Working It (11 page)

“Bridget Jones.”

Make that a little black dress and tailored slacks. The girl is certifiable. “I don’t know Bridget Jones? Is she a singer?”

“I can’t even…” Laney stares at me as if I were the crazy one, all wide eyes behind her hipster specs. “
Bridget Jones’s Diary?
”

I shake my head.

“You’ve never heard of
Bridget Jones’s Diary?”

“
Non
.”

“It is only, like, the holy grail of all chick lit novels and rom coms.” She exhales. “Bridget Jones works for a pervy man who accuses her of wearing short skirts while fannying around the office with press releases.”

Speechless. She has rendered me speechless. I thought Vivian was slightly eccentric with her random pop culture references and free-flowing stream of consciousness, but Laney makes Vivian look totes normal.

Laney must notice my bewilderment, because she hurries to explain.

“Bridget Jones. Short skirts. You just lost a luggage full of clothes. Some of those clothes were probably skirts.” She tilts her head and fixes me with a “get it?” expression.

I still don’t get it.

Laney sighs. “Bridget Jones equals short skirts. Short skirts equal clothes. Clothes equal you. You see, Fanny. It’s all connected. It makes perfect sense.”

“Right.” I edge my way toward the door. “It’s been fabulous meeting you, Laney, but right now I need to have a conversation with the head of security about filing a police report for my missing luggage.”

“Listen, Fanny,” she says, patting my shoulder. “I dig that you’re totes devo about your luggage, but those jerries are long gone.”

What just happened? Did the pilot make a wrong turn? Am I in Alaska or some alternate universe? Someone needs to Google translate Laney-speak because I am not fluent in hipster.

“I am sorry, Laney. English isn’t my first language. I think I know what totes means, but what does devo mean? And who is Jerry?”

Laney laughs.

“Totes devo means totally devastated and jerries are stoners, druggies, meth heads.” She reaches around me, slides the window shut, and tugs the curtains closed. “I read online that Alaska has a huge drug problem. Those jerries are probably on their way to pawn your knickers for crack cash.”

“Fabulous.” I bend over, pick up my carry-on, and hug it to my chest. “What am I going to do now?”

“Chillax, it’s only luggage.”

“Only luggage?” I cry. “Those crack-smoking jerries just stole two Louis Vuitton Pegase cases.”

Now it’s Laney’s turn to look around the room for a translator. I don’t need to peek in her hotel room closet to know she’s probably toting a plastic daisy-covered roller bag. I sigh and sink to the bed, cradling my little orphaned Louis.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Fanny.” Laney takes a seat beside me and we sit quietly for a few seconds. “It sucks.”

“Totes.”

We laugh.

“What am I going to do now? I only have the clothes on my back.” I stretch my legs out in front of me. “Something tells me 7 For All Mankind skinny jeans and six-inch heels aren’t gonna cut it in Sitka.”

Laney hops to her feet.

“Come on,” she says, heading toward the door. “Stow your travel case and let’s go talk to the front desk clerk. Maybe she can tell us where there’s a Target.”

“Target?” The word came out more as a strangled cry than a question.

Laney stops at the door and looks back at me. “What’s wrong with Target?”

There’s no way to answer her question without sounding like an insufferable prig, so I just stare at her polka-dot Peter Pan collar blouse beneath her vintage store cardigan. Target does yoga pants, Hanes tees, and Playtex bras, but I am pretty sure it doesn’t do hipster.

Meet-Cute

Text from Curtis Bower:

You’ve become a cause célèbre, darling. I had some tees made with J’Abhor L’Horreur, We Love Fanny, and Fabulous Fanny for Hire, and I’ve been selling them around Haight-Ashbury and The Castro. Mycastro.com interviewed me (off the record). The grassroots movement to exonerate Fanny has officially commenced.

Text to Curtis Bower:

I appreciate what you’re doing & I like the slogans, but please be careful, Lady Loafers. If Nicola finds out, she’ll have you sacked.

Text from Curtis Bower:

I don’t care if Maleficent fires me. My fairy tale does not begin and end with L’Heure. I am working on a sexier happily ever after.

“I am so sorry, ma’am, but the Klondike is not responsible for lost or stolen items.” The front desk clerk taps a laminated sign affixed to the counter with her unmanicured fingernail. “It even says so right here.”

