This was the second man whose eyes traveled up and down my body in the last five minutes. “I’m down, girl. How much?”
“Are you kidding me right now? You think I’m a hooker? Do you see I’m wearing couture?”
“I see you wearing an invisible dress, so I thought?—"
I hastened my pace. “You’d better keep moving unless you want me to go postal on your ass! I’ll tear you apart!”
He threw his hands in the air and drove off. OMG, WTF?
* * *
I was finally in Saks Fifth Avenue with my friend and personal shopper Rachel by my side. While I only needed three outfits for the trip with Zoey because I knew she always over packed and I could borrow, Rachel found me five that I couldn’t resist.
She stepped behind the cash register and started ringing me up. I handed her my card, knowing I’d be able to make it to the jet and fly the hell away from New York and the memory of Steve for a few days.
“I don’t know what’s happened.” Rachel wrinkled her nose at me. “The card is declined.”
I laughed. “What? Maybe something’s wrong with the strip thing. Can you try it again?”
She nodded. “Yes, these things happen.”
“It happened again. Maybe it’s a card company error. Do you want to try another one?”
She handed it back, and I whipped out another. Three minutes and three card declines later, I was dumbfounded.
“Rachel, I don’t know what is going on. All my accounts are fine.”
She gave me a pitiful look that made me want to hop over the counter and cover her eyes with my hands. No, no, don’t give me pity eyes.
“Why don’t I hold these outfits in the back, and you can come back later?”
Humiliation, mortification, and embarrassment were just a few of the things pumping through my veins. “Let me check on this. I assure you this is an error. I’ll be right back.”
I scurried to the escalator before quickly logging into my card accounts. All four accounts were closed. CLOSED! What in the hell was happening? I looked at the activity. All accounts were closed at 9: 45 p.m. last night. Where was I at 9:45? The psychic!
What in the living hell was going on? The psychic stole my identity? I didn’t know if closing accounts was identity theft, but I was sure it was on the way. It was glaringly clear the word of the day was “fuck”.
Twenty minutes later, I stormed over to the psychic’s shop. I would demand she undo all the shit she’d done the night before. She would agree, and in just a few minutes, my life would go completely back to normal. The end.
Except when I tried to storm into her shop, the door was locked, and my face slammed into the glass, leaving the last trace of lipstick from the evening before imprinted in front of me. The word of the day again?
I peeked in the window while knocking with all my might, but nothing. I was going to camp right there on the sidewalk if I had to, but that crazy lady was going to have to deal with me one way or another. And I’d call in the Magnolia Hotel big dog lawyers if I needed to, so help me, I would.
I glanced over my shoulder at the passers-by who were staring at me, and when I looked back at the window, she was finally face to face with me on the other side of the glass, scaring the bejesus out of me. She pulled open the door. “Hello.”
I stomped past her to her little table and slammed my shitty brown purse on top of it. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
I hated her grin.
“I thought I might see you this morning.”
“You stole my identity and drugged me with that awful, and I’m sure illegal, mind-altering tea!”
“Please, sit.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I plopped down in the chair. “I’m not sitting because you told me to, just to be clear.”
She nodded.
