Waking Beauty (20 page)

At the commercial break, Virginie made a big show of
stretching cute and yawning drowsy. “I’m so sleepy,” she said in her little-girl voice. She rubbed a fist in one eye and rested her head on Fraser’s shoulder. “Time to hit the hay, babe?”

“Um, I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind watching the rest of the show.”

“Really?”

“Might as well see it all,” I said, flexing the foot of my crossed leg.

Virginie gave me a dagger look. I thought she was going to tell me to fuck off or mind my own beeswax, but instead she just swallowed hard—I could practically hear the constricted gulp. She snuggled in closer to Fraser, coiling herself around his arm, becoming appendage.

“You can go if you want,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

Sure. Like that was going to happen.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll stay for a bit.”

Of course, the moment Conan began bidding viewers good night, Virginie collected her smoking paraphernalia and stood up. “Ready?” she said, more command than inquiry.

“Um, yeah.” He had no choice.

Virginie pitched the remote at (not
to)
me. “’Night,” she snipped begrudgingly.

“’Nighty-night.”

“See ya,” said Fraser, following her out, but turning back for one last oafish ogle.

I obliged by lifting my skirt and spreading my legs. “Sweet dreams,” I said.

I waited to see if he would return. But no go. As I passed their door on the way to bed, I could hear Virginie’s voice, pinched with restrained rage, rising and falling. Well, I thought, this is going to be easier than I imagined.

Again I slept inordinately deep and long. But when I awoke I felt slightly nauseous, which was strange since I never got
sick to my stomach. I lay in bed until it passed, then headed to the bathroom for a pee. I found the door locked and the shower going. Who? I tiptoed to Virginie’s bedroom door and listened. I could hear someone moving around inside. I stood there until I could identify—via throat clearing—which one it was and then opened the door. Fraser was getting dressed. Just finishing.

“Oh,” he said, startled, buttoning his jeans.

“Good morning.”

“How’s it going?”

I opened my robe.

“Whoa,” he said, staring hard.

“Come here for a sec.”

He hesitated, nervous.

“It’s okay,” I said. “She’s in the shower.” What I didn’t say was:
And you know as well as I do that the cow will stay in there until every last hot-water droplet is down the drain
.

He moved to the doorway and peered past me into the hall. All clear. We put our hands on each other. “Oh, wow,” he said. “Wow.” He tried repeatedly to kiss me, but I kept dodging his efforts, sliding my mouth away as if I absolutely had to keep sucking on his neck and ear (the thought that he may have recently laid lips on Virginie’s gob or any of her equally odious orifices had turned me off smooching).

“Not now,” he whispered hotly. “Come to my place later.”

I went for his blue-jean buttons with both hands.

“No,” he said, catching me by the wrists, pushing my arms above my head, and thrusting me up against the door frame. “Meet me later. Seriously.”

I wrapped one leg around him and then, with a little hop, the other. I squeezed hard around his hips and clung tight. He was holding me in the doorway like that, whisper-pleading for me to let go and visit him at home later on, when I heard the scream—a banshee blast, like a cross between air-raid siren and wounded manatee.

“Shit
!” shouted Fraser right in my ear. And the next thing I
knew, we were shoved through the doorway by an enraged Virginie, toppling ass over teakettle onto the hard bedroom floor.

“Salaud
!” shrieked Virginie.
“Chien sale
!” She kicked and clawed at Fraser, losing her bath towel in the process. “Get the fuck out of here! Now!
Crisse ton camp
!”

He pried himself from my leg grip and, under a rain of furious blows, struggled to his feet. “Just chill for a second! Calm down!”

“Va chez l’diable! Tu m’ecoeures
!” she screamed, firing fast punches—à la Sonya in Mortal Kombat—at his kidney/pancreas, neatly pounding the crap out of the boy’s endocrine system.
“Dehors!
Now!”

“Wait! Can we just talk about this?!”

