Shopaholic to the Stars
Page 3
Luke just stared at me and said, “Are you nuts?” Then he started going on about how this was a proper race for trained athletes, and who was going to sponsor me, and did I even possess any running shoes? Honestly. He could be more supportive.
Although, actually, he has a point about the running shoes.
“So, are you in the movie business too?” Mindy asks as she hands me the receipt to sign.
“No, I’m a personal shopper.”
“Oh, OK. Which store?”
“It’s … actually, it’s … Dalawear.”
“Oh.” She looks taken aback. “You mean, the store for—”
“Older women. Yes.” I lift my chin. “It’s a great store. It’s really exciting. I can’t wait!”
I’m being super-positive about this job, even though it’s not exactly my dream. Dalawear sells “easy-wear clothes” for ladies who rate “comfort over style.” (It actually says that on the poster. I might try to persuade them to change it to “comfort as much as style.”) When I went to the interview, the woman kept talking about elasticated waistbands and washable fabrics and not once about directional fashion. Or even fashion.
But the truth is, there aren’t that many personal-shopping jobs popping up in L.A. at the last minute for a newly arrived Brit. Especially a Brit who may only be in the country for three months. Dalawear was the only store that had an opening, because of a maternity leave. And I rocked the interview, though I say it myself. I enthused about their “all-purpose floral shirtwaist” dresses so much, I almost wanted to buy one for myself.
“Can I please buy some running shoes too?” I change the subject. “I can’t exactly run in these!” I gesture at my Marc Jacobs kitten heels with a little laugh. (For the record, I did once climb an entire mountain in a pair of shoes just like these. But I mentioned that to Luke yesterday as proof of my athletic ability and he shuddered and said he’d blanked that whole incident from his memory.)
“Sure.” Mindy nods. “You’ll want our technical store, Pump! It’s right across the street. They stock all the shoes, equipment, heart-rate monitors … Did you get a biomechanical assessment in the UK?”
I look at her blankly. A bio-what?
“Talk to the guys across the street; they’ll get you set up.” She hands me a carrier bag holding my clothes. “You must be super-fit. I’ve worked out with Sage Seymour’s trainer. She’s hard-core. And I’ve heard about the team regimen. Didn’t you, like, go to Arizona for training?”
This conversation is unnerving me a tad. Hard-core? Team regimen? Anyway, I mustn’t lose confidence. I’m perfectly fit enough to run a race, even if it is in L.A.
“I haven’t been on the regimen exactly,” I admit. “But obviously I have my own … er … cardio … program … thing.…”
I’ll be fine. It’s just running. How hard can it be?
As I head back out to Rodeo Drive, I feel a swoosh of exhilaration as the warm spring air hits me. I’m going to love living in L.A.; I just know it. Everything people say about it is true. The sun shines and the people have super-white teeth and the houses look like film sets. I’ve looked at several houses for rent and they all have pools. It’s as if a pool is a normal thing, like a fridge.
The street around me simply glistens with glamour. It’s lined with expensive, shiny shopfronts and perfect palm trees and rows of luxurious-looking cars. Cars are a whole different thing here. People drive by in their colorful convertibles with the roof down, looking all relaxed and friendly, as if you might stroll up to them while they’re pausing at the light and start a conversation. It’s the opposite of Britain, where everyone’s in their own self-contained metal box, swearing at the rain.
Sunlight is glinting off all the shop windows and sunglasses and expensive watches on people’s wrists. Outside Dolce & Gabbana, a woman is piling a whole load of bags into a car, and she looks just like Julia Roberts except with blonder hair. And a bit smaller. But apart from that, just like Julia Roberts! On Rodeo Drive!
I’m just trying to edge closer to see what bags she’s got when my phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see Gayle on the screen. Gayle is my new boss at Dalawear, and we’re having a meeting tomorrow morning.
