Read Online Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey - Free Book Online

learning tools. “I don’t think so,” I demurred. “Conventional schooling was never my thing.”
    â€œPerhaps you need to make an adjustment, then,” the Honorable Ernest Marshall-Hughs ruled in a surly voice. “In today’s world, you’ll never get ahead without a college degree.”
    Never get ahead? Didn’t he realize that I was miles ahead of the pack? Half the girls I went to high school with now toiled in boring office jobs dressed in off-the-rack sportswear from crummy little chain stores. You know that brigade—the girls who wear sneakers to work, eat a yogurt out of a bag for lunch, and spend their weekends house hunting in the suburbs with their husbands-to-be. Please! How could my own father not realize I was destined for finer things?
    â€œIf it makes you happy, I’ll think about going back to school,” I said. “Somewhere down the road. Right now, I’m so busy, I barely have a minute to squeeze in a hot-stone massage.”
    â€œBusy doing what, pray tell?” Daddy’s jowls roiled with anger. “I ran into Cravitz last week and he told me that you were no longer employed at their firm.”
    Mama shot me a strained look, a desperate “don’t tell him that I already knew you quit!” plea. I glanced back down at the remains of my baked potato as Daddy rumbled on about the work ethic he’d learned growing up as one of five children in a three-bedroom house in Great Neck. “When was the last time you worked a full day?” he asked. “An honest day of labor?” I wanted to tell him of the late nights I’d spent helping Pierre prepare for his Paris show, but apparently the question was rhetorical, as he was deep into a “value of hard work” lecture.
    His disapproval made me feel small, which was completely unfair because the law firm of Cravitz and Rutter had been a very poor match for my skills. First, they expected me to sit at a desk all day, a very cheap desk made of pressboard that snagged my skirts, ruining a Missoni dress and a navy Chanel suit. Then there was the phone, which never stopped ringing and inevitably delivered the annoyed, harried voice of someone who wanted to yell at me because they could. After two weeks, those angry people had me twitching and shifting at my desk, which made me snag my skirt even more.
    â€œI’m sorry you’re disappointed, Daddy,” I said respectfully. “But honestly, I hated every day at Cravitz and Rutter. I spent the whole day looking for Mr. Cravitz’s reading glasses! They refused to bring in a cappuccino maker. I got blamed for every little thing, and the days stretched on like blackstrap molasses.”
    â€œI see.” He folded his hands on the table and eyed me as if I were a criminal. “In that case, why don’t you tell me what you’re planning to do with your life, Alana.”
    Let me tell you, as I stared down at my cold broccoli rabe and heard the imperious tone in my father’s voice, I realized that I could not verbalize an answer he would find acceptable. Forget about the Alana Foundation, or my skills at shopping for the perfect gift, or my endless support of friends and family.
    â€œYou don’t understand what I do, Daddy,” I said quietly. “My life is dedicated to making people happy. I work hard at that. I’m an independent woman, and I think I do a pretty good job of taking care of myself.”
    â€œYou’re right, I don’t understand you,” he admitted. “What ... what is it that you do all day?”
    I reached for my water glass, my hand slipping over the condensation. “I am all over town.” I took a sip. He was waiting for more. “I have appointments.”
    â€œFor job interviews?” Daddy pushed.
    â€œSalon appointments,” I clarified. “A girl’s got to get her hair done.” Across the table Mama was nodding, thank God.