carefully.
“Ah…” I managed, while cinching my towel and raising my hand self-consciously to my suds-covered head.
“I am Ms. Leopold. This is Mr. Oodles. We are your new neighbours.” Leading with her martini glass, she pushed past me into my living room.
I stood frozen in my empty doorway. The Mercedes was now nestled against the mailbox.
Hearing tuts and hmms from the living room, I closed the door and joined Ms. Leopold.
“I must say you do have quite an interesting touch, darling.”
“This really isn’t a good time, I…”
“Go put on a robe, darling.” She swivelled, leaving an arc of gin on my footstool. “We must chat about what can be done with my condo. You wouldn’t believe what they did with the bathroom, dear. I know you were just fabulous with Bunny, and let’s face it, it couldn’t have been easy with Edgar, the pompous old goat, breathing down your neck.”
Bunny Birk had been a client the previous year. A woman with more money than God, Bunny also possessed the same surgically enhanced ageless quality I saw on Ms. Leopold’s tight face.
“Well, I…I…” Then the shopaholic deep inside me remembered Bolt Grenfrew was opening a new store, and I was almost entirely broke. “I’ll be right back.”
I returned in a robe with a towel for my hair. Mr. Oodles hopped effortlessly onto my leather love seat. He was wearing a pastel blue Pashmina wrap.
“You’re a friend of Mrs. Birk?” Opening my portfolio, I tried to seem professional. “I hope she’s well.”
Ms. Leopold’s eyebrow arched impossibly, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “I should say so. Her new pool boy is named Miguel, and he’s an aspiring gymnast.” A sly, crimson smile followed. “I’d say Bunny is behaving quite like her namesake these days.”
Pushing Bunny and her flexible Latino lover from my mind took some effort. I felt another shower was in order. “Would you like to see my other work, Ms. Leopold? I have a variety of…”
“No, no, no. I like what I’ve seen already. Bunny simply raves on and on about you. And, although you could obviously use a maid, your home speaks for itself.”
I’d almost missed the last part, being more concerned about Mr. Oodles, who was licking himself on my Calvin Klein throw.
“We’ll have lunch together at the Château Poivre.” Ms. Leopold scooped her dog up, anointing him with martini. “Here you are, dear.” A cheque was pressed into my hand. $5,000.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I hadn’t even shown her a fabric swatch.
“Working for me, darling, is a package deal. My men must be rich and foreign, my dog must be purebred, my hair stylist must be gay and my decorator must be well dressed.”
As I’d only been wearing bath linens during her entire visit, I began to protest. “Tut, tut.” She silenced me with a gloved finger to my lips. “I’m a faithful reader of Glamour, dear.”
I struggled through the rest of the afternoon. Why hadn’t I ripped up the cheque and thrown it in her pickled face? The sad realization that I could be bought was only softened by the idea of a spree at Emporio Armani. Besides, how much of a pain in the ass could a stewed prune like Ms. Leopold be?
You have to dress like a runway-model when you go to haute-couture stores, otherwise nobody will look at you except the security guards. I brought out the big guns today and was horrified at how snug my cream Jones New York ankle-length blazer had become. I left it open with a simple white tee and yellow silk trousers. I put on my grandmother’s diamond studs and pulled back my fire-red hair. Armed with my Fendi bag, a gift from Bunny upon completion of her en suite bath, I made a bee-line to town.
Fearing recognition, I chose my largest tortoise shell sunglasses to disguise myself until I was safely in Damon’s Department Store.
I fondled the butter-soft Gucci shoes before skipping to Women’s Wear. A pair of hot pink capris caught my eye.
“Hello.” The sales woman crept up stealthily behind me.
“Hi.” I said, polite but dismissive. I like to see everything before I commit to a change room.
“Pink is this year’s black.”
“Ah.” What the hell does that mean?
Noting I was ignoring her, she began to retreat. “You may want to rethink the colour, though.”
I turned to her quizzically.
“Lighter colors can make you seem…” her eyes focussed in on my yellow-clad thighs, “bottom-heavy.” She was wearing white linen pants. She had been born without thighs.
I was speechless.
In a singsong voice she added, “Well, you just let me know if I can help you find anything in a larger size.”
“Larger than what?”
“We mostly only carry up to a 10 in-store, but we can order as high as 14 in most of these lines. Of course, the prices can go a bit higher, because they use so much more fabric.” Her face wore a condescending smirk. It clashed with the frown lines etched into her chin. “We here at Damon’s are sensitive to our ‘plus-sized’ customers’ needs.”
Black dots swam into my line of vision. A knot tightened in my throat. I rifled through the contents of my purse, produced my Damon’s Preferred Customer card and thrust it up to her face. “There is a special place in hell for people like you,” I managed and ran from the store.
When did sizes 12 and 14 become “plus sizes”? I was so shocked I couldn’t drive. I was a 16. What did they categorize that under? “Jumbo-size”? “Manatee-size”? “I’m sorry we have nothing but tents in your size”, size? Not much can divert me from shopping, especially with $5,000 of someone else’s money, but the waspish sales bitch did it. I headed for cheesecake.
I’m not proud of this, but when pushed hard enough, I can eat cheesecake, smoke and drive a stick shift simultaneously. Arriving home, I was less than thrilled to see Ms. Leopold. I contemplated speeding off but hadn’t the energy. I’d tell Ms. Leopold to stick her martini up her butt and head for my bed.
Instead, I broke down on my doorstep. My story about the evil sales hag at Damon’s, the Glamour magazine fiasco and my too-tight jacket came blubbering out of my cake-covered lips. Mr. Oodles licked icing off my pant leg sympathetically. All the while Ms. Leopold sipped her drink with a face of stone. I finished with a whimper. There was a long silence.
“Come, darling.” She tentatively patted my elbow.
“Where are we going?” I sniveled.
“You need a spa.” She expertly rolled the olive around the rim of her empty glass. “And I need a drink.”
“Fatso.”
The call