“Hi, Gayle!” I say in cheerful, professional tones. “Did you get my message? Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Hi, Rebecca. Yes, we’re all good at this end …” She pauses. “Except for one hitch. We still didn’t get your reference from Danny Kovitz.”
Although, actually, he has a point about the running shoes.
“So, are you in the movie business too?” Mindy asks as she hands me the receipt to sign.
“No, I’m a personal shopper.”
“Oh, OK. Which store?”
“It’s … actually, it’s … Dalawear.”
“Oh.” She looks taken aback. “You mean, the store for—”
“Older women. Yes.” I lift my chin. “It’s a great store. It’s really exciting. I can’t wait!”
I’m being super-positive about this job, even though it’s not exactly my dream. Dalawear sells “easy-wear clothes” for ladies who rate “comfort over style.” (It actually says that on the poster. I might try to persuade them to change it to “comfort as much as style.”) When I went to the interview, the woman kept talking about elasticated waistbands and washable fabrics and not once about directional fashion. Or even fashion.
But the truth is, there aren’t that many personal-shopping jobs popping up in L.A. at the last minute for a newly arrived Brit. Especially a Brit who may only be in the country for three months. Dalawear was the only store that had an opening, because of a maternity leave. And I rocked the interview, though I say it myself. I enthused about their “all-purpose floral shirtwaist” dresses so much, I almost wanted to buy one for myself.
“Can I please buy some running shoes too?” I change the subject. “I can’t exactly run in these!” I gesture at my Marc Jacobs kitten heels with a little laugh. (For the record, I did once climb an entire mountain in a pair of shoes just like these. But I mentioned that to Luke yesterday as proof of my athletic ability and he shuddered and said he’d blanked that whole incident from his memory.)
“Sure.” Mindy nods. “You’ll want our technical store, Pump! It’s right across the street. They stock all the shoes, equipment, heart-rate monitors … Did you get a biomechanical assessment in the UK?”
I look at her blankly. A bio-what?
“Talk to the guys across the street; they’ll get you set up.” She hands me a carrier bag holding my clothes. “You must be super-fit. I’ve worked out with Sage Seymour’s trainer. She’s hard-core. And I’ve heard about the team regimen. Didn’t you, like, go to Arizona for training?”
This conversation is unnerving me a tad. Hard-core? Team regimen? Anyway, I mustn’t lose confidence. I’m perfectly fit enough to run a race, even if it is in L.A.
“I haven’t been on the regimen exactly,” I admit. “But obviously I have my own … er … cardio … program … thing.…”
I’ll be fine. It’s just running. How hard can it be?
As I head back out to Rodeo Drive, I feel a swoosh of exhilaration as the warm spring air hits me. I’m going to love living in L.A.; I just know it. Everything people say about it is true. The sun shines and the people have super-white teeth and the houses look like film sets. I’ve looked at several houses for rent and they all have pools. It’s as if a pool is a normal thing, like a fridge.
The street around me simply glistens with glamour. It’s lined with expensive, shiny shopfronts and perfect palm trees and rows of luxurious-looking cars. Cars are a whole different thing here. People drive by in their colorful convertibles with the roof down, looking all relaxed and friendly, as if you might stroll up to them while they’re pausing at the light and start a conversation. It’s the opposite of Britain, where everyone’s in their own self-contained metal box, swearing at the rain.
Sunlight is glinting off all the shop windows and sunglasses and expensive watches on people’s wrists. Outside Dolce & Gabbana, a woman is piling a whole load of bags into a car, and she looks just like Julia Roberts except with blonder hair. And a bit smaller. But apart from that, just like Julia Roberts! On Rodeo Drive!
I’m just trying to edge closer to see what bags she’s got when my phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see Gayle on the screen. Gayle is my new boss at Dalawear, and we’re having a meeting tomorrow morning.
“Hi, Gayle!” I say in cheerful, professional tones. “Did you get my message? Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Hi, Rebecca. Yes, we’re all good at this end …” She pauses. “Except for one hitch. We still didn’t get your reference from Danny Kovitz.”
