The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (19 page)

Lifting her face into the sky, Perri felt for once blissfully indifferent to her own neuroses, including those to do with her skin. (Though, admittedly, she was wearing a medical-grade Swiss sunscreen with a micronized zinc formulation.) She felt indifferent to her future, too: all that existed for her was the delicious if relentless lashing of the sun. She lay there until she
couldn’t take it anymore. Then she sat up and reached for her lemonade. As she sucked the sweet and cool liquid down her throat, she looked around her at the mise-en-scène—mostly Russian tourists in the act of tanning and flirting. The men had shaved heads and large biceps and were smoking Marlboro Lights. The women had suspiciously circular breasts and were wearing too much lip liner, lending them the appearance of sexy clowns. They were probably in their late twenties, Perri thought, suddenly recalling that she was supposed to be that age, too. Or, at least, Ginny Budelaire was supposed to be that age. Wrenched back to reality, Perri shuddered at her own gall in having checked into the hotel under the other woman’s name and with a fictitious credit card to match.

And the credit card was arguably the least of her sins. She’d also walked out on her husband and kids and was about to hook up with her old college boyfriend, Roy Marley. Only, what if she wasn’t attracted to him, or he to her? Surely, he’d already seen the snapshots she’d posted of herself on Facebook. But all of them were strategically flattering, three years out of date, shot at dusk, and featured Perri only from the waist up. Then again, she’d finally shed ten of the fifteen extra pounds she’d accumulated over three pregnancies—or four, if you counted her late miscarriage between Sadie and Noah. Having a midlife crisis, it turned out, was the ultimate weight-loss technique. (Grapefruits be damned!) Moreover, Roy was a virtual stranger at this point. If the two failed to hit it off, they’d simply go their separate ways—no harm done. Alternately, if the chemistry was still there, their affair would be Perri’s special birthday treat to herself. And no one had to know about it but Roy and her.

And no one
would
know, Perri had already decided. Both of
her sisters had already left messages that, while ostensibly wishing her well, were clearly designed to elicit information regarding her whereabouts. Which is why Perri didn’t dare call either one back. She’d always been a terrible actress and feared she’d end up confessing all. She could already picture Olympia quietly gloating over Perri’s moral and sexual failures, believing the two of them to be equivalent now. (Gus had long ago relayed her suspicion that Lola’s father was Olympia’s married ex-lover, Patrick, and Perri didn’t doubt it.) But while Perri wasn’t proud of her recent behavior, she felt that extramarital affairs were one thing; reproducing with another man’s husband was quite another. That is, in her own Ranking of the Righteous, she still believed that she came out significantly ahead of her middle sister.

Or was Perri trying to justify the unjustifiable? Did she actually feel terrible? Lifting her book so it blocked the sun, she began to read:
Many people will attempt to defer or delay this terrifying journey of transformation through addictions that will blunt the pain of the passage. Others will find all manner of avoidance behaviors and devote themselves to constant “doing” so as never to leave even a brief, unguarded moment when the questions that prompt the initiation might appear.
Perri snapped the book shut. She didn’t like the author’s alarmist tone. Plus, her eyelids were drooping. She decided to head back to her room. Let the record state that it was to be Imperia Hellinger Sims’s first afternoon nap in a decade.

While Perri had been out at the pool, her room had been tidied and her bed made. A white brocade spread lay smoothed over the corners of the mattress. The sight of it filled Perri with a
sense of well-being, even optimism. She may have been upending the status quo in her life, but visual and sensual order still mattered to her, still calmed her. As she pulled the drapes against the glare, her chest purred with the easy glide of the rings across the rod. Stretching out on the bed, Perri breathed deeply—in, then out. The large size of her breasts had always made it difficult for her to sleep on her stomach. But she’d found a way of reclining on her side with a pillow wedged between her belly and the mattress that approximated the tummy-down position. Lying there, she wondered if she still loved Mike, wondered what that word even meant in the context of a long marriage. She still felt proud when she stood next to him at parties. As if she’d snagged one of the “cool guys.” But the romance of their relationship seemed as ancient to her as the black stirrup pants in which she’d lived during her freshman year of college, believing them to be the epitome of chic when, looking back, she probably looked like a hotdog that had gone horseback riding. At the same time, she clearly loved what she and Mike had made together—their family, their home. Was that enough? (If only that had been enough!) At some point, she must have dozed off…

