Part I

The boots were divine. There was just no other way to describe them, really.

Stella pivoted in front of the mirror, looking over her shoulder. They looked even better from the back, hugging her shapely calf like they’d been custom made for her.

To the side, the sales clerk stood smiling expectantly. Stella knew the look too well. It was the practiced look of someone who worked on commission – look helpful, but not too eager.

Stella turned again and saw anxiety in the clerk’s face. And she loved it. This was part of the fun, keeping the staff at high end store’s dangling until she made her inevitable decision.

She turned again. The boots laced up in the front, the criss-cross laces ending just below her kneecap. Stella knew she didn’t need the boots; she’d long lost count of how many pairs of footwear she owned, but these were the perfect complement to the form fitting suit she’d just bought at Beckley’s Boutique.

“How much did you say again,” she asked casually, although she already knew the answer.

“Four hundred ninety,” the clerk said. “They’re usually six hundred twenty, but they’re on sale.” She paused. “Until tomorrow.”

Stella chewed on her lower lip and glanced in the mirror at the clerk’s reflection. Was that sweat on her brow? Good Lord, it was. At this point it seemed cruel not to put her out of her misery.

She turned and smiled. “Oh, why not,” she said breezily. “I deserve a treat, and they are such a steal. I’ll take them.”

The clerk visibly exhaled and followed Stella back to the chair, where she held out the box while Stella removed the boots and put them back inside. As the clerk walked to the counter with the box, Stella slipped back into the Gucci pumps she’d bought just last week.

She had her plastic out by the time she’d gotten to the front of the store. The clerk was filling out the receipt, her face nearly obscured by the arrangement of fresh flowers the store had delivered daily.

“Ah, thank you,” the clerk said as she held out a manicured hand to accept Stella’s American Express card. Stella hummed along with the classical music being softly piped through the store.

“Mmm hmm.” The clerk was looking at her, an embarrassed expression on her face as she handed the card back.

“Do you have another?” she whispered. “This one’s been rejected.”

Stella’s face flamed red and for a moment she considered demanding the clerk run it again. But there were two other women behind her now, and if it were rejected again…she didn’t even want to think of the humiliation.

“I’m sure there’s not a problem, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve others.” Stella allowed her wallet to fall open, revealing the row of platinum and gold colored cards. Pulling a Master Card from the pack, she handed it to the clerk and slid the American Express back in its place.

Stella was holding her breath now, for despite her cool demeanor she knew there as a risk that this one might also be over the limit. She waited for the reassuring hum of the receipt printer that would indicate the card had been accepted but a few moments later the clerk handed her back the second card.

“Sorry,” the clerk said. “But this one has been declined, too.”

Stella could hear the women behind her murmuring, and felt blood rise to her face. The clerk was looking at her differently now. The admiration was gone, replaced with the kind of irritation salespeople reserve for someone shopping out of their league.

Stella wasn’t about to let her get away with that. Whipping open her wallet she pulled out five one hundred dollar bills and laid them on the counter.

“We’ll just do cash then,” Stella said, taking the card and then the bag as the clerk’s ingratiating smile returned while she finished the receipt. “It’s just a glitch. I’ll call them when I get home and have it straightened out.” She smiled broadly. “I’m so glad I came in here today. So many lovely things. I’ll be back next week.”

The clerk’s eyes lit up. “I look forward to seeing you. Thank you so much.”

Stella felt euphoric as she walked from the store, a bag on each arm. She could already imagine the looks of admiration and envy she’d receive as she walked down the street tomorrow in her new outfit. Her gait would be jaunty, confident and she’d look straight ahead as if she were unaware of how beautiful she looked.

Men would stop to stare, and their husbands would jab them in the ribs. When they passed, she’d smirk to herself, clothed in pride and her new finery.

She held out the keychain in her hand and heard the click as the door to her Lexus automatically unlocked. Tossing the bags in the front seat, she slid in beside them and shut the driver’s door.

