Cheapskate in Love

chapter 21





Fortified with wine, but not over-fortified, Helen and Joan listened to Sandra’s suggestion. At first, Helen refused to do any such thing. She didn’t explain her reasoning. Wine had not turned her into a blabbermouth. She simply said no. Sandra expected this reaction from Helen, so she continued to tell her why her idea was likely to succeed, that’s what men want to see, women have to humor the brutes sometimes, and anything else she could think of to convince her. But Sandra’s explanations, justifications, and comical rationalizations did not change Helen’s mind in the least. Like most everyone, Helen did not like being told what she should do, even if she was given excellent grounds for doing it. She preferred to handle her affairs in her own way.

But then Joan asked, “Why would anyone put this much effort into Bill? That’s who we’re talking about. Boring, bawdy, self-absorbed Bill. If you ask me, and I know you’re not, he’s not worth any effort. I would never do this for him. Maybe for another guy, someone cute, someone like Paul Newman, but for Bill? Never.”

Joan’s words threw Helen into a dilemma. Although she didn’t like what Sandra proposed, if she didn’t try it, she thought she would seem to be in agreement with Joan, even if she denied vehemently that she was. Her friends would probably think that she had only a slight, passing fancy for Bill, some sort of incidental quirk born out of her loneliness and proximity to him.

To prevent herself from looking like a dupe of circumstances to her friends—a sad, companionless widow, desperate for another man—she had to show them that she was honestly attracted to Bill and willing to risk something. Reluctantly, she agreed to try Sandra’s plan. Although it wasn’t something she would chose to do on her own, the idea sounded plausible enough, and maybe it would bring a positive result, despite her reservations. That was what she told herself wishfully to make what she would have to do sound more appealing.

Her aversion returned with a rush when Sandra said the plan should be executed tomorrow, Sunday, when Helen would see Bill at church. But it was too late to resist now. She wanted to wiggle out of such precipitousness and push the attempt into the future, the far distant future, but she thought it was impossible to retreat without seeming irresolute to her friends and just mildly interested in Bill. Against her will, she was committed to action.

When Helen’s shaky participation had been confirmed—it did not appear so wobbly to the others, however, because Helen could control outward signs of her inner distress—Sandra’s enthusiasm and well-meaning tyranny swept them out of the restaurant, with orders to drive to her house immediately, so they could start preparing Helen for tomorrow. Helen made a last, feeble attempt to excuse herself on account of a previous appointment, which she actually had for an exercise class, but failed. Without knowing what the appointment was or asking, Sandra dismissed it as unimportant and told her that they were all going to her house now. And that was where they all went, with Sandra leading the way.

Out of modesty and some embarrassment, Sandra always referred to her home as a house. But this deliberate understatement was the equivalent of describing such Manhattan landmarks as the Empire State Building as “a building” or Central Park as “a park.” In reality, her home—there were two others in the United States and one in London—was a mansion, a large Georgian-style mansion in the Hamptons, with a view of the ocean, acres of property, and servants. She had not been born into such prosperity: She had been immensely fortunate in marriage. Her husband came from a wealthy family, and he had increased his inheritance through successful investments. Although Sandra had easily accustomed herself to a life of privilege, she was still conscious of how lucky she was and never took her fabulous wealth for granted. Neither had she cut ties to her ordinary past. She maintained strong friendships with Helen and Joan, which were formed when they were young adults and all part of the working class. At that time, she had no expectation of any future higher position in society for herself, nor dreamed of the affluence she would one day reach, with all its attendant material excess.

In her Jaguar, Sandra was the first to arrive in the graveled circular driveway. Joan and Helen pulled in soon afterwards in much less expensive cars. Together all three walked to the entrance of the mansion, which was flanked by massive, imposing Corinthian columns made of stone, conversing normally. Helen and Joan had been there many times before, and they greeted the vigilant housekeeper by name, who opened the front door to let them in.