She woke to find her mouth attached to a pool of dribble. She was also aroused. On the chance that she and Roy would make passionate love later that afternoon, however, Perri decided to refrain from using the vibrator she’d hidden in her suitcase inside three pairs of socks. And still, she’d quaked in fear while passing through security! Instead, she got in the shower and soaped up her body with complimentary glycerin soap. By the time she’d finished blowing out her hair, it was nearly one thirty. Roy was due to arrive in a half hour. She dressed in a pale pink twin set and floral-patterned culottes. Then she took
the elevator down to the first floor to have a light lunch (on account of her birthday, she’d decided to temporarily suspend her No Restaurants Rule) and wait for her would-be lover. She spotted Roy before he spotted her—ambling over to the reception desk, his aviators still on. At least, Perri thought it was him. He looked exactly as she imagined he’d look after a time lapse of nearly twenty years. Even so, there was something shocking about the sight of him, if only because he was flesh and blood, whereas in the past few months he’d come to seem like nothing so much as a shapeless phantom lurking in her phone. That said, Roy Marley cut an impressive figure in the material world, too. His skin was still taut, his nostrils pronounced. Instead of dreadlocks, he sported a globe-sized, shaved dome. (Probably losing his hair, Perri decided.) He was also dressed conservatively, which she liked, in a light blue polo shirt and tan chinos with only the gentlest of guts to show for his two decades of bourgeois living. Perri considered calling out to him but decided to get closer before doing so. She took another bite of her salad, reapplied her lipstick, then rose from her chair and sauntered over to where he stood.

But as she neared her target, her heartbeat suddenly quickened; her shoulders withdrew into her body; and her stomach crunched into a knot. It was strange, she thought, how, the further one traveled from youth, the more timid one became physically: everything from skydiving to sex with new (or even old!) lovers became that much more terrifying and likely to produce an excess of self-consciousness that bordered on existential dread. Shouldn’t it have worked the other way around? When Perri was no more than two feet away from where Roy stood—hunched over the reception desk with a pen—she uttered “Roy” in a low voice that sounded off-kilter even to her ears.

He abruptly turned to face her, his eyes popping. “Perri?!” he said, as if he hadn’t seen those Facebook pictures after all. Or maybe he
had
seen them, and she no longer looked anything like them. And he was disappointed. Or pleasantly surprised. Or maybe Perri was just projecting.

“Hi!” she said, laughing nervously as she lifted her palm in salute.

“Heeeeeyyyyyy,” he said, taking the two steps necessary to lay a hand on her forearm and kiss her hello—first on one cheek, then on the other. He smelled of airplane pretzels. Then he pulled away. Perri felt his eyes roaming up and down the length of her. “You look good, woman,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Oh, thanks. I try!” said Perri, laughing again.

“You don’t need to try,” said Roy.

“Well, thanks for that, too.” She paused. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me at all.”

“I was just sitting over there eating my lunch when I saw you come in.” She motioned at her table. “You’re hard to mistake.”

“Why? Because I’m black?”

Perri blanched.

Roy burst out laughing, punched her lightly in the arm, and declared, “I’m just kidding!”

“Ha ha,” said Perri, suddenly doubting that this was going to work. Racial humor: she’d never been good at it.

“Listen.” Again, Roy laid a hand on Perri’s forearm. “Let me just get settled in here. And I’ll join you in ten minutes. How does that sound?”

“Fine! Great,” said Perri, wishing now that she’d waited to approach him. Why was she always in such a hurry? What if
Roy thought she was too aggressive? It had been years since Perri had dated. Come to think of it, she’d never really dated. “Take your time,” she added.

Roy abruptly took her hand in his, leaned over it, then pressed his lips to the back of it. His eyes were twinkling when he came up for air. “I’ll be there as quick as I can,” he said.

“I’ll keep a seat warm,” Perri said, then wished she hadn’t done so. Who said things like that? It sounded as if she were talking about a toilet.

After Roy left, she returned to her salad. But it no longer looked appetizing. The kernels of corn called to mind the rotten teeth of an old man.

Perri was signing the bill—and starting to wonder if Roy Marley had had second thoughts and gotten on the next plane back to DC—when he reappeared. He’d changed into a white polo shirt and sandals instead of sneakers. He pulled out the chair opposite her, turned it around, and straddled it. “So, Perri Hellinger,” he began anew. “How have you been these past twenty years?”

