Shoe Addicts Anonymous (16 page)

“What is this?” Helene asked, thinking how great that bed had looked and how much she’d like to just take a small nap.

“This? This is my closet.” Chiara sashayed over to one of the doors and pulled it open.

Lights flashed to life in the little room, revealing floor-to-ceiling trays with pull-out boxes.

Shoe boxes.

Each one of them had a label with some sort of cataloging number. Chiara went straight to C-P-4 and took out the most beautiful stiletto T-strap sandals Helene had ever seen.

“Look at them, darling. You won’t believe it.”

“They’re lovely,” Helene understated, turning the shoe in her hand to examine it like a work of art.

The arch was a graceful waterfall perched on a heel so exquisitely shaped, it could have been made of crystal. The leather was as soft and supple as Egyptian cotton sheets.

Helene looked for a label, or even a size stamp, but there was none. “Where did you get these?” she asked.

Chiara smiled and raised an eyebrow. “My nephew, Phillipe Carfagni.”

“Nephew?” Chiara couldn’t have been older than twenty-six or twenty-seven. How old could her nephew be?

Chiara shrugged. “He’s my age, but my father was married before, you see. My sister, from his first marriage, is already middle-aged.”

Which explained a lot about Chiara’s choice of husband. Chiara’s father was probably Anthony’s age.

“Anyway, my nephew makes these shoes, wonderful shoes. Go—try them on.”

“What size are they?”

“Oh, of course. Your feet would be too big for them.” Chiara clicked her tongue against her teeth. “It’s a shame, because they feel like little tiny hands are caressing your feet.”

Helene laughed at the image. “Where does he sell them?”

Chiara shook her head. “He does not. Not yet. I’ve only just learned of his talent, and Anthony—” Chiara interrupted herself to let fly a brief, staccato string of Italian. “Anthony will not support the young man’s efforts. The investment would be great, of course—” She gestured at the shoes. “—you can see that. But Anthony…I think he is jealous. Phillipe is very young, and very handsome.”

Suddenly Helene wanted nothing more than to have a pair Phillipe’s shoes in her own size. She didn’t even care that much if they were comfortable; they were beautiful enough to make up for a whole host of aches and pains.

It had always been that way for her, ever since she was a child. If someone told her she couldn’t have something, she was driven to prove them wrong. To have it, whatever it was.

That was how she’d gotten where she was today—by proving to her father, a man who told her she’d “never amount to anything,” that she could have any material thing she wanted.

It didn’t make a difference that her father was dead, that he’d been gone long before she’d left home.

She still had something to prove to him.

And now she had something to prove to Jim as well.

She approached him about the idea of investing in Phillipe’s designs as they were driving home from the party.

His answering bark of laughter had been her first indication that he wasn’t going to be impressed with her suggestion. “Leave it to you to come up with a way to make money off of shoes.” He glanced at her from the driver’s seat, the streetlights flickering across his face so quickly, she couldn’t read his expression. “I admire that, really.”

“You should. I’m sure you’d rather I make money
from
shoes, than spend it
on
them.”

“Or steal them,” he added.

That stung. He’d never let her forget it. They both knew that. “I don’t think that’s fair,” she said to him.

“It’s just the truth, babe.” He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “You know I’m nothing if not honest.”

She thought of the pubic hair between Pam’s teeth a couple of weeks ago, and decided she didn’t want to pursue this conversation with Jim. She might be able to persuade him to back the plan, but suddenly she was thinking that maybe she didn’t
want
him to reap the rewards of this plan.

She was going to do it herself.

“This place smells funny!” Colin Oliver said, loudly enough to turn the heads of several patrons of the Goodwill thrift store.

“Colin!” Joss whispered harshly. “That’s not nice.”

He put his hands on his hips and managed, somehow, to look down at Joss while looking up at her. “My mom says it’s better to be honest than nice.”

And there was Deena Oliver in a nutshell. Opting for masturbatory “honesty” rather than basic consideration for others, then patting herself on the back for it.

Once again, Joss really wished she’d gotten to know the Olivers before signing a contract to live with them for a year.

“It’s important to be nice, too,” Joss said, taking a stab at diplomacy instead of telling the child his mom was wrong. “And it’s especially important to be polite.”

Colin shrugged. “It stinks in here.”

“Yeah.” Bart agreed, pinching his nostrils shut.

