"You're going to be a contestant faster than you think," she said.
"A contestant?"
"For the beauty pageants." She laughed. "Maybe I'll enter you in Miss Teenage New York this year. Yes, I will," she decided instantly. "And you'll win, too. Think of what they will say." She stepped back. The headlines flashed across her eyes as she envisioned them and drew them in the air with the brush. "'Pamela Thompson's daughter declared Miss Teen-age New York.' I love it."
I stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was still fantasizing some scene on a beauty pageant stage. My eyes went to the toilet again. "What's that?" I asked.
"What?" She looked. "Oh, that's a bidet. Don't you know what that is?" I shook my head. "You poor thing. That's to keep us clean in our private place," she said. "You have to do it every day, too. Women don't realize how they can, .
I looked at it, my eyes wide.
"It feels good, too," she said She laughed. "Men want that to be the healthiest place on our bodies, but I bet you know all about that, don't you?" she asked guardedly.
"No," I said, "not really,"
"Not really?" She stared at me a moment. "You're a virgin?"
"Uh-huh," I said, amazed that she would even ask.
"What a wonderful idea," she declared, "to be virginal until you win your first big pageant. I love it. You must promise me you'll not give yourself to just any old boy, Brooke. Sex is your treasure," she advised. "You must guard it like a dragon who guards the pots of gold in its cave, okay? We'll talk a lot more about this. That's what mothers are for. I'm a mother," she declared, gazing at herself in the mirror. "Who in his right mind would look at me and think, even for a moment, that I was old enough?" She laughed, and then her gaze went to my clothes again.
"We've got to get rid of those. I'm sorry you brought them in here," she said.
"What?" I asked.
She picked up my T-shirt and jeans as if they were diseased.
"Ugh. They still reek of that horrible place. I hate jeans on a girl, anyway."
She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Before I could utter a protest, she jabbed the scissors into the seat of my jeans and tore a gash through them Then she pulled, them apart and threw them and my T-shirt on the floor.
"Just leave it there for Joline to put in the garbage," she said.
She washed her hands as if she had been handling contaminated clothing and then smiled at my shocked face.
"Time to pick out something to wear to dinner," she said. "We want to look beautiful together when we enter and Peter looks up from the table. We want to take his breath away. From now on, every time we walk into a room together, we want to captivate our audience. That," she declared with a sharp nod, "is what we were placed on earth to do."
Before I followed her out to the bedroom, I went to my jeans and took out my hair ribbon, thankful to see that it hadn't been cut in two. I clutched it tightly in my hand, and as she sifted through all my new clothes, I shoved it into a dresser drawer. I was afraid she might want to throw that out, too.
"No, no, no, maybe, yes," she declared, and plucked the blue dress off its hanger. "Try this," she said, handing it to me, and stood back.
Why did she have to see it on me again? I wondered. She had seen it on me in the store. She knew what it looked like.
"Don't you think you should put on a pair of panties first?" she asked with a smile when I dropped the towel and reached for the dress.
I nodded and went to the dresser drawer. After I put the panties on, I slipped the dress over my head and pulled it down. It fit a little snugly and had wide straps and a U-shaped collar. I turned to face her, and she grimaced.
"I don't know why I didn't notice it before, but your shoulders and arms are so . .
"What?" I asked.
"Manly," she repeated. "I'll have to speak to my doctor about you. There must be a way to get you to look softer," she decided. "Now you see why clothes are like living things."
I shook my head.
"They take on different personalities in different environments. Back at the department store, under those harsh lights, colors were washed out, and the garments appeared one way, but here, in a warmer setting, in a bedroom or in a dining room, they're different. I wouldn't have bought this one," she concluded. "From now on, I'm going to have them bring your clothing here to try on."
"Bring them here? You mean to my room?"
"Of course," she said. "We were all just in too big a rush. But"--she recovered with a smile--"no harm done. We'll buy some more. That's all. I have a blue dress to wear, too. How experienced are you with makeup?" she asked.
"I put on lipstick sometimes," I said.
"Lipstick?" She laughed. "Sit at your table. Go on. Quickly. I have my own hair to style and my own makeup to do yet."
Why were we getting so dressed up for dinner? I wondered. Were there more people coming? Was it going to be like a party?
I sat, and she came up behind me. She turned on the magnifying mirror, and the light washed away any shadows on my face. Then she pressed her palms against my cheeks and turned my head from side to side, studying me.
She nodded. "Now that I have you under the light, I see where we have to make your nose look smaller. I want to highlight your eyes and thicken your lip line just a little?'
She began to work on me as if I were being made up for a ball. The surprise in my face was easy to see. I was never very good at disguising my feelings. Whenever I thought something was stupid, the corners of my mouth turned up in a smirk that gave my feelings away. One of my grade-school teachers, Mrs. Carden, once told me that my forehead was as good as a blackboard on which my thoughts appeared in bright, white, chalky letters.
"Every time you go out of this room, and especially every time you leave this house," Pamela lectured, "you have to remember you are onstage. A woman, a real woman, is always performing, Brooke. Every man who looks at you is your audience. Whether we like it or not, we're attractive, and that means men's eyes are like little spotlights always turned on our faces and bodies.
