Waking Beauty (13 page)

I lay in the park, feeling sorry for my old self and—just before dozing off warm in the sun—fantasizing about Fiona as a kind of Henrietta Higgins, balancing leather-bound first editions on my head and tilting my chin up just a touch as she taught me how to walk like a model in the book-lined study of her large but comfortable home. I have no idea how long I was out—thirty seconds, an hour? But I remember waking with a violent shiver to find a hideous woman hovering over me, blocking the light as she stared down at my face. I rolled to the left and scrambled to my feet, my heart adrenalinized and pounding. The woman looked crazed—she had straggly brown hair streaked with gray, and huge, lemurlike eyes lined with kohl. On each cheek was a greasepaint flower. She wore a faded denim jumper with yellow stars hand-painted on the skirt, burgundy galoshes, and numerous sweaters too warm for the weather—layers of hot pink, apricot, and Tidy Bowl-blue polyester. I grabbed my purse and lurched away.

Time to head home and regroup.

On the way, I stopped into Le Château. I thought it unwise to be sporting Virginie’s duds when I walked into the house, especially since there was now dried semen on her shoe, ketchup on her shirt, and a stain that smelled like semi-composted dog shit on her jeans (I had rolled through something in the grass). The idea was to quickly snap up the cheapest outfit I could find, but once I got in there and started browsing through all the mod knockoffs of designer clothing, all the cutesy little clothes that I hadn’t had a hope in hell of fitting into until that very day, I got carried away and started trying on everything in the store. And you know
what? Everything looked good. Every damn thing looked good. Every tiny tank top, every strappy sandal, every micro-mini and slinky slut dress looked like a million flaming bucks. The fitting room no longer represented a chamber of horrors, the place where the last shred of self-esteem went to die. God, how many tears had I shed in those cruel cubicles with their overhead fluorescent lighting and malevolent mirrors? How many times had I
not
tried something on because there was no mirror in the fitting room, which meant I’d have had to waddle into a public area to view myself?

That afternoon, for the first time, I was actually enjoying the act of clothes shopping. I was bopping happy to the electro-pop blare, strutting right out into the open to the three-way mirror in the center of the store, putting on my own little fashion show. It was like that scene from
Pretty Woman
, except instead of doffing the whore clothes for modest attire, I was trading in modest attire for whore clothes (unfortunately, Richard Gere wasn’t there to rescue my credit card from untenable abuse). As I spun jauntily around to check out my bum—cleavage in a pair of low-riding pleather stretch pants, I noticed a doleful face at the corner of the mirror. I turned and spotted a frumpy teen stealing a resentful glance in my direction. I recognized that expression. I had worn it a thousand times. I thought: I know exactly what you’re thinking right now, and I am totally with you. I can’t stand lucky bitches like me. I smiled in commiseration, but she must have taken it the wrong way, because when I looked back at the corner of the mirror, all I saw was a chubby hand flipping me the bird.

A rare and wondrous sight when I arrived home: Virginie up to her elbows in dishwater. Presumably, she figured that, just this once, it was futile to employ the wait-for-Allison-to-break-down-and-do-them plan, since I was ostensibly in Los Angeles with no fixed date of return.

“Howdy,” I said, dropping my keys on the table, which had been tidied and wiped. The floor, I noticed with astonishment, had been swept and
scrubbed
. What could it mean?

“Oh, hi,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going well.” I proceeded through to my room, dropped purse and purchases on the bed, making sure that Virginie’s rolled-up clothes were hidden, then went back to the kitchen to find out what was going on. The pipes in the bathroom made a familiar squeak as the shower was turned off, no doubt, by Fraser. I opened the fridge, reached past the gallon jug of Sunny Delight, and pulled out a small carton of orange juice. Virginie’s orange juice. The good stuff, not from concentrate. The kind I could never afford. “Mind if I take a splash?” I was feeling bold.

“Go ahead,” she said, glancing at the carton, then turning back to her task. I think I saw her butt cheeks contract. She was a real cheapskate when it came to anyone but herself.

“You guys went shopping, eh?” The fridge was crammed with new food and beer. There was a bag of tiger shrimp thawing in a bowl, and a cake box (from Desserts by Phipps, no less).

“We’re having a friend over for dinner.” She said it sharply, as if I was about to raccoon into her food supply as well.