Stella laid her head back against the seat, hoping this time would be different. But it was not. The shaking started before she could even get the key in the ignition and when the sobs came they were so intense she knew better than to risk driving until she got herself under control.

Usually she didn’t crash this fast, but today was different. Maybe it was the amount she’d spent, or the fact that her credit card had been declined. Or the fact that the rent was due and she had no money to pay it. But whatever the reason, Stella found herself in the grip of the worst post-shopping letdown she’d ever had.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked herself, looking at the bags beside her. “And what in the hell are you going to do?”

There were no easy answers, and she couldn’t sit there all day. Eventually she’d have to start the car. She wiped her eyes first and blew her nose. It was starting to get dark and tiny pinpoints of rain were dotting her windshield when she pulled out of Landfair Shopping Village.

Stella turned on the radio, hoping some music would cheer her up. The news was on; it as a story about the economy a reporter was interviewing a family who’d lost their health insurance. Stella turned the dial and listened to a snippet of the depressing weather forecast before turning it again until she found music.

It was a cheery, upbeat tune, which only made her more depressed so she turned it off and rode in silence until she arrived at her rented townhouse. She looked up as she pulled into he space and saw the silhouette of her cat against the upstairs bedroom window.

The rain was falling harder as she got out of the car, and Stella clutched her bags protectively to her as she ran to the door and opened it.

She had to dodge the pile of envelopes the mailman had slipped through the slot. Once she’d put the bags down she reached down to gather them.

“Master Card, Visa, Norstrom’s, Sak’s, Discover…” She read through the pile, her heart sinking a bit with each one. At least two were in bright yellow envelopes, indicating the urgency of the request for payment.”

A knock at the door made her jump, and Stella turned and looked through they keyhole.

“Shit,” she said almost to herself.

“Just a minute,” she called, scurrying to drop the bills in the hall table drawer and toss the bags into the coat closet. Quickly she checked her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes weren’t so noticeably puffy now, thank goodness.

“Confidence,” she told herself and opened the door.

“Mr. Merrit,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

“Cold,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Absolutely!” she stepped aside and waved towards the interior of the house, frowning at the elderly man’s back as he walked in. “What brings you out on such an inclement evening.”

“Worry,” he said, turning slowly towards her. As always, he was dressed like Dapper Dan in his tweed coat and little bowler hat.

“Worried? About what?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“About you, of course,” he said. “Have you not gotten my calls or letters.” He paused. “Regarding the rent?”

“Yes, and I called your office,” she lied. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

The old man pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said. “And that’s highly unusual. Roberta is usually so reliable.”

“It was late in the day when I called. Maybe she was distracted.”

“Maybe,” he replied, and Stella could tell by her landlord’s tone that he doubted she was telling the truth. This made her nervous. She’d been late in the past and had always used her charm to buy herself more time. But today was different. Mr. Merrit seemed far less patient.

“But the fact remains that the rent on this townhouse is three weeks late, and this can’t go on, Stella. I keep a few properties like this as an investment and with rentals being in demand I could easily find a tenant who could better afford it if…”

“Afford it? That’s ridiculous!” Stella moved to push the closet door completely shut, suddenly realizing that the pink edge of the Barkley’s Boutique bag was visible through the slim opening.

She turned back to Mr. Merrit, effecting her most wounded look. “The only reason I haven’t paid the rent yet is because one of my clients was diagnosed with cancer and couldn’t pay me. I was relying on her check to pay you. Understandably, I didn’t want to press her under the circumstances. She called me today and promised to have the money to me on Thursday.”

It was a sad story and a complete lie, but Stella knew she had to buy herself some more time. In truth, she’d gotten paid earlier that day and had fully intended to stop by Mr. Merritt’s office with the rent. But on the way she’d passed Landfair Shopping Village, with its shops. She’d known better than to turn in, and when she did told herself that she’d just get a latte and a magazine from Borders. But while on the way out with her coffee and the latest issue of Vanity Fair she’d heard two women discussing the awesome sale at Beckley’s. Would it really hurt, she asked herself, to look?

