The Makeover (6 page)

TEN

“I said,
what do you mean we’re moving to Michigan
?” Camellia was close on Henry’s heels as he carried his bags to their expansive walk-in closet. “You can’t just go off and accept a job in another state without discussing it with me first.”

“What would you have said? ‘Oh Henry, what an amazing opportunity for us?’”

“No, because it isn’t an amazing opportunity for
us
. It’s an amazing opportunity for
you
.”

“Is that so awful?” he roared. “For something great to happen to me? Wonderful things have been happening for you for years. And I’ve been your biggest cheerleader. No matter your moods or your single-minded decisions. Don’t I get a turn?”

Camellia was speechless. Henry had never raised his voice to her in all their years together. And, much to her dismay, what he was saying held an awful lot of truth. Although that didn’t make any of what was happening okay. If she were to leave New York, it would be like waving the white flag. She would be over in every conceivable way. Maybe if it were Los Angeles or Chicago, cosmopolitan cities with on-the-map Fashion Weeks and big publishing companies and flagship stores, the move could be seen as a strategic decision. But everyone in the fashion world would know there was nothing strategic about relocating to Michigan. They would know she had no other choice.

She began to weep, sinking onto the closet floor. “Henry, I don’t think I can do this.”

Henry stopped unpacking and stared at her. “What can’t you do? Support your husband?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what? You can’t leave New York? They way I see it, neither of us have any options here at the moment.”

“At the moment. It will get better. We’ll find jobs.”

“I found a job. With great pay and benefits.”

“So maybe you can go and then o
nce we get offers here, you can come back.”

“You’re suggesting we separate?” His voice was filled with vile.

“Not us. Not our marriage. Just for work. For a little while.” She was sobbing. “Henry,
please
.”

“None of those fashion people care one bit for you. They’ve made that perfectly clear. The only person supporting you is me. How dare you throw me away for them?” He threw the duffle bag to the floor and stomped out.

“Henry!” Camellia shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and chased after him, but it was too late. The front door slammed shut. He was gone.

Camellia paced the apartment, a sick swirl of anxiety, nausea, and exhaustion following her. Making tough decisions had always been one of her strongest assets. Now she felt paralyzed – unable to take a positive step in any direction. She stopped trying to find work a month ago, fully believing no one was going to consider her for a position, neither in fashion nor publishing in general. Even queries to smaller fitness and business magazines had come back empty. What was she going to do, fold sweaters at JCrew? So, instead she did nothing, watching the last of their savings drain away, while Henry punched away at the calculator, agonizing over the bills, and wondering how they would pay th
eir costly apartment lease next month.

She found herself in the doorway of the office, and couldn’t help but notice that her laptop was starting to collect dust. She wandered in and slumped into the desk chair, opening the lid of the computer. Safari was already running, its Google search box waiting for direction. She typed in “Michigan” and hit enter. A number of sites for the University of Michigan popped up, along with a Wikipedia listing. While she would have thwarted one of her editors for sourcing the sometimes-unreliable site, she clinked on the link, figuring she would get a simple-to-re
ad picture of the state holding Henry’s promise.

The entry noted that Michigan was the eighth most populated state in the country known for its lakes. While it wouldn’t be the Amalfi Coast, living on the water could hold some promise. She read about the auto industry, which reminded her that she hadn’t driven a car in nearly two decades. The fact that she couldn’t find one word about mass transportation concerned her,
however with Henry’s salary, they could again afford car service. The state had a decent amount of tourism, although she couldn’t be sure what vacationers were heading there to do. There were beautiful photos on the page, showing Tahquamenon Falls and Sleeping Bear Dunes and a charming spot called Mackinac Island. That gave her a glimmer of hope, until she read that the major industries included cars, cereal, and pizza. Still, she hadn’t yet found what she was really searching for, so she Googled “Michigan shopping”.