“I’ll have to get some groceries tomorrow,” I said, grabbing a freshly washed glass, still warm, from the dish rack. I poured it full of juice, drank it down, and then poured some more, wondering which one of the tightwad’s motley chums had been deemed shrimp- and Phipps-worthy. I put the nearly empty carton back into the fridge, drained the glass, and carried it to the sink. “Want me to wash it?” I asked innocently. It was lined with pulp.

“It’s okay,” she said tight-lipped.

I dropped the glass into the dishwater. A satisfying
glug glug
as it sank between her sudsy forearms. “Thanks.” I took a seat at the table and eyed the pile of newspapers in front of me. I
subscribed to all three papers on Saturday. A thick mound of weekend misery.

Fraser came out of the bathroom then, a towel wrapped around his hips, a steamy soap smell emanating from his damp body. He looked startled when he caught sight of me. “Hi,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows, trying to look serious even as he was blushing. “I’m Fraser.”

“I’m Allison.”

“Jesus, put some clothes on,” said Virginie in a jocular way, though it sounded a tad strained. I noted that she had never before exhorted Fraser to “put some clothes on” in my presence. Then again, he wasn’t truly in my presence; he was in the presence of New Allison. He was standing half-naked and dripping in front of New Allison, stealing peeks at her/my cleavage. Fraser smiled sheepishly and padded off down the hallway. Virginie drained the dishwater, then dried her hands on a towel. “So,” she said, curling up cute on a chair, sizing me up, “you’re called Allison as well?”

“Yeah. That’s initially what brought us together when we were kids in grade school. Two Allison Pennys in the same room. Weird, eh? I mean, what are the odds?”

“Yeah.”

“As it turned out, we actually had a lot in common.”

“Really?” Virginie looked skeptical.

“Actually, Allison and I are remarkably similar. Though you wouldn’t know it to look at us.” I smiled. This was fun. This being invisible yet present, this hiding in plain sight. A strong I-know-something-you-don’t-know feeling came over me, and I realized that I could probably use this power.

“I like your dress,” said Virginie, eyeing my new frock, a curiously sullen expression on her face. “Is that a Betsey Johnson?”

“It’s a knockoff. I just bought it.”

“Do you mind if I ask how much?”

“Twenty-four bucks.”

“No way!
Where’d you get it?!”

“Yes way!
Le Château!” I said, mimicking her girlie gush, but she didn’t catch on.

“It’s really cute,” said Virginie. And it was. A navy blue baby-doll dress with a pattern of little daisies on it. I had paired it with a cheap pair of navy sneakers and white anklet socks. I daresay I had out-cuted the reigning queen of cute.

Fraser came back into the kitchen. He went for the fridge and pulled out a six-pack of Sleeman Cream Ale. He had donned a white T-shirt and a pair of jeans that featured several provocative rips in the crotch and ass. His hairy feet were pale and bare. Vaguely Neanderthal. Sort of sexy.

“Who wants a beer?” he said, ripping the carton open.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” said Virginie, frowning.

“Why? We got enough. And George’ll bring something.”

George. The mystery dinner guest. Who was he? And why was Virginie so tense about it? “I wouldn’t mind a beer,” I said, to enhance her anxiety; I didn’t particularly want one. Fraser brought it over, twisted off the cap, and handed it to me.

“Thank you.”

I smiled. He smiled.

“Guess I’ll have one,” said Virginie.

He got two more and carried them to the table. He plonked one in front of her, then sat down, spread his legs wide, held the bottle at penis height, and twisted the cap off. A little puff of carbon escaped from the top.

I sipped. He sipped.

“So,” said Virginie, picking up her beer and making a big show of twisting the lid off with a passive-aggressive why-did-you-open-her-beer-and-not-my-beer snap of the wrist, “how long are you planning on staying, Allison?”

“That’s a good question,” I said. “It’s possible that I may have to leave rather suddenly.”
The stroke of midnight
? “On the other hand, I may be around for a while.”

“You here for work? You a model or something?” said Fraser.

“God, no.”

“Actress, right?”

“No.” I laughed.

“I just figured, well, I heard you were from L.A., so I thought you were in the biz.”

“Not everyone in L.A. is in the biz. Not every person does what
we
do,” said Virginie, trying to emphasize the “we” of Virginie and Fraser, and also let me know that it was an alluring film-world “we.”

Man, I was sick of that. “Well, actually,” I said, “I recently had the chance to work on a friend’s movie, but I decided to decline, even though Steve Buscemi was in it, and it might have been nifty to meet him.”

Incredulous, Virginie said, “Why?”

