Waking Beauty (17 page)

It was a handsome man in a handsome suit, holding a handsome white box with
Flowers by Marco
embossed in pink on the side.

“Allison Penny?”

“Yes.”

He hoisted the heavy box into my arms.

“Wow! Thank you very much!”

“You’re most welcome.” He seemed to be enjoying my reaction. He bowed almost imperceptibly and then headed back to his shiny
Flowers by Marco
van.

I took the package to the kitchen and popped the top. An enclosed card said:
When can I see you again? George
. I parted the thick layers of pink tissue paper. Roses. Red ones. Three dozen of the long-stemmed variety, their preposterously plump heads beaded with cool moisture. I felt a tinge of disappointment. I’ve never cared for roses, particularly red ones. I find them gaudy and obvious, the streetwalkers of the flower world. Hot red mouths. Rude thorns. Still, it was thrilling to receive them. No one had sent me flowers before. The only thing I’d received via deliverymen was pizza.

I left a duly effusive thank-you message on George’s answering machine and set about finding vessels to hold thirty-six Wilt the Stilt roses in our vase-less apartment. Pop bottles, Mason jars, wine bottles, even an empty milk carton was pressed into service. By the time I had wrestled the flowers into water and positioned them on windowsills, tables, countertops, and speakers, it was time to leave the mausoleum and go to work, or at least attempt to go to work.

Success. If you can call it that. Fifteen minutes later I was riding in the van, heading to 505 Richmond. I had told the DeSouzas the whole phony-baloney story, and after a protracted Portuguese huddle on the paved front lawn, Isadora signaled for me to climb aboard. She didn’t seem too keen on the impromptu arrangement. When I first explained the situation, she’d made a number of brusque inquiries, and now regarded me with a vaguely hostile air. The rest of the DeSouzas, on the other hand, appeared eager to have me take Old Allison’s place. Paulo, in particular, seemed pleased by the plan. For the first time ever he took the seat directly across from me. He didn’t don shades or disappear into Discman; he asked questions, joked around, and offered to show me the ropes when we got to work. Alvaro and Abril kept their Game Boys switched off and ogled me the entire ride. Mina, who had never said boo before, wanted to know where I got my jeans, and what shade of nail polish I was wearing, and just generally treated me like a glamorous older sister whom she would like to emulate. Mrs. DeSouza, who usually kept her eyes fixed on the road, turned and checked me out a dozen times (risking life and limb by abandoning her mind-control traffic duties). Mr. DeSouza also scoped me repeatedly, in the rearview mirror, and kept uncharacteristically quiet. He didn’t swear once at the
idiotas
who failed to signal before stopping to make a left. Bizarre. But it was Isadora’s behavior that I found the most altered, and distressing. She sat as far away from me as possible and was barely civil, let
alone her usual warm self. Not that I expected her to instantly treat New Allison like an old chum, but I did expect a certain level of openness and affability, at least the same level I’d encountered when she initially made friendly overtures to Old Allison. I had never seen Isadora so closed up. So clenched. In order to loosen the fist of her mood, I tried to engage her in chitchat, bringing up the one topic she invariably loved to jaw about: Virginie. I wanted to let her know that I, too, despised the “Porco,” that I was a bona fide member of the Old Allison/Isadora Porco-hating club. I wanted to tell her about the clothes under the bed, how I had been cruelly accused, and how I had coolly stared down and frustrated the enemy. But I didn’t get the chance to tell her, because every time I tried to kick-start conversation, she would shut it down with a curt retort. Had something horrid happened earlier in the day? Was Isadora in a rare foul temper that had nothing to do with me? Or, more likely, was she just treating me the way I would have treated me if I were in her place? Like a spoiled beautiful person, probably stupid, with whom I could have nothing in common, a person who was probably accustomed to getting whatever she wanted, more worthy of my scorn than my friendship. I noticed that Isadora had shifted her body position so she could stare out the rear window. Only once did she look over (to mutter “Down, boy” when cousin Paulo—engaged to be married to a nice Portuguese girl—got a little too flirty). I noticed something else, too. For the first time ever, I hadn’t received one of Isadora’s trademark sympathetic smiles. Not one. I had always suspected that the maudlin mug was reserved for Old Allison, and apparently I was right.

