The Ladies Killing Circle Anthology 4-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin
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 had awakened me from a fitful sleep. “What?”
“Heifer,” a raspy voice taunted. “Tub of lard.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Bitch.”
Click.
Before I could pry my fingernails from my mattress, it rang again.
“Buffalo-butt. Cow.”
“I’ve got *69. I can find out who you are!” Nothing.
I listened to the even breathing on the line.
“What are you going to do, come sit on me?”
“No! I’m going to send my boyfriend over there to kick your ass!” Juvenile, yes, but what do you want at three a.m.?
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Colonel Sanders.”
Click.
*69 informed me the calls came from a phone booth. Usually, I am not bothered by crank-calls, but this one left me feeling uneasy. The Glamour magazine fiasco was still fresh in my mind. I sat up the rest of the night watching Richard Simmons info-mercials. By five I’d ordered the Deluxe Deal a Meal Plan and a Pocket Fisherman.
I used my sleepless night as an excuse to keep the spa at bay for two days. At first the thought of a pampering appealed, then I realized I would have to be naked with strangers.
I caved on Thursday morning. Ms. Leopold summoned me at ten-thirty. Mr. Oodles, sporting a leather vest with fur trim, was basking in the morning sun on my welcome mat. My neighbor, Mr. Balducci, was swearing at Mr. Oodles and waving a plastic bag with dubious contents.
“Cara Chloë, please-a tell me that is not-a your dog.”
“No, he belongs to Ms. Leopold. She moved in this week.”
Dino Balducci began to swear in Italian. “Where I come-a from, that-a sausage would be make into a nice-a stew, not dressed up-a like a Barbie doll!” He stormed away muttering about dog-based recipes.
“So glad you found him, darling. He just slips out sometimes, heaven knows how.”
We pulled up to the River Grand Country Club and Spa and were whisked inside. Three people fawned over Ms. Leopold, and by virtue of having arrived in the same car, I was at the receiving end of some strange attention as well.
“Wheat grass juice?”
“Do you need a kelp wrap?”
“Our sugar detox advisor can fit you in at noon, is that okay?”
“Would you prefer endurance or strength spinning?”
My day was spent being poked, rubbed, stretched, steamed, waxed and tortured on various machines that insisted on knowing my weight before they would work. Ms. Leopold watched from behind soundproof glass in an indoor tropical paradise with drink service.
My nap on the ride home came to a screeching halt. Mr. Balducci’s garbage can was wedged neatly into the rear wheel-well of the Mercedes.
“Shall we go to Damon’s tomorrow?” Ms. Leopold inquired.
I scrunched my face with displeasure.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I think you’ll find the situation has been rectified.”
Too tired to ask for clarification, I said goodnight, then limped to my door. I nearly missed the envelope peeking out from my mail-slot. It wasn’t labelled. I tore into it while flopping onto my bed. Inside was a photocopy of my last grocery bill. I’d been in the clutches of a bingeing spree and purchased more than a few items containing double-chocolate fudge. Underneath was a simple sentence.