Let Down Your Hair (12 page)

Had I passed my mother in the street, I would have guessed her in her late twenties. She looked older than my photo of her, but not in the clumsy ways I’d imagined. Her face was unlined and still heart-shaped; her flowing caramel pants hugged hips barely wider than they’d been at seventeen. Her asymmetrical black top left both arms bare, and her hair had been lightened to a streaky gold that could almost have developed naturally on the beach. She might have been posing in her entry hall for
Vogue
, were it not for her left hand, which was gripping the doorknob beside her so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

My face seemed paralyzed, so she smiled for both of us—a careful, charming smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Sadie?”

I nodded.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her face twisting as if she was trying not to cry. “Look at you!” She released the doorknob, half-leaned toward me and then jerked herself back.

A mortified wave swept through me. I
had
looked at me. The thought of this elegant woman seeing the wreck in the downstairs window made me hot with shame. I wanted to apologize for how I looked, but my mouth felt like it was made of rubber. Tears spilled from her eyes like drops of black ink. They’d almost reached her chin before I realized that the blackness was mascara, and the strange jerk was her being too afraid to hug me.

She turned her head to hide her tears, and I put my arms around her in a weak, awkward embrace where only our shoulders touched. Her body felt like a sapling in clothes, and she smelled of perfume and makeup. She placed her forehead on my shoulder, and I remembered how Ryan had stroked my hair and listened until my tears ran dry. By now he might be home, eyes flushed free of Mace, curling up alone on his milk crate futon. Or being treated in hospital, waiting for me to call when he was discharged in the morning.

I laid a nervous hand on my mother’s glossy hair, but before I could stroke it she lifted her face. “I’m sorry, babe,” she said, detaching herself and trying to restore her charming smile. “Come on in.” She ushered me over the threshold.

The inside of the suite was like a beachfront mansion by an ocean of murmuring city lights. The deep cream carpet of the foyer flowed down a short corridor into a vast rectangular room, lit by a constellation of downlights. A television the size of a car was mounted on the wall, bracketed by a semi-circle of black leather couches. On its screen, wafer-thin women prowled along a catwalk to dance music, their outfits the only splashes of color in the otherwise monochrome decor. Beyond the couches, a floor-to-ceiling window ran the length of the room.

Caramel fabric rippled around my mother’s legs, revealing glimpses of black suede boots. Her heels must have been over three inches high, yet she crossed the room with the effortless grace of a yacht in light wind. Flat-footed in lace-ups, I followed, feeling more graceless and awkward with every step. She gestured me into a leather armchair. “Take a seat,” she said. “I won’t be a minute.”

She hurried away down a hallway, leaving me with the television and the view. In the background, I heard tissues being pulled from a box, followed by a metallic clinking, and the sound of a drawer being opened. I stared out the window, blood thumping in my ears. I had just met my mother. I was
in my mother’s apartment
. It was as if a character from a childhood story had come to life and hugged me in her doorway.

Other children had imaginary friends, I had an imaginary mother; a patchwork stitched together from mothers I’d met and read about. Until I reached nine or so, she was just
there
, like a guardian angel, baking me frog-shaped cakes. As I approached puberty, though, she started being
out there somewhere
, a real person I was one day going to meet. Even then, I knew she wouldn’t be what I’d imagined, but I convinced myself meeting her would change everything. That she’d fill the hollow, kiss my bruises better, heal the wound her absence left behind. Yet now that I was sitting on my real mother’s couch, I felt lost and out of place.

Down the corridor, the drawer closed, and my mother re-emerged, lashes curled, inky streaks erased from her cheeks. As our eyes met, her smile returned, flashing just the right amount of pearly teeth, as if she’d been practising her smile for the camera. Which, as a fashion model, she probably had.

Looking at that smile, I felt more disconnected than ever.
Smile back, Sage. Talk to her. She’s your mother
, I told myself, but I didn’t believe it. My mother was the patchwork figure I carried in my head, not this glamorous stranger who’d stolen her face.

