Girl in the Mirror

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Four

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

April 1996

I
f all the world was a stage, it was time once again to play her part.

Charlotte sat in the green room of the television studio while outside, strains of the talk show’s theme song intermingled with audience applause. She had promised Vicki Ray this interview, and there was no choice now but to endure the hour or suffer months of bad press. She’d had enough bad press lately. Now her plan was set. Freddy had seen to every detail in his usual compulsive manner. How had he put it? “Interview, marriage, surgery. Bim, Bam, Boom.”

The only booming she felt right now was in her temples, a rhythmic, tympanic beat. How hot the room was! Bringing a fevered hand to her forehead, she noticed with alarm that it was trembling. And her lips, so parched. Oh, please, she prayed, holding her fingers tight, steadying them. Don’t let the symptoms come back now. Maybe one more pill, she decided, quickly fumbling through her purse. Just in case.

Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.

“Charlotte?” Freddy Walen walked in without waiting for a response. Although not a big man, his dominating presence filled the room, causing Charlotte to shrink inside. His eyes, as hard as the diamond on his pinkie finger, assessed her with a proprietary air.

“Good…good,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache, observing every detail. Her swanlike neck was unadorned, her golden hair spilled loosely around her shoulders, and her eyes, her large, luminous blue eyes, shone with an icy, mesmerizing luster. It was a look that Freddy referred to as “the brilliance of a star.” He’d taught her that her public expected Charlotte Godfrey to be dressed in understated elegance, and she never disappointed them.

“What’s that you’re taking?” he demanded.

“A painkiller. I’ll need it to get through the interview.” She stared at the white pill in her hand, then raised her eyes, worry shining clearly. “Freddy, cancel the interview. I’m not well enough. The symptoms are returning, my hands are shaking, and taking another pill is not the answer.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said in a gruff manner, patting her shoulder. “Buck up. We can’t cancel now. Besides, we need this interview to settle a few rumors. Then the press will be off our backs so we can hustle to South America and get you well. Zip up this show and we’ll be out of here. I promise. Now, take that pill.”

Charlotte poured herself a tumbler of water. “I don’t trust Vicki Ray. She’s tough. Crafty. What if she suspects?”

“Forget it. Vicki doesn’t have a clue. If she did, I’d know about it.”

“Miss Godfrey?” From outside her door came the high, strained voice of an usher. “Are you ready yet? It’s
really
time.”

She understood his panic and took pity. Besides, she couldn’t stall any longer. “Yes,” she called, quickly swallowing the medicine. “Of course. Right away.”

“Remember,” Freddy said, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “It’s just another part. Follow the script, babe, and you’ll be great.”

Charlotte shook off his hands. “Don’t be a fool, Freddy. There’s no script with Vicki Ray.”

Opening the door, she met a panic-eyed young man who guided her down the hall with the speed of a police escort, past a series of attendants who smiled at her with starry eyes. She’d become immune to that rapt expression during the past few years, knowing better than to be flattered. They knew nothing about her, the woman behind the face. She walked quickly by with only a nod of acknowledgment.

They reached the stage just as Vicki Ray launched into her introduction. She mentioned several of Charlotte’s film roles and the meteoric rise of her career. Charlotte listened keenly, compelling herself to become on camera the woman being described: a woman of legendary beauty. An on-screen phenomenon and an off-screen recluse. The new Garbo.

There was a minute’s silence, one brief moment to raise a hand to her brow and collect her wits. Charlotte took a deep breath, willed her hands to appear relaxed at her sides, then dug deep to deliver the mysterious, sultry smile that was her trademark.

The Applause sign lit. With a jarring flash, the lights bore down on Charlotte as she stepped out on the stage. To her, they were like prison searchlights blocking any avenue of escape. She walked with studied grace across the shining floor, then settled herself in the isolation of a single white chair in the center of Vicki Ray’s stage.

Under the glare of lights, she felt like a laboratory specimen being scrutinized. She looked out at the sea of faces and saw in the eyes of women the familiar flash of envy, and in the men’s, desire. It was always this way, she thought, feeling again a twinge of loneliness.

Then, decisively discarding the last remnants of her identity, Charlotte Godowski transformed herself into the role she’d painstakingly created and played so well: Charlotte Godfrey. It was a useful device, yet she felt a little more of herself die each time she employed it. Still, it was necessary to create an armor that was impenetrable. She allowed no one to pierce it. Not even Freddy. Especially not Freddy. Only Michael…At the thought of him she felt a chink in the armor.

The interview began easily enough. During the first half of the show, Vicki screened a number of film clips. Charlotte peppered the clips with anecdotes, especially about her handsome co-stars. The audience lapped it up, never for a moment suspecting the struggle within the actress. She appeared relaxed, loosening her knotted fingers, uncrossing her legs, even venturing to laugh at the occasional silly question posed by the audience, usually about her well publicized love life.