“My suitcases weren’t sitting unattended in the lobby, they were locked in my room.” I resist the urge to throttle Mistress Obvious and keep my tone pleasant. “Surely the hotel assumes some responsibility for failing to provide adequate security?”

The desk clerk looks around helplessly, like an Alaskan deer caught in a rusty old pickup’s headlights. I have to draw in several calming breaths.

“Maybe we could talk to one of your security guards,” Laney suggests in a perky tone.

“Guard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Guard. We only have one security guard, and he is out today for personal reasons.”

Convenient. Klondike’s only security guard takes a vacation day, and meth heads break into my room—the only room filled with expensive luggage. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

I shift my gaze from the clerk to the digital clock hanging on the wall behind her. It’s already six o’clock, which means it’s nearly time for the Yukon Jacks to close up shop so they can head back to their cabins to feast on Caribou stew. I am assuming a claptrap town like Anchorage is locked down by sunset. Actually, the sun set hours ago.

“Look,” I say, giving the clerk poor-me sad eyes. “I know it’s not your fault that someone waltzed into the hotel, broke into my room, and absconded with tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of my belongings, but I am leaving Anchorage tomorrow, and I only have the clothes on my back. I don’t even have clean undergarments. Are there any stores nearby? Somewhere I could go to purchase necessities?”

Like a gun, so I can track down your security guard, the meth heads who stole my luggage, and the person who thought it would be charming to establish an American city fifty-five miles east of Siberia?

“Oh, there are several clothing stores in SoNo.”

“SoNo?”

“South of Nordstrom,” the clerk says, pulling out a map and a Sharpie. “Downtown Anchorage is divided into two parts: South of Nordstrom and North of Nordstrom. SoNo and NoNo.”

She bisects the city by drawing a fat red line across the map. I literally have to press my hand to my mouth to restrain the hysterical laughter bubbling up my throat. SoNo and NoNo? Are you kidding me? Anchorage’s equatorial line was decided by a single department store?

The clerk pivots around and looks at the orange glowing digital clock.

“I am not sure what time Nordstrom closes, but you can try there.” She uses the Sharpie to outline the route from the hotel to the all-important Nordstrom store. “You might also want to stop in at About Face. It’s a lingerie and beauty boutique. And Blush has pretty clothes.”

She hands me the map.

“Great,” I say, clutching my purse. “Would you please ask the valet to hail a cab?”

She tilts her head and wrinkles her nose, as if trying to translate my simple request from ancient Greek to Anchorage-speak.

“I don’t think they have a valet, Stéphanie,” Laney leans close and whispers in my ear. “The Klondike is kinda bijou.”

Never has a more true statement been uttered.

“Never mind.”

I look at the map and count the blocks between the Klondike and the SoNo shopping district. One. Two. Three. Four. Four mean, hostile blocks standing between me and my retail sanctuary. I can almost hear the soothing piped-in classical music, smell the comforting waft of Chanel Number Five. Proper cosmetics counters, a designer handbag department, round tables artfully arranged with Franco Sarto boots and Jimmy Choo heels. Maybe I could apply to the manager for amnesty. Every Nordies has a café. I wouldn’t even have to venture beyond her walls for food.

Laney and I are rolling my orphaned Louis across the lobby—because there was no way I was leaving him again—when the clerk calls out.

“Ms. Moreau?”

“Yes?”

“If Nordstrom doesn’t have everything you need, I would be happy to run to Walmart after my shift.”

I might be an über-retail snob, as Vivian would say, but the clerk’s generous offer almost brings me to tears. Random acts of kindness by friendlies in a hostile zone always have that effect on me.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

Laney and I roll out of the Klondike and begin our “arduous” four block walk to the no-fire zone. I have never been a big Nordies girl, but I am beginning to think of it as the only safe area in this hostile land of human-hungry bears and panty-pinching jerries.

“Thanks for coming with me, Laney.”

“No probs.” She tosses one end of her daffodil yellow scarf over her shoulder. “It’s what any decent suite mate would do. You would have done the same for me if those jerries had stolen my suitcases.”