It didn’t cheer me to conclude that Isadora had been something of a pity pal, and it cheered me less to realize that I would have welcomed her back in that capacity. It was galling to be felt sorry for and embraced, but worse to be resented and shut out.

Armed with keys and cart and the resolve not to take it to
heart, I rolled down the hallway with Paulo in tow. He had convinced the elder DeSouzas that he should accompany me through the first office to make sure I was doing things correctly. I told them I would be fine, but Paulo insisted. Oddly enough, now that he was all into me, I no longer found him appealing. Only days before I thought he was quite handsome in a silent, tough-guy way—the five o’clock shadow, the dark shades, the crucifix hugging the muscled, hirsute neck. Now he just seemed short (I was at least three inches taller). And I hadn’t realized until he started chatting me up what a grating voice he had on him. Like Joe Pesce after sucking half a balloon’s worth of helium. Downright Lollipop Guild. Paulo was definitely a lot more attractive when I was five foot three, and he kept his cakehole closed, and didn’t follow me around 505 Richmond like a beagle in heat.

He tailed me through three entire offices, doing most of the work (which was nice) and chattering all the way (which wasn’t). Finally, I dropped several hearty hints that I was of the lesbian persuasion, which succeeded in sending macho Paulo scuttling back to his broom closet.

Good.

Unfortunately, by the time I made it to the Malcolm Anders Agency, it had pretty much cleared out. There was one guy working late, typing at his computer and eating from a bag of mini-carrots. He had a buzz cut, long sideburns, and 1950s-style horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a tank top and a curling cardigan with plastic buttons in the shape of curling rocks. I couldn’t tell if he was ultra-groovy or gay or both.

“Excuse me,” I said, stopping my cart at his cubicle.

“Yes?”

“I guess Fiona has left for the day, huh?”

“She’s actually out of the office this week. But she’ll be calling in.” He studied my face as if we had met and he was trying to place me. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Um, she gave me her card and asked me to get in touch with her.”

“Cleaning lady!” he said, pointing to my cart. “You must be…” He sifted through the papers on his desk, locating a lime green Post-it note. “You must be Allison Penny.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m Brendan, Fiona’s assistant. She told me you might be calling, and that you were stunning and not to let you get away.”

I laughed. Then I tried a smile on him, one I had been practicing at home in the bathroom mirror. It started out cutesy, then bloomed into dazzling.

“She was right. You are stunning.” He looked me up and down. “But you’re gonna have to lose the shirt. Not lose as in topless, just lose as in replace it with something, anything else.”

I laughed. My Old Allison sweatshirt was about ten sizes too big.

“Mini-carrot?”

“No, thanks.”

“They’re organic.” He held the bag toward me, jiggled it.

I took one.

“You know, Fiona said you were a cleaning lady; she didn’t say you were a cleaning lady
here
.”

“I’m not. I’m just filling in for a friend. This is my first time at this building.”

“Really? That’s weird.” He devoured a carrot in rapid rabbit nibbles. “So you’re just here for tonight?”

“No. I’ll probably be filling in for a little while.”

“Oh. Hmm. ’Cause you know there’s this other agency in the building. And if anyone up there gets a look at you, they’ll probably try to sign you. And you’re gonna think it’s a good idea because their offices are a lot swankier than ours, and they rep a lot of top models—a couple who started here, as a matter of fact—but you shouldn’t do it, because it’s a big pond
up there with a lot of big fish, and Fiona is, like, the best agent you could ever ask for, especially if you’re just starting out. She doesn’t just get you gigs, she’ll totally help you launch and manage your career.”

“Is she on vacation right now?”

“Sort of. Not exactly. She spends a week every year volunteering up at Camp Wajakosh. You know the cancer camp for kids?”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah. Honest to God, I don’t know how she does it. I think I’d just be crying all the time.” He looked as if he was about to start weeping just thinking about it. “All right,” he said, slapping himself on the cheek to snap out of it, “I’m gonna get you the brochure for the photographer we use.”

“Thanks.” I felt a glimmer of guilt.

He moved toward the reception area, and I took the opportunity to empty his trash can. I had just finished tipping the contents into the cart when he returned.

“Stop that,” he said. “You’re offending my sensibilities!”

I tucked the empty container under his desk. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“But not
you
, sweetie. Definitely not
you
! I think you should hang up your duster. Throw in the moist towelette.”