She grabbed his jacket and used it to thrash him repeatedly until he caught hold of a sleeve, wrenched the thing from her mad hands, and stumbled into the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making for the door. “I’ll call you later.”

“Va donc baiser ta guidoune
, you pig!
Va te faire foutre
!”

Well, that doesn’t sound very promising, I thought as I stood, closed my robe, and tied the belt tight around my waist. I decided it was a good time to clear out of there, but Virginie blocked the bedroom doorway, sealing me in. She was naked and hyperventilating. She looked truly bananas. I made the mistake of smirking.

I said, “Out of my way, nutsy.”

“Ma Calisse,”
she hissed, coming at me.
“Ma maudite putain
!” She grabbed a handful of my hair and wrenched hard.

“OW!” I yelled. “Let go!” I clutched her arm with both hands and sunk my nails into her flesh.

“Ma tabarnak
!” She yanked harder.

Not wanting to lose a piece of my scalp, I had to move in the direction of the pull. When my head was halfway to the floor, she shoved me back onto the futon, jumped on my
chest, and pinned my shoulders down with her knees. She grabbed a fresh hunk of hair in each hand.

“You stupid bitch!” she screamed. “I AM GOING TO RIP YOUR STUPID HEAD OUT!”

Uh-oh, I thought. I have to go to the photographer’s in less than two hours, and it probably won’t do to show up with the equivalent of crop circles on either side of my skull like some kind of
Bizarro World
Princess Leia.

“Get the fuck off me!” I yelped, digging my nails into her forearms. Her shaved vagina was right in my face, the denuded parts covered in tiny white bumps. Like plucked poultry. Thank God it was freshly scrubbed.

I dug as hard as I could into her arms with my nails, even felt blood oozing around my fingertips, but the demented bitch didn’t flinch; if anything, she pulled harder.

Plan B. I reached out my right hand to try to grab a weapon. I caught hold of the bedside lamp and brought it crashing against her head. The thing crumpled like a paper bag full of air. Fucking Ikea! I reached out again, trying to locate an ashtray (or preferably a ball-peen hammer). Instead I got hold of what turned out to be a sex toy, a giant rubber dildo, which I used to pummel her about the face, head, and neck. After sustaining eleven solid blows to the temple, she let go of my hair, rolled off me, and crumpled into a sobbing heap at the end of the futon.

“Fucking psycho,” I said, scrambling to my feet. “I should have you charged with assault!” I dropped the rubber penis on the floor.
Thud
.

“I want you out of here,” she shrieked, pulling the duvet up over her body. “I want you out of my apartment!”

Yeah, I thought, now you know how I’ve felt ever since you arrived on the scene.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want,” I said. “Guess whose name is on the lease? Yeah, that’s right. As far as I’m concerned, this is
my
apartment now.”

Down the hall I swept, all adrenaline and triumph, already framing the story in my mind, and how I would tell it to Isadora. Then I remembered, no, Isadora was finished. The cold shoulder. Over.

I closed myself in my room, exultation sliding away like sand through fingers.

7    

I am asleep when the call comes in—an urgent one
from the Bone Marrow Registry. They think I may represent the last hope for a forty-year-old woman suffering from leukemia. I rush to Blood Services and offer up a vein. It turns out that I am a perfect match for the anonymous patient. Without a thought for my own well-being, I agree to undergo the surgery/harvest. During the painful and lonely recovery period, a letter arrives from the recipient of my marrow. It is an eloquent missive full of gratitude and grace. She promises to get in touch with me if all goes well. All does go well. The recipient makes a full and splendid recovery. I receive another letter, in which she reveals her identity: Miriam Louise Bennett. She is a physician with Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders). Soon she will be returning to her post in war-ravaged Somalia, but first she believes it is imperative that we meet. As a medical expert, she knows that the chance of a complete stranger having identical leukocyte antigens is next to nil. She thinks we may be related. She asks if I was adopted….

