Four Blondes

  You just know these things. They’re instinctual. I was all instinct then. Raw, aggressive instinct, and I lived my life like an alien thing was driving me.

  But now that thing is gone. It has failed me.

  (Where did it go? Can I get it back?)

  And I am FRIGHTENED nearly all the time now. By EVERYONE—doctors, lawyers, politicians, photographers, gossip columnists, anyone who might use words I don’t know or talk about events that I should know about but don’t, all actors and journalists, women who go through natural childbirth, women who speak three languages (especially Italian or French), and anyone that other people say is talented or merely cool or simply English. As you can imagine, this encompasses pretty much everyone in Hubert’s life, and that is why, if we have to go out, I tend to become deathly ill beforehand (in which case I can usually get out of going); or, if I cannot muster a life-threatening illness, I sit in a corner with my hands folded in my lap, my head tilted and a blank expression on my face, which seems to prevent people from attempting to converse with me.

  But on this particular evening, no amount of vapors can prevent the inevitable: attending the fiftieth anniversary of the ballet.

  Without my husband.

  Who is actually having a CARD GAME instead.

  He’s sitting in the living room in a red-and-white-striped shirt, suspenders still looped over his shoulders, drinking a beer with his buddies from the network whose names I still can’t be bothered to remember, when I come down the stairs, wearing a white brocade dress with gray mink trim and long gray gloves. My mother is married to a fishmonger. My father is gay and lives in Paris. I am going to the ballet.

  Doesn’t anyone understand how TERRIBLE life is?

  I used to beg to go to these events. I used to connive and cadge an extra ticket, suck up to gay men who wanted to help me, buy a dress and tuck the tags in and arrogantly return it the next day, all with the specific ambition of landing myself in the position I’m in tonight.

  “Hello,” Hubert says nervously, putting down his beer as he stands. “I . . . I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  I smile mournfully.

  “Is D.W. here yet?”

  I shake my head.

  He looks at his buddies. “I guess we’d know it if he were. D.W. He’s Cecelia’s friend. He’s—”

  “An escort,” I say quickly.

  The buddies nod uncomfortably.

  “Listen,” he says, approaching to take my arm, leading me a little bit out of the room, “I really appreciate this, you know?”

  I stand with my head bowed. “I don’t know why you’re making me do this.”

  “Because,” he says. “We’ve been over this before, and it’s a good thing.”

  “It’s not a good thing for me.”

  “Listen,” he says, nodding at his buddies over his shoulder while pulling me deeper into the library, “you’ve always said you wanted to be an actress. Just pretend you’re an actress and you’re in a movie. That’s what I always do.”

  I look at him pityingly.

  “Hey,” he says, touching my shoulder, “it’s not like you don’t know how to do this. When I met you . . .”

  What?

  He stops, seeing that he has said the wrong thing.

  When he met me, I had crashed the event. Looking for him. He found out six months later, over pillow talk, and thought it was funny; but then he realized the story would make me look bad, so it’s one of the many awful truths about my past that we have to keep hidden.

  I am standing stiffly, my eyes wide, staring into space.

  “Oh no,” he says. “Oh no, Cecelia, I’m sorry, I love you.” He grabs for me, but it is too late. I gather up my skirts and run out the door, run down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, panting for a second, looking around, wondering what I should do, and then I see a cab, run to the street and hail it, and as I get in and slam the door and look back I see the photographer in the camouflage outfit, who stares at me with a sort of muted curiosity on his face and then shrugs.

  “Where to?” the cab driver says.

  I sit back on the seat. I touch my hair. “Lincoln Center,” I say.

  “Are you an actress?” he says.

  I say yes, and he lets me smoke.

  I consciously think of nothing as my heels click briskly across the plaza at Lincoln Center. I hurry slightly because of the February drizzle and flow into the crowd that gathers at the door, laughing, stomping their feet, shaking umbrellas. I somehow manage to blend in, passing the photographers, who look at me and then turn away to take someone else’s picture, and I am relieved until a short young woman, dressed in black and wearing a black headset, approaches and says, “Can I help you?”

