Diary of an Ugly Duckling (12 page)
smile of his own. “Hey, it’s just one night, right?”
“Of course,” he agreed blankly, reaching for the
black duffel.
“That’s okay. I got it,” Audra told him, tugging
the thing just out of his reach.
Once again the thin man looked her over with an
expression of indifference mixed with disapproval.
Apparently, he preferred women to arrive with a full
set of luggage for him to carry and a toy poodle yap-
ping in a handbag. But all he said was, “Very well,
madam. Follow me, please.”
It was after midnight Los Angeles time and even
later in Audra’s mind when they drove off the
grounds of the sprawling airport and hit one of the
city’s many freeways. Grateful not to have to navi-
gate her way to the hotel on her own, Audra sank
back in the dark leather seat of the car and closed
her eyes. Perhaps tomorrow she’d have a few min-
utes to herself to see something of the sights of L.A.,
but for now she wanted nothing more than to lay
her head on a soft pillow somewhere and sleep.
When at last they pulled into the circular drive of
the hotel, Audra understood the driver’s snarky at-
titude toward her rumpled clothing and battered
black satchel.
“Oh shit,” she muttered as the driver hopped out
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
95
and hurried around the car to open her door with
a bow.
“Someone will pick you up promptly at nine a.m.
to take you to the studio, madam,” he said in a tone
that made it perfectly clear that that someone would
not be himself. “As you have no luggage, madam,
I’ll just say goodnight and trust the hotel staff to see
to your remaining needs.” And he nodded with a fi-
nality Audra could not misunderstand: Get out of
the car, you’re here.
Audra knew instantly where “here” was.
Most people would have recognized it: It was one
of the most famous hotels in Beverly Hills, pictured
on television shows and movies as frequently as the
Kodak Theatre or the famous Hollywood sign. It
was an imposing Spanish-style structure with or-
nate frescoes and a sense of palatial opulence. Audra
could almost see the ghosts of stars of ages past—
could almost hear the sounds of today’s hottest
young actors cavorting within its walls.
“Oh shit,” Audra whispered again, feeling like
she’d landed in another world—a world to which
she could never belong. “Oh shit.”
She stepped away from the vehicle, forcing her-
self to close her mouth so that she wouldn’t look
even more “bumpkin” than she felt. Good thing, be-
cause an instant later an elaborately uniformed
doorman stepped into the space between herself
and the entrance, a wide smile on his face as he
lifted the strap of Audra’s black satchel off her
shoulder as though he handled bags of its exquisite
quality all the time.
96
Karyn Langhorne
“Welcome to Beverly Hills,” he said. “Checking
in?”
Audra turned back to the driver behind her, ready
to question the accuracy of his choice of destination.
But the man was already gone, the black car turning
in the cobbled driveway and disappearing back
down into the street. Automatically, Audra thought
of her credit-card balance, wondering if there was
enough on the thing for just one night in a hotel that
was probably as swank on the inside as it looked on
the outside. Hopefully, when Shamiyah said she’d
“take care of the arrangements,” she meant more
than the airfare.
The doorman was waiting.
“I’ll guess we’ll find out if I’m checking in in a sec-
ond,” she quipped to the valet.
He laughed like his tip depended on it and led her
inside.
Friday, May 12
Dear Petra,
Had to log on quickly to tell you how fab this hotel is!
Girl, it’s beyond plush. It’s like living a moment out of
that VH1 show, The Fabulous Life of . . .
Still not entirely sure why I’m here, but I guess I’ll
find out in a few minutes. There’s a car on the way to
take me to meet with the Ugly Duckling people.
I’ll write more later.
Be careful out there,
Audra
“Audra! So
nice
to
finally
meet you! Though I
feel like I
already
know you, from
all
our
phone conversations and of course, that
fabulous
tape of yours!”
98
Karyn Langhorne
Shamiyah—for this was surely the woman; Audra
recognized the voice and the emphatic use of certain
words—grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled
her close, planting two quick butterfly kisses on
both her cheeks.
“Let’s get a
look
at you!” she said, pushing Audra
away as suddenly as she’d grabbed for her, her face
crunching with the effort of inspection, as though
they weren’t standing in the middle of a leafy side-
walk, outside an utterly unremarkable-looking Bev-
erly Hills office complex.
Audra stared back her, conducting an inspection
of her own. Shamiyah was older than she had
sounded on the phone, probably as kissing close to
thirty as Audra was herself. She was a petite, sepia-
toned person with a heart-shaped face framed by a
mass of unruly black springs of hair, held off her
face by a pair of designer sunglasses. She was a little
rounder in the behind than Audra expected—
carrying a little of Africa in her hips and thighs—
but her tight white tank T, her low-slung jeans and
high-heeled mules suited her figure perfectly.
“Girl,” she said in her Ivy-league ghetto voice,
“you weren’t
kidding.
How much have you
lost
?”
“Not sure,” Audra replied, her mind racing.
These people were expecting some quick-thinking,
comedienne version of herself and she had no inten-
tion of disappointing, even if it cost her every line in
her personal arsenal, plus a few from the old movies
as well. “Fat girls don’t weigh themselves, you
know. Axe-wielding mass murderers don’t scare fat
girls.” Audra rolled her eyes. “Hell, I’d probably just
ask to borrow his knife to carve my chicken dinner.
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
99
But the scale?” And she made her voice like a Vin-
cent Price horror movie from back in the day.
“Scaaaarrrryyy . . .”