"And even if you're married for ages or going with some beau for months, you still have to surprise him with your elegance and beauty every time he sets eyes on you, understand?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Why?" She stopped working and put her hands on her hips. "Why? Because if we didn't, they would look elsewhere, for one, and because we want to be the center of their attention always. Wait, just wait," she continued, returning to the makeup, "until you're out there, competing. You'll see. It's a cutthroat, ruthless world when it comes to winning the affections of men. Every woman, whether she wants to admit it or not, is competing with every other woman. When I walk into a room, who do you think looks at me first? The men? No Their wives look at me and tremble.
"I have the feeling," she concluded, "that I found you just in time. You're still young enough to develop good habits. Press your lips together. There," she said. "Let's look at you now."
She turned my head toward the mirror and stood behind me again, her hands moving me so that she could get a profile.
"See the difference? You walked in here a child, and now you look like a young woman, which is what I'm going to make you into."
I stared at myself. With the eyeliner, the rouge, the lipstick, I did look entirely different, but I wasn't sure I liked it. I felt clownish. I was afraid to utter a word, and I was terrified that my blackboard of a forehead would write out my disapproval. If it did, she didn't notice, maybe because she had covered it in makeup.
"Don't think you have to spend a lot of time in the sun to get your skin this shade, Brooke. The sunlight is devastating. Those horrible ultraviolet rays age us. We don't need it with this makeup, anyway. Well now, you look ready. Come along and talk to me while I get dressed."
I rose and started after her.
"Wait," she said with a harshness I hadn't heard before. "You weren't planning on walking around barefoot, were you?" The way she sai
d barefoot made it sound like a sin.
"What? Oh," I said, looking down.
"Put on the shoes that match the dress," she ordered sternly.
I went to the closet and stared at the dozens of pairs she had bought me.
"The pair second from the right," she said impatiently. "You have so much to learn. Thank goodness I came along."
I put on my shoes and followed her out, glancing through my bathroom doors at my torn jeans and my T-shirt lying on the floor where she had thrown them. It was like saying good-bye to an old friend. Dressed in my expensive clothes, my hair styled, my face made up, I felt as if I had betrayed someone. Myself?
"Come on," she urged when I hesitated. "Peter is already downstairs. Of course, we must always keep men waiting. That's a golden rule. Never be on time, and never, never, never be early. The longer they are made to wait, the more their anticipation builds, and the louder the applause in their eyes," she said. "Now, get moving. I need time to make myself more beautiful, too."
I hurried after her, and when she opened the double doors to the master bedroom, I felt the breath spiral up from my lungs and get caught in my throat like a giant soap bubble. It wasn't a bedroom; it was a separate house!
There was a long carpeted landing that led to two steps. On the right was a living room with furniture and a television set. On the left was a bedroom that surely was fit for a queen. It was round and had its own white marble fireplace, but what was astounding to me was the bed, because it, too, was round with big, fluffy pillows. Above it was a ceiling of mirrors. There were mirrors everywhere. I gaped.
Pamela saw my amazement and laughed
"Maybe now you'll understand what I meant when I said we were always on the stage, always performing, Brooke." She looked at the bed and then up at the ceiling. "You know what it's like?" she asked, her voice softer but full of passion.
I shook my head.
"It's like we're in our own movie, and you know what?"
I waited, afraid to breathe.
"We're always the stars," she said, and laughed.
3 All the World is a Stage
Pamela had me sit beside her at her vanity table. It was designed so that the mirrors weren't only in front of her. They followed the curve of the wall and surrounded her. She could glance to the right or left and see her profile without moving her head. She said it was important that she know how she appeared from every angle, every side, and especially the rear. "When they see how fabulous I look from behind," she explained, "they'll be dying to see my face."
She spoke to me in the mirror instead of turning to look at me directly. It was as if we were looking at each other through windows.
"Always call me Pamela," she told me. "It's nice to have a daughter, and I want to be known as your mother, but I'd rather people thought we looked more like sisters, wouldn't you?" she asked.
I nodded even though I wasn't sure. I had friends at the orphanage, girls who were so much like me we could have been sisters. We shared clothes, did schoolwork together, sometimes talked about boys and other girls at school who often snubbed us because we were from the orphanage. Together we battled, and together we suffered. For the first time, I thought of the life I'd left behind and how I would miss it.
But what I never had was someone older, someone motherly to whom I felt I could turn, not with complaints but with questions, more intimate questions, questions I didn't feel comfortable asking my counselors or teachers. Not being able to have someone like that left me feeling even more alone, listening to the echo of my own thoughts.
"These women who have children early get to look so matronly even when they're barely out of their twenties. It's all about attitude, and attitude is very important, Brooke. It will have a direct effect on your appearance. If you think of yourself as older, you'll look older. I think of myself as becoming even more beautiful, just blossoming," she said, smiling at her image in the mirror. She looked at me.
"I don't want you to think I didn't want children. I just couldn't have them while I was in competition and while I was a model. Having children changes your shape. Now," she said, smiling, "I still have my shape, and I have a daughter."
