Authors: Gail Cleare
Description: The
lady Justice holds the scales held in one hand, a double-edged sword in the
other. She deals out inescapable consequences.
Meaning:
For everything we do, there is
eventually a reaction. Whether bad or good, it is what we earned and what we
ourselves set in motion.
Alexandra Gladstone was a
summa cum laude
graduate of Smith College, an art
history major. She was smart as a whip, blonde and beautiful. Her parents lived
in a mansion in Westport, Connecticut, and they summered on Nantucket Island.
Every winter she went skiing in Colorado or Switzerland, and early every spring
she went to the latest fashionable Caribbean island where handsome guys wearing
skimpy swimsuits deliver drinks in coconuts on the beach. I could have easily
lived on what Lexi spent on cosmetics and bath products. We participated in two
totally different realities.
After college, Lexi’s Mummy and Daddy
got a job for her at a chic New York City art gallery, where she rose rapidly
through the ranks to become the manager. Lexi credited two things for her
speedy success. One, she was absolutely ruthless about business and brooked no
dissent from her underlings. Two, Mummy and Daddy had a lot of rich friends who
bought expensive original art from her for their vacation homes in Boca Raton,
Aspen or Tuscany, and for their primary residences in Washington, Boston or
Manhattan.
Mummy and Daddy’s friends lunched with
Lexi and listened to her talk about the artists she represented and how
brilliant they were. She spoke very well, and knew an impressive array of art
history trivia that seasoned her conversation like fresh-ground pepper. She
looked perfect, always. The women thought Lexi was darling, and the men thought
she was extremely hot. She convinced them that art was a marvelous financial
investment and said they would be considered trendsetters by all of their
friends. She hinted that their homes might be featured in a magazine like
Architectural
Digest
, or even, on a
television show like the ones on the H&G Network.
Some of her customers brought their
interior designers to the lunches. Lexi didn’t like that much, because she
wasn’t good at sharing control of a client. But then she learned to manipulate
the designers, too. They were even more vulnerable, in a way. She discovered
that they wanted something from her. They considered her a valuable contact.
They wanted her client list. And she wanted theirs, so that worked out nicely.
They all had lunch and champagne
together at the most popular new restaurants in Manhattan, toasting each other
in celebration of their perspicacity and wonderfulness. Afterwards everyone
would get into a couple of cabs and go over to the art gallery.
This is when Lexi moved in for the big
close. She walked her clients around with their espresso or brandy, looking and
talking, and let them pick out a few pieces that went with the décor under
consideration. Then Lexi snapped her fingers and gave a few short commands to
the staff. They scurried to quickly pull out a few more pieces from the back
room. These were generally similar to the client’s original choices, but at
least twice as expensive. She was very good at matching people with pictures,
and the clients nearly always loved her suggestions. Rarely did any of them
leave without purchasing at least five works of art. Many of them returned for
more, bringing along their friends. Lexi’s network of art buyers grew
geometrically, like algae in a pond.
They bought so much art that
eventually Lexi decided she really ought to be a partner in the business,
rather than an employee. Her boss felt differently. So Lexi took her rich art
buyers out of the big city and back to the small town environment where she had
been so successful earlier in her life. She moved back to New England. She used
investment money obtained from her parents to open her own art gallery in our
vital downtown area, and hired two bright, pretty girls to run it for her while
she went to the day spa and had those long, lucrative lunches.
I was the lowest bump on the totem
pole when I worked for Lexi. I was the dirt beneath her diamond-studded heel.
In her sparkling blonde presence I felt drab, dull and ugly. When she corrected
me in front of a client, making a joke at my expense, I felt stupid. After a
few months, I felt angry, too. I had originally thought the job would be an
opportunity for me to increase my knowledge of art retailing and make some
connections of my own. Eventually I realized that I was there to be a
reasonably presentable shoplifting deterrent and cleaning person.
Pretty much everything I did was
either wrong or insufficient, in Lexi’s view. And she did not hesitate to say
so, in scathing terms. It was not a job that was good for my self-image. It
didn’t pay very well, either. And she protected her connections and her
information so well that I didn’t really have a chance to learn from her. The
day she insisted that I clean the bathroom and I quit on the spot, I really
hadn’t planned it. But it was obviously the right thing to do. I didn’t
struggle, I didn’t argue with her. I just walked out.
I figured I was leaving a bad time
behind me, and moving forward into what I hoped would be a more productive,
positive era. It was a learning experience in terms of emotions and people
skills. I meditated for weeks on dissipating my anger, trying to let it go. I
realized how destructive anger could be to the person who indulges in it. It
actually made me feel kind of sick and achy, nauseated. Emotionally, I felt
weak and out of control. It made me think like a victim, which was the last
straw as far as I am concerned. I had to get this anger out of my system, out
of my life.
When I answered Mr. Paradis’ help
wanted ad, I was still in the process of working the anger out of my heart. I
wished for the self-control to will it away, and keep it away. As time passed,
and the magic of lots of good, hard, creative, productive work soothed my
spirit, I started to feel better about what had happened. I moved on.
Now I didn’t even think about Lexi or
the gallery very often. We still lived in the same town, but obviously we did
not frequent the same places because I never ran into her. This wasn’t too
surprising. I read about the openings at her gallery in the newspaper. I
assumed she was still making tons of money and living the lifestyle of the rich
and fabulous. I assumed she couldn’t have cared less what had happened to me
when I quit, and immediately replaced me with another reasonably attractive
live body.
