Waking Beauty (15 page)

“Hey, gorgeous,” said George, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek. “Ready to roll?”

“Let me just grab my purse.”

I was vaguely disappointed that Virginie and Fraser weren’t around to see us off. They would definitely have come to the curb to eyeball George’s new, illegally parked custom convertible. They would have oohed and ahhed over its sleek design, its Gatsby sportiness. The top was down and the leather seats smelled divine and looked plump and sumptuous. There was something brazen about it with the top down like that. It seemed too exposed, like a cracked nut with its soft meat showing.

“This is a very flash car, George.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, sounding proud, as if he had designed and assembled it himself. He swung the passenger door closed after I’d slid in, and it made an expensive, everything’s-been-engineered-to-fit-perfectly sound—a lovely muffled
chnnk
.

As we traveled to our destination it occurred to me that we were an exceptionally handsome couple in an exceptionally handsome automobile. People were checking us out, drivers and passengers in other vehicles, as well as pedestrians when we stopped at intersections. A lot of people simply took a longer-than-average look, but there were quite a few admiring smiles directed my way, and some hostile glances as well. Some even felt compelled to comment. An old coot in an ancient Cadillac shouted, “Oh, yeah, baby!” And a teenage Goth girl in the back of a Mazda 323 stuck her pierced tongue out at me. George seemed to be enjoying the attention, which, I suppose, was the point of owning a car like his. I asked him if people always gawked in traffic. He said yes, but more so with me along for the ride.

I guess I was better than a leather-covered rollover bar or burr walnut trim. New Allison was the ultimate option for a baby-blue Aston Martin convertible.

We pulled into a back alley in the warehouse district. Garbage cans, delivery vans, and three dapper fellows standing in front of a heavy steel panel—a wide industrial door that appeared impermeable. No sign of a restaurant. One of the guys came trotting over.

“Valet parking,” said George. He pressed a button on the dash and the car’s top came up and slid smartly into place. The valet handed George a ticket, took his place in the driver’s seat, and wheeled away.

“And that was the last he ever saw of it,” I said.

George laughed. “Bite your tongue,” he said, circling my waist with his arm. “Or better still, let me bite it,” he whispered.

“Evening,” said one of the dapper fellows, reaching for a handle at the left side of the steel panel. He slid it heavy to the right, revealing a miniature room. Two slip-covered chairs sat on opposite sides of a round table that held a squat vase crammed with white tulip tops.

George gestured for me to enter, and I thought: This is the new hot spot? You sit in a froufrou closet, stare at an alley, and try to keep your food down while the vermin scurry about your feet? But then I was inside, and so was George, and so was one of the dapper fellows, who pushed a button, which caused the room to lurch into motion, and I realized that we were in a decorated freight elevator.

“Hey,” I said, “cute gimmick.”

George smiled small, and I wondered if I had blown his I’ve-been-here-a-thousand-times-and-I’m-too-cool-to-be-impressed-by-this demeanor. But it
was
a gimmick, one that hipsters could comfortably embrace, even though they would undoubtedly sneer at restaurants such as the Noodle Factory with its equally gimmicky pasta machine—a Rube
Goldberg-like contraption that churned dough and squeezed cheese and stamped out fresh ravioli in front of the rapt faces of the suburban families that thronged there.

As the lift ascended to the fourth floor, I heard rising levels of crowd murmur and jazz piano. Then suddenly before us: a vista of impossibly high ceilings, bleached wood, billowing white fabric, and the bustle of wait staff attending to the desires of the well-heeled clientele. Wow, I thought, if I wasn’t beautiful, I would never even know this existed.

We approached a podium where a long blonde greeted George by name (Mr. Thomas) and told us that our table would soon be ready. “Would you care to have a drink at the bar?”

“Thank you.”

I felt very much like an adult as we were led to the lounge area, a space that appeared to be illuminated primarily by the bar itself—a curve of glass that glowed from within and gave off a diffused turquoise light. It made the drinks set on top look like glittering otherworldly jewels, like space-age lamps. A black man played a white piano.