“Then we’ll be quick.” Joss took each boy by the hand and dragged them through the store to the far wall, where she could see shelves of shoes and shoe boxes.

The boys protested all the way, putting up such a fuss that people probably thought she was kidnapping them. She was sorely tempted to make a deal with them, to promise some great treat if they’d behave themselves, but she just couldn’t bear the idea of rewarding them in any way for this behavior.

She just couldn’t contribute to putting that kind of person out in the world. Deena would be doing plenty of damage on her own; Joss had to stick to her standards.

She got to the shoes, and yes, it
did
smell somewhat unpleasant. Worse, the shoes were just jumbled onto the shelves without regard to size or the expected gender of the wearer.

This was going to be ugly.

Fortunately there was a toy section about twenty feet away from the shoes, so she dragged the protesting boys over there and let them each pick out a germ-filled deathtrap of a toy to look at while she tore through the shoes.

Colin took a short-wave radio with a broken antenna, and Bart took a Tweety Bird Pez dispenser with a couple of old pieces of orange Pez still stuck inside.

Fine. As long as it kept them occupied for a few minutes, Joss was all for it.

She took a list out of her pocket. Before coming, she’d printed out the names of some of the better shoe designers. To her surprise, finding designer shoes wasn’t hard. But finding them in a 7½ and in decent condition was more of a challenge. Most of the soles were worn, sometimes almost all the way through. Heels were broken, leather scuffed, buckles bent.

After twenty-five minutes of power searching, Joss was able to find one perfect Gucci pump. The size was right, but there was only one of the shoes.

“Excuse me,” she said to a passing employee, a tired-looking woman with hair that was mahogany on the ends, and black at the roots. “Do you know where the other one of these is?”

“That’s where the shoes are,” she said, limply gesturing to the wall of shoes.

“I know, but there was only one of these, and I wondered if you knew where I might find the other one.” Joss frowned. “You wouldn’t put out just one shoe, would you?”

“No, we don’t do that. Unless it’s like, a medical shoe or something.”

Joss wondered what that meant but didn’t have time today to ask. “So the other one should be there somewhere?”

“It
should
.” She shrugged and pushed her purple hair back. “Unless someone stole it.”

Joss considered asking if a one-legged woman with expensive tastes had been in recently, but the employee’s eyes widened as she looked at something behind Joss.

“Is that your kid?” she asked. “I think something’s wrong.”

“What?” Joss turned to see Bart, bug-eyed and deathly pale, clawing at his neck. “Oh, my God!” She ran to him. “Bart! What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t make a sound. He just continued to panic and turn a frightening shade of blue.

That’s when Joss saw the Pez dispenser, less Tweety’s head, lying on the floor.

“Are you choking?” she gasped, and, without waiting for an answer, flipped him around and performed the Heimlich maneuver on him.

Nothing happened.

It didn’t work.

“Colin!” she shouted, pulling the other boy’s attention away from bending the antenna out of shape. “Get my cell phone out of my purse. Call 911.”

“Why?”

“Godalmighty, Colin, just
do it
!” She clasped her hands tighter and thrust them against Bart’s solar plexus again.

Still nothing.

Joss felt cold terror wash over her. Colin appeared to be moving in slow motion, and the employee who had pointed out that Bart was having trouble was still just standing there, watching.

“Call a fucking ambulance!” Joss yelled at her, thrusting hard with panic and anger.

This time Bart gave a low, almost inhuman cough, the plastic Tweety Bird head flew out of his mouth and banged against a cement pillar about twelve feet away.

Bart coughed and gasped for air.

“Are you okay now?” Joss knelt before him. “Can you breathe? Is anything still stuck in your throat?” She knew the coughing was a good sound. As long as he was coughing, he was getting air.

Finally the coughing subsided somewhat, and the color gradually returned to Bart’s cheeks.

“Can you breathe?” Joss asked him again.

He nodded, gasping and working his mouth like a fish.

“Okay.” She pulled him into her arms. “It’s okay. Stay calm.” Holding him against her rapidly beating heart probably wasn’t doing much to calm him down.

“I was scared,” he said, in a voice so small and vulnerable that her heart felt like it was breaking.

“It’s okay now. I need to make sure there’s nothing still stuck in your throat, okay?” she said to him. “So stay right here. Take big, deep breaths. I’m going to just go get the toy, okay?”