She gave a self-conscious eye-roll. “Sorry about that,” she said, switching off the television and beckoning me into the kitchen, which was divided from the lounge by a marble-topped bar lined with stools. The double-door fridge, cupboards and bench tops were stainless steel, and everything else was a sleek, shiny black.

“So what can I get you, babe?” She opened one of the fridge doors to reveal a dizzying array of cans and bottles. “Juice? Coffee?
Wine?
” Her eyebrows and lips gave a mischievous waggle, as if we shared a naughty secret.

“Thanks, but I … A glass of water’s fine.” My stomach was empty, and I didn’t want it full of wine for our first conversation.

“
Water?
Oh come
on
.” She slid two glasses from the rack above her head and laid them in front of me. “Red or white?”

“Seriously,” I said, “I haven’t eaten since one, so I—”

“You
what?
” Her mouth made an appalled O. “You mean you skipped dinner?”

“Not skipped, exactly, I just—”

She held up a manicured hand. “Say no more, babe. We’ve all been there. We know we shouldn’t, but we’ve been there. OK, then.” She took a gold-embossed leather folder from behind the bar. “Pick something from room service. On me.”

I turned to the section labeled “Room Service” and saw the prices. My watering mouth went dry. “Actually, don’t order anything, I’ll just have something from the fridge.”
Do people who live in penthouses even keep food in the fridge?

“Are you
sure?
” Even her concerned expression looked rehearsed. She opened the other fridge door and frowned at the contents. “There’s this,” she said, pulling out what looked like an entree platter for a corporate lunch. “I was going to throw it out, but—”

My stomach wailed with hunger. “I’m fine with that. Really.”

She slid the platter onto the bar, and I fell on it like a famished dog. Halfway through the smoked salmon and cheese I realized that she was watching me, wine glass cradled in both hands. Her wide-eyed smile returned, as if I’d flipped a switch. The last of my appetite evaporated. I wanted to grab my bag and run back to a world where my imaginary patchwork mother was all there was.

“I wish I’d known you were coming, babe.” Her voice was quieter now, the sing-song note extinguished. “I could’ve … I don’t know, ordered champagne or something. Why didn’t you call me?”

A piece of cracker stabbed the roof of my mouth. “I don’t have your number.”

She gave a short, brittle laugh. “Sorry, honey, you don’t get off that easy. I gave you the number of this place the day I moved in, remember? And you also have my email and my cell number, because I put my card in at least two letters last year.”

She drained her glass. I stared at her fixed smile, her flawless makeup, realization startting to build. She thought I’d come without warning on purpose. To catch her off guard. To punish her for abandoning me.

“I never got those letters,” I said, suddenly desperate to explain.

She put down the bottle with a
clunk
. “So what about the one you showed me downstairs, honey?” Her smile was steely now, guarding her face like a shield.

“That’s the only one I
got
.” Sudden tears fought their way to the surface. “I didn’t even know you were sending me letters. Andrea didn’t pass them on.” The tears broke free, falling so fast I could taste them in my mouth as I spoke. “I only found it because I broke into her filing cabinet.”

Her face paled. “You’re shitting me.”

Unable to speak, I shook my head.

“I must have sent you hundreds. Presents, photos, postcards … you didn’t get
any
of them?”

I shook my head again.

“You thought I’d just … walked out and … Fuck.
Fuck.
” She staggered across the room to the window, resting her forehead against the glass and breathing as if she were about to drown. A halo of condensation formed around her, fogging the view.

I slid off my stool and tiptoed toward her. “Emmeline?” I said, not knowing what else to call her.

Her head whipped up, eyes blazing, tears pouring out of them unchecked. “Why are you here, Sadie?” Her ragged voice frightened me. I took a step backwards, and she grabbed my shoulders, as if trying to force her question into my skin. “Why?”

“Because I walked out on Andrea tonight,” I said, taking her hands, “and thought it was time I met my mother.”

She bowed her head. “You don’t hate me?”

I shook my head. With her first genuine smile of the night, my mother lifted her face and hugged me, a proper, crushing hug that made me feel like I’d come home.