Under Sandra’s commanding guidance, the three women made their way directly upstairs to Sandra’s daughter’s bedroom. It was a very large room with a wall of closets over twenty feet long. Unlike the other rooms in the mansion, which were decorated in a dignified, subdued English style, with an abundance of antique furniture, chandeliers, printed fabrics, and plush carpets, this bedroom was a hodgepodge of furnishings, colors, and possessions, without any type of aesthetic predominating, except that of newness. Nothing appeared to be an antique or even vintage. It was obvious that a considerable amount of money had been spent on what was to be seen in the room. Yet there was a curious lack of taste in the environment, as well as an absence of coziness and comfort. The room didn’t say anything about Sandra’s daughter, except advertise her ability to frequently acquire costly new things.

Sandra walked to the wall of closets and pushed the accordion doors open, revealing everything inside.

“Voila!” she announced with panache, pointing out the glittering, profuse contents with a flourish of her arm. “Everything’s here, Helen, for your transformation to entrap Bill. Tops, bottoms, dresses, wigs, scarves, belts, jewelry. Some of the jewelry is costume, but not too much. My daughter wasn’t spending her own money. She couldn’t do that. She’s barely worked a day in her life. The shoes ought to fit you, too. You’re almost exactly her size.”

The closet was full of clothing, accessories, and jewelry. Clothing rods were set in two tiers for part of the area, to maximize what could be hung on the custom-made hangers. The extra deep space with its exotic-wood interior and brass furnishings was backlit. The lights automatically came on when the doors opened, so no one ever had to strain to see what might be there, and there was plenty to see.

Helen and Joan stared at the contents of the closet in utter amazement. They felt as if they were looking at window displays of Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue, or another luxurious clothing or jewelry store, without any glass in between them and the pricey merchandise that was far beyond their purchasing power.

“Wow. Sandy, this is some stuff,” Joan gasped.

“It is a lot of stuff,” Sandra agreed. “More than I have. Don’t think my closet looks like this. She had to have the biggest bedroom in the house to hold it all.”

“Why does she have all this?” asked Helen.

“As I told you, she wanted to be an actress,” Sandra replied. “The next Elizabeth Taylor or whatever young star people her age dream about. I never encouraged her, but maybe I should have. Maybe she would have dropped the idea sooner. She seems to ignore whatever I tell her to do.”

“Your daughter got all this to become an actress?” Helen was incredulous. “I thought theaters and movie makers provided costumes. What would she need these things for?”

“She thought she had to be noticed to get a part,” explained Sandra. “She was always dressing up, going places. Places where the right people were supposed to be. People like directors and casting agencies, other actors and actresses. As you can see, she was spending lots of money to attract attention. Her father would blink like crazy when he saw her credit card bills, but he wouldn’t tell her to stop. I wanted to. I would have. But he’s softhearted toward her. She’s the only girl. I couldn’t do much.”

Helen and Joan had begun to look closely at the clothes and jewelry, picking up pieces and marveling at them. “It looks like she spent a fortune,” said Helen.

“She did,” Sandra answered. “She did. She did it so easily, too. She was born to play that role, unfortunately. The pampered rich girl, who spends and spends and spends. And never thinks about it.”

Joan pulled a hanger from the closet with a shiny, skimpy dress on it. “No one saw her in this?” she asked Sandra. “Seems like everyone would have seen too much of her.”

“Apparently no one with an acting job did,” Sandra replied.

“Maybe she was over-exposed,” remarked Joan.

“Maybe,” said Sandra. “I tried to put some sense in her, but a parent has only so much power. Children will do what they want, I think, even if it makes them unhappy. I hope for the best. That’s about all I can do now. She hasn’t been a teenager for a while. ”

A sudden glimmer of hope seized Helen, and she pulled herself back from the contents of the closet. Although she wore flattering, upscale clothing and liked to see what other women had on, she didn’t have any desire to dress in such excessively expensive fashions. Her tastes were rather modest, and she wanted to appear to others according to her means. Wearing something that was much more than she could comfortably afford seemed pretentious and artificial, qualities she didn’t want to display. Although she wasn’t rich or famous, she was rather proud of who she was and didn’t want to be mistaken for some other kind of person. “Won’t she mind,” asked Helen, “if we go through her clothes and borrow things?” Helen was hopeful that Sandra would say yes, so she could be relieved of dressing up to draw Bill’s eye in her direction.