“I can’t. Not yet anyway.”

He shook his head and sighed, a well-if-that-don’t-beat-all expression on his face. “Here,” he said, waving the brochure and placing it on the corner of his desk. “Her name’s Keneisha Clarke. All you have to do is call and make an appointment. Okay? I’ll let her know that we’re paying for the session.”

“Okay.”

“She’s really nice. And really cool. She’s, like, this seventy-year-old woman with dreads down to her ass. She’ll tell you what to wear and bring and all that jazz.”

“Okay. Thanks.” As I continued emptying my way through
the office, I thought: There’s no way in hell I’m going to scam free photos from these people—people who feed me mini-carrots and volunteer at cancer camps and call me “sweetie.” No way.

But when I left the agency, it was with the brochure folded deep in my pocket.

I headed for the
WUT Up
office, hoping that Andrew McKay would have cleared out by the time I got there. Presumably he wouldn’t be taping pictures of Shirley Booth on my cart, but I figured he’d find some way to harass me.

The place was packed, and evidently the staff had been toiling through the weekend. Garbage cans were overflowing and there were stacks of greasy pizza boxes and crushed soda cans and beer bottles containing bloated cigarette butts.

When it was this crowded, it meant that
WUT Up
was in the last stage of production. Every two months there’d be a night or two like this and it was always a drag, having to maneuver around all the bodies and contend with the hostile grunts and groans as I tried to get under desks, past the fabulous footwear, to cart away the crap of the assiduous staff. Typically, it was a pain in the ass, but on this occasion the hipsters were inordinately affable, smiling, getting right out of my way, even handing me their bins and helping me clear (mostly it was the males who did this). Everyone seemed to be sucking on beers and kicking back, and I didn’t have the usual trouble navigating my way through the trash-can labyrinth, quite the opposite.

Of course, as soon as Andrew McKay caught sight of me, he had to start something. He sat bolt upright in his chair and bellowed, “Hell-o, Guvner,” in an accent worthy of Keanu Reeves in
Bram Stoker’s Dracula
. I ignored him. I had perfected my poker face, pretending for ten months to be Portuguese and uncomprehending. Why stop now?

“Hey,” he said. “Excuse me, Miss Cleaning Person?”

I didn’t respond.

“Hello…lovely cleaning-type person?” He said it with extreme faux-earnestness. A few people chuckled as I mutely carried on with my work. Andrew approached my cart and put his hand on my arm. “Hey,” he said, more to the group than to me. “Where’s our mascot? What have you done with Hazel?” He was flushed pink and slurring his words, obviously drunk or stoned or both.

I stared as if mystified, then voiced one of two phrases I knew how to say in a foreign language:
Na se klotsisi to papee
. In Greek it means: May a duck kick you. My ex-roommate, Elda, had taught it to me.

“Easy for you to say,” said Andrew, dimpling, giggling crazy at his self-amusing retort.

“Looks like Hazel’s been taken from us,” said a pierced-face hipster with mock sorrow.

“Replaced by Claudia Schiffer,” said a girl with a Cleopatra hairdo dyed the color of Hawaiian Punch.

“Poor Hazel,” said Andrew. “I guess she went back to her swamp.”

“Back to her tar pit,” said Cleopatra, laughing.

“Yes, walking and waving into the tar pit…Good. I’m sick of that smelly troll and her death stare. Hey, Claudia,” whispered Andrew, tugging on my sleeve. “You wanna beer? A brewsky?” He weaved over to the makeshift kitchen area and started rattling around in the fridge. “What the fuck…are we outta beer, you guys?”

“Afraid so.”

“You mean to tell me we’ve put this baby to bed, and we’re outta beer?!”

“Yuppers.”

“Damn!” said Andrew. “This calls for measures drastic. Methinks we must repair to my lanai for more libations. What say you people?”

Inexplicably, Andrew’s minions seemed keen to follow
him home. Just before the mass departure, he put his hands on me again. “Hey, Claudia, you wanna come for a drink? Come for a drink?” he said, tipping an imaginary glass to his mouth, grinning cute, giving me the dimples. Even with the supposed language barrier it was impossible to mistake his meaning. I pointed to several desks that required cleaning.

“Oh pshaw!” he said, tugging on my sleeve, gesturing for me to leave it.