I see, she smiles, as if she can discern a deeper meaning Im not aware of. And then Dorian asks the most dreaded question of all.
Have we seen you in anything?
Well, of course Ive done the odd commercial. I try to sound casual, shrugging my shoulders as if to imply who hasnt?
Really? She arches an eyebrow in a perfect impersonation of a woman impressed. What commercials?
Damn.
Well I try to think. There was the Readers Digest Sweepstakes Campaign. You may have caught me in that one.
She stares at me blankly.
You know, the one where theyre all flying around in a hot air balloon over England, drinking champagne and searching for the winners. I was the one on the left holding a map and pointing to Luton.
Ah ha. Shes being polite. Well, that sounds fun.
And now youre working in the box office. Mona wraps the whole thing up in a clean, little package.
Yes, well, Ive got a couple of things in the pipeline, so to speak but right now thats what Im doing. I want my arm back quite badly now.
She gives it another little squeeze. It is a difficult profession, darling. Best to know your limitations. I always advise young women to avoid it like the plague. The simple truth is, it takes more discipline and sacrifice than most modern girls are willing to put up with. Have you seen my picture?
Keep smiling, I tell myself. If you keep smiling, shell never know that you want her to die. No, I havent had much of a chance to look around yet; weve only just got here.
Here, allow me. And she pulls me over to a large photograph of her from the 1950s.
Shes incredibly young, almost unrecognizable, except for the distinctive, almond shape of the eyes and the famous cheekbones, which remain untouched by time. Shes leaning with her back pressed against a classical pillar, her face turned slightly to the camera, half in shadow, half in light. Her pale hair falls in artfully styled curls over her shoulders and shes wearing a strapless gown of closely fitted layers of flowing silk chiffon. Its labelled, Vogue, 1956.
What do you think? she asks, eyeing me carefully.
I think its beautiful, I say, truthfully.
You have taste. She smiles.
A press photographer recognizes her and asks if he can take her picture.
Story of my life! she laughs and I make my escape while she poses.
I look around the crowded room for my husband. Finally I spot him, laughing with a group of people in the corner. He has two glasses of champagne in his hands and as I make my way over, he looks up and catches my eye.
I smile and he says something, turns and walks towards me before I can join them.
Who are they? I ask, as he hands me a glass.
No one, just some people from one of these theatre clubs. They recognized me from the play. He guides me back towards the photographs. How are you getting on with Mums?
Oh, fine, I lie. Just fine. I turn back and look but theyre gone, swallowed by the ever shifting crowd. Didnt you want to introduce me?
He laughs and pats my bottom, which I hate and which he only ever seems to do in public. No, not at all! Dont be so paranoid. To be frank, theyre a bit, shall we say, over-enthusiastic. I dont want them boring my charming wife, now do I?
And who might that be? I sound much more acerbic than Id intended.
He pats my bottom again and ignores me.
We pause in front of a photograph of a woman smoking a cigarette, her eyes hidden by the brim of her hat. She leans, waiting in a doorway on a dark, abandoned street. It mustve been taken just after the Second World War. Theres something unsettling in the contrast of the shattered surroundings and the pristine perfection of her crisp, tailored suit.
Now thats style, my husband sighs.
Suddenly its too hot. I feel overwhelmed by the crush of people, the smoke, and the sound of too many over-animated conversations. Monas waving to us again but I allow my husband to walk over to her and make my way into a smaller, less crowded room off the main gallery instead. Theres a flat, wooden bench in the centre. I sit down and close my eyes.
Its foolish to get so tense. In another hour, it will all be over. Mona will have had her moment of glory and well be safely on our way back home. The thing to do is relax. Enjoy myself. I open my eyes and take a deep breath.
The walls are lined with portraits Picasso, Coco Chanel, Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant rows and rows of meticulous, glamorous faces. The eyes are darker, more penetrating than normal eyes, the noses straighter, more refined. I allow myself to slip into a sort of meditative state, a spell brought on by witnessing such an excess of beauty.