He nodded and she went to pick up the bottom of the Pez dispenser and looked for the top, stopping every two and a half seconds or so to look back at Bart and make sure he was still standing, breathing, and pink.

She knew the direction the plastic piece had gone and that it had bounced against the pillar, so she searched around that area until finally she saw it lying on the floor behind a threadbare wingback chair that reeked of cigar smoke.

Joss got down on all fours and reached under the chair for the Tweety Bird head, but she felt something else first, something hard and furry with dust. She pulled it out.

The other Gucci pump.

There was no time to examine it now, though, so she reached under again, trying to ignore the tumbleweeds of dust and finally felt the little hard plastic head.

It was coated in dust, but she was able to fit it perfectly onto the other part. Good. There were no slivers of plastic working their way toward Bart’s lungs or intestines.

She slumped against the pillar for a minute, relieved but spent by the experience.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

Joss looked to see the employee standing in front of her. “Yes?” She hoped the woman wasn’t going to make a big deal about Joss being a hero or anything. In Felling, the news would cover this kind of thing, and the last thing in the world Joss wanted was to be the center of attention.

She needn’t have worried.

The woman gestured at the plastic Tweety Bird she still had clutched in her hand. “You’re going to have to pay for that, you know.”

T
he thing is,” Lorna said to Phil Carson, who was sitting at the bar during her shift at Jico, “I’m meeting my bills, but I don’t feel like I’ve got
anything
left over to have fun with.”

“Maybe you should come over to the bureau and speak with me during business hours—”

“Oh, come on, Phil.” She had no patience for this nonsense. “You can see what I do.” She gestured around. “I’m pulling double and sometimes triple shifts here. And you’re sitting right here. What have you got to lose by talking to me for a minute.”

“It’s not that—”

“What are you drinking?” She eyed his glass. She had a gift for this. “RitaTini with a Cointreau floater?”

He looked at his half-empty glass. “How did you know?”

Actually, it was what all the guys with midlevel management jobs were drinking. “I pay attention, Phil,” she said. “I’m good at my job. And I’m working as hard as I can. So can you just give me a little advice without making me go all the way to your office?”

“I guess I can.”

“Great.” She looked to the bartender. “Boomer!” She pointed down at Phil. “Another one here. On me.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Phil looked like he was blushing. “Actually, you
shouldn’t
do that. You can’t afford it.”

“I get it at cost and then you tip me on it.” She winked. “I’ll make a profit, trust me.”

“So do that a few hundred more times, and your problems will be solved.” Phil gave a loopy smile.

“Funny.” Lorna sat on the barstool next to his. “I need to know if you can negotiate a lower interest rate with any of my credit card companies.”

“They’re already low!”

“Discover only went to nine-point-nine,” she said. “Their introductory rate is a lot lower than that!”

“Yes, but it’s introductory. They lure people in, and then—you know the rest.”

Lorna was disheartened. Yes, she knew the rest. She knew it way, way too well. “But I can’t even buy shoes!”

Phil chuckled. “Now, come on, you’re exaggerating. You have enough to cover the basics. And you should feel so good about the progress you’re making.”

“I feel good about the progress,” she said. “Just not so good about the lack of money.”

“Does this job have benefits?” Phil asked. “Health insurance, that sort of thing?”

“No, I have to get that myself.”

“What’s your hourly wage?”

She told him, and he gasped. “But that’s because I make tips. Sometimes with tips it amounts to fifteen, twenty bucks an hour.”

“Every hour, every night?”

“No,” she admitted. “It’s definitely variable.”

“Miss Rafferty—”

“Lorna.”

“—you might want to consider getting a more…reliable job. One with benefits, and a 401(k), and a salary that you can plan on. You have a college education, don’t you?”

She gave a shrug. “A bachelor’s in English.” Reading had seemed like a
great
major until she went out in the world and tried to find a job doing it.

Phil’s second drink arrived, and he drained his first one more quickly. “You could have a much better job.”

Boomer stopped and gave Phil a cautionary look, but Lorna waved him off, mouthing the words
It’s okay
.

“But I can barely afford to eat!” she said. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

“You’re still spending, aren’t you?” he asked, eyeing her with a lucidity he hadn’t displayed before.

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “What do you mean?”

He gave a knowing nod. “We went over your budget very specifically. Even with the variable income, the low-end average should have given you enough to make the payments on your debt as well as your rent, utilities, and food.” He shook his head. “You’re still spending. I’ve seen this before.”

