Marlo

Some lucky few can afford to just quit.

Photo source: British Museum by nilamtouch on Pixabay

I opened my shop because it seemed like the best thing to do with my Auntie’s legacy.

She left her millions to the Museum, of course, but I got everything from her London flat. I had it all shipped over stateside, installed a few choice pieces in my Park Avenue condo, and decided to sell the rest.

Auntie was one of those world-traveler types who picked up fabulous native artworks and crafts as souvenirs. Plus she had beautiful furniture. My father bought me a boutique to start an antique/slash/décor business with Auntie’s legacy as my initial stock. I had a blast picking a location, tricking it out with funky fixtures and lighting, commissioning a logo and some signage … but eventually the dreary reality of running a store set in.

I am not made to keep retail hours! And I sucked at hiring staff to run things without me. So I sold the building and what was left in it, and said good riddance.

(Sigh.)

But then I let friends who ran a decorating business talk me into being a consultant for them. The idea was, I’d go into client’s homes and recommend what they should buy to get that “international connoisseur” vibe. It’s not like I needed the paycheck, but it seemed like a fun way to try doing what I liked best about my shop. I could put my good taste to use, I was no longer bothered with being boss, plus I could set my own schedule.

And it was fun for a while. Until these two incidents …

I went to an initial consultation with a woman who had a penthouse with huge windows, and as she’s showing me around this guy saunters out from the shower to grab a magazine or something … buck naked. As soon as he recognized me — I can’t help that I’m famous, thanks to my family — he came right over to introduce and flaunt himself. Didn’t bother to apologize, cover up, whatever. And it turned out he wasn’t even her husband! I’ve seen my share of nude guys, but this was a new wrinkle in shamelessness.

That wouldn’t have been so bad. It was kind of funny, really.

But later that week, I was bringing a sculpture to another place we were wrapping up. This was the last delivery, what I thought would be the final touch. After my crew positioned the statue in the foyer, which was maybe eight feet tall with the pedestal, this coke-addled bitch starts yelling at me. She shrieked something like, “it looks cheap, in fact now the whole place looks cheap, and what do you know about decorating anyway? You’re just some tasteless celebrity some shitty business hired to get a famous name involved …”

I told my crew to pack it up and take it away, and after we got it back to the showroom I quit. I don’t need strange naked fan-boy encounters, and I certainly don’t need drugged-up parvenues screaming at me.

So yeah, those were my two attempts at gainful employment.

I still know people in the shops and galleries, so occasionally I pick up a new creation or vintage objet for myself. And now that my condo’s getting full, I’ve been considering buying a bigger place, maybe even upstate.

Wonder if someday I’ll have a niece — or maybe a daughter — who needs to figure out what to do with my legacy?

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Thank you for reading the latest character’s monologue in my “Career Girls” series. If you’d like to go back to the beginning, start here:

Marybeth

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