I woke to a sea of white. Everything around me was white, the walls, the furniture, the fine, silky bedclothes. It was like floating in a bath of warm milk. After a brief, disoriented moment, memories of last night came trickling back. Talking to my mother for the first time ever, about how she’d met Dirk, and my childhood days with Andrea. We hadn’t touched on what drove me to find her, or why she left me with Andrea, but now we had the rest of our lives to get there.

I sat up and looked around me. My mother’s guest room had the impersonal look of a hotel, there was even a paper-wrapped soap on a pile of white towels at the end of the bed. I pulled the knobbly cord on the vertical blinds. They tilted open, casting pencils of light across the carpet, and falling on a wall-mounted phone.

The memory of Andrea belting Ryan’s face crashed through my warm, sleepy glow. I wrenched back the covers and grabbed the receiver, pausing only to check the clock by my bed. 8:15 am. Surely he’d be awake by now.

I punched in Ryan’s number. “Hi, you’ve just failed to reach Ryan Prince.” My heart swelled at the sound of his voice. “If you want to talk to the man, not the message, let my voicemail know.” An electronic beep and then silence, humming as it waited for my message.

“It’s me.” The words wobbled out, jerky with fear and concern. “Just ringing to … to see how you are. Whether your eyes are better, and … everything.” I swallowed. “Are you still at the hospital? Give me a call back on this number when you can, OK?” The words I couldn’t say in the office—
I love you
—teetered on my lips, but I still couldn’t bring myself to say them. Not now. Not over the phone. “Take care,” I said instead, and hung up.

Emmeline had lent me a laptop. I opened it, googled the William Wilde Hospital and dialed the general number on their web page.

“William Wilde Hospital,” said a cheerful female voice. “How may I direct your call?”

“Um, hi,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “I’m trying to contact a patient called Ryan Prince. He would have been admitted last night.”

“Let me have a look for you.” Her keyboard clattered. “Ryan Prince, admitted 7:35 pm yesterday, Ward 2 East. I’ll put you through.”

My heart leapt. It felt like weeks, not hours, since I’d seen him. “Thank you.”

The next female voice sounded impatient and distracted. “Ward 2 East.”

“Hi, I was hoping to speak with Ryan Prince.”

“Just a moment.” She put me on hold. “He’s asleep,” she said, after a few bars of “Für Elise”. “Call back in an hour or two.”

My heart fell again. “Is he going to be discharged this morning?”

“Can’t tell you, sorry,” she said, and hung up.

Annoyed and disappointed, I swiped a towel from the pile, and padded into the bathroom to take a shower. After glimpsing my face, I avoided the mirror until the sight of my butchered hair was blurred by steam.

When I emerged, the clothes I’d arrived in were wrapped in plastic and draped over a chair. A receipt was taped to the hangers:
Thank you for using our professional one hour dry-cleaning service
.
Ladies’ pants, 1 pair; ladies’ blouses, 1; ladies’ underwear, 2 pieces; ladies’ socks, 1 pair
. The total at the bottom made me wince as I tore open the plastic. My clothes smelled of chemicals, and knife edge pleats had been ironed into my pants. I put them on and tiptoed down the hall.

By daylight, the living room looked more like a place where real people lived. The carpet had four dents from a former coffee table, and there was an empty wine bottle next to the bin. The cushions were haphazardly scattered on the couches, and a handbag sat open on one of the bar stools.

Emmeline was outside on the terrace, already dressed and reclining on a sunlounge. She put her coffee down on the table beside her and pushed her sunglasses onto her head with a manicured finger. Her hair had been twisted into a chignon, and her long oval nails wore a hint of translucent gold.

“Morning, babe.” She gave me a smile, a little shy but real, and for the first time I saw lines: starbursts around her eyes, creases running up from the corners of her mouth. Humanised by sunlight, like her living room.

With a shy smile of my own, I clambered onto an identical sunlounge on the other side of the table. Emmeline poured me a coffee, and I sipped it, looking over the railings at the view.