She’d left the shop three hundred dollars poorer, but still had enough in the bank to make up the balance of the rent. She’d spotted the boots in the display window of the new high end shoe shop as she was on the way back to the car and they were so exquisite she had to look. Just look…

Stella felt the same sick feeling she’d felt in the car.

“It’s just a temporary glitch, Mr. Merritt,” she said. “If you work with me…”

The old man sighed and shook his head. “You’re a nice young lady, Stella,” he said in his typical fatherly fashion. “But it is unfair for me to keep making exceptions for you that I don’t make for other renters. So I will give you until Thursday to pay the rent, the late fee and next month’s rent.”

Stella felt a surge of panic. “But it’s not due until…”

“Next week,” he reminded her. “Stella, you’re three weeks late with this month’s rent. That’s almost a full month behind.”

She felt devastated. Her car payment was also due, and it was late as well even though there was no excuse for that either. Last week she’d used the money she’d set aside for that to purchase that cream silk ensemble she wanted – no, needed – for the professional dinner she’d planned. She’d been angling for a new account, and told herself if she got it the advance would be enough to make three car payments.

As an interior designer, Stella believed that first impressions were important. And even though she’d not gotten the account, the suit was still a good investment for future engagements.

“Thursday it is, then,” she said, forcing a smile even as the lump in her throat threatened to erupt in a torrent of renewed sobs. “I’ll stop by your office.”

“What time?” he asked.

She paused.

“I need to know,” he persisted. “I intend to tell Roberta myself to look for you.”

“I’ll be there by three,” she said.

Mr. Merrit handed her a card. “Here’s my personal number,” he added. “If there’s going to be a problem you can contact me directly. If I don’t answer my voice mail will, so this should avoid any more…communication problems.”

He was laying a trap for her and Stella knew it, even as she took the card. The old man was calling her bluff. If she didn’t show on Thursday she couldn’t put him off with any more excuses of missed messages.

Mr. Merritt tipped his hat at her and took a proprietary look around the foyer of the townhouse before turning and opening the door. The rain was falling harder now and he pulled up the collar of his coat before dashing down the steps.

He moved more spryly than most men his age, and Stella felt a stab of guilt for wishing he’d fall down the steps. She knew she had no right to be mad at her landlord; if the situation were reversed she’d probably be ready to play hardball too. Besides, she thought, she only had herself to blame.

She turned and leaned her back against the closed door and finally allowed the pent up tears to flow anew.

“Now what the hell am I going to do?” she asked herself. She had no money for rent or the car payment. The credit card notices were three inches thick and the cable bill was due.  She looked down to see Willow curled around her leg, purring. And the cat was almost out of food.

Leaning down, Stella picked up her pet and walked with her into the living room. Settling into the sofa, she hugged the cat to her. Willow responded by purring and kneading her chest, her claws picking up the yarns of the two hundred dollar jacket. But Stella didn’t care. If she couldn’t get a handle on her money problems then her carefully crafted image of a together, successful businesswoman would crumble like a house of cards. And then where would she be? She imagined living in one of the cookie-cutter apartment complexes in midtown or getting her clothes from the regular mall where the local secretaries and soccer moms shopped. Or worse yet, watching as some bankruptcy judge cut up her credit cards and ended her shopping days altogether.

It never occurred to Stella to look deeper, to figure out why she felt the need to surround herself with so many things – things she really didn’t even need. She only knew she had to address the problem of her debt.

“Just a minute,” she said to Willow, who’d gotten down and was now pacing back and forth on the Persian rug and emitting her “feed me” cry.
Stella pulled the phone book from the side table drawer and leafed through it until she came to the section offering consumer credit counseling services.

