Beautiful You: A Novel

  None of Maxwell’s ex-flames seemed the worse for their love affair with him. Clarissa Hind had vaulted from shy political neophyte to leader of the free world. Gwendolyn had been something of a heifer, pretty but overweight; during their relationship she’d slimmed down, and the royal had been a fashion plate ever since. Even Alouette had struggled with her own demons. The tabloids were full of her drunken, drug-addled misadventures. Maxwell had gotten her clean. His love had accomplished something that a dozen court-ordered addiction treatment programs had not.

  There in Bonwit Teller, Penny’s phone began to vibrate. It was Monique. No longer carping about chairs, Monique had texted, “CALL ME!” Everyone at BB&B must’ve heard the news by now. A part of Penny wished no one had found out. It was going to be embarrassing to be linked in people’s minds with President Hind and Queen Gwendolyn and Alouette D’Ambrosia. Penny surfed her memory for the romances that had occurred in the interim. There had been the Nobel Prize–winning poetess. The heiress to a Japanese steel fortune. The newspaper chain baroness. To date, none of their feet had fit the glass slipper. Penny tried not to think about it, but what she did between this moment and midnight might determine the rest of her life.

  Before she could respond to Monique’s text, the sales associate had returned. A swath of red chiffon was draped over her arm. One penciled eyebrow arched skeptically, she crooned, “Here you are … a size ten.” She motioned for Penny to follow her toward the dressing room.

  President Penny Harrigan. Mrs. C. Linus Maxwell. Her mind reeled. In tomorrow’s Post her name would be set in boldface among the celebrity names on Page Six. Tomorrow, this snooty woman would know she wasn’t a liar. Everyone in the city would know her name.

  Whatever the case, she’d wear this dress very, very carefully.

  It was three o’clock. Dinner was at eight. There was still time to have her legs waxed, her hair done, and to telephone her parents. Maybe that would help make the situation seem more real.

  Scurrying after the saleslady, Penny asked nervously, “You do offer a full money-back return policy, don’t you?” And she crossed her fingers that the zipper would go all the way up.

  Kwan Qxi and Esperanza were the ideal roommates with whom to share a cramped studio apartment in Jackson Heights. Months earlier, as Penny’s mom had helped her pack for the big cross-country move to New York, the wise older woman had sagely insisted, “Get a Chinese and some kind of Latin to share the lease.”

  Penelope’s folks might sound, at times, like backward, race-baiting monsters, but they really had their daughter’s best interests at heart. In a multicultural, racially diverse household, they reasoned, there was less chance of girls poaching one another’s makeup. Cosmetics were expensive, and sharing them could spread deadly staph infections. This was sensible advice. Herpes and bedbugs were everywhere. Theirs were salt-of-the-earth words to live by.

  Despite her parents’ corn-fed good intentions, the three young roomies from a trio of widely divergent cultures had had more in common than they’d ever imagined. In no time they’d been sharing their clothes, their secrets, even their contact lenses. Not much was declared off-limits. So far, this casual familiarity hadn’t been a problem.

  Esperanza was a fiery high-breasted Latina whose dark eyes sparked with mischief. She often feigned exasperation over the simplest tasks—changing a lightbulb, for instance, or washing a dish—shouting, “Ay, caramba!” because such a patently stereotypical outburst never failed to make Penny bray with laughter. Clearly, she wasn’t too uptight to poke fun at herself. The fact that Esperanza could toss a gaily embroidered sombrero onto the living room floor and then stomp a lively hat dance around the brim proved that she’d evolved far into the post–politically correct future of personal identity.

  Kwan Qxi, so quiet, so implacable, Kwan Qxi was the counterpoint to the hot-tempered señorita. The Asian moved soundlessly about the crowded apartment, dusting the baseboards … trimming her bonsai … folding the trailing end of the toilet paper roll into origami surprises for the next user, in general always transforming chaos into order. Her placid face and manner acted as a balm on Penny. Her dense curtain of dark hair was a wonder compared with the frizzy, doo-wop ponytail that Penny wore most days.