She tried to swallow the guilt that was balling up in her throat. “I have not been to the mall in
weeks
.”

“So what is it, online shopping? With your check card?” He knew he’d nailed her. “As far as I know, it’s the only one we didn’t destroy.”

So, what, was she one of his only clients? How could he remember the details of her meeting with him with such clarity? “No, I just had a couple of unexpected expenses. My car,” she added, for credibility. And it was true, she
had
given them a considerable back payment. “And also utilities.” So it hadn’t been in the past week—it wasn’t as if she could admit she’d been on eBay. A guy like Phil Carson would never admit that there was virtue in bargain shopping if it took the place of therapy.

“Well.” He took a sip of the drink she’d bought for him. “You obviously need more income. The budget we set up should work, but if it doesn’t, you’ve got some leaks in your spending, and the only way I can think of to stop them is for you to be bringing more money in.” He shrugged. “I worry. I wish I could make this easier for you, but it’s really the only way.”

“Thanks, Phil.” It sounded sincere when she said it, but she didn’t really feel it.

Sure, he was right. She was spending outside her budget. And if he said he was unable to negotiate a lower rate, she had to believe him because what reason would he have to lie to her?

She spent the rest of her evening going through the motions of work, smiling and describing the night’s specials, all the while trying to think how or
where
she could fit
another
job into her schedule.

She took a fifteen-minute break in the middle of the evening to put her feet up and look at the classified section of the
City Paper
.

Nothing.

Unless she could drive a bus or a truck, teach English as a second language, or create more hours from thin air and take on a secretarial job that paid less than she averaged as a waitress, she was out of luck.

She flipped idly through the rest of the paper, feeling despondent and more sore and tired than she could remember ever feeling. She was getting old, she decided miserably.

And, worse, her gorgeous new Jimmy Choos were killing her. Soon she was going to have to wear big white orthopedic nurse’s shoes to work just to save her back.

Around 11
P.M.
, Lorna was surprised to see Sandra coming through the door with a very attractive man. Sandra had mentioned she was going out with an old friend from high school, but this guy had leapt right off the pages of
GQ
.

Sandra looked every bit as surprised to see Lorna, and after an awkward reunion, she stepped back and introduced her friend. “This is Mike Lemmington, my friend from high school. I told you about him.”

“Yes!” Wow, had Sandra hit the jackpot. This guy was
hot
. Maybe even a little too hot. A little too…manicured. But, whatever. She’d ask Tod to check him out and use his gaydar later.

“It is so nice to meet you,” Mike said, taking Lorna’s hand in a soft greeting. “God, I just
love
your shoes!”

“Oh!” She looked down at her new Choos and smiled. “Hey, you’re a customer. Maybe the fact that you’ve commented on them makes them tax deductible.”

“Why not?” He laughed, and Sandra laughed. Maybe just a little too loud. She seemed nervous.

“So we’re meeting some of Mike’s friends here,” Sandra said. “Then we’re going to Stetson’s. I’d love it if you could join us. Do you get off work soon?”

“Not for another couple of hours.” It was the constant lament. Lorna loved socializing during work, but at the same time, sometimes when her friends popped by and were moving on to another bar, she felt like the kid who was stuck with a 7
P.M.
bedtime in the summer while all his friends were outside riding bikes in the still-light twilight.

“Too bad,” Mike said. “We’re going to meet my friend Debbie. I’ve been
trying
to get this girl out to meet her for
ages
.” He pulled Sandra in with one arm, and she laughed. “Tonight you’re doing it.”

“We’re doing it,” Sandra agreed, and gave Lorna a small
I don’t know, but I like it
look.

“Mike!”

All of them turned to see a tall stunning woman in a Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress and strappy high heels Lorna couldn’t identify, walking toward them in the bar.

“Margo.” Cute Mike went over and embraced her.

Lorna noticed Sandra stiffen at the gesture. She didn’t blame her. The woman was a knockout.

“Everyone—” Mike led his friend to Lorna and Sandra. “—this is Margo St. Gerard.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lorna said, putting out a hand.

Sandra just said, “Hi, there.” And she watched as Mike gazed perhaps a hair too affectionately at the statuesque blonde.