  I look around in confusion and open my mouth and then close it and look at the girl again (who is smiling at me, not unkindly), and I narrow my eyes, not believing that she doesn’t know who I am. “I’m . . .”

  “Yes?” she says, and I suddenly realize that she doesn’t recognize me. It’s the short white hair. I look around, lower my voice. “I’m Cecelia Kelly’s cousin. Rebecca Kelly. Cecelia wanted to come, but she’s . . . sick . . . and she felt so bad about it, she insisted I go in her place. I know it’s an inconvenience and all, but I’ve been in Paris for the past five years and—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says cozily, reaching across a table and picking up a card that reads PRINCESS CECELIA LUXENSTEIN. “NO one ever objected to a beautiful woman, you know, and you’re sitting at a table with Nevil Mouse, who has been bugging and bugging and bugging me to set him up with some ‘eligible woman’ even though he’s here with that model, Nandy, and, well, I hope Cecelia feels better, you know?” She hands me the card. “She seems to be sick a lot. Which is really too bad, because”—the girl leans in conspiratorially—”she’s kind of our secret hero in the office. I mean, our boss is such an asshole, but the thing about Cecelia is that you can tell she thinks it’s all such a bunch of . . . crap . . . and after you’ve done this for a couple of years, I can tell you that it is.”

  “Well, um, thank you. Thank you very much,” I say.

  “Oh. And watch out for Maurice Tristam. That actor? He’s at your table too. He’s married, but he cheats on his wife. Constantly.”

  I nod and move away, making my way into the theater, passing more photographers (one of whom lamely lifts his camera and takes one picture, in case I might be someone important they don’t know about), and I cross over knees and ankles to my place, Row C, seat 125, in the middle of the third row. The seat next to me is empty, and a man nearby smiles at me as the lights dim and I nod imperceptibly, and the music starts.

  I begin to drift away.

  I’m thinking.

  About days and days of lying on a dirty sleeping bag on a dirty mattress on the floor, staring out the window at the bare branches of trees turned black from the endless drip, drip, drip of rain. It was Maine and the sky was always steel gray and the temperature was always 33 degrees with 100 percent chance of precipitation and the insulation was coming out of the walls. There were too many people in the house or too few, there was no food or too much—bags of potato chips and cans of chicken soup and ice cream in paper cartons—and I had a rotten tooth that someone pulled out by tying one end of a string around the tooth and the other end around a door handle and then slamming the door. I was six years old, and we were making an important political statement. We were rejecting society, we were rejecting Mother’s family and Mother’s husband’s family and the kind of person they expected Mother to be. We were rejecting false values and the evils of capitalism (although we didn’t reject the tiny bits of money when they came), and we were running, running, running, but all we were running away from was clean linens and blue water in the toilet bowl and Sunkist oranges in winter.

  But Mother never did figure that out. Not even after she “reformed” and we went to live in Lawrenceville. Where we tried to act “normal.”

  The ballet en
ds.

  I sit.

  Long after the audience has leaped cheering to their feet, the champagne has been poured, and the cloud of balloons has descended on the crowd, I remain seated in the theater. Row C, seat 125. The crowd swells then falls back, thins out, and eventually disappears for dinner. Ushers shift through the theater, picking up discarded programs.

  “Are you all right, Miss? They’ll be starting dinner soon. Lobster quadrilles. You don’t want to miss that.”

  “Thank you,” I say. But I remain, thinking about my dirty Barbie doll, stained and naked with matted hair, which I took everywhere, crying once when someone’s dog tried to take it away. “She’s a little princess, isn’t she,” people had said as they picked me up in my worn flowered skirt, and I howled even louder, tears streaking my face.

  Even back then I couldn’t believe that I’d never have a pony.

  I look up and am not astonished to see the beautiful boy from my dream threading his way through the rows until he stands above me, smiles, and sits down.

