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I’d like to say they looked like they were suffering greatly without me. But going by their laughter and the fun they’re having, it’s more like they’re thriving without me. They look good too. Lilah is as well put together as always in a Lacroix pantsuit, and Jules has finally gotten the bangs I’ve been telling her to get forever. She must be finally spending some of her sugar daddy’s cash on a new wardrobe too, because she looks fabulous.
Stealthily, I move toward them, ducking from rack to rack so they don’t see me, and hide behind a display of evening gowns to watch them. They look like best friends, and my gut twists, and my heart aches with longing.
Jules and I used to come here all the time. We’d shop until our feet hurt and then indulge in the cute baby cakes and glasses of Verve Clicquot at the store’s a la carte café while pretending we weren’t rubbing our feet under the table because walking for hours in four-inch heels is hard work and hurts.
Jules decides to buy the dress, and I watch her and Lilah talk and laugh as the sales assistant rings it up for her.
Go over there, the little voice whispers.
But the truth is, I feel too hurt and broken by how they treated me, and if I’m really honest, I feel embarrassed. I look down at my jeans and t-shirt and think about the crappy motel I now call home, and the car that is on blocks because someone stole my wheels while I was sleeping.
“It’s perfect for the Balboa Charity Ball next Friday,” Lilah says to Jules.
I gasp. The Balboa Charity Ball is like the Oscars for the who’s who of New York society. I used to get an invitation every year because my daddy used to send them a hefty donation in my name. The event is lavish and ostentatious, and over the top. And in what fucked-up universe am I not invited and my two fair-weather friends are?
“Angelica will love it too,” Lilah adds.
Correction. My three fair-weather friends. Ugh, this sucks.
With a heavy heart, I watch my ex-best friends walk away, their arms laden with bags of shopping after what looks like a big shopping day. Bentley’s. Saks. Bergdorf. Tiffany’s. They’ve done the rounds.
It’s not until they disappear onto the street that I let out a rough breath.
It hurts.
It hurts real bad.
But I try not to let it affect me. After all, I’m in Bentley’s, my favorite place on Earth. So I try to put on a happy face and focus on some retail therapy—without actually participating in the retail bit.
I’ve never window-shopped in my life, and it’s hard not to buy anything, especially the elegant dress on display in front of me. It’s a Bianchon gown made from the softest red silk which feels heavenly against my skin. It’s been months since I’ve felt anything this magical. I sigh as I press the silk to my cheek because it feels so soft and rich, but I’m quickly brought out of my daydream by a sharp clearing of the throat.
“Can I help you?” a pinched-face assistant asks.
It’s then I realize I’m caressing the silk like it’s a boyfriend.
I drop it. “I’m sorry, I’m just looking.”
“Then you should probably look with your eyes and not your hands.”
The sales assistant must be new because I don’t recognize her.
Her gaze sweeps over me and her expression sours. Somewhere in her twenties like me, I feel her judgement like it’s a bucket of cold water splashing all over me.
I bite my tongue and move away from the dress to look at a selection of shoes created by a designer known for their elegant stilettos.
Unfortunately, the assistant follows me, bringing her cloud of judgment with her. It’s then I realize she probably thinks I’m going to steal something.
“Can I help you with anything in particular?” she asks.
“Nope, I’m just looking. I come here a lot.”
“Hmmmmm,” she says dismissively. “But not lately.”
Again, she does another judgmental sweep of her cold blue eyes up and down my body.
“Well, now I’m back.” I pick up a pair of four-inch heels and study the immaculate stitching and craftmanship.
She folds her arms and narrows her eyes at me, and I’m kind of taken aback. Usually it takes people a while to take a dislike to me. But she decided the moment she saw me that I was not her kind of person.
She folds her arms. “I think you’d better leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think we have anything here that’s suitable for you.”
“Oh, you don’t?” I put down the shoes and take a step toward her, meeting her cold gaze with my own blazing one. I lower my voice so she knows I mean business. “See that surprises me considering I’ve been shopping here since my mama brought me to Bentley’s in my Versace stroller and Baby Dior romper. And since then I’ve dropped the most astronomical amounts of money here, the kinds of numbers that would make your eyes water and your jaw drop.” I lean closer. “Amounts that would remind you of the difference between someone with money and someone who serves people with money. Now how about you leave me the fuck alone and—”