“Water,” she almost begged when the break came. With miraculous speed, the usher delivered Perrier and lime, which she sipped gratefully. Her lips felt cracked, and she sweltered in the glowing heat of her fever.

As the signal flashed that the show was continuing, Charlotte discreetly dabbed at her brow with a Swiss embroidered handkerchief and marshaled her wits. At the last second, she remembered to catch the eye of a cameraman and wink. He returned a crimson grin. Freddy had taught her tricks on how to get flattering camera angles.

“Welcome back,” began Vicki. “We were talking about your upcoming marriage.” Turning to the camera, she continued, “Freddy Walen, for those of you who don’t know, is not only Miss Godfrey’s fiancé, but her agent as well.”

“What can I say?” Charlotte replied, offering a slight gesture with her hand. “He’s wonderful. Supportive. He’s always there for me.” She glanced offstage. Freddy was standing with his feet wide apart and his hands clasped before him, the captain of a ship in unsteady waters.

He gave her a smile. Freddy looked formidable in the dark gray double-breasted suit that complemented his salt-and-pepper hair. She knew he was listening intently to every word she uttered because his pale blue eyes glowed with approval of her answer. He didn’t seem to mind that she refrained from saying she loved him.

“Walen discovered you, didn’t he? Some say he built your career.”

Charlotte shifted in her seat. “He believed in my talent, and any good agent advises his client. Isn’t that his job?”

Vicki smiled. “But in your case, it’s been said that Walen has a Svengali-like obsession with your career. And you.”

Charlotte had the presence of mind to laugh. “Is that what they say?”

“I suppose it’s natural for any man to be obsessed with you,” Vicki added magnanimously. The audience chuckled and mumbled in agreement. Charlotte shrugged her slim shoulders with seeming humor.

“So many men…” Vicki added with a devilish glint. The cameraman winked at her.

Charlotte knew where this was coming from and couldn’t blame Vicki for the insinuation. Freddy had carefully orchestrated her public image, hiding her natural shyness as a star’s reclusiveness and arranging numerous dates with her co-stars, then leaking to the press that she was having affairs. It was nothing new, an age-old publicity ploy, but the press and the public bought it, again and again.

“Now there’s only Freddy,” she replied without guile, and the audience responded with heartfelt applause. She imagined Freddy backstage, his chest expanding. He loved the spotlight, especially when it hinted at his virility.

“Your kind of beauty is the stuff that legends are made of. But some consider it to be a curse. There’s Helen of Troy and, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”

Charlotte paused. Beauty again…
Is that all they see when they see me? Doesn’t anyone see anything else of value?

“I don’t think Marilyn’s beauty itself was a curse,” she answered with care. “The curse was that no one could look past her beauty to take her seriously.”

“You’re referring to the old ‘She’s beautiful so she must be stupid’ myth.”

“It’s hard when only your beauty is prized.”

“Couldn’t the same be said then of an ugly woman?”

Charlotte felt a dart of anguish and looked at her hands clasped white in her lap. “I’m sure,” she began with hesitation, “that it is the secret dream of every ugly woman that someone will discover the beauty within her. Redemption through love, isn’t that at the heart of fairy tales?”

“But life isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Unfortunately, both legend and reality bear out that men want women who are physically beautiful, as proof of their power and worth. The dream dies in an ugly woman. It withers, as any fruit withers on the neglected vine.”

“But…doesn’t beauty wither, too, in time? What happens then?”

Charlotte’s smile was hard. “Desperation.”

“So beauty
is
a curse?”

“I…” She thought again of Michael and sighed in resignation. “Yes. Perhaps it is. As is ugliness.”

“I don’t know if I buy this. I mean, aren’t women changing now? We talk about a woman’s worth, intelligence and goodness. Don’t these attributes constitute a woman’s beauty?”

Charlotte wanted to agree, oh God, how much. She thought of those days, in the garden, when she’d believed such a thing was possible. When, like a blossoming flower that reveals the delicate core, she’d been ready to give everything up for a single dewdrop of that ideal. But Michael had crushed that belief with the heel of his conceit. She’d learned that no one would love her for her intelligence or for her goodness. Without the beauty, no man was willing to even give those qualities a chance.

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

“Are you endorsing this attitude?” Vicki Ray interjected. Her tone was sharp, angry. Nearing fifty, she exuded the confidence of success. Yet Charlotte saw in her eyes the quiet panic of a woman who could not stave off the inevitable decline of her looks, and as a talk show host, possibly her career as well. “Do you believe women today should do everything they can, anything they can, to be as attractive as they can?”

Charlotte’s lids fluttered imperceptibly as she dredged up her personal history to answer this question.
Everything…anything…for beauty?

“I do,” she replied firmly, each syllable sounding in her ear as a death knell. “Yes, absolutely.”

She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

“So what did you do to look so great?”

Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

“
I
didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

“Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

“I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

“Were you a pretty little girl?”

The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

“Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.