“You certainly do not,” Jane said emphatically.
“I just need moral support.”
“We’re here for you,” Jane reassured her.
Tracey wanted to participate during every step, which made the process much more efficient. Before long, they had laid out her entire wardrobe. The bedroom was the size of a showroom and there was plenty of space. Tracey even supplied her own rolling clothing racks that had been stashed elsewhere in the house—dream client!—so now, the bedroom looked like a high-end boutique.
What might be the aggregate value of the goods in the room? Forty pairs of Christian Louboutin heels, the blood-red soles screaming their provenance; that was well over thirty grand alone. Jane fantasized what she might do if she were obscenely wealthy. Would she succumb to the addictive allure of acquisition? She hoped she’d be able to resist.
“Tracy, how much of this do you wear?”
She pondered.
“Not much. I spend most of my time chasing after the kids—pick up, drop off—dressed like I am now, jeans and a T-shirt. I hardly even make it to games anymore.” She laughed ruefully. “What you’re seeing here is mostly retail therapy.”
Oh yes, Jane thought. Healing emotional wounds with a pair of Louboutins, existential despair with a Vuitton tote. Jane had seen plenty of this before, but it always shocked her how people could ignore the fact that longing to purchase and consume was a manifestation of other problems, not a cure for them. “Retail therapy” was tantamount to treating obesity with cake.
“Well, you have excellent taste; you’re really good at it!”
Lindsey, the would-be therapist, was such an enabler! Still, encouraging more shopping created more clutter, which was good for business. A cynical thought, even if valid.
The doorbell rang. Tracey scurried over to the touchpad on her bedside table, pressed an icon, then called out brightly, “Be right down!” She turned to Jane and Lindsey. “That’s my friend Tasha, she’s bringing lunch.”
“Okay, it’s a perfect time for a break. We’ll get out of your way.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jane—she has lunch for everyone. Hang here, I’ll be right back.”
Moments later, a tall woman with long braided hair burst into the room, lugging bags of food and drink. Tracey trailed behind her.
“Hey, ladies! I’m Tasha, Tracey’s best-friend-slash-guardian-angel,” she announced.
“Uh, Tasha, you are no angel.”
“Okay, but don’t tell my mom, my husband, or my kids, because I’ve got them all fooled.” Tasha had a dazzling smile, and everything she said sounded a little mischievous. “I picked up sandwiches and salads and best of all, I brought some Cristal because we’re going to celebrate something today.” Tasha gave Tracey a knowing look. “Am I right?”
Tracey looked away.
Jane took the box of sandwiches and the bag of salads from Tasha. “This is so kind of you, but Lindsey and I can give you privacy and—”
“Ladies, I am here to motivate and inspire. We all need to declutter our lives, get rid of the shit that is not working, you feel me?”
“Absolutely,” Jane nodded vigorously. Tasha’s energy was infectious.
“Yes! It’s, like, super therapeutic,” Lindsey added.
“How about we picnic right here? I’ll get a blanket, and you can all grab pillows,” Tracey offered.
“Love it!” Tasha exclaimed. “It’ll be a working lunch. I’ll supervise.”
Tracey turned to Jane and Lindsey. “Tasha is a wannabe boss lady.”
“Uh-uh. Not wannabe. Iama boss lady. I’m going to get an ice bucket and some of your good crystal for the Cristal. You all dig in, help yourselves. I got way too much because too much is never enough, right?”
Tasha caught the alarmed look of Jane’s face. The credo “too much is never enough” was, of course, anathema to a professional organizer.
“I’m only talking about food, Jane, don’t worry!”
Tasha sprinted off—she was so high energy.
