Secrets of a Shoe Addict (6 page)

Seriously, how had she gone thirty-six years and never realized that shoes could make your legs look like a movie star’s? Especially
these
shoes, which were so blah on the shelf. First there were the pale denim espadrilles with two-inch heels. Easy, right? They were denim—
ew
—with big heels.

It should have been as anti-spending as formaldehyde.

But the pale blue denim enhanced her new Las Vegas poolside tan in a way she could never have imagined, and the height of the heels beautifully emphasized the calf muscles she’d developed carrying two-year-old Andy (currently at his grandparents’ house, since Charlie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take the time off work) up the stairs almost every night when he fell asleep.

On top of that, the shoes had ankle straps, which she’d expected to look like silly sixth-grade toe-shoe straps, but which instead just added the perfect finishing touch to the shoe, creating a long, tan, shapely leg line that she totally had not expected.

Given all of that, $150—down from $426—truly did seem like a bargain. She’d gone all these years without ever being particularly inspired by shoes, so if these struck her that way, there
had
to be something special about them.

How would she feel if she walked away and didn’t buy them?

She could imagine herself going out with Charlie to one of those boring company events three, four, five weeks from now and wishing she had these very shoes, which she could never find again, to set off her outfit and make her a standout.

Not that she could see Charlie agreeing to such a thing. If it were the NFL Channel on cable TV, he might try to find a way to swing it, but it had been established a long time ago that if Tiffany wasn’t going to have a “real job” outside of the home, then she wasn’t entitled to a whole lot of luxuries.

But, oh, hell, they just looked so damn
great
.

And when was the last time she’d treated herself, or
been
treated, to anything (apart from the numerous margaritas that waiters had been shoving into her hands as long as she was at the slot machines)?

Tiffany
deserved
some new clothes. Yes, she was a leeeetle bit tipsy from all the free drinks the casino had been doling out, so she’d just buy what she was interested in and return the rest tomorrow.

She weeded through the clothes, taking out the more outrageous or event-specific items. (After all, how likely was she to go to the Kentucky Derby in the near future and need this brightly colored sheath dress with the matching large-brim lacquered cotton hat with little rosettes? On second thought, you never know, she decided and put it back in the to-go pile.) In the end she had a total of just five thousand dollars’ worth of clothes to choose from.

Okay, yes, five thousand dollars was a lot. But it was for only, what, ten hours on the credit card. There was
no way
it would be longer than that. They were leaving tomorrow afternoon at two, so she would get up early, return the items that she decided weren’t absolutely necessary, which would, of course, be most of them, and then she’d explain the charge of six hundred bucks or so to Charlie when she got home.

She’d point out that the last “luxury” she had gotten for herself was the vanilla-flavored Crest toothbrush, and before that it was probably a perm for her 1980s hair, before she even knew him. If he was going to have a problem with that, well, she’d deal with it later.

Meanwhile she was going to have a
blast
trying on all of these things again.

And
she would save money by going up to the suite and sending the babysitter home. Kate would get a big kick out of helping her decide which things to keep.

All in all, she reasoned in the end, this was going to be a very profitable venture, emotionally if not financially.

And it kept her out of the casino, where the
real
danger was.

An hour later, in the hotel room after dismissing the babysitter, Tiffany had fully realized that the
real
danger was
not
in the casinos but in the Finola Pims shop.

And, now, spread out across her cheap hotel bed.

“I like it all, Mommy!”

Tiffany had hoped Kate would talk her out of some of these clothes, with that trademark child candor that had once made her announce in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room that “Mommy’s skin” was “spilling over her undies” and “looks gross.” It didn’t seem like too much to hope she’d make fun of at least a few of these crazily flamboyant pieces and help Tiffany weed them out. But no, Kate seemed to have some of her aunt Sandra’s lust for fashion and shoes.

She wasn’t going to be any help.

Of course, it was a pretty sad state of affairs when Tiffany was hoping for a nine-year-old to talk her out of extravagant purchases.

Besides, just as it had seemed under the harsh fluorescent glare of the changing-room lights, the clothes looked spectacular on her. It was impossible to decide what was the most flattering, since
all
of it
was flattering. So she decided to divide them up according to what was most practical.

“Not the hat, Mommy.” Kate snatched it out of the return pile and put it on, preening in the mirror.

“I’ve got to, honey.” Tiffany was sorry to say it. “Put it back. Really.”

“Fine.” Kate put the hat back in the return pile, looking as petulant about it as Tiffany felt.

“So I don’t need the Kentucky Derby outfit,” Tiffany said, more to herself than to Kate. “Or the Vegas showgirl outfit.” Though she loved that one. Seriously. How did Finola make a leather jumpsuit look so amazing on a real woman? “Or the Audrey Hepburn
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
dress. Or tiara.”

She looked at her new “keep” pile.

It had gotten pretty small.

“Won’t Daddy let you keep the rest?” Kate asked.

“It’s not about Daddy, honey. He doesn’t tell me I can’t get things.” Lord, she didn’t even want to
think
about what Charlie was going to say. It was important to Tiffany that her daughter didn’t grow up feeling like men were in charge of women’s lives, even though the reality of their household was that Tiffany sort of
did
defer. It was all out of guilt for staying home and taking care of the children instead of working and contributing to “the household finances,” and she knew that was wrong, but she felt it anyway.

