again. The owner wouldn’t dare reprimand her.

When Tara was lounging out of earshot, Christina said, “I want to take my special evening purses with me. They’re not store stock. If anyone asks for one while I’m gone, tell her I’ll be back next Friday.”

“Fine,” Helen said. She was relieved the purses would be out of the store. She’d been wondering what to do about them. She was not going to sell pills for Christina.

Christina went back to pack up the purses. She returned with a white box and a pink bag. “I’m going to run them out to my car on my break,” she said, patting the box. “But I like this one so much, I’m keeping it for myself.” From a nest of hot-pink tissue paper in the bag, she pulled out a teardrop-shaped purse made of gold mesh.

“That looks like real gold,” Helen said.

“It is,” Christina said. “This purse is from the early 1940s. Isn’t it a beauty? Look at the clasp. Those are real diamonds.”

Helen knew better than to open the purse.

Christina was barely back from her break when Brittney was at the door. Helen buzzed her in, and Brittney thanked her in that whispery voice.

Helen could not tell—who could?—if Brittney was angry or happy. But she seemed anxious to talk to Christina. The two women took Evian water and settled into the loveseats for a chat. Tara was busy accessorizing a customer. Helen tidied the shelves under the cash register.

When Helen carried an extra box of padded hangers to the back room, she heard what the two women were talking about: the best way to get even with Joe, Christina’s ex-almost fiancé. They’d been having this same conversation since the split, but Christina was still furious.

“Every time I think about what that man did to me, I could murder him,” Christina said, raising her voice. Helen nearly dropped the box of hangers. Christina must have seen her reaction, because the two women retired to the dressing room for a private talk. Christina didn’t even bother to take in any clothes to make it look like business.

Helen listened at the door. If Christina was plotting a murder, Helen was going to do everything she could to prevent it. Christina kept her voice low, and Brittney always talked in a whisper, so it was hard to hear what they said. But Helen heard this much:

“Do you know what I spend every month?” Brittney said, her voice soft as a sigh. She sounded angry, or maybe she was pleading.

“I need more,” Christina said. “They’re raising my condo fees.”

“I don’t have more,” Brittney said, the whisper becoming a hiss. “I’m not made out of money.”

Then the door chimed, and Helen had to answer it. A woman with extravagant apricot hair wanted to look at evening gowns. By the time Helen had sold her a sleek new design, Brittney was gone.

Helen was not sure what she had overheard. Was Christina reduced to begging for money? There was no time to consider the problem. Suddenly, the store was flooded with customers. They ran her ragged, demanding ever smaller sizes and blaming Helen if they couldn’t fit into them. Helen moved in the zenlike state achieved only during the most hectic and miserable moments in retail. While she waited on the rude women, she used most of her mind to daydream about Cal. She was seeing him tonight at seven. She couldn’t wait. They hadn’t had a chance to talk since their Cap’s date last Saturday.

As the unsatisfied women ordered her about, Helen began to paint herself a rosy future with the attractive Canadian. A woman could do worse than spend the rest of her life with a man who told funny stories, she thought, putting blue skies and pink clouds in the picture.

And though it was way too early to think this way, Cal might be marriage material. Helen was not ready to buy a wedding dress or anything. That was silly. But she could sense something solid about Cal, something possible. She wondered if the U.S. courts would track her all the way to Canada.

Suddenly, the flood of customers dried up, leaving behind their wreckage: piles of abandoned clothes and accessories, tangles of hangers, carpets littered with tissue paper, straight pins, and extra buttons. Someone had smeared red lipstick on a white blouse. A shirt reeked of perfume.

Helen was wearily hanging everything up when the phone rang. It was Gilbert Roget, the store owner, calling from Canada. “Is Christina there?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Roget. She’s busy with a customer. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, could you ask her to check an International FedEx shipping bill?” he said. He gave her the number. “Some customer in Brazil is complaining about the high price of a shipment to his wife, Bianca. He called me. Could Christina look into it?”

“Of course,” Helen said. “I’ll make sure she takes care of it today.”

Especially since Christina caused the problem, Helen thought. She’s not leaving me to deal with that mess.

Christina was furious. She called Mr. Roget and told him it was a clerical error. But the wily businessman demanded to know who had prepared the FedEx package. Christina had to admit she had. She promised to refund the disputed portion to the unhappy Brazilian. Helen knew the money would have to come from Christina herself.

That’s probably why Christina did not even try to be conciliatory when Lauren’s lawyer husband called about his wife’s shoplifting bill.

“I think I was charged too much,” he said. “My wife didn’t bring home the blouse and the belt that are on the bill.”

“I can’t keep track of her purchases once she leaves the store,” Christina said. “Maybe she sold them.”

“Maybe I didn’t buy them,” he said.

“Look, buddy, just be glad I didn’t have her skinny ass thrown in jail,” Christina said, and slammed down the phone.

“Jesus! How much worse can this day get?” Christina asked, fleeing to the back room.

Her question was answered when the pill-popping Venetia came into the store. She was angry and jittery. Venetia demanded to see Christina immediately. Her shrill voice was like an ice pick in Helen’s ear. Tara ran back to get her, while Helen kept an eye on Venetia.

Helen could hardly stand to be near the woman. Venetia bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, picking at invisible lint on her Yves Saint Laurent. Pick. Pick. Pick. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Jitter. Pick. Bounce. The whites of Venetia’s eyes were bright yellow, the same color as the trim on her suit.

She’s definitely strung-out, Helen thought. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with her.

When Christina bustled up, Venetia threw the black beaded purse at her. Christina ducked, and it flew past her and skidded across the counter. Christina’s hat was knocked sideways.

The delicate little purse looked like it had been mauled by bears. The beading was torn, the silver clasp broken, and the pink silk lining shredded.

“It didn’t last,” Venetia said in her high voice, and Helen knew she was not talking about the silk lining.

“I’m sorry you’re not happy, but that is not my problem,” Christina said smoothly.

“Take it back,” Venetia said, her eyes wild, her voice nearly a shriek. “Take it back, and give me back my money. All my money. My husband is going through my accounts.”

“I cannot do that,” Christina said. “There are no returns on special items.”

“I want my money!” Venetia screamed.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave,” Christina said in a firm voice. Tara gasped, as if Christina had produced a flaming sword. She knew Venetia was being barred from Juliana’s forever.

“You’ll be sorry. You’ll be very sorry,” Venetia said, as the green door closed on her for the last time.

“Is this a full moon or what?” Christina said to Helen. “Crazy complaints must come in threes, like deaths.” She looked in the mirror, and straightened her hat to cover her swollen cheek. “Is it six o’clock yet?”

“No, but why don’t you leave early?” Helen said. “We’ll close up.”

“I’m outta here,” Christina said. “I’ll see you next Friday. You and Tara can hold the fort.”

Helen was glad to see Christina go. She watched her slim figure disappear down Las Olas, melting into the tropical twilight.