She wiped the thin layer of brown facial mud off gingerly with a dampened sponge and then stared harder for a moment and leaned in toward the glass.
Her right forefinger shot up to the crest of her left cheek as if she had just been bitten by a bug. She touched it and then turned to me.
"Do you see a small redness here?" she said, pointing to the spot.
I looked. "No!' I said.
She returned to the mirror, studied herself again, and then nodded.
"It's not something an untrained eye would see!' she said, "but there's a dry spot here. Every time I go out of this house, I come home with something bad."
She looked over the rows of jars filled with skin creams and lotions. Her eyes turned a bit frantic when she lifted one and realized it was empty.
"Damn that girl. I told her to keep this table stocked, to check every day and replace anything that was empty Leven near empty!' she said, rising. She went to the closet on her right and opened the door.
When she stepped to the side, I saw the shelves and shelves filled with cosmetic supplies. It looked as if she had her own drugstore. She plucked a jar off a shelf and returned to her table.
"This has special herbal ingredients," she began. "It replenishes the body's natural oils!' She dipped her fingers into the jar and smeared the gooeylooking, chalky fluid over her cheek, gently rubbing it into her skin. Then she wiped off the residue and looked at herself again.
"There," she said, turning to me. "See the difference?"
I saw no changes, but I nodded anyway.
"Your skin is very sensitive to atmospheric changes, my dermatologist says. It was so hot in that orphanage, for example, and then we went to that airconditioned department store, but they don't filter their air conditioners enough, and there are particles floating around that stick to your skin and begin to break down the texture.
"The water in this house is specially filtered," she continued. "Harsh minerals are removed so you don't have to worry about baths and showers."
It had never occurred to me ever to worry about such a thing, anyway.
"Our air conditioners, heaters, everything is filtered. Other people's homes are filled with dust. Sometimes I feel like wearing a surgical mask when we're invited to someone's house, even Peter's wealthiest clients. They just don't know, or they just don't care about the beauty regimen," she railed.
She sighed as she began to brush out her hair.
"These ends are splitting again. I told my stylist he wasn't trimming it right. Damn," she said, and then stopped. "See that, see?" she said, pointing at her face. "Whenever I get upset, that persistent wrinkle shows itself just under my right eye. There, see?"
There was a very tiny crease in her skin, but I would never call it a wrinkle.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sat there quietly for a moment. I waited until she opened her eyes again.
"Anxiety, aggravation, worry, and stress hasten the aging process. My meditation instructor has taught me how to prevent it. I must chant and tell myself I will not be upset. But it's so hard sometimes," she moaned. She stared at me.
"You shouldn't squint like that, Brooke. See how your forehead wrinkles? It's never too early to think about it. Do you need glasses?"
"I don't think so," I said.
"Don't worry about it if you do. We'll get you the best contact lenses. Peter wears contact lenses."
"He does?"
"He's a good-looking man, your new father, isn't he?" she asked with a proud smile. "I didn't just marry for money and position. I married a handsome man."
"Yes, he is handsome," I agreed.
"And he's a good lover, too, a considerate lover. He won't even think of kissing me until he's shaven. A man's beard can play havoc with your complexion. If a man is selfish, if all he cares ab
out is his own sexual gratification, you'll feel used. I'm nobody's possession. I'm nobody's toy," she declared hotly as if someone had just accused her of being so. Whenever anger flashed across her face, her nostrils widened and her eyes looked as if tiny candle flames were burning behind them.
She paused and looked at me hard again. "How much do you know about sex? I know you're a virgin. You told me so, and I believe you. I hope we'll never lie to each other," she added firmly. "How close have you come? Did you have one steady boyfriend?" She fired her questions in shotgun fashion.
"I've never had a boyfriend," I said.
Disbelief filled her face. "From what I saw, the living quarters were quite close. Boys and girls shared so much, and there wasn't all that much supervision, was there? I mean, there must have been plenty of opportunities for hanky-panky. You can be honest with me, Brooke. I'm your mother now, or your mentor, I mean," she quickly corrected.
"I never had a boyfriend. Really," I said.
"But you know things, don't you?" she asked, nodding. "You know what they want, what they always want, no matter how they present themselves or what they promise. Men see you as one thing and one thing only, whether you're a prom queen or a member of the Supreme Court, Brooke, and you know what that is?"
I shook my head.
"A vessel of pleasure into which they can dip." She returned to her makeup. "Satisfying their little telescopes," she muttered.
"Their what?"
She laughed. "Telescopes." She looked at me. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of those."
"I've seen them," I said, recalling different occasions when I had caught sight of one of the boys in the bathroom.
"So you know they come out like a telescope when they are aroused. At least, that's how I always think of them," she said, laughing. "Oh"--she squealed with delight--"isn't it going to be fun for me to experience everything again through you? That," she said, growing serious, "is why it's so important you do everything I tell you and benefit from my knowledge, especially when it comes to men. What else is more important, anyway?" She shrugged. She gazed at her large, rich surroundings. "After all, my knowledge got all this.