And then I spot a portrait I dont recognize, a woman with gleaming dark hair, parted in the middle and arranged in a mass of black curls around her face. Her features are distinctive; high cheekbones, a Cupids-bow mouth and very black, intelligent eyes. Leaning forward, with her cheek lightly resting against her hand, she looks as if weve happened to catch her in the middle of the most engaging conversation of her life. Her dress, a simple bias-cut sheath, is made from a light satin that shimmers against the dull material of the settee and her only jewellery is a single strand of perfectly matched pearls. Shes not the most famous face or even the most attractive, but for some reason shes undoubtedly the most compelling. I get up and cross the room. The name reads: Genevieve Dariaux, Paris, 1934.
However, my solitude is brief.
There you are! Monas sent us to find you. Penny comes strolling in on the arm of my reluctant husband.
Stay calm, I remind myself, taking a much-needed gulp of my champagne. Hello, Penny, just enjoying the exhibition.
She leans forward and waggles a finger in my face.
You know, Louise, youre very, very naughty! She winks at my husband. I dont know how you can let her drink! Youre both as bad as each other!
My husband and I exchange looks. Come again?
She leans in further and drops her voice to a stage whisper. I must say, you look amazing! And this, she continues, feeling the fabric of my dress gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, this really isnt too bad at all. I mean, most of them look like absolute tents but this ones really quite cute. My daughters due in May and shes desperate for something like this that she can just pad about in.
I feel the blood draining away from my head.
She smiles at both of us. You must be soooooooooooo pleased!
I swallow hard. Im not pregnant.
She wrinkles her brow in confusion. Im sorry?
I am not pregnant, I repeat, louder this time.
My husband laughs nervously. Youll be the first to know when she is, I can assure you!
No, I think I will, I say, and he laughs again, slightly hysterical now.
Penny continues to gape at me in amazement. But that dress Im sorry, I mean, its just
I turn to my husband. Honey?
He seems to have found a point of fascination on the floor. Humm?
Potato.
I dont know what I thought hed do, defend me somehow or at least look sympathetic. But instead he continues to stare at his shoes.
I turn to my husband. Honey?
He seems to have found a point of fascination on the floor. Humm?
Potato.
I dont know what I thought hed do, defend me somehow or at least look sympathetic. But instead he continues to stare at his shoes.
OK.
I turn and walk away. I feel like Im having an out-of-body experience but somehow manage to gain the safety of the 1oo. A couple of girls are fixing their make-up as I enter, so I make a beeline for an empty stall and lock the door. I wait, with my back pressed against the cool metal and close my eyes. No one ever died of humiliation, I remind myself. If that were true, Id have been dead years ago.
Finally, they leave. I unlock the door and stand in front of the mirror. Like any normal woman, I look in the mirror every day, when I brush my teeth or wash my face or comb my hair. Its just I tend to look at myself in pieces and avoid joining them all up together. I dont know why; it just feels safer that way.
But tonight I force myself to look at the whole thing. And suddenly I see how the bits and pieces add up to someone Im not familiar with, someone I never intended to be.
My hair needs a trim and I should really dye it to get rid of those prematurely grey strands. Incredibly fine and ashen coloured, it drapes listlessly around my head, forced to one side by a faux tortoiseshell clip. My face, always pale, is unnaturally white. Not ivory or alabaster but rather devoid of any colour at all, like some deep sea animal thats never encountered the sun. Against it, the bright red smear of lipstick Ive applied seems garish and my mouth far too big like a gaping, scarlet gash across the bottom third of my face. The heat of the crowd has made me sweat; my nose is glistening, my cheeks are shiny and flushed but I havent any powder.
And my favourite dress, despite being dry cleaned, has gone hopelessly bobbly and is, now that were being honest, shapeless in a way that was fashionable five years ago, though definitely out of style now. I remember feeling sexy and confident in it when it used to just skim the contours of my figure, suggesting a sylph-like sensuality. Now that Im ten pounds heavier, the effect is not the same. To finish it all off, my shoes, a pair of practical, flat Mary Janes with Velcro fastenings, make my ankles look like two thick tree trunks. Faded and scuffed, theyre everyday shoes, at least two years old, and really too worn to be seen anywhere but inside my own house.