Most of the ads were pretty standard. Non-profit groups ran most of the agencies offering to help people struggling with debt. Stella had even known of a few friends from college who had to turn to credit counseling after realizing loan and credit card payments took more of a bite from their pay than they’d anticipated.

Some had been successful in turning their problems around using the counselors, which put clients on a budget and worked with creditors to lower or restructure payments. Stella knew this wouldn’t help her with the rent, but she was desperate to keep her credit cards active. Eternally optimistic, she was sure she would come out of this intact. And when she did she didn’t want it to be without her beloved plastic.

But which counseling service should she use? There was one through the local United Way that offered services for free and others that operated for-profit, although from what she’d read some of those were scams that could make things worse.

Stella jotted down a few numbers of what she knew were legitimate agencies and was about to close the book when she saw a very small ad at the bottom.

“Shopaholic?” it read. “Adrift in a sea of debt? You don’t have to go under. Lighthouse Financial Services can help restore your credit rating and bring order back to your life. Serious inquires only. Guaranteed. For more information, call Mr. Jacobi.”

“Guaranteed?” Stella raised her eyebrows. None of the other ads had guarantees on them. She jotted the number of Lighthouse Financial Services down and under it wrote Mr. Jacobi in capital letters.

Then she got up to feed the cat, feeling like she’d finally done something, even if that something was the small act of beginning the search for the help she needed.

The decision to get help – and a couple of sleeping pills – at least helped Stella doze off that evening. But the morning dawned to find her mood as gray as the skies outside.

She dressed for her first job in a gray dress black boots and black pea coat and threw herself into work as if matching damask fabric samples to wall coverings were the only matters of concern. Today she was decorating a suite of dental offices – a job for which she’d already been paid half up front. The other half wasn’t due for three weeks, well past the time she needed it.

She had a modest lunch at Temptations, smiling through the chatter of her two girlfriends Lindsay and Monica as they talked about their boyfriends. Stella was only half listening, her mind having again returned to her money woes.

“Stella?”
She looked up, suddenly realizing that Lindsay was addressing her. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just off in another world…work stuff.”

“We were about to go over to Coldwater Creek. They’re having a sale. You want?”

Stella wanted to say no and it was on the tip of her tongue when Monica pre-empted her.

“Yeah,” Monica said. “That way we can watch what you buy and get the same thing. You do know you’re our fashion inspiration.”

The words were the best and worst things for Stella. She smiled, feeling the dueling forces of desire and logic warring inside.

“I guess I can go,” she said. “Although I don’t know if they’ll have anything I want.”

The women stood. “Cashmere sweaters are on sale.”

Stella nearly sat back down. She loved cashmere and had been looking for one in periwinkle to go with a skirt she owned of a slightly darker shade. She felt weak suddenly. Very weak. But she didn’t keep this from justifying the trip. If she could go and resist, wouldn’t that just prove that she could do it?

“All right,” she said, picking up her Coach handbag. Ten minutes later, she was tailing her friends through traffic back to Landfair, the scene of her last crime.

The shop was busy, and Monica squealed as she moved to the table holding the sweaters.

“Ohmigosh,” she said, picking one up in just the shade Stella had been looking for. “Isn’t this the color you were telling me you wanted?”

Stella felt her hand go out, felt the buttery softness of the garment as it made contact with her palm. She could already envision how she’d look in it as she strolled into her next meeting. The softness of the sweater covering the swell of her breasts, the top a perfect pairing with the hip-hugging darker skirt. She’d wear white – no – she’d wear off-white hosiery and matching shoes.

She picked up another sweater just like the first. In case she spilled something on one of them. If Stella found something she really liked, she’d buy a duplicate if she could afford it, or even if she couldn’t.

By the time she’d left the store she’d spent another two hundred dollars. In the car, she fought back the same feelings of rising panic and consoled herself with the comforting thought that the purchases were simply her last hurrah before she cracked down on her spending habits, and that even if she’d not bought the sweaters – and jewelry she found at the counter as she was paying – there still wouldn’t have been enough to pay the rent.

