Either way, after work I headed for the parking garage, climbed into my car and locked the door behind me. As I flipped to the page containing my horoscope, a small slip of paper floated out onto my lap. Inside the slip of paper was a single peacock feather. Of all the weird promotions, I thought…before clicking on the light and noticing the words scribbled on the paper: It’s shaped like an eye, get it? It’s like an amulet. Shut up and put it in your wallet! Love ya, Cassie.
Laughing, I tossed the feather and note onto the passenger seat. Then I got back to scanning Hayley’s Horoscopes, praying for something that might relate to me and Raj. After weeding through the useless bits about how some planet is rising in some sector of my chart, and how many years it’s been since it did that, I finally got to the specifics. But aside from a warning about unintended consequences for any capricious actions I might be considering this month, it offered up little in the way of help. So I switched to Taurus—Raj’s sign. It read in part:
Watch out for an upcoming eclipse, dear Taurus, which will occur in the second week of the month, and most likely affect your home and romance sectors. The planets are intent on misbehaving this month, making it difficult for you to be sure of the intentions of those around you. Trust me when I tell you that this disruptive influence is not only positive, but also necessary for many of you. The frenzied social calendar which will preceed the eclipse will set the stage for a much-needed examination of your romantic priorities, and those of your partner. If you’re stuck in a romantic rut, cosmic AAA is already on the way! If your partner has been misbehaving, it might be time to trade them in once and for all. Keep reminding yourself that, while things may start out difficult, they will soon begin moving in the right direction, and you will find your love life in far better shape than ever before.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. If the universe and Hayley were conspiring to pull Raj and I apart, then they weren’t gonna get us without a fight. I dropped the magazine, shifted into Reverse and slammed on the gas…only to have to jam down the brakes a split second later when an angry woman in a fast-moving SUV honked me back into the moment before zooming by in my rearview mirror. Had I hesitated, I would definitely have slammed into her driver’s side. I held a hand to my chest and hung my head to try and regain equilibrium. After catching my breath, I opened my eyes to fixate on the peacock feather watching me from the leather seat beside mine. Feeling like a child who’d decided to run away from home to her tree house on the night of the biggest snowstorm of the year, I looked both ways, sighed and reached for the feather. Folding it into three pieces, I tucked the feather inside my wallet, fastened my seat belt, and then ever so timidly backed my car out of the space.
“That torso is not a toy!” someone yelled at me through the phone at roughly 8:00 a.m. the following morning.
Sliding my Sleepy Time terry cloth mask away from my eyes to let in his voice along with the ambient light I replied: “Excuse me?”
“Is this Monica from Steel Associates?” a person who sounded a lot like an English butler asked, and then spoke to someone else, “How did she get a hold of a mannequin inside the dressing room?”
“Maybe,” I replied, fearing the worst.
“My name is Arthur Wood, and I am the Director of Private Client Services at Barneys New York in Beverly Hills…Madam, please refrain from abusing my staff!…and your client, one Mrs. Lydia Johnson, has caused a bit of a situation at our store this morning.”
“A situation?” I sat up, picturing her trying to set the place on fire, and wondering what that might have to do with me.
“Yes, let’s call it that. And we do not have the means to sedate her without calling the police, which I am sure you understand would alert the media. You are the only person she is willing to speak with. She has barricaded herself inside of a dressing room, and…Stop that immediately! Mrs. Johnson!…. She just threw an iced coffee at my sales associate’s head, soiling an entire rack of two-thousand-dollar Badgley Mischka gowns in the process! Look here, we are accustomed to accommodating the wealthy and…err…particular, but this abuse has simply gone too far. I will have to insist that you or someone from her team come here and collect her immediately!”
Less than twenty minutes later I was tossing my keys at the valet and being ushered in via the secret entrance reserved for the uber-important at Barneys off of Rodeo Drive. As a courtesy to the rich and truly bratty, high-end Beverly Hills retailers routinely arranged private shopping hours during which “Special Clients” could browse their stores in peace. It was a perk intended to spare certain clientele from the prying eyes of paparazzi, who could make millions just by reporting their bra sizes or affinities for brand names which they might not officially be endorsing that season. The retailers’ return on this effort, of course, was the insane amount of money that celebrities would drop in their stores in a single visit. But Lydia’s psychosis was too much to take, even for them, and now it was my problem.
Awesome.
Lydia, it seems, had called Mr. Wood frantically at 7:00 a.m. that morning to demand a visit to the jewelry department in preparation for a public appearance later that evening. When she arrived, she was belligerent. She insisted on donning numerous precious necklaces and rings at the same time, and then she started sobbing uncontrollably, refusing to take them off. Gasping through the tears, Lydia had suddenly become completely paranoid. She darted up the escalators toward the second floor, keeping the salesgirls at bay with creative sword work from the pointy end of a hat rack she had swiped along the way.
“She’s run out of things to throw at us,” Wood explained, smoothing his hair back as we hustled to the dressing room. “And at least her yelling has finally subsided. Perhaps she lost her voice. Still, we are meant to open to the public in a little over an hour, and we need her out of here before we can begin the damage control. Can you manage that?”
“I’ll try, Mr. Wood, but with all due respect, she’s not my child.” I did my best to stare past his upturned nose and into his eyes. “We all work for them, don’t we?”
“I suppose we do.” He unclenched and patted my arm. “Mind yourself in there, Madam. And let me know if there is anything else you’ll require. She’s already sent one of my salesgirls to hospital for some stitches across the forehead.”
I paused to consider whether Lydia’s retainer with Steel covered emotionally fueled assault.
“It was the new golden-snakeskin, four-inch Versace stiletto,” he said before looking away. “She had about as much chance as any top model’s personal assistant during detox.”
“I thought she was just having a tantrum,” I said. “I didn’t realize she hurt anyone. I’m so sorry.”
“As am I. Three inches to the left and that heel would have caught me in the eye,” he thought aloud. “No matter. There are at least fifty plastic surgeons within ten miles…We won’t be pressing charges.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “But we will be expecting Mrs. Johnson to take advantage of our personal shoppers in advance of her next album release, so that she may remain off-site.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Well, then, I’ll leave you to it.”
I grabbed a white silk scarf from a nearby Hermès display, walked lightly toward her dressing room, braced myself and put my ear to the floor.
“Don’t shoot, Lydia.” I waved the scarf under the door in an attempt to make her smile. “It’s Monica. If you’re willing to let the jewelry go unharmed, I’ll promise to talk to the D.A. about sparing you jail time. I’ve negotiated lots of hostage situations before, and I know that we can work this out.”
A sniffle, but no reply.
“Lydia?” I said a little louder. “Lydia, I’m coming in there unless you can give