There was something so sympathetic about his face, Perri thought. Suddenly she longed to tell all. And why not? He’d known her since she was practically a child! “To be honest, I’m kind of in crisis mode,” she said. “Total breakdown on the home front.” She took a sip of her water. “But it’s not your problem.” She waved her hand through the air. “And I promise not to spend the whole weekend talking about it. But I just have to say that it’s such a relief to be away for a few—”

“Perri—stop,” Roy interrupted her. “How about we just try and enjoy the weekend. Huh?”

“You’re right,” said Perri, hurt and mortified all in the same breath. Roy had come to Florida to help her cheat on her husband, she saw now—not to help her figure out the second half of her life. “Waiter!” she called out in too loud a voice. Several other diners glanced in her direction, scowling. Finally, a waiter appeared. “I’ll have a piña colada,” she told the guy. “And can you make that with freshly squeezed pineapple juice?”

“Now you’re getting the idea.” Roy smiled approvingly.

“We serve only freshly squeezed juice,” snipped the waiter. Then he turned to Roy. “And for you, sir?”

Roy ordered a light beer.

The waiter disappeared. Perri and Roy talked about the weather. They ordered another round. Then they got drunk and began to talk about old times. “Who was that guy in Delta Upsilon with the four-foot-high American flag bong?”

“You mean, Marty Weinstock?!” Roy let out a belly laugh. “Dude was high, twenty-four/seven!”

“Marty Weinstock—that’s right,” cried Perri. “God, that guy really was a wastrel. I don’t know how he ever graduated,
if
he ever graduated.”

“I’ve actually been in touch with Party Marty. He’s making a shitload of money now designing golf courses all over the Southwest.”

“You’re kidding?! Like, he decides how big to make the sand pits and stuff?”

“They’re called bunkers, my dear.”

“Like Hitler’s?”

“Something like that.”

“I gather you play golf, too.”

“Damn right I do. Handicap is a seven.”

“And when you’re not golfing, what do you do?”

“Nothing as exciting as designing bunkers.”

“Well, maybe I’ll find it exciting.”

“I’m a vascular surgeon. About twenty percent of my work is helping patients with life-threatening vascular abnormalities. The other eighty is lasering off the varicose veins of middle-aged ladies who come to me feeling bad about their legs and wanting to wear shorts and tennis skirts again.”

“How charitable of you,” said Perri, suddenly self-conscious about her own imperfect gams, which she crossed beneath the table, before asking, “And are there discounts for old friends?”

“Depends on whether that old friend really needs help. Which, in turn, requires a full inspection of the affected area.” Roy smiled suggestively.

“I see,” said Perri, her heart suddenly beating in her throat.

They wound up in Perri’s room. No sooner had she opened the door than Roy backed her against it and began to kiss her neck. Then he pressed his groin into hers and began to massage the sides of her breasts. Perri was so aroused that she felt dizzy. This is what it felt like to be desired as a woman, she thought. Before long, Roy pulled her onto the bed, unfastened her culottes, and began to wriggle them down her hips. “You are one hot mama,” he said.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she panted as she pulled him toward her.

But he had other ideas in mind. After scooting his body down to the foot of the bed, he began to kiss his way up her legs. Perri moaned in anticipation of the ecstasies to come.

But midway up her thighs, he paused before he murmured, “Hello, Spidey.”

“Excuse me?” said Perri, lifting her head.

Roy’s own head emerged as well—from between her knees. “I was just saying hello to a cute little spider vein. You know, you can have these removed.”

“EXCUSE ME?!” Perri cried again. Shocked and outraged, she raised her body into a sitting position and instinctively covered her thighs with her hands.

“Sorry, it’s my profession,” said Roy. “Hard for me not to look.”

“Well, you’re not at work! And I’m not a patient!” The lust drained out of her like contrast dye after an MRI. The moment was ruined. She looked across the room. A narrow beam of sunlight reflected on the carpet reminded her of Aiden’s once-beloved Star Wars light saber, and then of Aiden himself. She wondered what he was doing just then, and a spasm of heartsickness radiated through her chest. She thought of Mike, too, in his favorite UPenn T-shirt, running through the yard with Sadie on his shoulders, yelling, “Special delivery!” Was it possible she missed
him,
as well? And what if her desire to flee Larchmont had mostly to do with her need to show Mike the extent to which he took her for granted? Maybe that was all this was, Perri thought—a way of getting Mike to figure out how to press Start on the washing machine. “I think you should get dressed,” she told Roy. She knew she was being cold, but she couldn’t help it.