  “Memory is just an alternate version of reality,” he says.

  We stare at the empty stage.

  They are serving the foie gras with mango slices on the mezzanine level of Lincoln Center as we stand at the top of the stairs. It could be my imagination, but it seems there is a tiny, perceptible hush, and people swivel their heads to look at us as the boy takes my arm and we make our way slowly down the steps and across the floor to my table. The photographer, Patrice, is squatting next to Nevil Mouse, the Australian media wunderkind who once tried to hire me but then rejected me when I wouldn’t go on a date with him. As the boy pulls out my chair, he whispers, “Your table looks as bad as mine,” and winks just as Patrice whispers to Nevil, “Who’s that girl?”

  Nevil, who is nervous and high-strung, stands up awkwardly and says, “Excuse me, but I think that seat is reserved for Princess Cecelia Luxenstein.”

  “It is,” I say calmly, adjusting the shoulders of my dress. “But I’m afraid Cecelia couldn’t make it. She’s sick. I’m her cousin, Rebecca Kelly.”

  “Well, I suppose . . . it’s all right then,” Nevil says.

  I put one elbow on the table and lean toward him. “Are you in charge of this event?” I ask demurely.

  “No. Why should you ask that? It’s just that . . . the committee works so hard to get the tables . . . just right.”

  “I see,” I say. “So it wouldn’t be unfair to assume that your greatest preoccupation is . . . being seen at the right table with the right people.”

  Nevil looks for help from Patrice, who kicks Nevil under the table and slides toward me, taking the seat that I suddenly realize is reserved for D.W.

  “I didn’t realize Cecelia had such a beautiful cousin. Do you mind if I take your picture?”

  “Not at all,” I say, smiling as Patrice leans back and fires off several shots. “You look so much like Cecelia, you know. But Cecelia hates to have her picture taken. I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.”

  “She’s . . . shy,” I say.

  “With me? I’m one of her oldest friends,” Patrice says.

  “Are you? I’ve never heard her mention you, but that must be because I’ve been in Paris for the last five years.”

  “I’ve known her forever. I remember when she first came to New York. She had big hair. Used to hang out at Au Bar. She was wild. I can’t figure out what happened to her. I mean, she got the guy that everybody wanted, right? Champagne?”

  “Yes, I’d love some.”

  “Ooooh, Mrs. Sneet,” Patrice says to an elegant woman in her early fifties who is passing by, “Mrs. Sneet, I’d like you to meet Rebecca Kelly. She’s Cecelia Luxenstein’s cousin. She’s been in Paris for the last five years, studying . . . art. This is Arlene Sneet, the head of the ballet committee.”

  I hold up my hand. “So lovely to meet you,” I say. “The ballet . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful. I was so transfixed I had to remain in my seat, digesting it all, and I’m afraid that I kept my dinner partners waiting as a result.”

  “My dear, I completely understand,” Mrs. Sneet said. “It’s so lovely to see new faces at the ballet. And I must say, you’re making quite a stir. Everyone is wondering who you are. You must allow me to introduce you to some eligible young men.”

  “Did I hear you say you studied art at the Louvre?” came a voice from my right.

  I turn. “Why yes. Yes, that’s right, Mr. Tristam.”

  “I always wanted to be a painter, but then I got caught up in this acting business,” Maurice Tristam says.

  “Oh yes,” I say. “It’s so difficult, the way one often has to sacrifice art for commerce.”

  “You should see some of the parts I’ve had to take just for the filthy lucre.”

  “And you’re so talented.”

  “You think so? I ought to bring you in to talk to some of my producers. What did you say your name was again?”

  “Rebecca Kelly.”

  “Rebecca Kelly. That sounds like a movie star. Well, Rebecca Kelly, I must say I’m an admirer of yours already.”

  “Oh, Mr. Tristam—”

  “Call me Maurice.”

  “You’re too kind. And who is your lovely date? Why, you naughty man. You’ve brought your daughter.”