“Well, I would have done it if it had been a
real
film job, but since I was completely unskilled, I was asked to be assistant wardrobe person. Essentially, they wanted me to keep track of some clothes, do ironing, and I figured, might as well get a job in the Laundromat, right? Not very glam. I mean, a trained chinchilla could do it.”

Fraser shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“And because it was low budget, they could only pay me twenty bucks an hour, so you know…” I snorted and guffawed at the ridiculous wage (over twice what I was earning at the time, two dollars more than Virginie was earning).

“Assistant wardrobe
is
a real job. Especially when you’re on a period piece.”

“That’s what Virginie does,” said Fraser.

“Oh, you’re kidding? Gosh, what a complete idiot!” I said, looking directly at Virginie, meaning
You are the idiot
, but I don’t think she got it. Then I leaned over-exposing a dangerous amount of cleavage—and squeezed her forearm in a reassuring manner. “I’m sure it’s a really important job.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she snipped.

There was a deliciously dense tension in the air, sexual and otherwise. Fraser tried to diffuse it with a familiar action—
pulling out a package of cigarettes. He removed one and placed it between his lips. He offered the pack to Virginie. She took one. “Cigarette?” he said, holding the pack toward me.

“No, thanks. I’m allergic to smoke,” I said. “My bronchial tubes just close up.”

“Oh,” said Fraser, nodding, processing this information. Without glancing at Virginie, his hand went to the cigarette in his mouth. He removed it and carefully tucked it back into the pack. Yes, he did. Yes, he did.

An exasperated puff of air escaped from between Virginie’s lips. “I guess we can smoke in my room for a day or two while you’re here.”

“S’that okay?” said Fraser.

“Of course. Thanks.” A day or two? You think she was trying to tell me something?

Virginie huffed off down the hall, pausing at the door to her room. “Are you coming?” she said, hands on hips, a cig clamped angrily in her mouth.

“Um, yeah.” He took a swig of beer and stood slowly, hitching up his cowboy jeans.

Galoot, is what I thought. He’s a real galoot. I watched him lumber Neanderthal down the hall to Virginie’s room. He paused briefly to glance back at me before entering. Two seconds later I heard the door slam.

Dinner that evening was oddly enjoyable. I had no idea that it was in me to vamp, but vamp I did. Old Allison watched in wonder and amazement as I embraced my inner coquette—a buried being that had been lying dormant forever—and brought it blazing to the surface for maximum pain and torture of Virginie. They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. In this case revenge was a dish served up hot and tasty in a Betsey Johnson knockoff.

I had resolved to try to secure an invitation to the meal
after discovering that the bathroom had been wholly and ferociously scoured. Two new hand towels hung fluffy on the rack, and the beige goo growing on the low ceiling had been bleached away. All the dimly embarrassing unctions—Compound W, Monistat, Virginie’s prescription cortisone cream—had been stripped from the medicine cabinet.

Who the fuck was this George person anyway?

I took a long shower (soaping up and rinsing off my astonishing new bits until the fingertips started to raisin). On the way to my room I found Fraser in the kitchen, cooking up something fragrant and spicy.

“Mmm,” I said, moving close, “what smells so good?”

“Curried coconut shrimp.”

“My favorite,” I lied, letting my robe slip open a little at the top.

“Plenty to go around,” he said, taking a good gander. “If you want to join us, um, unless you have plans?”

“I have no plans.”
Except, of course, to drive your evil girlfriend quietly bonkers by flirting with you incessantly
.

“Well, we’ll probably chow down around eight, if you’re into it.”

“I’m into it,” I said. “But maybe I should run it by Virginie, you know, just to be polite.”
After all, she can hardly say no, and I’d like to see her face when I tell her you’ve included me
.

“Oh, she just went down to the corner. I forgot the coconut.” He guffawed. “But I’m sure it’s cool. I mean, there’s a ton of food. So why would she mind?”

What a galoot.

Of course, there are a lot of men, even highly intelligent ones, who are thick to the tricks of women. They believe in the myth of “sisterhood,” that fairy tale of female bonding and support, perpetrated by yeast infection medication commercials and movies like
Thelma & Louise, Boys on the Side
, and
Waiting to Exhale
—films in which women rescue one another from nasty, unfeeling men and then proceed to shore one
another up ad nauseam, usually over white-wine spritzers in candle-lit rooms. What a crock.
Dangerous Liaisons
is more like it.
All About Eve
got it just about right.