“Okay, help me fold these things and put them back into the bag,” Tiffany said, moving to the return pile, which was substantial at this point.

Kate came over and helped lift the piles with her thin arms, pushing the clothes into the bags alongside Tiffany.

She was left with just under a thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise.
And she rationalized it by telling herself that there was no way she’d ever find this same stuff in the D.C. metro area, and if she had to fly back to Las Vegas to look for it, it would end up costing a lot more than it would if she just purchased it now.

And she deserved it.

She was
worth
it. Just like all those L’Oréal models had been telling her from the TV set over and over again for as long as she could remember.

So. With that in mind, Tiffany got the bags full of returns to take back first thing in the morning.

Half an hour after Tiffany had put the children to bed, Abbey came in, looking drained.

“Rough night?” Tiffany asked, smiling.

Abbey looked startled. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just kidding,” Tiffany explained quickly. Shoot, she’d offended her. “You know, because it’s been such a long night with the concert and all.”

Abbey nodded and pushed her hair back with a weary sigh. “It’s been a long night for sure.” She really didn’t look well, though.

Tiffany changed the subject. “By the way, have you seen Loreen?”

Abbey shook her head. “Not since we first went down.”

“Oh.” Hm. “Okay. Do you want to sit down and have some tea or something?” Though the tea bags by the coffeemaker looked like they’d been there for quite some time. “Or wine? The kids are asleep and we could have some actual quiet.”

“Thanks for taking care of that,” Abbey said. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just turn in myself now. I’m seriously exhausted.”

It looked like more than that. Tiffany wanted to ask her what was wrong, if there was anything she could do to help, but she didn’t
really know Abbey all that well, and pushing her at this point would probably prove to be more insulting than helpful. Instead she just said, “Sure. Get some rest.”

“Good night,” Abbey said. “And thanks again for taking care of the kids.”

“Sure.” Tiffany looked at her watch. It was almost 1
A.M.
Not really all that late. And Loreen was a grown woman, but Tiffany couldn’t help but wonder if everything was all right. Unlike Abbey, Loreen was one of Tiffany’s closest friends, so when another half hour had passed without word from Loreen, Tiffany didn’t have a problem calling her up to check on her.

She took out her cell phone and dialed Loreen from the speed dial. It seemed to ring forever before Loreen picked up.

“Hey, I’m just checking up on you,” Tiffany said, relieved to hear Loreen’s voice. She had gone from simply wondering where Loreen was to being half-sure she’d been dragged off by some seedy gambler in about three seconds. “Are you having fun?”

“Blast,” Loreen said shortly.

Was Tiffany getting paranoid? Why did everyone sound like there was something wrong? “Are you okay?”

“Just dandy. But, look, I can’t really talk right now. I’ll be up in a bit. Would you mind putting Jacob to bed?”

“Already done.”

“Thanks. Don’t wait up, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Tiffany said. She felt like a meddling old aunt, checking up on everyone. “See you in the morning, then.”

“Okay, where is it?” Loreen asked, clipping her cell phone shut.

Rod pointed. “Right over there.”

And there it was. A big silver ATM with stickers representing every known bank network. Sort of like an Olympic tribute with all the nations’ flags.

Only this wasn’t about feats of athleticism and it wasn’t about national pride. It was about emptying her bank account so she could pay off a male prostitute, even though it meant she’d have to serve rice and beans for dinner for a month. Or more.

Jacob wouldn’t mind. He enjoyed farting.

And he
especially
enjoyed other people farting.

So there it was. She’d done it for Jacob.

“Lorena?” Rod snapped his fingers. “Hey, Lorena. You’re passing it.”

She turned her attention back to Rod. He’d already forgotten her name and begun calling her by the name of a woman famous for performing a penisectomy on her abusive husband.

Rod was
lucky
she wasn’t Lorena Bobbit.

She went to the machine and took out her card. Her hand shook. This was, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her. She had foolishly luxuriated in this man’s attention, despite the fact that she knew on every level that she wasn’t that attractive to men this attractive, and now she was paying the price. She should have expected it. There’s a price for everything.

At least for most people.

Her thoughts jumped to Abbey. Gorgeous, perfect, pain-in-the-ass-because-of-it Abbey. God, Loreen hoped she didn’t run into her tonight. She couldn’t bear to have Abbey look down at her, and possibly figure out what Loreen had accidentally done. Of course, she’d have to read Loreen’s mind to figure it out, but maybe Abbey could do that.

She seemed to be able to do everything else.

Loreen vowed to try to be more like Abbey, even though part of her couldn’t stand the woman. Abbey was aloof, and too good for the rest of them—like tonight, when she hadn’t wanted to come down and have a drink. “I’ll stay with the kids,” she’d said, like she was the only good mother among them.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe she hadn’t been trying to be holier than thou, but it had sort of come off that way anyhow. Especially when she’d completely disappeared, to go off on her own.

“You seem distracted,” Rod said, but it wasn’t a kind comment. He was prompting her to hurry up and get the cash.