Читать книгу Tales Of A Drama Queen - Lee Nichols - Страница 8

Monday. Would prefer to remain wallowing in self-pity, comforting myself with treacley Facts of Life reruns and family-size pizzas, but I’m afraid to appear as encroaching houseguest. Normally, I’d go shopping to kill time, but I need to conserve my monster stack of cash—my credit card companies have all fallen victim to some sort of computer virus. Technology. Just goes to show you.

I muster myself into a feel-good outfit and head downtown. Window shopping is just as satisfying as buying.

Except Santa Barbara didn’t used to be such a retail Mecca. When I was growing up, there were three local boutiques, the best of which specialized in sequins and appliqué. Now there’s Nordstrom, Bebe, Aveda and Banana, plus a Gap and Limited for when you need a single strap tank for the week that it’s in. Across the street is Bryan Lee (très L.A.), and down toward the beach are vintage shops catering to girls half my age—but I still manage to find a YSL suit I can squeeze into.

Fleeing temptation, I escape into the newish Borders Books, grab a Vogue and settle into a purple velvet chair.

A feature on Antonio Banderas takes a while to get through—kept having to pause and take deep breaths. Maybe my new man should be Latino. There are lots of Latinos in Santa Barbara. Suspect they are good family men, too.

I turn to the last page, “The Ten Best Satchels in America,” and compare them to my ratty old Coach tote. Everyone else is carrying satchels this year. Not tatty ancient totes. I want Vogue’s number one pick—the Fendi. It’s only $1,650. I wonder how much I’ll get paid at my new job. Louis billed three hundred an hour, last I checked, which was years ago. Surely I’ll make enough to afford a simple handbag.

I return Vogue to the rack and grab Cosmopolitan. I haven’t read Cosmo since college, but I’m single now. This month promises “A Dating Diary,” “How to Perfect Your Stripping Skills on Virtual Boy-Toys” and some advice I could really use: “Land That Man, Ace Your Job and Look Your Sexiest Ever.”

Standing in the check-out line, I read “Ten Girlfriend Goof-ups” and discover I’ve girlfriend goofed in every way. I could have kept Louis if I’d cooked hearty dinners, wore sexy underwear, feigned interest in his work and allowed him time “in his cave.”

“I can help who’s next,” the cashier calls. He’s California cute, with dark hair and a tan. That’s one thing about Santa Barbara—it’s packed with beautiful people. Dumb, but beautiful. I know. I grew up here.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask Surfer Boy as I hand him the magazine.

“Uh, yeah.” He looks nervous. “That’ll be $3.79.”

I dig in my repellent, prehistoric, possibly-infectious Coach tote for my wallet. “I’m doing a survey. Does she cook you hearty dinners?”

“She makes pot roast sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.” I give him a five. “Does she wear sexy underwear?”

His eyes light up.

“Give you time in your cave?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“I don’t get that one either. You think you’ll ever break up with her?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No doubt.”

See? Cosmo is wrong. All the peek-a-boo bras in the world wouldn’t have saved me and Louis. Which means it’s not my fault. It’d be Louis’s fault, but he’s clueless. That only leaves one person: The Iowan Floozy. I consider throwing Cosmo in the trash, punishment for misinformation, but decide against. Floozy probably has perfect stripping skills. I need a virtual refresher.