A buzzer went off, signaling the helpers to peel off face plaster, apply a cool musk smelling lotion. The helpers spoke in sing-song whispers — "We are exercising the pores." Then Marian was moved to a perfumed mist sprayer for "cleansing away impurities." Her hair and neck were swathed in fresh towels, her eyes were covered with cotton pads, her head was guided forward into the spray, bowed as if in prayer.
...It was when she was sixteen that she'd begun to be aware of the sensuality that was all around — in books, billboards, movies, on the faces of all her friends, in their whispers and titters. How obsessed she'd been — looking up sex words in the dictionary, the medical books, reading anything she could lay her hands. She'd thought she was abnormal, that no one else in the world could possibly be wondering about it as much as she...
...The first time a boy kissed her — the first time she'd let a boy touch her — she thought it about it for hours, for days...
...The first time with Ferris — how often she'd played it over, played it again and again, enraptured and captured by an unremitting wonderment. It had made her watch people in a new way — her friends and relatives, the couples passing her in stores, on streets, in buses, subways — did
they
know what she knew — did they think about it continually — were
they
obsessed with love like she was
…
?
Each age of her life seemed to have its obsession.
Enclosed in cotton, behind the eye mask, part of the beauty salon rites and rituals, Marian wondered — in the group of Armand's girls nearby in their recliners being pedicured and polished, in their dryer chairs being blown and bouffanted, being patted, sprayed, waxed and plucked — how many had suffered with black thoughts?
Irina did Marian's nails. It took about ten minutes to create each extension, another ten minutes to file and shape each claw into a reasonable length, then paint it bright red — two coats with a final third layer of gloss.
While the nails were drying, Armand gave Marian's hair a rinse. Then her hair was shampooed with gardenia, rinsed with apple fragrance, set in giant pink rollers for "A few soft waves dear girl" said Armand, escorting Marian to the dryer which he personally adjusted to the lowest lo-blow setting.
As her hair was drying, Marian studied her hands as they rested on the quilted smock. They seemed incredibly elegant, belonging not to her, but to some strange woman who had only to gesture to her servants, caress, and Geisha girl — give pleasure.
* * *
She noticed Ferris watching her from the bed.
She was wearing a new, gaily striped robe. Her hair was loose. One leg was peeking out from the folds in the robe. She was conscious of her Geisha hands on the hairbrush, and the light from the mirror which was picking up the gold highlights in her hair.
Ferris was conscious of the nails and the highlights. His wife's fussing over her appearance suggested that soon, very soon he could stop worrying, start behaving normally to his Marian.
Marian turned off the light, got into her side of the bed.
Ferris complimented her as he was adjusting his pillow. "Your hands look sexy, darling. I love you," he said.
As she fell asleep, she saw Andrea's hands with the red-red nails, reaching up and patting him, combing back the one lock that always fell so boyishly onto Ferris' brow. After a while the hands became her own hands and Andrea was watching as the Marian-Princess and the Ferris-Prince were waltzing, whirling, and gliding off into the blue, vast and shimmering blue space.
++++++++++
Chapter 22
A silver stretch-limousine pulled up to their awning. A liveried chauffeur held open the door, assisted the Coopers into the plush interior where fresh flowers in vases, liquor, television and telephones were awaiting. Marian's hands were ice cold. Through two-way glass windows she could see people on the outside wondering about the celebrities inside. By the time she re-checked makeup and hair, smoothed the folds of cape and dress, they were pulling up to the curb.
Everything seemed unreal — strangers staring, the flurry of rave notices as they made their way in. "Ferris, you didn't tell us your wife's such a knockout." "What a lovely cape!" '"We've heard so much about you from your husband." The little theater was packed, heads turning, buzzing as the usher showed them down the aisle to the center plush gold seats with name cards:
Mr. Ferris Cooper. Mrs. Ferris Cooper.
As Mr. helped Mrs. off with her cape, Host Brinkerhoff stood, called out, "Give us a spot here, Jack!" And there they were in the spotlight, the host announcing to one and all, "This is our guest of honor, folks — Ferris Cooper and his lovely wife!"
Mrs. Ferris Cooper's head was high, her back was straight but there was a throbbing pulse in her temples, a borderline headache.
Then, the house lights dimmed and Ferris took her hand and kissed it.
It was as if she were back in the days of Radio City dreams. He was the real Prince and the twinkle lights in the ceiling were their own special stars, and the screening was for them, and them alone.
The film came on, flickered — there were cheers and jokes as the frame was adjusted and Marian had a feeling of someone else's thought waves piercing like invisible daggers from behind.
Then it rolled — two minutes — $250,000 it had cost for a lush Florida orchard to dissolve into a white sand beach with four bathing beauties who spoke three-word phrases of praise for oranges. The girls were doubled on a split screen, quadrupled, became eight-times-four, and finally endless images of themselves.
One of them had long black hair.
A series of shorter versions was displayed, affording even briefer glimpses of oranges, white sand beach and girls — blond, red head, brunette, and the one with the black hair.
When it was over, there were credits. The McCreedy name might have been there but it went by too fast and suddenly the screen filled with "directed by Ferris Cooper" and there was a burst of clapping, hooting, whistles, shouts of approval. Marian wanted to turn around and look but she wanted to stay straight ahead, smiling, acknowledging her pride in her husband.
Lights came on, and the Coopers were surrounded by an excited, joking, joyous group which swept them into the elevator, complimenting and congratulating them as them moved to the cocktail reception.
In the ballroom, Marian saw HER.
There was a crush of people — VIP's, Brinkerhoff — the jargon and tech talk interspersed with "do you boat? play tennis? like to ski?" — all those invitations to say
oh yes
to, that you weren't ever going to accept — and the girl on the other side of the room was watching.
