Designer Knockoff (10 page)
“Hi, doll!” The salesman turned out to be an old friend of Miguel’s. His name was Chad. They air-kissed. “Welcome to Scarpabellas.” He gave Stella and Lacey a skeptical once-over, but allowed them in on Miguel’s say-so. “My poor, poor Miguel, I heard the news. Those Bentley bitches will pay.”
“Not now, Chad. We have a mission.”
“But you’re bruised, you poor thing.”
“Dramatically, I hope.”
“Absolutely. I couldn’t have done it better if I’d designed them.”
While they chatted about the merits of Miguel’s bruises, Lacey looked over the store. It was a tasteful mixture of hardwood floors, soft taupe carpets, and softer chairs. The shoes were arranged carefully on the walls like art. In fact, it looked like an expensive art gallery. She was surprised the displays weren’t signed by the artist.
She looked down at her vintage spectator pumps that were actually beginning to hurt. But after a full day on her feet in the salon, chirpy little Stella was still wearing strappy black high heels. She also wore a painful-looking strappy black bustier.
She looks like a cover girl for
Goths Gone Wild.
She looks like a cover girl for
Goths Gone Wild.
Stella picked up a pair of impossibly smooth ankle boots with a Wicked Witch of the West toe and a spike heel. “Beauty knows no pain, you know.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. With a sharp stick in it,” Lacey said.
“Ladies, ladies, calm down,” Miguel cut in. “The festivities have only just begun.” He was wearing sunglasses and a black beret that dipped low over the side of his face that showed the most bruises. Although the day was warm, he wore a black turtleneck and a black jacket, accented by a red rose. He called it his French look. “We’re here to shop, schmooze, and be merry, for tomorrow we hit the unemployment lines. And I am so going to collect. I have to get there before the bruises fade. If they fade too soon, I’ll have Stella give me another little beating, just for color. And then I’m going to sue.”
Stella nodded. “See, Lacey, it’s a celebration, and I will celebrate tonight if we find you a decent pair of shoes for the
gala
.” Stella stretched out the vowels for emphasis. Lacey counted at least seven As in that
gala.
She turned and caught a glimpse of the three of them in one of the full-length mirrors.
Career woman, Goth princess, French philosopher. We look like we’re going to a costume party,and it’s only September.
gala
.” Stella stretched out the vowels for emphasis. Lacey counted at least seven As in that
gala.
She turned and caught a glimpse of the three of them in one of the full-length mirrors.
Career woman, Goth princess, French philosopher. We look like we’re going to a costume party,and it’s only September.
“We’re having a good time. I am. You are too, Miss Grumpy Two-Shoes,” Miguel said.
“I am, I am,” Lacey said, “but I thought you wanted to talk about the Bentleys.”
“When I have your undivided attention. Over drinks. First we have a mission. Phase one: shoes. Fabulous shoes.” He turned her toward a shoe display. “We are in Scarpabellas, Washington’s best-kept secret, a shrine to fabulous footwear. Well, at least it’s a local branch of the shrine. The main shrine is in Milan. Just look, Lacey. They’re like little sculptures. Sculptures you can wear.”
Lacey looked. There were shiny, sparkling things with impossible heels and impossible prices. There were lots of hand-crafted Italian and Spanish shoes with buttery soft leather and tags that had way too many zeroes. Lacey picked up a nice pair of casual shoes that looked like someone actually could walk in them. They carried a price of nearly nine hundred dollars. She put them back immediately.
“Mission? What mission?”
Stella picked up a very pointed shoe in scarlet patent leather and aimed it at her. “Geez, Lacey, I thought you were clear on the concept here.
You’re
the mission. We’re going to be your stylists for the big glamorous gala. I’m hair and makeup, and Miguel is costume and accessories. What do you think of these?”
You’re
the mission. We’re going to be your stylists for the big glamorous gala. I’m hair and makeup, and Miguel is costume and accessories. What do you think of these?”
“I’d rather not say, and what are you talking about? Stylists? Costume?” Lacey’s head was buzzing from the Hershey’s Kisses.
“And the story you wrote about the Bentley’s Boutique bandits was totally fab,” Miguel cooed, “even though there’s no picture of me and my beautiful bruises. So I’m helping you dress for the ball, Cinderelly.”
“Look, Miguel, I’m not Cinderella. I’m a reporter. Writing stories is what I do. You don’t have to do anything for me. It might actually be a conflict of interest.”
“This isn’t a payback thing, it’s a friend thing. But you could offer to pay us if it would help ease your conscience,” he said. “You can pay me a million dollars. It will be psychic revenge on Aaron Bentley.”
