Chapter Six Tracey, Again
Chapter Six
Tracey, Again
T he next day, Tracey, ready to conquer her fears, led Jane and Lindsey into a huge primary bedroom suite.
His-and-hers closets lined opposite sides of the room.
A lustrous taupe fabric—silk?—was draped across a colossal four-poster bed and matching billowing floor-length curtains puddled gracefully.
Giant throw pillows were scattered about.
Perhaps this Brobdingnagian room was to scale for Derek Biggs, who was well over six-and-a-half feet tall. It made Jane feel like an ant.
“This is sooooo cuuuuuute!” Lindsey exclaimed.
“It really is lovely,” Jane added.
“Thank you, it’s a lot of space, that’s for sure. What I really need help with is my closet.”
Tracey led them into her enormous closet with its walls of shelving and racks. Beyond the closet was the bathroom; Jane glimpsed a giant bathtub on a raised platform. It was all the literal manifestation of living large.
Given its scale, wardrobe room seemed more appropriate than closet .
There was a seating area, a full-length mirror, a built-in hamper, a fold-out ironing board, and a beverage station with a Nespresso.
Jane admired the valet rods and wondered if she should install them in her own meager space in her detached garage.
Teddy was handy; if they were on good terms, he could install it. Another notch in his “plus” column.
“Whoever designed this space is fantastic!” Jane felt uncharacteristically effusive.
“Yeah, the guy is a genius—I’m the one who went and mucked it up,” Tracey replied with a self-effacing grimace.
“This is not messy—trust me. There’s a very solid organizational template in place.”
Every dowel, drawer, and shelf was completely full.
It was like a sold-out theater with standing room only.
Even with a cursory glance, Jane spotted lots of duplicates and a profusion of labels: the garish logos of Louis Vuitton and Gucci were the easiest to identify.
Jane’s mother had counseled her that a Louis Vuitton bag was the tackiest thing ever.
The conspicuously branded bag was nothing more than a hideous brown turd pockmarked by someone else’s initials.
This was one of the pearls of maternal wisdom that she had never been able to shake entirely.
Was broadcasting allegiance to Louis Vuitton as well as to Gucci tantamount to rooting for competing teams? Was that like rooting for the Clippers and the Lakers at the same time?
Tracey sighed.
“So, this closet is, um, slightly overstuffed?”
“You have so many beautiful things!” Lindsey chirped.
Jane bristled. Compliments of this sort did not exactly set the table for a cleansing purge.
“You should see my husband’s closet.” Tracy rolled her eyes. “He has a man cave with all kinds of junk in there, but this is about me. I don’t want to be drowning in stuff, you know?”
“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. I am a 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.
“Tasha is very invested in my decluttering.” Tracey paused. “Maybe a little too much.”
“I’m excited! It’s like an organizing party!” Lindsey gushed.
Eating with clients; it meant you had to be “on,” but Jane was determined to show she was all in. “Tasha’s great! The more the merrier.”
Jane had nibbled just enough salad and sipped just enough Cristal to be polite. It took only half of a flute of the champagne to make her head feel slightly muddled.
They got back to work, and Tracey held up a shimmering red Versace dress. “I had to wear this to the most boring players dinner ever. Awful! And I mean, I’m really not into being treated like an accessory.”
Tasha turned to Jane. “I love Tracey, but you know how a little part of you hates a friend who looks amazing no matter what? She can wear anything; it’s infuriating!”
Tasha kept the champagne flowing, and Lindsey continued happily quaffing. They were now facing an avalanche of designer bags and accessories.
“These are the spoils of war,” Tasha declared, prompting Tracey to shoot an admonishing look.
“What does that mean?” Lindsey asked.
“Nothing,” Tracey shrugged dismissively.
Tasha jumped in. “Trace, if you want to get real with this, you got to get real with this, you feel me?” She turned to Jane and Lindsey. “It’s all revenge shopping. Her husband is a player, and when my girl gets pissed, she grabs that Amex Black card and goes to town.”
Tracey protested. “Tash, that’s not really true.”
Before Tasha could respond, Jane jumped in. “Well, hey, it’s important to assess any emotional attachments you might have to these things and if there’s anything negative, let’s get rid of it. Keep only the ones that really bring you joy.”
Tracey, looking a little melancholy, shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know if any of it brings me joy.”
Tasha turned to her. “That’s because what you really need to get rid of is your husband! You got to declutter that SOB out of your life! Get rid of him and then you can keep all this stuff.”
Jane flushed. “Would you two like a minute?”
Tracey shook her head. “Tasha has her opinions which sometimes I really do wish she would keep to herself.”
Tasha was not chastened. “I see clearly what you can’t because you are stuck in the middle of it all, trapped in this big-ass gilded cage!
” She flapped her arms. “Fly away! You are a smart, sweet, beautiful woman—you don’t need him!
” She turned to Jane and Lindsey. “Girls, how long would it take to pack all his shit up? He’s got a whole lot of crap; the closet up here is just for his fancy clothes.
There’s one for workout clothes and a room just for shoes!
Then there’s all the mess in his man cave; all his trophies on display to remind him what a hotshot he is.
He’s even got a stripper pole in there!”
“Tasha, that is not a stripper pole! It’s a firehouse pole.”
Tasha shot Tracey a dubious look. “Is this a firehouse?”
“No. It’s just for fun.”
“Yeah, I bet it is.” Tasha turned to Jane and Lindsey. “Am I right or am I right?”