She reeled back as an all-Christmas-all-the-time shopping destination called Bronner’s popped up on the search results, the overload of sparkly décor giving her an instant headache. Scrolling quickly down through the list, she landed on a site showcasing Michigan’s best shops and malls, and there, amidst the scores of fudge shops and outdoor stores, she found real promise in the names of Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Gucci, Louis Vuitton
, and Salvatore Ferragamo. There were also listings for St. John and Stuart Weitzman and Ralph Lauren and Henri Bendel, too. Halleluiah. Michigan had shopping.

Getting up from the desk, she went back into the living room to look out at Central Park, the oasis adding to her growing sense of calm. She imagined a life in a sprawling Cape-Cod cottage with a dormered roof and a second-floor balcony overlooking the water. She pictured a quieter, yet cultured life, filled with gallery exhibits, foreign films, shopping excursions, and alfresco dining. While Camellia wasn’t yet sure what she could do for work, she imagined she could set a course for greatness as a freelance writer, starting with some of the up-and-coming fashion websites, and slowly moving back into magazines, until once again she was being sent to cover fashion weeks and boutique openings all over the world. Yes, this was a life she could find enthusiasm for. A life she could share with Henry.

When Henry finally returned home later that evening, he found a different wife waiting for him. Camellia was showered and dressed in wide-legged trousers and a silk-print blouse, her hair sleek, and her makeup back in place. And most remarkable: she was smiling.

“Camellia?” he questioned, looking unsure of his wife’s sudden change.

“Henry, let’s do this,” she said brightly. “Let’s move to Michigan.”

“What changed?” Henry asked, tearing into his steak. They had decided to go out for a celebratory dinner at a little restaurant around the corner from their apartment, followed by a small shopping trip to select Christmas gifts for each other.

It was the first time Camellia had been out in ages, and she couldn’t deny how good it felt to be amongst people again, especially with no more threat of paparazzi following her. “I did some research,” she explained, delicately stabbing at her Salade Niçoise. “I didn’t realize how lovely Michigan is.”

“It really is,” Henry agreed. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but one of the group’s receptionists, Mary Wysocki, has a friend who recently got transferred to Atlanta, and is looking to rent out his house until the real estate market improves. It’s empty, and she says very picturesque, and it’s ours to call home for awhile.”

Camellia set her fork down. Her forehead was creased, but she was too concerned with this new information to remember about wrinkles. “You agreed to a house without me seeing it first?”

“Well, it’s not like we have time to go house hunting. The director of the practice wants me to start as soon as possible. Besides, it’s just a rental. Once we get our bearings, we can determine the neighborhood we like and find our own house to buy.”

“We’re buying a house?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t we? It’s a buyer’s market, and we can use some equity.”

Camellia looked down at her lap. “It just sounds so...permanent.”

Henry reached across the table, taking his wife’s hand into his own. “Honey, I’ll make you a deal. If this move doesn’t work out for us, we can come back to New York. Honest. We just have to promise that we’ll give it a chance. Will you give it a chance?”

Camellia nodded, trying hard to remember that picture she had created of the grand house and the life of leisure. She could give it a chance. She would do it for Henry.

After dinner, they took a cab to Barneys on Madison Avenue. Camellia was delighted to be back in one of her favorite department stores, surrounded by luxurious designer goods and happy people with platinum cards at the ready. They parted at the front doors and Camellia stayed on the first floor, heading to men’s accessories. She circled the sunglass cases, deciding that life on the water called for a very good pair of designer shades with proper UV protection. The slim, well-dressed salesman kindly extracted pair after pair, even consenting to model the different styles. She decided on a handsome aviator style by Tom Ford, experiencing only minor anxiety as the salesman placed the five-hundred-dollar order on her credit card.

Camellia found Henry in the jewelry department, accepting a small bag with ribbon poking out the top from an older saleslady with stunning white hair. When he noticed her standing there, he dramatically pretended to stash the bag inside his overcoat. “I knew you’d be here,” she gushed. “I can
smell a jewelry purchase from a mile away.”

“Guilty,” he said, putting an arm around his wife and escorting her to the door. “But you won’t know exactly what it is until Christmas, smarty pants.”

“Oh no, I have to wait
three whole days
. I think I can handle it.”

Henry grinned. “I think you can handle a whole hell of a lot.”

