Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey

lipstick!”
    The clerk pushed herself up from the floor and smoothed her hair back. “She has no credit,” she said, pointing at Alana. “And she”—Marcella pointed at me—“looks jaundiced!”
    Another guard appeared, a female, who seemed equally confused. The heavyset guard shook his head.
    â€œWe didn’t do anything wrong,” I told them. “It all started over a tube of lipstick.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” the female guard said. “Sometimes it happens that way.”
    Really? Did they often have altercations over lipstick? Fistfights over exfoliants?
    The female guard moved behind the counter. “Nobody hurt, right?”
    No answer.
    â€œMarcella?” The guard helped her up. “Back upstairs. They’ll be expecting you in Human Resources.”
    The other guard motioned to Alana. “And you’ll need to come with me, miss.”
    â€œWhere are you taking her?” I asked, feeling a little worried. I’d never been involved in a department store infraction before.
    â€œJust escorting her to the door.” The wide man with the rather large walkie-talkie on his belt seemed to have a slight lisp. “This way, ma’am.”
    â€œMy coat and packages are in the coat check,” Alana stood her ground. “I’m not leaving without them.”
    â€œOf course.” He gestured toward the balcony. “After you.”
    She turned her pointy-toed Dolce & Gabbana shoes toward the broad stone steps and walked with dignity. I have to hand it to Alana: even in a cat fight, she had class.
    A shriek came from the rising escalator, and I turned to see the redhead looking back at us. “I never forget a face!” she shouted. “I will never sell you that lipstick.”
    Alana turned toward the escalator and cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “We shall see.”

7
    Alana
    T he Collington is a social club, one of my parents’ favorite places to dine. While Daddy is uncomfortable flaunting his social status, he’s quite at ease with the envelope tip system at the Collington, and equally pleased that the club was founded by families of diverse ethnic backgrounds. On any given night, you’re bound to run into local arts patrons, doctors from India, businessmen from Asia, scientists from all over the world, and a handful of city politicians. That’s the boring part.
    The good news is that the food in the dining room is decent, the family members of the aforementioned prestigious men usually can hold their own at the bar, and the club has built one of the better swimming pools in New York City. Not that I’ve used it much, but Hailey and I keep promising ourselves we’re going to start.
    I left the little gifties for Mama and Daddy in the coat-check room, then straightened my Chanel suit. As I crossed the rose-patch pattern of the dining room I could see that my parents were already ensconced at their favorite table, Daddy with his Chivas and soda, Mama with her vodka martini. Of course, Mama noticed my new plum suit immediately, commenting on it even as she pulled me into a hug.
    â€œIs that Chanel?”
    I kissed her cheek and nodded, touching the fake fur on the lapel.
    â€œOf course it is. And it’s perfect for you, Lanny.” Her eyes glimmered with pride as she patted my shoulder.
    â€œThanks, Mama.”
    â€œChanel?” my father rumbled. “How much did that cost me?”
    I tilted my head slightly, letting the long ponytail of baby dreads fall to one shoulder. I wanted to chastise him because he hadn’t paid for it at all since he’d let the credit card bill lapse, but I held my tongue, having learned long ago that, above all else, my father valued and demanded respect.
    Instead, I played Daddy’s little girl. “Oh, Daddy, you have a one-track mind,” I said, reaching over to hug him. “Did you miss