“Aaron’s the bastard who fired Miguel.” Stella jumped in with both high heels.
“Not here, Stella, not now,” Miguel said. “This is a temple of fine footwear, and we are here for Lacey on a mission of aesthetic mercy.”
“With all due respect, guys,” Lacey pleaded, “we may not share the same aesthetic.”
“Don’t go all hoity-toity on me, Lacey, I got your style down,” Stella proclaimed. “And I know this fancy-schmancy party is vintage-optional. For you that means vintage-mandatory. So Miguel and me, we already worked this out. We’re going to make you a Forties movie star.”
“A Forties goddess,” Miguel corrected. “Those cheekbones deserve it. Only first you simply
must, must, must
have some sexy shoes, dear.” He scanned the wall of shoes, and after a couple of false starts that drew frowns from Stella, and one that got a head shake from Chad, Miguel picked out a pair for their approval. Stella nodded. They were a luminescent shade of bone, with faux jewels that reflected all the colors around them. They would pick up all the colors of her fabulous dress, whatever that turned out to be. They had thin ankle straps and heels that could give a sensible woman airsickness. “And who do you suppose designed these babies?”
must, must, must
have some sexy shoes, dear.” He scanned the wall of shoes, and after a couple of false starts that drew frowns from Stella, and one that got a head shake from Chad, Miguel picked out a pair for their approval. Stella nodded. They were a luminescent shade of bone, with faux jewels that reflected all the colors around them. They would pick up all the colors of her fabulous dress, whatever that turned out to be. They had thin ankle straps and heels that could give a sensible woman airsickness. “And who do you suppose designed these babies?”
“Torquemada? No? Perhaps the Marquis de Sade,” Lacey said, backing away from the heels.
Miguel made a face and waved one little finger. “Alessandro Scarpabella himself, the master shoemaker.”
“For that price I should have Geppetto and a puppet boy to go along with them.”
“We’d all like a puppet boy to go along with them.”
Chad appeared silently out of nowhere with a pair in Lacey’s exact size. He complimented her on the delicacy of her small feet, and Miguel on his excellent taste in shoes. “And they’re on sale,” he murmured.
Lacey blanched. “Six hundred and sixty dollars? On sale?” She tried them on under duress. They were not quite as uncomfortable as they looked, but she was sure that would come. But on her feet they simply dazzled.
The salesman beamed. Miguel said it was a steal. “Reduced from twelve hundred dollars!” Stella rolled her eyes at the price, but she touched Lacey’s arm. “Once in a lifetime, you know? And you can wear them if you ever get married. And if I ever get married. And if Miguel ever ... well, gets another job.”
Lacey’s head was spinning from the fabulous but horribly expensive shoes, the chocolate, the price, and Stella and Miguel ganging up on her to turn her into Cinderella for the Bentleys’ gala. She protested; then suddenly she thought of humble congressional staffer Tyler Stone, almost ten years younger, ten million dollars richer, with her jets to Aspen and her limos to the Hamptons.
If the shoe fits ...
Tyler had said.
If the shoe fits ...
Tyler had said.
“What do you think, Lacey?” Stella asked.
Lacey snapped her credit card down and gripped the counter to steady herself.
“I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.”
I can always bring them back tomorrow. Alone.
I can always bring them back tomorrow. Alone.
After the emotionally draining—at least for Lacey—experience of shoe shopping, the trio sought refuge in Richwood’s, a faux-Tudor restaurant just off Wisconsin tucked into a side street. It was cozy and quiet and had the atmosphere of back-room political dealmaking. A television picture flickered soundlessly above the bar. After the sleek, shiny “New D.C.” experience of Scarpabellas, this place was comforting Old Washington. Lacey expected any minute to see a fat congressman go by chasing a not-so-sweet young thing. Over a glass of sparkling red wine that went with the chocolate mousse, Lacey listened to Miguel’s story. She had no idea why she ordered the mousse.
Am I drunk on chocolate
—
ordrunk on shoe shopping?
Stella and Miguel were downing Brie and white wine.
Am I drunk on chocolate
—
ordrunk on shoe shopping?
Stella and Miguel were downing Brie and white wine.
“The bastards,” Miguel was saying. “They say I violated Bentley company policy by resisting the robbery.”
“Like there was a book with this rule in it.” Stella supplied the punctuation. “The Bentley company policy is whatever the boss makes up at any given minute.” She had plenty of experience with crazy bosses; Lacey gave her that.