Im forced to conclude that the whole effect does rather shout, Pregnant woman. Or, more precisely, This is the best I can do under the circumstances.
I stare at my reflection in alarm. No, this person isnt really me. Its all just a terrible mistake a Bermuda Triangle of Bad Hair day meets Bad Dress day, meets Hippie Shoes from Hell. I need to calm down, centre myself.
I try an experiment.
Hi, my names Louise Canova. Im thirty-two years old and Im not pregnant.
My voice echoes around the empty loo.
This isnt working. My heart is pounding and Im starting to panic. I close my eyes and will myself to concentrate, to think positive thoughts, but instead the images of a thousand glossy black and white faces crowd my mind. Its like Im not even of the same species.
Suddenly the door behind me opens and Mona walks in.
Triple fucking potato.
She leans dramatically against the basin. Louise, Ive just heard. Listen, she didnt mean anything, Im sure, and besides, shes blind as a bat.
Why does he have to tell her everything?
Thanks, Mona, I appreciate it.
Still, she comes up behind me and pushes my hair back from my face with two carefully manicured fingers, if you like, I could give you the name of my hairdresser, hes really very reasonable.
My husband is waiting when I come out. He hands me my coat and we leave the party in silence, finding ourselves standing in the same spot in Trafalgar Square less than thirty minutes after we arrived. Scanning the street for any sign of a cab, he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one.
What are you doing? I ask.
Smoking, he says. (My husband doesnt smoke.)
I leave it.
The yellow light of a cab lurches towards us from a distance and I wave wildly at it. Its misting now. The cab slows down and we get in. My husband throws himself heavily against the back seat then leans forward again to pull down the window.
Suddenly I want to make him laugh, to cuddle him, or rather to be cuddled. After all, what does it matter what I look like or what anyone else thinks? He still loves me. I reach over and put my hand over his.
Sweetheart? Do you do you really think I look OK?
He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. Listen, Pumpkin, you look just fine. Exactly the way you always do. Dont pay any attention to her. Shes probably just jealous because youre young and married.
Yes, I agree hollowly, though its not quite the effusive sea of compliments Id hoped for.
He squeezes my hand again and kisses my forehead. Besides, you know I dont care about all that rubbish.
The cab speeds on into the darkness and as I sit there, with the cold wind blowing against my face, a single, violent thought occurs to me.
Yes, but I do.
What is Elegance?
It is a sort of harmony that rather resembles beauty with the difference that the latter is more often a gift of nature and the former a result of art. If I may be permitted to use a high-sounding word for such a minor art, I would say that to transform a plain woman into an elegant one is my mission in life.
Genevieve Antoine Dariaux
It was a slim, grey volume entitled Elegance. It was buried between a fat, obviously untouched tome on the history of the French monarchy and a dog-eared paperback edition of D. H. Lawrences Women in Love. Longer and thinner than the other books on the shelf, it rose above its modest surroundings with a disdainful authority, the embossed letters of its title sparkling against the silver satin cover like a glittering gold coin just below the surface of a rushing brook.
My husband claims I have an unhealthy obsession with second-hand bookshops. That I spend too much time daydreaming altogether. But either you intrinsically understand the attraction of searching for hidden treasure amongst rows of dusty shelves or you dont; its a passion, bordering on a spiritual illness, which cannot be explained to the unafflicted.
True, theyre not for the faint of heart. Wild and chaotic, capricious and frustrating, there are certain physical laws that govern second-hand bookstores and, like gravity, theyre pretty much non-negotiable. Paperback editions of D. H. Lawrence must constitute no less than 55 per cent of all stock in any shop. Natural law also dictates that the remaining 45 per cent consists of at least two shelves worth of literary criticism on Paradise Lost, and there should always be an entire room in the basement devoted to military history which, by sheer coincidence, will be haunted by a man in his seventies. (Personal studies prove its the same man. No matter how quickly you move from one bookshop to the next, hes always there. Hes forgotten something about the war that no book can contain, but like a figure in Greek mythology, is doomed to spend his days wandering from basement room to basement room, searching through memoirs of the best/worst days of his life.)