  In the final hours before the dinner at Chez Romaine, Penny begged both girls to contribute their best skills to perfecting her appearance. From Esperanza, she wanted eyelids painted to glow like Havana sunsets. From Kwan Qxi, she wanted hair that hung like great harvest sheaves of heavy silk. Her roommates pitched in tirelessly, coddling her like flower girls attending to an anxious bride. Together, they primped and dressed her.

  Resplendent in the gown, Penny was a vision. To complete her look, Kwan Qxi had unearthed an elegant pendant. It was bright green jade carved into the shape of a dragon, with two pearls for its eyes. A true family heirloom. Esperanza dug out her own favorite earrings, each shaped like a tiny, rhinestone-encrusted piñata. Whether or not her roomies accepted her story about dinner with the world’s richest man, both girls were teary-eyed at the sight of Penny’s stylish transformation.

  Someone buzzed from the street door. The taxicab they’d ordered had arrived and was waiting.

  At the last moment, Penny held her breath and went to retrieve a small, gray plastic box she’d long ago hidden in the bathroom. The box held her diaphragm. An ounce of prevention. She hadn’t needed it since the winter formal, her senior year as an undergraduate. Still searching the bathroom cabinets, she wondered whether such a long period of disuse might’ve damaged the birth control device. Would the latex have dried out and become brittle, like condoms were known to do? Might it have cracked? Or worse, would it have grown furry with mold? She snatched the gray box from the jumble in a drawer and held her breath as she opened it. The box was empty.

  Tapping her foot in mock outrage, Penny confronted the two girls in the kitchen. She held the empty box like an accusation. Printed on its label was her name, Penelope Harrigan, and the name and address of her family practitioner in Omaha. Placing the box on the counter, next to the rusted, cheese-encrusted toaster oven, she announced, “I’m going to shut off the lights and count to ten, okay?” The faces of both girls were unreadable. Neither blushed nor sheepishly evaded her gaze. “No questions asked,” she said. A swipe of the wall switch plunged the room into pitch darkness. She began counting.

  A faint, wet sound was followed by a gasp. A giggle.

  Penny counted, “… eight, nine, ten.” The lights blazed, revealing the open box, filled with a familiar pink shape. The diaphragm glistened, fresh and dewy, beaded with someone’s healthy vaginal moisture. Clinging to it was a single tightly curled pubic hair. Penny made a mental note to rinse the thing off if she’d need to use it later in the evening.

  It never failed. The taxi was late getting to Chez Romaine. Traffic had been backed up in the tunnel, and it was impossible to get a cell phone signal. That was just as well. The cabbie kept glancing in the rearview mirror, saying he was sorry. Saying she looked terrific.

  Penny knew he was only being nice. For as much money as she’d spent that afternoon, Penny told herself, she’d darn well better look good. To the saleslady’s chagrin the dress had fit perfectly, hugging her young body. Her new Prada shoes, another last-minute splurge, also looked amazing. But Penny was sensible enough to realize that she’d never be a ravishing beauty.

  At least there were no dirty houseflies buzzing around her. That was an improvement. Anything was an improvement over living in the Midwest.

  Nebraska had never been a good fit for Penny. As a young woman in Omaha, or even when she was a small girl growing up in Shippee, Penny had always felt like an outsider. For one thing, she’d looked nothing like her sturdy, pear-shaped, splayfooted mom and dad. Where they were densely freckled and ginger-haired members of the Irish Diaspora, Penny had a peaches-and-cream complexion. As pale as birch bark. They’d both thought she was crazy for kiting off to New York City.

  Moment
s before, when she’d first climbed into the cab, she’d called Omaha to spill the big news. When her mother’s voice had answered, Penny had asked, “Are you sitting down, Mom?”

  “Arthur!” her mother had shouted away from the receiver. “Your daughter’s on the line.”

  “I’ve got some pretty exciting news,” Penny had said, barely able to contain herself. She looked to see whether the driver was watching her. She wanted him to eavesdrop.

  “So do I!” her mother had exclaimed.

  There was a click, and her father’s voice had joined the conversation. “Your mother grew a tomato that’s the spitting image of Danny Thomas.”

  “I’ll send you a picture,” her mother had promised. “It’s uncanny.”

  Her father said, “What’s your big news, cupcake?”

