Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (2 page)

“Avery,” Craig says, “We want to show the young blood of the company. A new face, someone just out of college, hungry to climb the corporate ladder. And you are just the type of person we want to feature.”

I almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. I have no desire to climb the ladder, even though that is what I’m
supposed
to want. I just need a job to pay my bills. But I can’t exactly tell them that, can I?

“We’d shoot at your home once a week, and only a handful of weekend dates,” Marie says. “We’d have a camera follow you at work several times a week, if you agree to this deal.”

Suddenly it hits me as I glance around the table. They want me on TV. And not a trashy reality show, but a sophisticated, real-life
documentary
. But I’m still not sure about this. I’d have to work really hard to prove I’m a career woman. That I live and breathe the airline industry—

“And, of course, you’ll be paid a significant sum for agreeing to do the show.”

Significant sum? Okay, now this is a game changer. That could help me pay my pricey rent, and give me some desperately needed cash flow. And this could show the world I’m more than a vapid, husband-hunting fashionista.

It would require acting on my part, that’s for sure, to show I’m a passionate career professional.

But luckily for me I got an A in drama in high school.

So I blow the dust off what I learned in drama class right now. I pause for a moment, acting as though I’m contemplating the idea. I tilt my head, furrow my brow, and once I have them all staring at me, I smile.

“I’d be delighted to be a part of the project,” I say.

Everyone gets excited and stands up, breaking for coffee and muffins and thanking me for joining the team. I shake hands with Tina and Marie, and then I notice Deke has gone straight for the coffee, pouring himself a cup.

I excuse myself and go over to him, pretending that I want a cup of coffee, too. I reach for a ceramic mug with the Premier Airlines logo.

“Coffee?” he asks, barely acknowledging me.

“Please.”

Deke pours it into the cup.

“Thanks.” Then I clear my throat and get to the point. “Why did you scratch out my eye color?”

I have his full attention now. His eyes laser in on me. Without warning, my stomach does a flip in response.

“What?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

“On the questionnaire. Why did you mark it out?”

“Because your answer could have been better.”

“Better?” I ask. Is this guy serious? Like I’m so vapid and stupid I don’t even know what color my own eyes are? Annoyance fills me. “I’m sorry, but I think I know my own eye color
better
than anyone else.”

“You wrote down green,” he says. “But I think a more accurate description would be smoky jade.”

His eyes linger on my face. Suddenly my breath catches in my throat, which totally surprises me. But Deke abruptly turns and moves back to the table, making it obvious that he’s not the least bit interested in talking to me.

I clear my throat. Okay, that was an odd exchange. And while he’s definitely hot, I’m not interested in anyone who thinks I’m a dumb blonde, which I bet he does.

Furthermore, I’ve already met a guy that I
am
interested in. Sullivan Preston III, who is a gorgeous Notre Dame grad in the apartment directly above mine. We’ve bumped into each other a few times, and I’m really hoping he will ask me out soon.

So while Deke might be attractive, he’s not someone I’d ever be interested in, that’s for sure.

I sit back down at the table and think about the exciting new turn my life has just taken. I’m going to be on TV. This is huge. Not only for my bank account, but for my image, too.

Because instead of being labeled a vapid husband-hunting fashionista, I’m going to be seen by the nation as a serious career woman.

All thanks to the First Class Travel Channel.

Chapter 2

I grin happily as I walk down Armitage Avenue, past all the cute boutiques and restaurants and toward the vintage greystone where I live. I’m getting home from work, but my brain is still focused on my role in
Arrivals & Departures
, the Premier Airlines documentary. Shooting will actually begin Monday night at my apartment. Deke Ryan said he’d come by after work to interview me on camera and to shoot where I live.

Gosh, I’ve got a million things to do in order to get ready. For starters, I need to clean out my bedroom. I have a tendency to be messy, and I really don’t want Deke shooting the huge pile of dirty clothes on my floor.

Hmmm. I wonder if I have enough time to get to the Ralph Lauren store on Michigan Avenue this weekend. Maybe I should invest in a new comforter set. Something vibrant that would pop on cam—

“Hey, Little Avery!”

I see Sullivan on the steps to our building, waiting for me. My heart skips a beat. Oh, God, he’s so
hot
. Sullivan is tall and dark, with black hair and shining emerald eyes. He’s dressed to kill in a designer suit, as he’s a trader in the mercantile exchange.

You’re so perfect
, I think, staring at him in awe.

I quickly flash Sullivan a flirty smile. Now I can tell him all about
Arrivals & Departures
, which could be just the ticket to impressing him.

“Hey there,” I say casually, heading up the steps.

“What’s the good word, Little Avery?” Sullivan asks, flashing me a blinding white smile.

I hesitate for a moment. You know, it kind of irritates me when he calls me “Little Avery.” I mean, just because I’m 5’2 doesn’t mean he has to always call me “Little,” does it?