  “I’m not his daughter!” says the lovely date, who, at no older than eighteen, already has obvious breast implants and a hardened expression.

  “This is Willie,” Maurice says with obvious embarrassment. He leans toward me and whispers in my ear. “And she’s not my date. She’s my, er, costar in this movie we just shot.”

  Willie leans across Maurice. “Are you friends with Miles?”

  “Miles?” I ask.

  “Miles Hanson. That guy you’re with.”

  “Oh. You mean that pretty blond boy. Is his name Miles?”

  Willie looks at me like I must be an idiot. “He just finished that movie. Gigantic. Everyone says he’s going to be a huge star. He’s the next Brad Pitt. I’m trying to get Maurice to introduce me—”

  “I told you, I don’t know him,” Maurice says.

  “But he won’t. And I think he’d be a great boyfriend for me,” Willie says.

  “Champagne?” I ask, pouring myself another glass as the lobster quadrilles arrive.

  Forty-five minutes later they’re playing that song “I Just Wanna Fly,” and I’m quite drunk, dancing wildly with Miles, when I look over and there is D.W., in a damp tuxedo, smoothing his wet hair and trying to look calm although I can see that he’s fuming, and he spots me and marches over and shouts, “Cecelia! What are you doing? Hubert and I have been searching half of Manhattan for you.”

  Miles stops and I stop and the whole room seems to stop, expanding away from me, and I can hear Patrice shouting, “I knew it! I knew it was Cecelia all along!” And suddenly a black swarm of photographers descends and I am caught, with one hand in Miles’s and the other clutching a bottle of champagne, and Miles jerks my arm and we start running through the crowd.

  We run down the stairs with the photographers following us and run outside where it’s really pouring now, across the plaza, down more steps, dodging limousines and four traffic cops, right onto Broadway, where a Number 12 bus is just pulling up.

  We run up to the bus, waving and shouting, and we get on and Miles has two tokens and we’re laughing, walking to the back of the bus where we sit down and look at each other and crack up, then we look up and everyone on the bus is staring. I hiccup and Miles takes a swig from the bottle of champagne. Then our clasped hands fall apart as we stare out opposite windows, watching the thick streaks of rain against the glass.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  Hubert is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal.

  “Is there, ah, coffee?” I ask.

  “In the coffeemaker,” he says, not looking up.

  I wander over
to the counter and bang some cabinet doors, looking for a coffee cup.

  “Try the dishwasher,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I pour the coffee, sit down. “You’re up early,” he says.

  “Mmmmm-hmmm,” I say. He slides the Post toward me.

  I take a sip of coffee. I open the paper to Page Six.

  The headline reads PRINCESS BRIDE LIFE OF THE PARTY.

  And then the copy: “It seems it’s Prince Hubert Luxenstein who is keeping back his glamorous wife, Cecelia, and not the other way around. Cecelia Kelly, the former art dealer, has been laying low ever since her nuptials two summers ago in Lake Cuomo, Italy, at the 200-acre family castle owned by the groom’s father, Prince Heinrich Luxenstein. But last night at the fiftieth anniversary of the ballet, the beautiful new princess, sporting a new gamine hairstyle and wearing a gown by Bentley, arrived solo and charmed dinner guests who included . . . before making a dramatic exit with new screen heartthrob Miles Hanson.”

  I fold the paper.

  “Cecelia . . .,” he says.

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Cecelia . . .”

  I hold up my hand. “Don’t. Just don’t,” I say.

  V

  Dear Diary:

  I think I’m getting better.

  Today I get up and put clothes on and have a cup of coffee and read Hubert’s leftover papers, and I look at my watch and it is nine o’clock and I suddenly realize that I could do something today. This is such a strange feeling that, for a moment, I consider taking a couple of Xanaxes, but then I realize that, for the first time in—what? years?—I don’t want to be high. I am actually thinking about going uptown and—HA—making a surprise visit to my husband’s office.