ELEVEN

Christmas arrived the way Camellia and Henry preferred, with a light snow falling on the city, and just the two of them at home, enjoying the magical quality of the morning. They sipped French-press coffee in front of the fireplace, the presents from Barney’s set between them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get a tree this year,” Camellia said, leaning into a leather ottoman.

“It’s been a rough few months,” Henry conceded. “You were hardly in the spirit, which is understandable.”

Camellia watched the flames dancing behind the wrought-iron screen, and remembered this would be their last Christmas spent in the apartment. “I wonder if the house in Michigan has a fireplace.”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Henry pushed a present wrapped in thick striped paper to Camellia. “Why don’t you open your present?”

She set her cup and saucer on the stone floor in front of the fireplace, and handed Henry his present. “No, you first,” she commanded.

Henry smiled, turning the rectangular package in his hands. “I can’t imagine what it could be.”

“Then I guess you better open it.”

He tore the paper and lifted the lid of the box. “Sunglasses?”

“Not just any sunglasses,” she replied, cracking open the lid of the case.

“Oh, nice choice,” Henry said, lifting the glasses and admiring the design.

“I figured a life on the water required serious shades,” she explained proudly.

“A life on the water?”

“Have you any idea how many lakes there are in Michigan?”

Henry tried on the sunglasses, modeling them for Camellia. “Somebody’s been doing her h
omework. Are we going to become sailors, then?”

Camellia thought about that for a minute. How decadent it would be to have their own sailboat, taking little voyages together and making friends with glorious yacht owners. “Maybe we shall,” she said, nodding her approval.

“I’m so glad you’re getting excited about the move. The truck will be here on the second, so we’re going to need some excitement in our blood to get this apartment packed up in time.”

Camellia’s expression turned serious. “Aren’t we hiring movers?”

“Yes, but we still have to be careful with our finances for awhile, and we already agreed to be a little indulgent with Christmas presents. According to our lease, we have to keep paying for the apartment for three more months, and I won’t start getting paid immediately. So we have to box up our own stuff. The movers will get everything into and out of the truck.

“Fun.”

“Ah, it will keep us occupied,” Henry said, pushing the sunglasses onto his head.

“Will it ever.”

“Okay, Mrs. Sarcasm, let’s settle you down with a present, shall we?”

Eyes wide, Camellia reached for her present, delicately pulling at the tape. Keeping the paper perfectly intact, she slid it away, revealing a pretty red case. She raised her eyebrows at Henry then opened the lid, revealing a gleaming solid-gold bracelet with a heart attached to it.

“It’s a charm bracelet,” Henry explained, lifting it from the case and attaching it to her outstretched wrist. “The heart represents my love for you. As we venture into this new chapter of our lives, I’ll add charms to the bracelet that represent all the good things we find along the way.”

“Henry,” Camellia said softly, her eyes filled with tears. “You are the sweetest man I have ever known.” She pressed her weight into him, kissing him deeply. He pulled her on top of him and ran his hands down her backside, pressing her against his erection. Within seconds, he had her undressed and pinned beneath him on the plush rug. She giggled from the tickle of the rug against her bare skin, and spread her legs to welcome Henry inside her, which was as warm and inviting as the dancing fire.

They spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s taping together boxes Henry had ordered from the moving company and thoughtfully placing their lives into them. They split up the duties, with Henry focusing on the kitchen, and Camellia dealing with their master closet and bathroom. Before tackling the closet, Camellia perched on one of the oversized leather cubes positioned in the center of the space and surveyed her collection.

The closet was a fashion-lover’s dream, with floor-to-ceiling white cabinetry, soft shelf lighting, and a dazzling chandelier. Her collection was well edited: classic suiting and day dresses mixed with eye-catching cocktail wear and couture gowns. And then there were the bags and shoes. Every style, by every major designer, in every color was lined up in perfect rows for easy viewing. Henry’s section was just as impressive, with numerous suits, trousers, and button-downs hanging perfectly over two rows of shining shoes; his T-shirts and sweaters folded neatly in a tall shelving unit. Even though she had spent years getting dressed in this closet, it still took her breath away each time she turned on the light and stepped inside.