But in the back of her mind, she knew she was only digging herself deeper into her current crisis.

“Alright, time to get serious,” she told herself, and fished through her handbag for the list of numbers she’d jotted down the night before. For the next three hours, she went from counselor to counselor, only to reject their plans when they told her part of the strategy would require her to cut up her credit cards.

“I can’t do that,” she told an attractive older woman who was trying – and failing – to be patient with her.

The woman sighed and turned the sheet towards Stella. “It’s the only way,” she said, indicating the figures with her pencil. “By your own admission, almost all of your thirteen credit cards are maxed out, you’re behind on your rent and car payment and in spite of this you can’t quit shopping.” She sighed. “Have you considered getting some sort of therapy?

“Therapy?” Stella laughed. “I like to shop. That’s hardly an illness.”

“It is when you can’t control it,” the woman said kindly. “It’s like gambling or alcohol or overeating - anything the crosses the line from recreation to vice. Once it interferes with your quality of life or creates problems you can’t solve on your own its not just a bad habit – it’s an addiction.”

She scrawled something on a Post It Note and handed it to Stella. “Here.”

“What’s that?” Stella asked, as if the woman were handing her a snake.

“It’s the name and number for two groups – Debtors Anonymous and Shopaholics Anonymous.”

Stella refused to take the note. Instead, she stood and picked up her coat and handbag. “I’m not going to take your note,” she said. “And I’m not going to sit here another moment and let you waste my time. Obviously you’re not willing to work with me.”

“I think it’s the other way around, dear,” the woman sighed. “If you aren’t willing to cut up your cards…”

“I’m not.” Stella said, cutting her off. “So if you excuse me, I’m going to go look for a competent counselor – one who can advise me without going to such extremes.”

“Good luck with that,” the woman said. “You’re going to have a difficult time finding anyone who’s going to be able to help you as long as you refuse to help yourself.”

Stella didn’t wait around to hear more. She slammed the door as she exited the office and in the elevator dug through her bag for the paper. Her heart sank when she realized she’d crossed every potential credit counselor off her list.

Except for one.

Lighthouse Financial Services still remained and underneath the name of the counselor – Mr. Jacobi. Stella remembered that the ad said the services were guaranteed.

She stared at the paper, wondering what this Mr. Jacobi had to offer that no one else did. Stella had not time for therapy, and was still furious that the last counselor had recommended it. She liked to shop. So what? Maybe it had become a problem, but it was more of a cash flow problem than a personal problem. If she could pick up a few more jobs..

But realistically, she knew that until she did she stood the risk of losing all she had worked for. Stella had worked hard to get where she was. She liked her lifestyle, especially because she knew what it was like to be poor.

Growing up with a single mother, she’d always worn hand-me-downs. At school she’d watched with longing and envy as the popular girls sashayed past in the latest fashion, snickering at her consignment shop couture. Her mother had assured her there was nothing wrong with thrift, but the message never go through to the style-hungry Stella who came home and buried herself in magazines featuring lifestyles she dreamed of living.

She’d gotten good grades in school – so good that her teachers recommended she consider medical school. But Stella wasn’t interested. She wanted to live in a world surrounded by comfort and beauty where she could enjoy the company of the kind of people she’d idolized. She wanted to spend money, even if it wasn’t hers.

Interior design hadn’t been her first choice; she’d fallen into it quite by accident and displayed such a knack for it that she was offered a job before she even graduated from the prestigious design school that had given her a full scholarship.

The money had been good, very good. But then the economy crashed. Even her wealthy clients had begun tightening their belts and Stella’s business had dropped off dramatically. But her hunger for pretty things had not, so she’d turned to her credit cards.

And here she was now, facing the possible threat of returning to her humble roots.

“No,” she said. “I won’t let that happen. There has to be another way.” Picking up the phone, she dialed the number for Lighthouse Financial to see if they had an afternoon appointment available.