And, really, she must have been at least six feet tall. No more than 125 pounds, though, so she was as trim and flat-chested as a super-model. What she lacked in womanly curves, though, she made up for in facial bone structure.

She was so striking, it was, frankly, disconcerting.

Lorna was concerned that Sandra must be hating this.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” Margo said, in a smooth, modulated voice. She sounded like a broadcaster.

An awkward moment passed.

“So…Sandra has told me so much about you,” Lorna said to Mike, hoping to return his attention to the woman he’d come in with. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“You’re one of the shoe addicts, right?”

She laughed. “Oh, yeah.”

“She’s the one who started it all,” Sandra said.

Mike laughed. “What a fabulous idea! If I had a size seven and a half in ladies’, I’d be joining you myself.”

“We’ve had men inquire before,” she said, trying not to be dismissive while, at the same time, hoping to god this guy wasn’t interested in joining them. “But they didn’t have the right insole.” She glanced at his undeniably wide feet.

“Oh, the midoperation transvestite?” he asked.

Sandra obviously told him a lot.

“Better off without that sort,” he finished in a whisper. “If they’re not proud of who they are, it’s just going to result in a lot of tension. You don’t need to deal with someone else’s shit.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

They all stood around talking for a few more minutes. Mike was really cute, and Sandra was obviously really enamored of him, so Lorna pushed aside the small irritation she felt when he went off on recent political events she didn’t happen to agree with him about.

“I don’t know, Mike,” she said, trying to sound light. “If we all felt the same way about everything, this would be a pretty boring world. Division makes democracy.”

“Shouldn’t we go?” Sandra asked uncomfortably.

Lorna looked at the clock over the bar.
She
definitely had to go. She had to get up and work again in eight hours.

“So, Lorna,” Mike said, thankfully not holding a grudge that she disagreed with him. “We’re going to Stetson’s, do you want to join us? I’d love to continue our debate there.”

Like she had the energy to
debate
.

“Oh, yes!” Sandra exclaimed. “Please!”

Lorna really wanted to help her out, but she was exhausted. She had, after all, been on her feet in the restaurant since 11
A.M.
She needed a break. There were theories out there that God had created the earth in seven hours, not seven days, so if that was correct, and he rested on the seventh hour and wanted us all to do the same, Lorna was currently about five and a half hours past church-endorsed relaxation. “I’m really sorry,” she said, mostly to Sandra. “I’d love to, but I’m almost too tired to drive home. There’s no way I can get into town, stay upright for another couple of hours, then drive home.”

“You
could
stay at my place,” Sandra said. “But I understand you’re tired.”

“Next time,” Lorna promised.

She was about to overapologize when Tod rushed by. She tried to stop him—she thought he’d like to meet Sandra and Mike at least, but it was as if he took one look at them and huffed past, nose in the air.

Lorna made a mental note to tease him about being a bratty little child later, but she didn’t think much more about it until after Sandra, Margo, and Mike had left and Tod approached Lorna in the parking lot.

“Do you
know
that jerk?” he asked.

Lorna looked around, half-thinking he might be talking to someone else nearby, and half-thinking he might be talking
about
someone else nearby. “Who?”

“Mike Lemmington. Mr.
Live, love, laugh, and get laid
.” Tod gave a disgusted snort. “I didn’t know he meant with different people every night.”

“Oh.” Then Lorna remembered how excited Tod had been about a date the other night. “
Oh
. He’s the—Oh, Tod, I’m sorry. That must have been awkward to see him.”

Tod gave a tight-lipped nod. “Especially with
her
.”

“Sandra?”

“Oh, is that her name? I’ve seen her at Stetson’s. She makes me sick.”

Sandra
had
mentioned Stetson’s, though Lorna could hardly imagine her inspiring this kind of disgust in someone as nice as Tod. Though jealousy did strange things to people.

It had to be because she was so tired, because with all this mental juggling, it occurred to Lorna only afterwards that what Tod was saying was that the guy Sandra was dating was gay. Or at least bi. “Are you sure he’s the guy?” she asked him.

He gave her a withering look. “Gee, I don’t know, Lorna. Let me go through the mental catalog of guys I had sex with that night.” He put a finger to his chin and mocked
The Thinker.
“Yup. Yup, that’s him. The son of a bitch.” He bit his lip and shook his head before adding, “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“He’s hot. No doubt about it.”

“The hot ones are always like that.
Always
. I hate it.”