All that remained of the previous night’s rainstorm were a few feathers of cloud, as far above us as the bustling city was below. By day, it looked like an anthill, swarming with tiny cars and people, making a distant roar studded with car horns.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Emmeline. She handed me the room service menu. “So what do you feel like to eat?”

I turned to “Breakfast”. The only thing under thirty dollars was fruit salad. “I’ll have the fruit salad, thanks.”

“
Fruit salad?
” She rolled her eyes. Her makeup was so expertly applied that only the lip-prints on her mug gave away that she was wearing any. “Oh come
on
. You don’t need to get fruit salad, babe. I mean, look at you!”

I glanced down at myself, confused. Emmeline had on a tight black sweater and jeans tucked into knee-high suede boots. My shoulders hunched, as if to hide what I was wearing.

Emmeline grabbed back the menu. “Here, get the Eggs Florentine. You won’t regret it, I swear. Or the blueberry and cream cheese pancakes, if you want fruit. Bad, but
divine
.”

Bad?
Then I realized she meant
fattening.
An evil temptation that might sneak in and ruin my figure. Feminist alarm bells jangled in my head. “I’m happy with fruit salad. Honestly.”

“Are you
sure?
Oh, you
are
good. No wonder you’re so slim.” She picked up the phone and rang through my order.

Good
. Eating fruit salad made me
good
, because I was putting my looks above my taste buds. I drowned a sermon on body-shaming with a gulp of coffee and pulled out my wad of fennel-scented bills.
Emmeline was a fashion model
, I reminded myself, as I counted out twenty-eight dollars.
That sort of “thindoctrination” takes years to shake off.

Emmeline hung up. “What are you doing, babe?”

I held out the money. “For the fruit salad.”

“Babe!” She pushed my hand away. “While you’re with me, you don’t pay for anything, OK? It’s on me.”

I stood my ground. “I can’t just let you pay for everything. It’s—”

“Honey. Does it
look
like buying you a fruit salad would put me out?” She gestured at her luxurious quarters.

“No, but—”

“Put the money away.”

My hand retreated to my pocket. Emmeline sipped her coffee, and I surveyed the penthouse. “How did you come to be living here?”

Emmeline gave a small smile. “How did I get rich enough, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“It’s not actually my place. It’s Dirk’s.”

“Your husband?”

“My boyfriend. Although,” she added, with an arch sideways glance, “I
am
hoping for an upgrade.”

Another alarm bell went off. My mother was a
trophy girlfriend
. Playing ornament and sex toy to a wealthy man, in exchange for the perks of his cash. Hoping for a ring to seal the deal.

This time even coffee couldn’t subdue the feminist missionary. “Don’t you find that a bit …” I swallowed the word ‘demeaning’, “… dependent? Not earning your own money?”

Emmeline’s eyes hardened under their curled lashes. “Are you judging me, honey?”

“Not judging you, I—”

“Just because I’m not employed doesn’t mean I don’t work. Look at me, Sadie. I look good, don’t I?”

I hugged my knees against my badly dressed body. “Yes.”

“This,” she said, swishing a hand at her figure, “is my work. Dirk’s a marketing executive. In his business, image is everything. I maintain my looks. I take care of him when he comes home tired and stressed. I accompany him to work functions and make conversation with his colleagues. It’s not always fun, but the rewards”—She indicated the penthouse and terrace—“are pretty impressive.”

The intercom buzzed and she went inside, the heels of her boots snapping resentfully across the tiles. I drank the last of my coffee, the feminist still shrieking inside me.
Live in his house and off his money, and you give him total power! What will you put up with to hang on to your lifestyle? What if he cheats or abuses you? What will you do if he loses his money or your relationship breaks down?

Emmeline returned bearing a tray and a carefully restored smile. “I’ve never ordered the fruit salad before.” She lay the tray on the table and lifted the lid, revealing a beautifully assembled tower built from chunks of mango and melon and berries. I added some cream from a side dish and started to eat.

“So,” she said, swiping a strawberry, “how about
your
love life, Sadie? Are you seeing anyone?”