We took a seat at the bar. More tulips. Single ones with slender stems, hanging languid over the tops of narrow vases. They looked beautifully intoxicated. “White tulips,” I said. “My favorite.”

“Is that right?” said George, passing me a drink menu. “You have to try a martini. They make the best martinis.”

I perused the dizzying array of concoctions—everything from the “Jackson” (a white chocolate martini) to the “Hemingway” (a questionable blend of absinthe and vodka). Each one of these chemistry experiments was priced at $14.95. More than I would typically spend on an entire meal.

“What can I get you?” asked a handsome bartender in a pec-hugging T-shirt. George ordered a Manhattan. I ordered the “Classic” martini. The thing was absurdly over-sized-almost as big as my head, with three golf-ball-sized olives impaled on what must have been a shish kebab skewer.
There was a mirror behind the bar and I had to resist the impulse to keep glancing at New Allison’s reflection as I sipped. I looked snazzy. I appeared to fit in. George was going on about his connection to la chef. Something about cottage proximity, about someone selling a boat to someone else, about learning that the lake neighbor was a food pro, about a fancy dinner becoming part of the boat deal. It wasn’t uninteresting. I smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments, but with every gulp of gin, my surroundings and situation grew increasingly surreal. Who am I? How did I get here? The glowing bar, the billowing fabric, the babbling-brook ripple of the piano—it was all very dreamy and disorienting.

Before long our table was ready and we were escorted to a corner of the dining area, where another good-looking staff member materialized to take our drink orders and announce the specials of the day.

“Today’s appetizer is pan-fried, cornmeal-crusted oysters, served with wilted greens in a smoked corn sauce with pepper relish. The main course tonight is a Nunivak caribou chop seared with juniper berry oil, Arctic cloudberry sauce, and Alsatian spatzle.”

George ordered a bottle of water, and the waiter scurried off to retrieve it.

“Spaetzle,” I said. “Isn’t that what they use to repair ceilings?”

“That’s spackle,” said George, not realizing that I was joking. “Spaetzle is a kind of noodle, or more accurately, a pan-sautéed dumpling. German in origin.”

“I see.” I was disappointed by his humorlessness, but impressed by his spaetzle knowledge.

As George studied the wine list, I read the menu. Half the items I couldn’t identify. I had no idea what a Périgord Confit was (endangered falcon?). Ditto the Foie Gras à Ma Façon (handful of grass in the face?) or the Soft Polenta (birth defect?). I played it safe and ordered mushroom soup and steak, or more accurately, Wild Morel Bisque ($16.95) and a
“12 oz USDA Prime Striploin in sauce Marchant de Vin accompanied by Rosti Potatoes” ($39.95). And dear God, the food was good. Exquisitely presented and shockingly tasty. I could have wept with the pleasure of having it in my mouth. I sampled George’s appetizer: Baked Goat Cheese with Seared Anjou Pears ($15.95). And when his entrée arrived, I maneuvered my fork across the table to try that, too. “Wow,” I said, swallowing a morsel of Roasted Squab with Fricassee of Seasonal Mushrooms, Quince Compote, and Lavender Honey Essence ($39.50). “I had no idea food could be this way. Ambrosia for the gods.”

George laughed and said, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” But then he was smiling to himself, and silent for a few seconds. “So,” he said eventually, “tell me about your family, Allison. What do your folks do?”

It occurred to me that my déclassé gushing over the grub had put George on alert about my background (i.e., just how blue collar was it?). I suppose I should have invented something middle-class and respectable, but the red wine on top of the Big Gulp martini had exacerbated my tendency toward recalcitrance.

“Well, I guess you could say they were farmers—they had a few pigs, a handful of chickens….”

George nodded.

“But, actually,” I said, “my parents are dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Sad face. Questioning face.

“Killed in a cougar attack.”

“Oh, my God,” he said, pausing squab consumption. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah. They were disemboweling a hog at the time, and I guess the scent must have attracted it. There are a lot of mountain lions roaming that region.”