After lunchtime on the day of Tony
Novak’s return, I left Siri in charge of the shop and went over to the Green
Thumb to attend a meeting of the Market Street merchants. We had been talking
about organizing a kind of street fair as a promotional event, something timed
to coordinate with the downtown sidewalk sales that took place at the end of
every summer. We wanted to rope off the intersection of Crescent and Market to
admit only walking traffic for that day and evening. We were planning to use
the space to put up a tent with a big stage and have free entertainment
including live bands, street magicians, clowns, jugglers, story-telling for
kids and strolling musicians. We thought it would help to draw new people to
our business district during the sidewalk sales, since we were only a short
walk from Main Street.
Our ad rep from the newspaper loved
the idea and talked to her publisher, who offered to sponsor the event. He
wanted to print up a special advertising insert for that weekend’s edition,
listing the events and profiling the performers and the stores who were
hosting. He was giving us a discounted rate for ads in the insert. He had put
us in touch with a representative from the state arts council, who was trying
to get us some grant money. The most popular local radio station wanted to
sponsor it too, now, and volunteered their DJ’s to act as announcers for the
musical performances. The whole plan was falling together beautifully.
I was in charge of the budget, and
could happily see that while it wasn’t going to be cheap to put this event
together, the bottom line investment for each neighborhood business would be
pretty reasonable, considering the amount of advertising and marketing value we
could derive from it.
I was on my way to present the latest
figures to our group, who had gathered in the closed restaurant. I could see
them milling around through the glass front of the enclosed porch. I hurried
across the street and opened the lime green swinging doors, rushing into the
room. And there she was, big as life, looking absolutely stunning, as usual.
Lexi had chosen to sit at the very
center of the bar, with her elegant legs crossed at the knee. If the long,
shining, streaked blonde hair didn’t get your attention, then those amazing
slim, tanned legs were sure to do it. A cherry red high-heeled sandal dangled
from her extended foot with its matching cherry-red toenails. She was sitting
directly in front of the doors where she couldn’t be missed by anyone who came
into the room, or vice versa. She wore a fluttery white sleeveless sundress,
and looked like she had just come off the ferry from Nantucket. She slowly
turned to see who had entered.
When she saw me, her cornflower blue
eyes narrowed subtly. But she greeted me with a wide smile and unexpected
enthusiasm, like an old pal, jumping down off the bar stool with her arms
spread for a big Hollywood hug and two cherry-red air kisses. She smelled like
lilies of the valley.
“Emily! Darling, how
are
you?” she said with a theatrical tone
sure to be heard all over the room full of people. She grabbed me by the upper
arms and held me with her perfectly manicured cherry-red claws. They sank into
me a little, though it must have looked like a friendly gesture to everyone
else. And everyone was definitely watching.
“Don’t you look just
darling!
” Lexi gushed sweetly. “I love that
denim skirt! Blue was always such a great color on you, Em.”
“Um…thanks, you look wonderful too,
Lexi. Have you been at the beach? You’re so tan,” I replied politely, trying to
gather my wits.
She laughed dramatically, shook her
hair, and twirled around like a model showing a new gown.
“Yes, I’m living the good life this
summer! Back and forth to the Island.”
She threw back her head, shook her
streaked blonde mane again and laughed, making sure that anyone who had not
been watching before was definitely watching us now. She gracefully hopped back
up on the barstool, showing off those long legs again.
I was trying to figure out what she
was doing here. Her gallery was on Main Street in the prime retail district, so
she was not a member of our neighborhood merchants group. She was sitting next
to our ad rep from the paper, Lisa Gordon, who was deep in conversation with
Rocco Sorrentino. I noticed that he looked worried. He shot me a meaningful
look of dismay as he asked Lisa a question. Before I could do anything, I heard
the café doors open behind me and everyone looked towards the entrance.
“Sarah!” Lexi announced, jumping down
off the stool to give the air-kiss treatment to the newest arrival.
It was Sarah Bennet, president of the
Downtown Business Association. The DBA was city-wide, so we were all members.
Sarah was a retail marketing expert, hired to run the organization. Most of the
marketing efforts made by the DBA seemed to benefit the central retail district
much more than outlying neighborhoods like ours. We are mixed residential and
commercial, and literally on the other side of the railroad tracks. That’s why
I had dreamed up this idea for how to pull people off the main drag and around
the corner to visit us while they were in town. We were doing this on our own,
not through Sarah’s organization. In fact, she had not been invited to attend
the meeting, as far as I knew. But then, neither had Lexi.
Rocco stood up and raised his hands.
“OK now everybody,” he said loudly, “We’re
all here! Time to start! Everybody take a seat. Here, Mom, you sit here,” he
pulled out a chair in the front of room and gently seated Josie. Everyone
settled down, and I sank into a chair at the table where Laurie and John sat. I
gave Laurie an amazed look. She looked at Lexi, then back at me, and discretely
mimed gagging behind her hand. I leaned closer to John, who sat next to me.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
He shrugged his shoulders and shook
his head silently with a concerned look on his face, crossing his arms. Rocco
raised his voice again, stating that the DBA had heard about our plans and had
asked Sarah Bennet to drop in today and speak with us.
“I’ll let her tell you the rest,”
Rocco said, sitting down. He looked grim.
Sarah took over the meeting smoothly,
obviously a practiced hand. She managed to give us the bad news without
appearing negative or disagreeable. She was a true politician. Lexi watched her
talk with a little ecstatic smile playing across her lips, as though she were
hearing beautiful music or having her feet massaged. This did not bode well for
the rest of us, I suspected.
The DBA’s members had learned about
our promotion from the newspaper and radio advertising reps, Sarah told us. The
DBA was concerned about the fact that we had not come to them with this idea,
not for their
permission
of course, since that obviously wasn’t necessary, but for their advice and
collaboration. Sarah was very diplomatic. She congratulated us on our
imagination and our marketing acumen. She called the idea, “fantastic!”