Her hair was jet black, loose, very straight as well as very long. Sometimes she stood alone. Sometimes one of the members of the crew would stop and chat with her. Marian caught a flash of red-gloss lipstick, white teeth, a model's toothpaste smile. When the girl wasn't looking over at them, when she was with a man, it was as if someone lit a candle inside a jack O'Lantern.
"That plum velvet dress, it's heaven, luv," Charles breathed into Marian's ear, which was sparkling with the dangling "Andrea" amethysts." Charles fed her an anchovy, Ferris poured her champagne — darling Ferris, his shoulder pressed against her stylishly elegant sleeve — he was the Man of the Hour and he was paying her court as if she were the only woman in the world. Marian's hands with the red Geisha nails held the cocktail glass, took the tidbits, shook hands, waved, and occasionally she reached over to Ferris to brush away an imaginary speck from his elegant tux, to comb back the lock that fell so boyishly onto his brow.
The girl was wearing a black velvet suit, open down the back to below her waist. It was much too extreme, something to wear to a Halloween party, or for a late-night New Year's Eve, not a cocktail gathering of wealthy, glamorous professionals.
"Marian, this is Courtney Bennett."
An elegant giant of a man who was smoking a black cigarette in an ebony holder, smiled down and kissed Marian's hand, giving her a very intense eye message. Mr. Elegant seemed to think Marian was flirting back because he proceeded to put a possessive hand on her shoulder as if they were already
very
good friends.
Marian noticed Ferris' eyes flickering from Mr. Elegant, back to her, glancing down to velvet drape that subtly emphasized her bosom.
"Do you like the way I look, darling?" Marian whispered but the answer was in his eyes.
"You are the most glamorous woman here tonight," Ferris said, his warm breath pleasantly in her ear.
The champagne was making giggly bubbles in Marian's nose. The chandelier seemed like a crystal Christmas tree crowning her hair. "I feel like a little girl," Marian replied, but she didn't really feel like a little girl. She just didn't want the Gods to know how happy she was, how victorious, successful she felt as a woman.
As Ferris' lips brushed her ear, Marian caught Charles staring.
From across the room, Marian was aware of Andrea watching. They were always on the outskirts of each other's horizon — the real wife, the shadow wife, plum velvet, black velvet twins. It made Marian laugh inside.
She wanted to laugh out loud.
At that moment, it was as if the four of them were touching, were intimately, interlocking, connected in a silent empty room.
"Let's go home now darling," Ferris whispered. "I've had enough of this. I want to be with you, just the two of us!"
As they were making an unobtrusive exit, Marian saw Andrea. The girl was alone, her nose in a champagne glass. She was watching them, looking desolate, and out-of-place.
...It isn't a war at all, it never has been...
Marian knew now that Andrea was not the enemy. "How could I have ever thought that poor, over-dressed child was anything but a convenient one-night stand?"
Ferris was already in the bed. Marian shivered slightly as she took another second to put a daub of perfume on the ruffle of the still pristine nightgown she had brought home from California. Then she got in on her side, started to turn out the light.
"Leave the light on darling," Ferris patted his pillow, shook out the top sheet so that the flower pattern became a ballooning hill and then a field. He tucked the sheet around them making it their private bower and reached to take her in his arms.
They were together again. They were the honeymoon lovers. It was back to the way it had been before Andrea. But not quite.
"You're wonderful. I love you," Ferris said, afterwards.
"I love you. You're wonderful," Marian said.
Ferris knew and Marian knew that they weren't quite as wonderful as they had been. A certain element of wonder was gone. In its place there was a sense of being watched and watching that heightened sensuality, and intangibly lessened the lovingness of their love.
"Goodnight my beautiful darling," Ferris turned out the light, rolled over to his side of the bed to sleep.
With the click, it was as if the darkness had come on too quickly. Too soon Marian was alone with her thoughts.
She had worked hard, too hard for that moment. Done too many chores, tended to so many details, used too much will power and brain power. "But, I do love him, he does love me," Marian thought, remembering the joy and pride she'd felt being at Ferris' side, how marvelous it had been — holding hands with her Prince, the twinkling lights like stars.
"Only the music was lacking," Marian thought, with the faintest tinge of regret.
Little regrets, old lost dreams become larger at night. They can grow to full size and bigger, and can fill the screen of the blank expanse of an overhead ceiling. Drifting off she knew
I should have written my "Spinster Concerto," wasn't that what I wanted? A piano? Not a plum velvet dress and amethyst earrings...
++++++++++
Chapter 23
The phone rang at 7:15 a.m. the next morning.
Marian was in the middle of an office crisis nightmare where people were popping in and out and at her like Jack-in-the-boxes springing at her with dream logical but illogical tasks that she was calmly attempting to handle while trying to hide the fact that she was dressed in hugely oversized, yellow silk men's pajamas. She kept thinking "Why are they bothering me in my pajamas," trying to ignore the clamoring telephone.
"Shall I answer it?" Marian asked Ferris. Ferris stirred, and nestled deeper into his pillow.
"Thank goodness you're up! I tried to reach you last night," said Hannah, without any preliminaries.
"We got home a little after midnight, Mamma. What's the matter?" Marian heard a shrillness in her mother's voice.
"Dr. Benedict phoned. He wants me to get to there early so we can talk. Marian, I
know
something's wrong!"
"Take it easy, Mamma. I'll get dressed and be over there as soon as I can." Mamma's speech sounded as if she'd forgotten her false teeth. "The Doctor didn't say Ralph is worse, did he? He just wants to give you a progress report, that's all."