“A movie star,” Helen said.
“Thath nithe,” Tiffany said, looking pleased. “What movieth hath thee been in?”
“None any more,” Christina said. “She’s dead. And why are you lisping?”
“Juth had my tongue pierthed,” Tiffany said, and stuck out her tongue to reveal a gold stud. “I thould talk fine in a day or two.”
Helen was repulsed. “Why would you want your tongue pierced?” she said.
Brittney snorted Evian water through her nose. Christina rolled her eyes. Helen knew she’d said something hopelessly Midwestern. Only Tiffany took her question seriously.
“The oral thex ith fantathtic,” she said, and giggled.
“What?” Helen said.
“She says the oral sex is fantastic,” Brittney said.
Tiffany giggled again. “No, my boyfriend thayth that.”
Then they all shrieked with laughter like schoolgirls. Helen was actually wiping tears from her eyes. It felt good to laugh this hard. She loved this store. She had to be wrong about Christina skimming money. She had to be.
“Speaking of boyfriends, how’s Joe?” Brittney said in that soft, sighing voice, and Helen could feel the mood shift.
“He won’t be in town for my birthday. He has to go to the Keys. But we’re going clubbing when he gets back.”
“Which ones?” Brittney said. “Kiss? Tantra? Rain? I hope he takes you to Mynt. It’s the prettiest. They pipe scents like sage and mint through the air conditioner. Did I tell you I saw Queen Latifah there one night? And the Back-street Boys? Of course Bash is reopening. That might be fun. I partied there one night with Sean Penn.”
But Christina knew how to yank the spotlight back. “I was there the night Leonardo DiCaprio whipped off his shirt and danced on a speaker,” she said. “
“Titanic, even,” Helen said. Everyone ignored her.
“But that’s not the best part. Joe has promised to bring me something special,” Christina said. Her voice was too neutral.
“Oooh,” Tiffany said. “Ith thith the ring at latht?”
“I hope so. But I’d settle for a tennis bracelet.”
“You would not. You want the ring,” Brittney said.
Christina nodded. “I’ve waited long enough,” she said. “This is put-up or shut-up time. I’m almost forty. I want to be married.”
“It’s overrated,” Helen said. “I was married for seventeen years.”
“Divorced is better than never being married,” Christina said. “At least some man wanted you enough to stand up at an altar and say so. No one’s ever wanted me that way.”
“They juth want uth every other way,” Tiffany said, and it sounded sadder with her lisp.
“But not when we’re old and wrinkled. Not forever,” Brittney said in that caressing whisper, and for once Helen could see the emotion in her beautiful expressionless face.
“It wasn’t forever,” Helen said. “It was only for seventeen years.”
“That’s forever for us,” she sighed. In seventeen years, Brittney would be beyond the help of any Brazilian doctor.
It wasn’t true that no man wanted to marry them, Helen thought. Lots of interesting, honorable men would want them for their brides. But it was true that no super-rich man would marry them. Helen felt sorry for these waiflike women. She knew they were in a trap of their own devising, but it was still a lonely one. She was relieved when the doorbell rang, and she didn’t have to answer Brittney.
Christina looked up. “It’s Venetia.”
“I have to go. I can’t stand that woman,” Brittney said.
“Me either,” Tiffany said.
Venetia was even thinner than most of Juliana’s women. She looked like an articulated skeleton in a Chanel suit. When she stretched out her hand to examine a shirt, Helen thought she could count all twenty-six bones. Venetia’s wrist was a collection of knobs. She had a strange, jittery way of moving and an odd dirty look to her skin. Helen was glad that Venetia ignored her.
“I want one of your special purses,” she said to Christina, “and I want it now.” Her voice was harsh and high.
“I have a lovely little beaded 1920s number.”
“Fine. Get it. Right now,” Venetia ordered.
While she waited for Christina to return, the stick woman bounced impatiently up and down on one foot, twirled her hair, scratched her arm. Venetia made Helen so nervous that she moved to the mahogany sideboard and started folding a sweater that did not need folding. It was cashmere, light and luxurious. Just touching it was a pleasure, so Helen folded and refolded it while she waited for Christina to return.
Christina had a sideline selling evening purses that she bought at rummage sales and antique shops. She cleaned their delicate silver clasps, restored their beading, and put in new silk linings. They were collectibles. They must be addictive, Helen thought. Some women came in two or three times a month for Christina’s purses. Helen could see why. She’d collect them if she had the money. They were miniature works of art.
The women always paid cash, and Helen figured Christina must have some deal with the store owner, where Mr. Roget got a cut. She kept the purses on a special shelf high in the stockroom, so they wouldn’t get mixed up with the regular stock.
Christina came out carrying an exquisite little black beaded number with a pink heart in the center and an ornate silver clasp.
“Let me see the inside,” Venetia said.
“It’s pink silk,” Christina said. “The clasp is tricky. I’ll open it for you.”
But Venetia impatiently ripped the purse from Christina’s hands. It flew open, and brightly colored candies scattered all over the carpet.
No, wait. That wasn’t candy, Helen thought. Those were pills and capsules. Oh God. Drugs. That’s what was in the special purses. She didn’t want to see this.
Helen picked up the sweater and, hugging it like a teddy bear, she carried it to the stockroom and stayed there.
What was Christina doing? Helen asked herself. Does she think I’m so stupid I won’t notice she is selling drugs and skimming money?
Exactly, Helen decided. I am naive about things like tongue piercing. But I worked in a corporation for twenty years. I know a crook when I see one.
In a way, Helen didn’t blame Christina. The head saleswoman made thousands for Juliana’s cheap owner and was paid only eighteen thousand a year, plus a miserly commission. There was no way anyone could live well on that money. Not the way Christina had to dress for this job.
Helen would have to make some decisions. Should she say something to the store owner about Christina’s drug dealing? He should know if illegal activities were going on in his store. But what if Mr. Roget was getting a cut on the sale of the purses’ contents? The store owner hung onto his nickels. Did he love money enough to turn a blind eye to drug sales in his own store? He had the perfect excuse if Christina was caught: he was far away, in another country. How could he know what was going on?
What about an anonymous call to the police? Another bad idea. If her boss was caught dealing, Helen’s reputation could be ruined, too. If Juliana’s was ever raided, Helen’s name could wind up in the newspapers, and that would be a disaster. She had to start looking for another job.
When Helen finally came out of the stockroom, Venetia was gone. Helen’s foot crunched on something, and she picked it up. It was a pill about the size of an aspirin, but yellow. It had a designer logo.
Even Helen knew what Ecstasy looked like.