Sandra explained, “As a graduate student in philosophy now...”

“Philosophy? She’s studying philosophy?” cut in Joan. “What for?”

“I think she’s trying to rise above her disappointments,” replied Sandra, “or find some greater meaning in life. I’m not sure. Maybe there’s a guy involved. But she’s all serious about it, too serious to last, if you ask me, but she never does that. She tried to toss out everything here one day, but mothers know something. I saved the lot. Just in case she has another dramatic change of mind. She’s had a history of them. She won’t care in the least if you wear her clothes. In fact, if she were here, she would give them to you.”

That was not what Helen wanted to hear. “I’m glad she won’t mind,” she said, speaking with some irony that went unnoticed.

Joan pulled out another dress from the closet, a bizarre, Japanese-influenced outfit in black, brown, and tan with gold accents. “Look at this,” she squealed. “Where would she wear it? I could never find a use for it. Never. Unless I was going to a cherry-blossom ball or something like that, which I’m not.”

“I think she bought that to impress a Japanese director, who was filming an action movie in Manhattan,” said Sandra. “Somehow she found out there were some small parts to fill, all non-speaking, I think. So she put that on and hung around the lobby of the hotel, where she heard he was staying, acting like a geisha, I imagine. She thought he would be intrigued by her pseudo-Japanese appearance, come over to speak to her, and hand her a part. She was in the lobby for twelve hours and never saw him, or maybe she didn’t recognize him. Who knows? But that’s not something for Helen to wear. That’s too exotic for Bill,” said Sandra seriously. “He’s a three-B man.”

“Three-B? What’s three-B?” Helen wondered. The term was unfamiliar to her.

“You know, bust, buns, and bare skin. The three Bs.” Sandra spoke as if she was explaining the facts of life to her daughter.

Joan laughed, while Helen rolled her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “Sandy, really, he’s not so bad.”

“Oh, no?” replied Sandra. “When he sees you in a three-B makeover, he’ll be a changed man. Count on it. I learned that from my daughter. The one thing she knows how to do, beside spend money, is to get attention. Maybe it’s the wrong type of attention—I think so—but still, when she wants to, she can catch men, like sticky paper catches flies.”

Joan held up a long-sleeve, pale-apricot, see-through blouse. “You allowed your daughter to wear this?” she exclaimed.

“That’s perfect for Helen,” Sandra replied. “It will knock Bill out. Let me have it.” She took the blouse from Joan and placed it on the bed. “This is where we’ll put things for Helen to try on.”

Joan and Helen looked at each other with wide-eyed astonishment. They had never seen this side of Sandra before. They began to think that wealth had made her intrinsically different from them. She no longer seemed to share their conforming, confining, middle-class morality. She seemed to have gone into new moral territory: A strange, frightening land, where they did not belong.

“What are you waiting for?” Sandra scolded them. “Get to work. Start picking out the pieces that will show off the three Bs best. I’ll start on the far left. Joan, you take the far right. Helen, you can go to the middle.” Sandra went to her end of the closet and started looking at clothes.

Helen and Joan stood where they were, still surprised, uncertain of what to do. Sandra seemed to point them down a path of moral turpitude, a shame they could never escape.

Turning her head sideways, Sandra saw them motionless with worried expressions. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you two have developed chicken feet. Do you think we should act our ages and go sit in rockers and knit instead? Will that make you happy?”

That was all the encouragement Helen and Joan needed to push aside moral misgivings. They could endure disgrace, pollution of their souls, misuse of their bodies, whatever was wrong in this world, much more easily than they could accept an accusation of being old. They leaped into the task like youngsters.