I swallowed a too-big mouthful of fruit. “I am, actually.” A faint flush toasted my cheeks.

“So?” said Emmeline in a meaningful voice, climbing back onto her sunlounge.

I was baffled. “So?”

“So tell me about him! What’s his name? What does he do?”

He dances with a blindfold on to make me feel comfortable. He misses classes to take me shopping for new glasses. He hacks into computers for me and tells me I’m beautiful. “Ryan. He’s studying to be an art teacher.”
Had he got my message?
I bit my lip, half-wanting to run back to the phone and ring and ring until he answered.

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And he’s still
studying?
” She sounded as though she’d never heard of such a thing. “What does he live off?”

I stiffened. “He does life modeling.”
And twenty-four’s not old to be studying!
I added in silent affront. His bitter words that day on the futon trickled back into my head.
I had a vision. By twenty-one, galleries would be lining up to exhibit my work. By twenty-five, I
’
d have it all.
I gripped the handle of my fork and promised myself that I’d give Ryan back his vision.

Emmeline’s face lit up. “He’s a model?”

“A life model. He poses for artists.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean
naked?
”

“Well, yes, but it’s not—”
About sex
, I was going to say, but Emmeline interrupted with a hysterical laugh.

“My God, a
nude model!
Don’t you get jealous of other women seeing him naked?”

“No. They’re art students.”
And nudity
doesn’t equal sex
, I added to myself, stabbing a chunk of pineapple with my fork.

“Yeah,
right
.” Emmeline settled back onto her sunlounge. “All I can say is, don’t give Dirk ideas. Not that anyone would paint Dirk at the moment. Too much office, not enough gym. So your Ryan’s pretty buff then, huh? Muscles, six pack …”

“Life models don’t have to be buff. He’s sort of … lean.”

Ryan’s bright-eyed face welled up in my mind’s eye again. Was he still in hospital? Maybe by now his phone would be back on. I should try to ring him again …

“How did you meet him?”

“I kind of saw him out my office window, and wanted to meet him,” I said, glossing over the fact that he’d been life modeling at the time.

“So what was it about him?”

I thought of the day when he’d looked up through the skylight. How he’d watched until I’d freed my head from the window, and then grinned and waved, as if we were friends.

“I mean,” said Emmeline, still waiting for my answer, “I can see what he saw in you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He sees this gorgeous blonde looking down from a window—”

I swung my legs over the edge of the sunlounge and strode to the railing. She was mocking me. Or, worse still, humoring me to try and make me feel better about myself. Emmeline approached from behind, but I ignored her, staring down at the traffic.

“What’s the matter, babe?” She sounded puzzled.

“Don’t call me gorgeous.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not gorgeous, and you know it. I’m a freak, with bad hair, bad glasses and bad clothes.”

“Oh, Sadie.” She laid a hand on my shoulder, and its warmth was like balm on my long-open wound. “I was a model, remember? I can see past that stuff. What counts is height and bone structure, and let me tell you, babe, you have both. In spades.”

I looked up, wanting to believe her.

“As for clothes, you should have seen some of the things I wore on the catwalk. There was one $2000 outfit that looked like a clown costume made from curtains. The point isn’t what you’re wearing, it’s
working
what you’re wearing.”

“Working?”

“Put it this way,” said Emmeline, guiding me back to the table. “You could have walked out this morning like you had on chic retro glasses, a mussed choppy cut and the latest in slouchy weekend wear by Kate Sylvester. But you didn’t. You walked out like your clothes made you feel self-conscious. You know what that tells me?”

My hand gripped the back of the chair. “What?”

“That you’re not comfortable with your look.”

I released the chair and sat, thinking about the karaoke night, and what happened afterward. How the world had filled suddenly with mocking, sneering faces. How I’d left college to study from home. How I’d started growing my hair. “I suppose you’re right,” I said slowly, picking up my fruit salad.

“Of course I’m right,” declared Emmeline, swinging gracefully onto her sunlounge. “And you know what else that tells me?”

“What?”

“That it’s time for our first mother-daughter shopping trip!”