“What region is that?”

“The hills of Kentucky.”

“Ap-Appalachia?”

“Yes, that’s right. Hooterville.” I knew about Hooterville
because I had a photography book about a community of mountain people in Appalachia. It was a fascinating book, full of filthy, frightening families.

George took a sip of water. “I thought you were from Los Angeles.”

“Um, yeah. After my folks…I was just a toddler at the time. I went to live with an aunt in California.”

“Wow.” George looked genuinely glum about my pawed-apart parents.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t be talking about this. Especially while we’re eating.”

“It’s okay.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand supportively.

I felt guilty after that and tried to lighten the conversation. I encouraged George to do the jawing. While we ate dessert—Homemade Sour Cream Ice Cream with Kahlúa Drizzle ($12.95)—he related several amusing anecdotes about his upscale upbringing: private schools, summers at the lake, learning to ski on Mt. Shirouma (the “Alps of Japan” apparently). He spoke fondly of his parents, “Liz and Nigel,” whom I pictured as über-WASPS, tastefully taking their cocktails in the quiet drawing room of their immaculate Rosedale mansion.

To be honest, I couldn’t really picture Appalachian Allison fitting into this scenario, and I found it surprising that George wasn’t put off by my hillbilly heritage. It didn’t seem to dim his interest in me at all. In fact, by the time dinner was over, he had asked me to come with him to a Cecilia Bartoli concert on Saturday, and hinted that a cottage invite would be imminent if I stayed in town for the summer.

I realized that, unlike brains, ability, or newfound wealth, beauty is the one thing that transcends class. It felt like a profound revelation at the time, but in retrospect I had known it all along, at least since I was old enough to read. After all, the Prince married Cinderella. He wasn’t scouring the local villages for the wittiest gal, or the one who could play the meanest
lute solo, or even the one of most noble birth. Snow White was well-born, yes, but I somehow doubt she would have fared so well with Prince Charming if she had been aptly named Porridge Gray or Eczema Red. And I suspect that somewhere out there in fairy-tale land, Sleeping Smarty-Pants is somnolently and vainly waiting for the tender kiss of a king’s son.

After dinner, George let me drive the Vanquish. It was fun. Really powerful. I booted it down Cherry Street and did a couple doughnuts in the Docks parking lot.

“I’m not that tired,” said George after he’d reclaimed the wheel. “Do you feel like doing something?”

“Like what?” The dashboard clock showed 11:03 P.M. Usually I’d be in bed with a book or the
Globe and Mail
.

“Well, I live pretty close,” he said, idly stroking the stick shift. “I could make you my signature after-dinner beverage.”

I took this to mean:
I could impress you with my
Architectural Digest
living quarters, then attempt to have sex with you
.

“Sounds good,” I said.

5    

When I arrived home on the following afternoon, I
was surprised to see our blue plastic recycling box squatting fat on the edge of the sidewalk. Usually I was the one who had to haul it out there. But what really threw me was the sight of the four weekend papers stacked neatly at the top. Unruffled and unread. It was the first time in years I hadn’t waded through the weekend woe.

“You’re back,” said Virginie when I walked in. She looked startled and displeased. Fraser seemed happier to see me. They were parked at the kitchen table, playing Kerplunk, of
all things, and sucking on cigarettes. The air was choked with smoke.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No, I just—we thought you’d left.”

“Because I didn’t sleep here last night.”

“And ’cause your suitcase and toothbrush were gone,” said Fraser.

Of course, my suitcase and toothbrush had never arrived. Happily they hadn’t noticed that I’d been using Old Allison’s toothbrush.

“I guess that means the airline hasn’t called about my luggage. The dolts lost my bag on the way here.”

“Well,” said Virginie, springing to her feet, “that explains it, then!” She charged into her room and returned moments later, red-faced, clutching the scrunched-up outfit I had pinched from her room-jeans, T-shirt, undies, sneakers.