Two Faced
by Rose Pressey
Chapter 1
My life was a charade. If my so-called friends knew the truth, they would die. The bitches would choke on their venti iced lattes. Speaking of coffee, I was currently waiting in line for my order at Starbucks. The one on Beverly Drive. Where else? Brittney refused to set foot in any other location.
“Could you take away some of the ice?” I waved the cup in front of the barista’s face.
Her smirk said it all. She wanted to shove the cup down my throat. Especially when I told her my name was Alexsis with an extra S. I tapped the side of the cup for emphasis to make sure she understood. What was I doing? More and more I had started to act like them.
With a forced smile, the young brunette thrust the cup back at me. The same amount of ice remained in the cup. I checked the side. My name was still spelled with one S. She’d done nothing to change my drink.
Slowly over the last couple years I’d become more and more them. A thirty-six-year-old woman shouldn’t be influenced by others. As a teenager my eagerness to fit in was somewhat understandable, but at my age? Yet, I stood in line right beside them with a black Chanel handbag looped over my shoulder and Gucci sandals on my feet. Flashbacks of following ‘Queen Bee’ Jennifer Garret around campus at Our Lady of Mercy Academy rushed back.
My besties agitation increased with each passing second as they waited for their caffeine fix. Grabbing an overpriced drink followed by a day of shopping was the normal routine. We had a method of my madness for our daily purchases, too. Handbags on day one. Shoes the next. Followed by makeup and clothing the rest of the week. Shop til we dropped, right?
Four of us made up this little trophy wives club. Britney Bethany, Whitney Reed, and Sophie Gabriel. I’d encountered the women while at Saks Fifth Avenue a couple years ago. Britney and I met first while fighting over a pair of black Chanel boots. The shoes had to-die-for pearls along the heel. Britney had started the tug-of-war and I’d decided to fight for what I wanted. One of the rare times I’d actually asserted myself. Sophie and Whitney had broken up the skirmish before security arrived. We’d been hanging out ever since. Of course, Britney had gotten the boots.
Other than shopping for luxury items, the fact that we were all married women with no children was what we had most in common. When the topic of having babies came up, Whitney said she didn’t care either way, while Sophie said she might someday. The clock was ticking for all of us. Britney announced there wasn’t a chance in hell she wanted children. Or, to quote her, “I don’t want to be bothered by the little snot-nosed monsters.”
Obviously, it was for the best if she didn’t reproduce. She’d be a terrible mother. That wasn’t meant as an outrageous statement, but truly was how I felt. As for me, I wanted children, but it just hadn’t happened. For some time, my husband Patrick Baxter and I had tried with no luck. Actually, he had been trying and I just let it happen. Occasionally the thought crossed my mind if I wanted children or was just saying it because I felt like I had to. Deep down, I knew I didn’t want children with him. I’d never shared that with anyone.
“This drink tastes like shit,” Britney said loudly as she sashayed toward the exit. “Can’t they do anything right?”
Whitney, Sophie, and I followed Britney to the door, as we always did like fashionista ducklings headed to the mall’s pond. Why was she continuously the one leading the way? Perhaps it was the overbearing attitude. Or her intimidating characteristics.
Britney had long legs, a toned body from hours at the gym, and blonde hair that had seen too much peroxide cut into a chic bob style. Even with her massive closet full of designer clothing, she wore a variation of the same outfit every day: black yoga pants and a tight-fitting top to show off her abs. The white Alexander McQueen scarf draped around her neck had black skulls printed across the fabric. It was one of Britney’s favorites. She said it gave her outfit edginess. I thought it hinted at her dark soul.
Britney, Sophie, Whitney, and I were often mistaken for sisters. The only real difference between us was our varying lengths of hair and eye color. My green eyes had specks of gold, Whitney’s eyes were ice blue like Britney—the color symbolized their demeanors accurately. Sophie had deep brown eyes.
We dressed in the same style, walked alike, and even talked alike. Obnoxious, yes, but apparently I had no plans to stop. After tons of practice, I’d dropped my Southern accent. Britney thought my Georgia dialect was intolerable and had to go. When I was tired or angry the drawl returned.
Like many before and after me, I succumbed to the allure of Hollywood. Expensive convertibles, palm trees, and the red carpet had been my dream. If that giant Hollywood sign were the backdrop of my world, then all would be right. Landing leading parts in the movies hadn’t happened for me though. At least I’d married rich.
“We’ll shop at Barney’s today.” Britney pushed the key fob and her white Bentley’s lights flashed.
The rotation was always the same. Why she continued to announce the store du jour, I had no idea. At first, I’d expected for her to change it up one day, but that never happened. Neiman Marcus on Monday, Barney’s on Tuesday, Chanel on Wednesday, Saks on Thursday, and Louis Vuitton on Friday. Of course, other shops were sprinkled in every day.
I trailed a few steps behind them. Whitney checked over her shoulder and scowled. Oops, time for more Botox, Whitney. Her glare was the cue that said I was moving too slow. The group’s frustration with me had grown lately. If I acted bored with shopping or didn’t buy a new handbag, they’d voice their disdain. Anything out of the ordinary and I’d be shunned.
We piled into the car. Whitney sat in the back with Sophie. I was up front with Britney. Their chatter filled the Bentley, insults and complaints flying everywhere.
“Bitch, you know that Gucci perfume stinks on you. It smells like an old lady chain smoker,” Britney said as she started the ignition.
“Oh, but it smells like fucking roses on you, right?” Sophie snapped.
“Exactly.” Britney whipped the car out onto the road without as much as a glance to see if other vehicles were near.
“You all know I hate floral. Why do you wear it?” I asked, waving my hand in front of my nose.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say they did it on purpose.
A grimy Toyota with a layer of dirt covering the white paint honked and swerved. Whitney screamed since the car had come closest to her.
Britney flipped her middle finger up at the driver. “Loser.”
I released a deep breath and adjusted my seatbelt. Dying today wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. Finding a new pair of Christina Louboutin’s, yes, leaving this earth? No. A couple lights down and Britney needed to make a right for the Barney’s valet. The Toyota she’d almost side-swiped zipped into her lane, blocking her from the entrance.
“What the hell. He did that on purpose,” Britney snapped.
The driver probably had been out for revenge. Without warning, Britney whipped the Bentley onto the next street. Except it wasn’t a street.
“This isn’t a road. It’s the alleyway,” I said.
Up ahead was a Dumpster. Opposite that were cardboard boxes stacked up as if they’d been used to construct a makeshift fort. Britney hadn’t taken her foot off the gas. It would do no good to tell her to slow down. Did I dare point out that I doubted the car would fit between the Dumpster and the building?