  Penny had hesitated for effect. When she’d spoken, she’d made sure her voice was loud enough for the cabbie to overhear. “I have a date with C. Linus Maxwell.”

  Her parents hadn’t responded, not right away.

  To save time, Penny’s dad drank his morning coffee while sitting on the toilet. Her mom dreamed of owning a waterbed. Every birthday they sent her a Bible with a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside. That was her parents in a nutshell.

  Penny had prompted them, asking, “Do you know who Mr. Maxwell is?”

  “Of course we do, sweetheart,” her mother had replied flatly. “Your father and I don’t live in Shippee anymore!”

  Penny had waited for their shouts of joy. For their gasps of disbelief. For anything.

  Finally, her father had said, “We love you no matter what, Pen-Pen. You don’t have to invent wild stories to impress us.” He was calling her a liar.

  It was at that point the cab had gone under the river. The connection was broken. Her roommates hadn’t believed her either, but they’d fussed over her, helping with her eye shadow and lip liner as if they’d been bridesmaids. Tomorrow they’d all believe her. Normally she’d never take such pains with her appearance. She hadn’t primped just because Maxwell would see her. Tonight the whole world was watching. Penny would walk into that restaurant a complete nobody, but by the time dessert was served she’d be a household name. Even her hero, President Hind, would know Penny’s name.

  Stalled in the traffic beside her, Penny noticed two men seated in a black sedan. Like the bodyguards who had escorted Alouette D’Ambrosia, both wore tailored, navy-blue suits and mirrored sunglasses. Their stern, chiseled features betrayed no emotion. Neither turned his head in Penny’s direction, but she knew from long experience that the pair of them were covertly watching her.

  From her earliest memories, she’d been aware of similar strange men following her. Sometimes they’d trailed behind her in slowly moving cars or sat parked at the curb outside her grade school. Other times, they’d strolled purposefully in her wake, always at a discreet distance. There were always two, sometimes three men, each dressed in a plain dark suit and wearing mirrored sunglasses. Their hair was clipped short and neatly combed. Their wingtip shoes were highly polished, even as they’d trailed her like two-legged bloodhounds across rain-wet Cornhusker football fields and the sandy beaches of Lake Manawa.

  Many a winter afternoon as the twilight faded, these chaperones would shadow her steps over lonely farm fields, weaving between the dead, wind-blasted stalks of corn as she trudged home from school. One man might lift his lapel and whisper into a microphone pinned there. Another sentinel would raise his arm and appear to signal to a helicopter that was also tracking Penny’s every step. Sometimes a great slow-moving blimp would hover above her, day after day.

  Ever since Penny could recall, these chaperones had haunted the edges of her life. Always in her peripheral vision. They were always in the background. Chances were excellent that tonight, they’d be among the diners at Chez Romaine, albeit seated at inferior tables, ever watchful.

  She’d never felt in the least bit threatened. If anything, she felt coddled and safe. From her first inkling that she was being followed, Penny assumed the men were agents of Homeland Security. All Americans, she told herself, enjoyed this same brand of diligent supervision. So enamored was she of her bodyguards that she’d come to accept them as guardian angels. A role they’d fulfilled more than once.

  One grim winter’s eve she’d been picking her way homeward through acres of rotting silage. The eventide sky was dark as a bruise. The chill air smelled heavy and ominous with decay. In a twinkling, a killer funnel cloud descended, churning the landscape into a dirty froth of fertile topsoil and airborne dairy cattle. Razor-sharp farm implements clattered around her on all sides. Fist-size chunks of hail pelted her young scalp.

  Just as Penny thought she’d be killed, some force had knocked her facedown in the furrows and a gentle, insistent weight pressed itself upon her body. The tornado spent its fury in a moment. The weight lifted, and she could recognize it as one of the anonymous watchers. His pin-striped suit soiled with mud, he removed himself from her backside and walked away without accepting a word of thanks. More than just a passive guardian, he had been a hero. This stranger had saved her life.