She sighed and dragged in a large packing box, grateful Henry had thought to order wardrobe boxes so she could leave the majority of her clothing on hangers, saving her hours of folding and steaming time. Only her sweaters, lingerie, and accessories would need to go into regular boxes.

Twenty-four wardrobe boxes later, the hanging section of the closet was packed, save for a grouping of outfits she had set aside for Henry and her to wear during their last days in the apartment. Already exhausted, she retied the silk scarf that was covering her hair and wandered toward the kitchen to check on Henry’s progress. She found him in the living room, reclining on the sofa with a glass of beer in hand and the Giants game on the television. “Slacking off, I see?”

“Done, my dear. How about you?”

“You’re
done
? With the whole kitchen? How is that possible?”

Henry took a long drink of his beer and looked at his wife quizzically. “It’s been five hours,” he said, his eyes never straying from the game. “And those kitchen boxes were fantastic. Little spots for the glasses to go so they don’t have to be wrapped. Same for the plates. Really made it simple. Yes! First down.”

With Henry’s full attention back on the game, Camellia headed to the kitchen to see for herself. Sure enough, the cabinets were bare, and boxes were stacked everywhere, with only a narrow path to the refrigerator left open. She opened the refrigerator, feeling famished, and pulled out a couple of cheese hunks and went into the pantry for some crackers. They were packed. She opened the silverware drawer for a knife. That was packed. Every last plate was packed, too. And there were no paper goods to be found. With a noisy exhale, she threw the cheese back into the refrigerator and headed back to the closet. “Real thorough packing job, Henry,” she muttered as she passed through the living room, Henry too focused on the football game to respond.

By moving day they were done and barely able to put one leg in front of the other, their bodies aching from all the bending and lifting. Henry had rented an SUV for them to drive, which was packed with more urgent personal belongings, including Camellia’s laptop and a bag filled with toiletries, just in case the moving truck broke down en route. Henry planned to keep the car for a week, until he could buy them their own. Camellia hoped Henry also planned on taking care of all the driving. A road trip was not the right time to revisit the lessons learned in driver’s education.

It took the movers until early afternoon to get all the boxes and furniture out of the apartment. Henry had positioned himself outside near the back of the truck, making sure their possessions made it safely onto the vehicle. Camellia, however, didn’t know what to do with herself. The movers didn’t require any direction, the four young, able-bodied men huffing in and out of the apartment, careful not to nick the walls as they maneuvered bulky tables and dressers and chairs out the door with ease. As the day progressed, there were less places to sit, and no place to escape. Finally, she took the elevator down to wait with Henry. When the door opened at the lobby, Tray was waiting.

“Cammie!” he shrieked with mock
joy, taking in her simple road-trip outfit of tailored Capri pants, cashmere sweater, and ballet flats. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Tray, I’m busy,” she replied gruffly. She tried to pass by, but he blocked her way.

“What’s the matter, Cammie? No one in New York wants to hire you?”

Camellia felt her blood pressure rise. She wondered if she were to hit him square in the jaw, what he could possibly do to harm her more than he already had. An assault charge would be the least of her worries. “Get out of my way,” she seethed, “or I’ll scream.”

Tray doubled over with fits of laughter, slapping his leg overdramatically. “That’s rich,” he crowed, and then leaned in close. “That’s the only thing rich about you, though, isn’t it? An overpaid editor-in-chief who doesn’t listen to her boss learns just how quickly the money runs out, doesn’t she?”

Camellia let out a long, high-pitched scream that sent Tray tumbling into the elevator and a handful of building staff running in her direction. “Are you okay, Miss?” the doorman asked, whipping out a cell phone from his jacket pocket to call for help.

Camellia nodded, and turned to Tray, who looked like a deer in headlights at the very back of the still-open elevator, Camellia’s foot strategically holding the door in check. “I always do what I say I will,” she said, her voice a mixture of pluck and loathing. “And mark my words, darling Tray: My comeback will make you regret the day you tossed aside Camellia Rhodes.” She excised her foot from the elevator door, and watched with pleasure as Tray Mathers disappeared from view.