“As if anyone in the history of the world has read the Bentley company policy book!” Miguel lamented. “I thought I was going to die! I was thoroughly beaten and kicked in the head with higher heels than you just bought, Lacey, and in a larger size, and believe me, pain is not my thing, no matter what that cute little shoe salesman back there might tell you.”
“So what happened?”
“No one showed up for work today. Except me, and I was late. Everyone else was too freaked out about the robbery. Aaron Bentley, the big man himself, shows up and the store’s locked. When I get there twenty minutes later to open up, he fires me.”
“Is there really such a policy?”
“Who knows? But when your life is on the line, that ‘no resistance’ crap goes right out the window. If that bitch in the Chanel suit had just said, ”This is a robbery, honey, just be calm and no one is going to get hurt,’ like they do in the movies and on TV, I’d have said, ‘Darling! Welcome to Bentley’s! So lovely to see you, what a fabulous suit! Right this way, boys and girl! Here, take my keys, here’s the combo to the safe, let me show you the really good stuff, oh, let me help you with those bags, big fella. Are you parked in front? Let me get the door for you, bye-bye, don’t be strangers!’ But it wasn’t like that. The Rainbow Coalition had the duct tape and the guns, and when they do that, it’s serious business. Like the detective said, ‘execution style.’ I wouldn’t have resisted if I didn’t think it was curtains, the end,
fini, adios,
Miguel. So I get fired for not getting killed. If I’d gotten killed, maybe they’d have given me a bonus.”
fini, adios,
Miguel. So I get fired for not getting killed. If I’d gotten killed, maybe they’d have given me a bonus.”
“I’m so sorry, Miguel. I don’t know what to say,” Lacey said. “The whole thing doesn’t make sense. With the Senate hearing and the screwy museum funding and the Bentleys in town courting the press, why would they want to look like jerks by firing their heroic assistant manager?”
“They’re divas. Divas don’t make sense,” Stella cut in.
“The stupid thing is I always wanted to meet Aaron Bentley, ‘cause he’s a babe. He’s just as gorgeous in person as he is in the photos, but he’s totally ice inside. He has ice-blue eyes,” Miguel said. “Sexy, though. Wouldn’t we like to see him tied up at someone’s mercy?”
Not wanting to further explore that image, Lacey changed the subject. “Did you think Aaron himself would come to the store today?”
“I don’t know. God. I guess I thought the Bentleys would have enough class to tell me they were sorry for putting our lives at risk.” Miguel ordered another pinot grigio.
“Oh, Lacey, did he tell you that Aaron’s little trophy model, Cordelia, was there too?” Stella asked, always ready for good gossip.
“I guessed they were a couple,” Lacey said, recalling her luncheon with the Bentley clan.
“They were together, totally cozy,” Miguel said. “All the ugly rumors are true—Aaron Bentley is a flaming heterosexual. He’s also a flaming bastard. So I guess that rumor is true too. Oh, I almost forgot, while he’s sacking me, a very famous actress who is currently at the Kennedy Center in some forget-table Broadway-bound extravaganza waltzes into the store and in her plummiest English accent says, ‘Darlings, I simply had no idea there was a Bentley’s Boutique in Washington!’ Then she looks at me and says, ‘I saw you on the news. Aren’t you one of the Bentley Bandits?”’
“Oh, my God! What actress?” Stella was dying to know.
“I can’t say, but a
very
famous actress. And maybe she was on television? On a famous soap opera? And I can’t reveal the name of the show, but its initials are, like, maybe
Dallas?”
very
famous actress. And maybe she was on television? On a famous soap opera? And I can’t reveal the name of the show, but its initials are, like, maybe
Dallas?”
“No!” Stella screamed.
“Yes!” Miguel shouted.
“Which bitch?”
“Queen bitch!”
“Oh, my God! The queen bitch herself!” Stella would be entertaining all her clients for days with this little tidbit.
“But then she ruined it by informing us that she always gets a thirty-percent discount at the Bentley’s in Manhattan.”
“She’s already rich. Let her pay,” said Stella the egalitarian.
“What happened next?” Lacey asked.
“Cordelia personally escorted the famous actress with the English accent through the store and I was personally shown the door by Aaron, that big bully. And now I alone am left to tell the tale.”
Lacey realized that between Miguel’s story and her aunt Mimi’s legendary loathing for Hugh “That Bastard,” not to mention the wine and the chocolate, she was perfectly prepared to believe the worst about the Bentleys. She thought it must be time for a little journalistic balance.
Just a little,
she thought.
It’s an experiment.
Just a little,
she thought.
It’s an experiment.
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