Would I have been as compassionate if I had stumbled upon Laney crying over her lost luggage? Hmmm. I don’t think so. It’s not that I am cold-hearted. I care about people. I really do. It’s just…compassion doesn’t come easy for me. I have to work at it. Maybe I was born with a compassion gene deficiency. Maybe I was supposed to learn that skill from my parents, but my mom died when I was a baby, and my father left me to the care of nannies and boarding school matrons. Whatever the cause, I seem to be missing the ability to demonstrate softer emotions. I was supportive and gentle with Vivian after she lost her fiancé and job, but that’s because she is my best friend.

“Hello, Fanny?” Laney waves her daffodil yellow gloved hand in front of my face. “Are you chasing unicorns?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling sheepishly at my new friend. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were off chasing unicorns.”

“I don’t know what that means, Laney.”

“It means you’re a million miles away. What’s eating you, Gilbert Grape?”

“I was just thinking about my best friend, Vivian.”

“Ooo, I love hearing BFF meet-cute stories.” She reaches over and takes my carry-on from me. “Tell me yours.”

“Meet-cute?”

“Yeah, you know, the way you met.”

“We met when we were still in college.”

“You went to the same college, then?”

“No.” My breath comes out in a cottony puff. “We went to different colleges.”

“Roommates?”

“Nope.

“Ooo-kay, you’ve successfully built up the suspense, now give me the big dramatic ending.”

I laugh. “It’s not that cute of a meet story, really. We met in a dive bar.”

“Seedy. I like it. Go on.”

“Not a real dive bar. A Dive Bar is the name of a popular
taqueria
and
cerveceria
in San Francisco.” I laugh again. “Actually, come to think of it, maybe it was a little seedy.”

“Yes!” She fist pumps the air. “Proceed.”

Laney is really funny. Bizarre, but funny. She reminds me of an airier version of Vivian.

“Vivian was on a
tragique
blind date.”

“Was the guy a complete uggo?”

I assume uggo is Laney-speak for ugly. “No, not entirely.”

“What made it so
tragique
then?”

“Vivian didn’t want to go on the date, but her mom pressured her into going. You have to know Vivian’s mom. She’s…”

…an older version of you, actually. A bit random and kooky, with high-octane speech, and a take-charge personality.

“…very persuasive. Anyway, Vivian had a miserable cold. Fever. Cough. Body aches. The whole works.”

“Why didn’t she just cancel?”

“Vivian’s a pleaser.”

“Ah.”

“And the guy sent her four dozen roses. Who does that before a first date?”

“Frodos.”

“Translate,
s’il vous plâit
.”

“Frodo. A short, hairy hobbit with a huge heart. Frodos know they’re not the hottest creatures in the realm, so they amp up the affection and generosity.” She shakes her head. “Sad, really.”

“I’ve had my share of Frodos…and catfish.”

“Oo, now that sounds like a story I would like to hear.”

“Another time.”

“Promise?”

“
Oui
.”

“So, Vivian the pleaser was manipulated by her momma and handled by the hobbit. Poor girl. Then what happened?”

“Her date showed up. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was his super handsy, super chatty personality, but Vivian was not into him. Anyway, she had taken a few Sudafed before the date. By the time their meals arrived, Vivian was super drowsy. Her date excused himself to go to the men’s room, and when he returned, he found her face down in a plate of guacamole.”

“Like, asleep?”

“Like, passed out.” I laugh as I remember Vivian staggering into the bathroom, guacamole smeared across her face. “Sound asleep. Hair in the salsa, drool on her chin.”

“Ohmygod.”

“I walked into the ladies room and found her bent over the sink, trying to wash the salsa out of her hair. She was a mess. The water was spilling out of the sink and soaking the front of her blouse, her makeup was a disaster, and her cheeks were flushed from the fever.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I washed the salsa out of her hair, picked the guacamole out of her ear, gave her my cardigan, and called her a cab.”

“And you’ve been best friends ever since.”

“Not exactly.”

Laney makes a rolling motion with her hand as if to say, “Go on. Go on. Tell me the rest of the story.”

“I thought Vivian was a sad train wreck, not best friend material. She proved me wrong. She returned my sweater with homemade cookies and tickets to go to a concert.”

“You went to the concert and became soul sisters?”

“Nope.”

Laney slants me a frustrated look and sighs.

“I thanked her for the cookies and declined the concert invite. Most people would just fade away, but not Vivian. She kept coming back, bringing me little gifts, and inviting me to parties. So eventually, reluctantly, I became her friend.”