A poignant reunion ensues. We recognize each other instantly, and marvel over the miraculous way in which we have come together. I, Allison Penny, have returned the gift of life, and by extension, saved countless cholera, malaria, and war-injury patients in Africa. My mother invites me to accompany her to Somalia, in the capacity of nurse. By day,
we toil at the ramshackle hospital. At night, we sit around an open fire, drinking Amarula and getting to know each other. We wear handsome khakis and starched white blouses. Birth Mother Fantasy #6. In the updated version, I tell my mother about kicking Virginie’s ass. She laughs and laughs.

“There’s the smile I’ve been waiting for.”
Pop
. “Lovely.”
Pop
. “Whatever you’re thinking, keep thinking it.”
Pop
.

I was seated under a large, square lighting device called a soft-box, trying to smile naturally for Keneisha Clarke. Fantasy #6 was helping, but it still wasn’t easy. I felt like a newscaster with lockjaw, and every time Keneisha snapped a photo, the flash would pop and my eyes would involuntarily close. I was a bit sore from my battle with Virginie; I had lost some hair (not enough to be noticeable) and sustained bruising to my left hip and upper thigh, but most of my discomfort stemmed from having to glam for the camera. After twenty-two years of larva, it was difficult to butterfly.

“Okay.”
Pop
. “That’s good.”
Pop
. “Now let’s try sultry. Think of something hot. Something
sexy
.”

“Um, okay…” I thought about George standing over me in bed. Then I had a flash of him going to get the Kleenex box.

“Hmm,” said Keneisha. No pop.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Why don’t I change the music. You want a little more Scotch?”

“Sure, thanks.” When we first began, I was so rigid that Keneisha had resorted to Glenfiddich to loosen me up. Now she was putting on “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye.

“How’s that?” she asked, swaying a little.

“Um…maybe a tad over the top.”

Keneisha laughed and switched CDs. Then she dimmed the ambient studio lights, poured another drink, and had me change into something slinky. Between the warmth of the booze, the cool of Diana Krall whisper-singing “The Look of Love,” and Keneisha’s patient prompting, I was able to
unwind and start posing.
Pop, pop, pop
went the flashes. “Great, beautiful, lovely,” went Keneisha. I was just starting to really diva it up when she told me she had what she required, and the session was done.

“So listen,” I said as I gathered my things. “You’re going to get paid for this regardless of whether or not I get work, right?”

“That’s right,” she said. “The agency pays me now, and when you book your first job, they’ll take it out of your check.”

“So if I never book a job, the agency just swallows the cost?”

Keneisha laughed. “Are you kidding? You’ll book plenty of jobs. Honey, you’ve
got
the supermodel look, very distinctive, you just need to be confident and
become
the thing. You can do it. I just saw you do it.”

I felt a little surge of nausea then.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“Yeah. I think I just need to sit for a second.”

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Is it the whiskey?”

“No, no. I had this this morning. It’ll pass.”

“Well, don’t rush off. Sit for a bit.”

“It’s weird, you know, I never get nauseous.”

“How about some tea? You want a cup of tea?”

“Thanks,” I said. “And sorry. This isn’t like me. This really isn’t like me….”

When I got home Virginie was in her lair, blasting misery music and nursing her wounds. Fine. Big deal. It was a pleasant switch to be roaming freely around the apartment while she did the holing up and hiding out. I scrubbed the pancake makeup off my face—Keneisha had done my makeup—and changed into work clothes. I was somewhat distressed to find that the bruises on my left side had spread into a horrible Rorschach of blue and purple, but I took comfort in the fact that they’d be gone in a week and then I’d be perfect again.

“Perfect,” I said as I touched up my lipstick in the hall mirror before leaving. Nathan would be working that night and I wanted to look nice. As I was walking out the door, an FTD man came hustling up the walk with a small arrangement of flowers—yellow daisies in a glass bud vase. Definitely not flowers by Marco; presumably not flowers from George.