But it’s a minor annoyance. One I’m confident I can quickly correct once we start going out.

“I have exciting news,” I say. “I’m going to be on a documentary TV show.”

“You aren’t going to be on
The Bachelor
, are you?”

I frown. “No.”

“Oh.” Sullivan pauses for a moment. “Too bad. That would have been kind of cool.”

No, not cool, Sullivan
, I think. Why would that be cool? Sullivan shouldn’t want me vying for the affection of another man.

“I’m going to be on
Arrivals & Departures
, a documentary about Premier Airlines,” I say, ignoring his comment. “They’ve chosen six employees across the entire country to follow, and I’m one of them.”

Sullivan’s face lights up. “Wow!”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, my heart speeding up again at the sight of his gorgeous smile. “It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?”

We step inside the building, and a blast of cool air conditioning greets us as we escape the summer heat. Sullivan glances at me as we continue up the stairs, and I feel anticipation zip through my veins.

Sullivan pauses on the second floor landing. “Well, I hope you have a good cameraman. America needs to see every cute freckle splashed across your nose,” he says, lightly touching my nose with his index finger.

I have freckles in exactly two places: the bridge of my nose and on the tops of my shoulders. And Sullivan thinks they’re cute. He’s noticed and made a comment about them, definitely a favorable sign.

“So we’ll have to have some beers sometime to celebrate your new career in TV,” Sullivan says, moving to go up to the third floor. “See you, Little Avery.”

I bite my lip as he starts up the stairs. That’s it? That’s all he wants to know about
Arrivals & Departures
? He couldn’t even be bothered to ask me a single question about something so huge?

But then I get a reality grip.
Maybe he’ll talk more over beers,
I muse.
I’ll take that offer and make the most of the opportunity.

“I’ll hold you to that, Sullivan Preston,” I call out in a seductive voice. Then I put my key into the door lock, eager to share this news with my roommate, Sasha Green.

I open the door and find Sasha kicking off her black stiletto heels. She’s a sorority sister of mine, and although we weren’t that close in the house, we were both moving to Chicago after graduation and we each needed a roommate to split rent. Sasha was known around the house as being difficult to live with, but I’m sure that was just overblown gossip.

“I hate my job,” Sasha declares miserably. “If I don’t find a job in advertising soon, I’m going to go insane.”

I nod in sympathy. Sasha had to take a job selling perfume at Saks Fifth Avenue until she could get one in advertising, her major at Illinois. But the bonus is that she gets an employee discount at Saks, which would provide endless opportunities for designer clothes at a discount.

And I totally intend to get a Burberry raincoat before she quits.

But right now I see how dejected she seems. Sasha rakes her fingers through her chestnut hair and sighs heavily. Then she sits down on a kitchen barstool and begins to massage her foot. And I think my news about
Arrivals & Departures
could be just the thing to cheer her up.

Or at least distract her for the time being.

“I have some really good news,” I say, putting down my messenger bag and sitting down on the stool next to her. And I begin to tell Sasha all about my exciting day. As I talk, she simply watches me, her brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t speak until I finish.

“Well?” I finally ask, a bit taken aback by her lack of enthusiasm. “What do you think, Sasha?”

“Isn’t reality TV over?” Sasha asks.

“It’s not reality TV!” I cry, exasperated. Honestly, didn’t Sullivan and Sasha hear me when I said “documentary?”

“Then what would you call it?” Sasha challenges.

“As I said, it’s a
documentary
. On the First Class Travel Channel. It’s a very highbrow TV channel, you know. This is going to be a classy, inside view at the world of running an airline.”

Suddenly Sasha’s expression changes.

“You’re right,” she says, her face brightening. “Only rich people watch the First Class Travel Channel. They have an upscale demographic.” Then she leaps off the barstool in excitement. “Avery! Do you realize what a gold mine you’ve landed on?”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Rich men watch this channel. You’ll be famous. And I’ll be famous by association. We’ll be recognized by wealthy men around the world. And our dating pool will move into the perfect demographic.”

I can’t believe this. Sasha isn’t even excited for me. All she wants is an avenue to increase her visibility with rich men.

But that’s because Sasha is
obsessed
with money. And she has plenty of it, as Sasha watches every single penny that comes in and out of her life. It also helps that her father is a famous plastic surgeon here in Chicago and fills her bank account regularly—kind of like a bottomless cup of coffee.

And Sasha’s top priority in life is to marry a “financially appropriate” husband.

Just like the women discussed in “Ask Emily!” today.

I shake that thought from my head and continue on.

“Sasha, honestly, don’t you want to fall in love?” I ask, hopping off the barstool and taking a bottle of water out of the fridge.

“There’s nothing wrong with falling in love. I just can’t love any man who doesn’t earn a lot of money.”

“I wouldn’t let money stand in the way of love,” I say defiantly. Of course, Sullivan Preston makes good money as a trader, which is nice, but I know for the right guy, his career credentials wouldn’t matter to me. They just wouldn’t.

