Page 6 of Ripped & Shipped
“Thank you Choos! You made this day rock!”
Maybe it’s not the shoes. But honestly, they didn’t hurt. Well, they do hurt. But that’s the price of looking fab-u-lous, as I always say.
@Fab-U-Lous_EllaMae
I’ll have to check my schedule and see if I can make it to your bash. Thanks for thinking of me. Send me the deets on the collab whenever.
I’m so proud of myself. That answer sounds appropriately detached, while also giving the green light to all the things—a beach bash in California, a collab with Drake … and who knows what connections this will lead to. I raise my hands over my head and do a sexy dance even though there’s no music playing in our house.
@DrakesDaMan
Sounds rad. My assistant, Genesis, will contact you with all the ideas I’ve got rolling around in my head, and with an official invite to the bash.
What would we do without our assistants? I don’t even want to know. Looking forward to hooking up. Maybe even while I’m in Ohio. My fam is in Columbus, so that’s my location for the time being. Keep that on the DL. ;)
My assistant? Yeah. Dream on. I’m my own assistant, my own social media coordinator, my own marketing rep, my own wardrobe consultant, and my own videographer and editor. Some of these hyped-up influencers have teams of ten or twenty people working for them. I have me, me, and, oh yeah, me. I’m not complaining. I like managing things. I might go bonkers trying to train someone to be my assistant. Still, it would be nice to be able to say, “Hey, my assistant will contact you with the details,” just once.
@Fab-U-Lous_EllaMae
Sounds good. I’d love to hook up in Columbus if that works out. Keep me posted.
* * *
The weather is warm and humid by the time I climb back into my car to share my big news with Meg. By warm, I mean nearing eighty, and by humid, I mean not-quite-a-sauna. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail before I left the house just to keep things looking perky and on-point.
Besides, I did a hair tutorial while getting the ponytail set so it looks extra full. Two-for-one! My peeps love when I do makeup and hair tutorials. And keeping them happy makes me happy.
I park my cherry red Mazda in one of the diagonal spaces in front of St. James Common Cents Accounting Firm.
Yes. St. James. As in, Chris St. James—the man who turned his back on me at Bean There Done That this morning. Yes. The same man who interrupted my livestream without an apology. The man whose good looks are wasted on such a stern and unfriendly personality. That St. James.
Chris’ dad is an accountant—theaccountant in town. And Meg is the only other accountant in his office. Mr. St. James’ daughter, Shannon, is the receptionist—-that’s Shannon, as in Duke’s wife. Let’s just say that she and I don’t run in the same circles.
Shannon’s a super-sweet young woman—beautiful, graceful from years of dancing ballet. But like most of the town, I’m not her favorite flavor—at all. She usually barely tolerates my presence, and then she and her friends can’t wait to titter on about me behind my back. It’s okay. I’m used to it. What’s a small town without a healthy dose of gossip?
I know my theatrics and larger-than-life personality have rubbed people the wrong way at times. But I’m of the mindset that we should all be ourselves. I’m not a typically demure midwestern girl. And I don’t plan to start toning things down to win any popularity contests.
I walk into the modest storefront that has been home to all sorts of things over the years: a dry cleaner, a pet groomer, and even a photography studio. Shannon’s desk is off to the side of the entryway. Across from her is a long couch and a coffee table with a few financial magazines stacked neatly on the surface. The little bell over the entryway tinkles as the door shuts behind me.
“Hey, Ella Mae,” Shannon says with a smile that’s not quite full, but is cordial.
“Hey, Shannon. Is Meg in? I thought I’d take her to lunch.”
“She’s just finishing up with Mr. Anderson. Do you want to have a seat?”
“I’m good.”
A beat of silence hangs in the air. I glance around at the walls. They are a gray-blue. A few awards or certificates hang in frames, and on the far wall, behind Shannon’s desk is a poster that says,Spending is Quick, Earning is Slow.
What a downer.
“Cute shoes,” Shannon finally says.
I look down as if I don’t know what’s on my feet.
“Oh, yeah. They’re knock-offs. But I still love them.”
“You should. They’re seriously awesome. And I’m glad they aren’t real. Aren’t real Jimmy Choos like six hundred?”