Shamiyah chuckled her appreciation for the per-
formance. “Well, we’ll get some
numbers
today,” she
said, taking Audra’s arm and guiding her toward
the lobby of the building. “What did you think of
the hotel?”
Audra rolled her eyes. “When that car rolled up in
front of it, I thought I was going to have to prostitute
myself just to pay the bill. Can you see me, hanging
out on the street corner in this neighborhood, flash-
ing passing cars with a little leg?” And she struck a
pose she knew looked utterly ridiculous—especially
for a woman of her size and build.
Shamiyah broke into another gale of laughter.
“That would be hilarious.”
“Probably wouldn’t make me enough money to
pay for the newspaper they left on the threshold.”
“You’d be
surprised
,” Shamiyah muttered, her
voice losing a bit of its bubbly edge. “Strange place,
L.A. People literally sell their very
souls
here and
consider it worth the bargain.” She shook her head.
“I’ve been here for almost eight
years
. . . and I some-
times wonder if I’m
one
of them.” Before Audra
could ask her any questions about herself or her
adopted town, the woman frowned. “But you
shouldn’t have needed
any
money. The room should
have been
totally
comped—”
“Yeah,” Audra said. “That’s what they told me
when I went to check in. That everything was com-
plimentary . . .” she grinned. “Except the tips.”
“Well, there’s a few things a sister’s gotta handle
100
Karyn Langhorne
on her own. But for everything else”—she gave Au-
dra a cynical eye roll—“there’s an expense account.
Now.” She grasped Audra’s arm again. “Before you
meet everybody, there’s some
stuff
they want you to
do.”
“What kind of stuff?” Audra asked, suddenly feel-
ing on guard.
“
Medical
kinds of stuff,” Shamiyah said, waving
her fingers vaguely as if she weren’t certain of the
details. “Basically they want to do the whole exam,
like you were going to be on the show. It’s pretty
comprehensive—takes hours and hours—so we’d
better get started.”
Shamiyah steered her toward the elevator and along
the third-floor corridor to a glass-encased office. The
words alan bremmar, m.d., and herbert koch,
m.d., graced the door, each man’s moniker followed
by a long line of letters like a perverse alphabet soup.
Through the glass, Audra could see an elegant recep-
tion desk and an even more elegant receptionist.
“These guys are absolutely the
best
,” Shamiyah
murmured as though it were a secret, guiding her
through the glass doors with one surprisingly firm
and determined hand. “They’ve done
everybody
.
More stars than the Walk of Fame . . . Hi Maisy!”
Shamiyah said with a gushing enthusiasm that Au-
dra couldn’t decide was real or fake. “Here she is,
Audra Marks! The
Ugly Duckling
candidate we’ve
been talking about?”
Maisy stretched her face into a smile, staring at
Audra as though she were some interesting new
species that required great analysis, while Audra
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
101
stared back at her with similar interest. Up close,
Maisy had the look of someone who had seen a few
cuts of the surgeon’s knife herself: her eyebrows
were suspiciously high, her nose perfectly straight,
her breasts impossibly perky. Add to that the warm
glow of a paid-for tan, and the perfect lowlights of a
custom dye job and Maisy looked fake right up to
her enhanced eyelashes.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in a voice far too
high and girlish for her years, but pleasant enough.
She stood up, showing them a lean figure clad in a
tight black T-shirt and black pants in some clingy,
sexy fabric that would have shown every bump of
cellulite, if the girl had had any. “Carla—she’s one
of our nurses—is waiting for you in Room One. But
first . . .” She pulled a thick folder full of papers
from the cubby beneath the elegant desk. “Papers to
sign,” she said, handing them to Audra.
“Good grief! More papers?” She shook her head,
turning to Shamiyah in amazement. “My hand still
hurts from the stack you sent over last night.
Haven’t I released you people from all liability for
just about every conceivable accident imaginable?”
“I—I don’t know,” the girl said, looking gen-
uinely confused. “But these are the medical forms
so Dr. Bremmar and the others can do their prelimi-
nary consultation. Did someone already send you
these? Because—”
“No, no,” Shamiyah patted the girl on the arm, re-
assuringly. “The forms she got
last night
were from
the
Ugly Duckling
show. Consenting to her appear-
ance on the program, for the use of her image in
promotion, release from libel and slander—stuff like
102
Karyn Langhorne
that. Not the same. She’s got to do these, too.” She
cast a significant glance at Audra. “Just skip all the
financial and insurance information. Write
Ugly
Duckling
. They know where to send the bills.”
“So basically, I’m giving these docs permission to
kill me and your production company permission to
film it.” Audra quirked an eyebrow at Shamiyah. “Is
that about right?”
For once, Shamiyah seemed to forget to smile.
“Yes, that’s about it,” she said levelly, meeting Au-
dra’s eyes. “You’re cool with that, though, right?”
For the first time, a current of the seriousness of
this undertaking charged the air between them like
ions before a lightning storm. Audra grabbed the
edge of the reception desk, steadying herself.
The whole point was to remake herself . . . and
she was actually here, in Los Angeles, to find out
if—and how—it could be done. She imagined her-
self transformed into a swan of unimaginable
beauty, and inhaled.
“Ice-cold chilly,” Audra told the woman, clench-
ing and unclenching her fist, making ready for the
work at hand. She grabbed the folder, crossed the
room and threw herself into a nearby chair, feigning
exhaustion. “I’m gonna need surgery for carpal tun-
nel by the time you guys get done with me.”
“Carpal tunnel?” The blonde’s confusion seemed