  Years later, when Penny was in college, a beer-saturated Zeta Delt had dragged her down some stairs into a dirt-floored cellar. It was during a high-spirited Pledge Week mixer. In retrospect, she recognized that she might’ve promised the young man more than she was willing to deliver. Frustrated, he had thrown her to the ground and straddled her, a knee planted on either side of her struggling torso. His muscular hands began the savage task of shredding her brightly flowered afternoon frock. He fumbled with the zipper of his chinos, producing an angry red erection. Dire as this situation seemed, Penny remained a lucky girl.

  Thank goodness for the agents of Homeland Security, Penny thought, as a gray flannel–suited stranger stepped from the shadows near the cellar walls. He delivered her attacker a violent karate chop to the windpipe. With the would-be rapist gasping, Penny had raced away to safety.

  Even after she’d said good-bye to her home state, the guardian angels had kept tabs on her. In the Big Apple, she saw them, the neon lights glinting off their sunglasses as they watched over her from a discreet distance. At Bonwit Teller. Even at BB&B they wore their sunglasses indoors, and still they guarded her. As the agents of Homeland Security, she assumed, they guarded all Americans. All of the time.

  While she’d been lost in thought, traffic had begun to thaw. Even now her cab was pulling to the curb in front of the Chez Romaine canopy. A valet stepped forward to open her door. Penny paid the cabbie and took a deep breath. She checked the time on her phone. Fifteen minutes late.

  She did a last-second check of her dress and arms. No flies.

  In the pages of the National Enquirer, Jennifer Lopez or Salma Hayek never walked a red carpet without an escort. Penny Harrigan had no choice. There was no sign of Climax-Well. A cadre of photographers was corralled behind a velvet rope, but they didn’t give her a second glance. None of them snapped her picture. No one with a microphone stepped up to say how nice she looked and ask about her dress. Another car arrived at the curb, the valet opened another door, and she had no choice except to proceed through the restaurant’s gilded entrance, alone.

  In the foyer, she waited for the maître d’ to notice her. He did not. No one noticed her. Elegantly dressed men and women lingered, waiting for their cars to arrive or to be seated. The din of laughter and conversation made her feel even more invisible, if that was possible. Here, her dress was barely good enough. Her jewelry drew bemused stares. The same way she’d wanted to run from the haughty saleslady at Bonwit Teller, Penny again longed to turn and flee. She’d wrap the gorgeous red gown in its original tissue paper and take it back tomorrow. Men like Maxwell didn’t date girls like her.

  Still, something nagged at her. She wished she’d never bragged about this date. Her roommates … her parents … even the taxi driver had thought she was a liar. She had to prove she wasn’t. Even if one gossip columnist saw her with Cor
ny Maxwell or a shutterbug snapped their picture together, she’d be vindicated. This thought pushed her the length of the foyer, toward the door to the main dining room. There, a flight of carpeted steps led downward. Whoever entered would draw every eye in the vast, crowded space.

  Standing on the top step Penny felt as if she were on the edge of a high cliff. Ahead of her beckoned the future. Behind her, the rich and powerful were already bottlenecked, backing up like gridlocked traffic in the streets. Someone cleared his throat loudly. Below her, the room was packed. Every table was occupied. A mezzanine held even more watchful diners. Where Penny found herself, on the stairs, was like a stage, visible from every seat.

  In the center of the room, one man sat alone. His blond hair caught the light from the chandelier. Open on his table was a small notebook, and he was studiously jotting notes in it with a silver pen.

  A stranger’s breath touched Penny’s ear. An officious voice behind her whispered, “Pardon me. Young lady?” The speaker sniffed loudly.

  Everyone in the restaurant was watching the lone man scribbling, but watching in that discreet New Yorker way: ogling him over the tops of their menus. Spying on his reflection in the silver blades of their butter knives.

  More insistently, the officious voice at Penny’s shoulder whispered, “We must keep this space open.” He said, “I must ask you to step aside.”

  Frozen, Penny willed the solitary diner to look up and see her. To see how pretty she looked. The crowd forming behind her grumbled, restless. She couldn’t move. The doorman, the parking valet, someone would have to lift her and carry her out like a sack of potatoes.

  At last, the man writing in his notebook looked up. His eyes met Penny’s. Every head in the cavernous room turned to follow his gaze. The man stood, and the noise of so many people dwindled. As if a curtain were rising at the opera, every voice fell silent.