Later that day, I didn’t even have to sit around agonizing about whether Guy would call. The phone rang about half an hour after I got home from school. Supper was on the table. A steaming bowl of macaroni cheese and two final demand utility bills to accompany the meal.
Guy invited me to meet him in the restaurant of an expensive downtown hotel. Living alone on a teacher’s salary I’d never set foot in the place, so I launched into a frenzy of dragging dresses from their hangers, trying them on, then flinging them into a heap on the floor. Too flowery, too short, too long, too matronly, too cheap, even though many still had store tags on them. But I couldn’t think about that now.
Finally, I settled on something slim, black, and plunging, brushed my hair, cleaned my teeth, and applied a coat of deep red lipstick before heading out the door.
I’d done my homework. Seems Guy loved vivid lipstick. He stared at my lips right through dinner. When I shaved a thin slice of filet mignon, lifted it to my mouth and bit into it, a thin dribble of something ran down my lips. I couldn’t tell whether it was blood or juice, but Guy reached over and wiped it off with his fingertip. Then, with eyes locked on mine, he slowly licked the juice from his own fingertip. A familiar fluttering started up in my stomach. I wanted him so badly I squirmed on the chair, unable to settle myself. And when he reached over and ran his fingertips across the tender skin of my wrist, I knew it was time for a sudden and urgent exit from the restaurant. He threw a wad of bills at the waiter, then guided me to the front desk, his hand firm at the base of my spine. He arranged a room and we were locked in a hot, visceral embrace by the time the elevator doors swished open onto the third floor.
Next afternoon, a bouquet of roses with pink, fleshy petals arrived in the front office. Daphne, the school secretary and chief architect of the jungle telegraph that disseminated gossip throughout the school, was already ogling the gift card. She held her glasses over the scrawled handwriting.
“For you, Anna. For an unforgettable evening. G. Who’s G?” she blurted.
“Do you mind?” I grabbed the gift box, the soft petals grazing my nose. What a jerk. Delivering them to school. Then I remembered he didn’t have my home address. Sabrina swooped in behind, alerted by Daphne.
“Someone got lucky last night,” she hissed. “I can sniff out the pheromones.”
I walked away trying to shake her off. Memories of Guy’s naked body and the gorgeous feel of his sinewy legs entwined around mine had clouded my vision to the point that I almost walked into a closed door.
“Got it real bad with Professor G,” said Sabrina, pushing the door open. “Watch out, little Anna. He’s an operator. That man will eat you up and spit you out. Seen men like him before. It’s all in the eyes.”
I pretended not to hear. I’d enjoyed a night of mind-blowing sex and the guy had sent me flowers the next day. This was cause for celebration. Time for a shopping frenzy.
I dropped the roses off at my apartment and drove straight to the mall. My happy place. I got high on the ambient scents pumped into the place. Like a drunk at a cocktail bar, I needed a fix of tropical citrus or vanilla lotus flower.
I have only a few vices. A healthy appetite for good sex, and the ability to maintain a stone face when I tell lies, but first and foremost I’m a compulsive shopper. Combing the racks is my shot of nicotine. Grazing the stores for deals, my release. Not for high-end goods. That wasn’t until after I met Guy.
Back then I was after end of season bargains. A red sales tag was akin to Pavlov’s bell. I salivated at 80% off the original price, while an extra 20% off the sale price gave me heart palpitations and sweaty palms.
I’d lined my closets with cheap tops, pants, dresses and jackets. Bought sandals at the end of summer for the next year, boots in March for November. My drawers burst to overflowing with bras, panties, nighties and socks. My dresser was strewn with piles of cheap, glittery earrings, bangles and necklaces. I’d buy three of some things. So when one wore out I’d have two or three replacements.
At least that was my rationale. Mostly the red tags remained attached, dangling in a bright row, a reminder of my expanding credit card balances which had taken on a life of their own, compounding at bloated interest rates. I’d grit my teeth and pray when I swiped my Visa, fearing the dreaded your card is declined message delivered by a haughty sales clerk before a line-up of restless customers, who’d dart meaningful glances and raised eyebrows at each other. Then I’d mumble lame excuses like it’s new and not activated yet or this must be my old one, while everyone’s expressions clearly read utter baloney.
Sometimes I bought things only to take them back two days later just to clear the card for more purchases. It was the act of buying that delivered the charge, the carrying of the bags out of the store that thrilled me. Back home in my cramped closet with its crystal chandelier I’d run my hands along the line of new, untouched clothing and feel a sudden rush, a temporary sense of triumph.
As a semi-rational person, I had an explanation for this instinct to stockpile material goods. My intense drive to buy things and gather them in a comforting hoard around me stemmed from a deprived childhood. A history of intense and painful loss. An erasure of childhood memories. A complete lack of belonging to