Sasha snorts. “You might reconsider that noble attitude, Avery, after going through your mail,” Sasha declares, reaching into her bag and tossing our mail onto the breakfast bar. “Because it appears you have four overdraft notices from your bank.”

“What? That’s crazy. I have plenty of money in the bank. I’m well ahead of my budget for this month.” I reach for the mail, retrieving one of the envelopes from the bank. “This must be a marketing piece or something.”

I quickly rip it open, and with shock, read that the bank has covered an overdraft I had at Target on Tuesday, for a fee of $25. I toss that down and rip open the rest, with the bank claiming they’ve covered overdrafts at Starbucks, Walgreens, and at The Cheesecake Factory. And my bank account is now negative $317!

“This . . . this is wrong,” I sputter, panicking. “I can’t be at negative $317! They’ve made a mistake.”

I whip out my cell with a shaking hand, accessing my bank app.

“When is the last time you’ve checked your bank account?” Sasha asks.

Oh God. I don’t even want to answer that one.

Because I rarely check it. Usually the night before payday to make sure the electronic transfer has hit early. I set all my bills up for automatic payment, so I always have a rough estimate of when money is going out.

“I check mine at least three times a day,” Sasha says in a know-it-all-tone.

I ignore her. Sasha knows her balance to the penny at all times. She even mentally extracts purchases in her head when we shop and jots her current balance in her cell phone to compare to her bank account later.

“I can tell you this new bank is grossly incompetent,” I declare, logging into my account.

Oh, I’m so going to give them a piece of my mind about this. I’ll tell them they caused me undue stress with their careless accounting, and then I’m going to tell them I’m taking my business elsewhere.

Then I see it. I totally forgot this was the first month I was responsible for my own auto insurance, and I see the automatic deduction on the screen.

Oh my God. I’m going to throw up. I have no money.
I have no money!
In my first month of being an independent career woman, I have a negative checking account balance.

And I don’t get paid until next Friday.

“Shit,” I gasp, putting my hands over my face. “I forgot about the automatic car insurance payment. I can’t believe this.”

“Avery, how come you didn’t know your money was that off? Don’t you keep track of what you spend?” Sasha asks accusingly.

I drop my hands from my face, completely humiliated. “I don’t know,” I say softly, feeling like an idiot.

Because I should have
known
I couldn’t afford those sunglasses.

And my parents were so proud of me the other day when I told them how well I was managing my new, urban lifestyle. Taking the train, paying bills promptly, having cash reserves in my account, unlike college when I had to call them for money on a regular basis.

Shit.
Shit
. I can’t ask them for money now, not after telling them what a grown-up I’ve become since moving to the city.

But I don’t feel like the grown-up I’m supposed to be. I’m nothing more than a cash-poor girl who has more money on her Starbucks card than in her checking account.

“Think,” I say out loud, jumping off the stool and pacing back and forth. “I have no money. I’m out of groceries and my check won’t hit my bank account until next Thursday night . . .” I draw a deep breath of air, hoping Sasha would say something encouraging. Like my best friend Bree would.

Bree and I have been best friends since first grade. She went to the University of Arizona, but Bree’s moving to Chicago in a week. I can hardly wait. She’s coming back to the Midwest, with her boyfriend Alex, and she’s going to live in Lincoln Park, too. We’ll finally be together again, and I’m so excited to have my best friend back for good.

But Bree isn’t here yet.

Sasha gets a thinking expression on her face. “Well,” she says slowly, “I suppose I could loan you some money until you get paid.”

I exhale deeply, not even realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Oh, Sasha, I really, really would appreciate it. Thank you so much. I swear I’ll pay you back in full on Friday, I promise.”

“With interest?” Sasha asks.

I bite my lip. Sasha really is all business when it comes to money. But that’s probably why she’s sitting on a fortune and I only have a $330 pair of sunglasses to show for my first month of working in the real world.

“Of course,” I say, ashamed. “With interest.”

“We’ll go with the current fed rate,” Sasha says, swiping an icon on her phone. “Okay. I’ll do an electronic transfer tonight.” Then she glances at her watch. “I’m going to change, but then we should go eat. We can get some guys to pay for our dinner tonight.”

I frown as she walks away. I don’t like using guys for free drinks or meals. I only want a guy I really like to buy me a martini. Someone I’m interested in, someone I want to talk to and get to know better.

Someone like Sullivan.

So if I had to, I could use my MasterCard for dinner. It was a better option than having some random guy I have zero interest in buy me dinner. It’s just not honest.

Then an idea of brilliance hits me. I have $35 dollars left on my Starbucks card. So I could get juice and a sandwich there and it won’t be anything out of my pocket.

Suddenly I’m impressed with my own resilience. I’m going to make it through my financial crisis just fine.

Because that’s exactly what the nation will expect of Avery Andrews, career woman extraordinaire.

And that’s exactly who I’m going to be.