The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty (11 page)

I don’t come up with any grand revelations.

THE NEXT DAY,
I decide I must get some work done, must buckle down. I can’t let my desire to protect Strad-the-Jerk damage my career. The movie director I’m working with left me a message asking where the hat was that I said I’d send him two days ago and if everything’s okay.

No, things are not okay, but I must compartmentalize. Just because there’s a problem in one life-box doesn’t mean it has to create a problem in all my other life-boxes.

I settle down to my work, blank page in front of me, elbows on the table, head in my hands, thinking of hat for green outfit. I’ve hardly been at this for two minutes when the phone rings. I should have turned off the ringer. Forgot to.

It’s Jack, saying he just got word from the forensic handwriting expert that Gabriel’s letter is authentic.

I take this in. Jack then says there’s a special way the killer could sneak in a weapon on the evening of Strad’s death, even if I frisk everyone. And he describes the way.

After we hang up, the “way” haunts me.

I call for a meeting; I must discuss the way.

We meet for dinner at Penelope’s place on the Upper East Side. We bring sandwiches.

Before we’ve even unwrapped them, I’m anxious and hence can’t delay getting on topic: “It has been brought to my attention by one of you that women can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a tampon, and that the weapon can easily be accessed, especially when the woman goes to the bathroom.”

“Typical that a man should think of this,” Penelope mutters, looking at her shoes.

Jack seems taken aback by her guess, but doesn’t deny it. “I’m a cop! That’s why I thought of it. Not because I’m a man.”

Georgia says to me, “Men can hide weapons inside their bodies in the fashion of a suppository. Don’t tell me you’re going to explore our crevices.”

“I can’t be explored,” Penelope says softly, still gazing at her shoes.

Lily looks apprehensive as well.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell them. “I’m not going to explore anyone. I just want you to wear pants, that’s all.”

“You mean so we can’t whip it out in the middle of dinner?” snaps Georgia.

I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”

NIGHTMARES WAKE ME
in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.

Chapter Nine

T
hat evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.

Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy—that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”

We all nod quietly, not surprised.

We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”

We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.

“I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But . . . let’s save that for the show.”

He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.

Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”

“I may be open to suggestions.”

Georgia says, “My method is infallible and can be used instantly. If I’m not remembered for my novels, I’ll be remembered for my Hiccup-Stopping Method. If everyone knew it, no one on earth would ever again have the hiccups for longer than a few seconds.”

What she says is true. Her Hiccup-Stopping Method is her most popular invention in our group. None of us has had a second hiccup in four years because as soon as we get our first hiccup, we use her method and the second hiccup is stopped dead in its tracks.

Georgia says, “The most remarkable thing about this method—considering how foolproof it is—is how unimpressive it sounds.”

“Really? Sounds amazing. What’s the method?” Peter asks, hiccupping some more.

“Stop moving and relax all your internal organs,” Georgia tells him.

He laughs and hiccups again. “What does that mean—relax all my internal organs? Even my bladder? You want me to pee in my pants?”

This makes me laugh, which makes him laugh harder.

“No, not to that degree,” Georgia says. “Just relax your stomach, throat, lungs, even peripheral things like your jaw and your shoulders. Do it now. Close your eyes if it helps. Let your body sort of go limp. The method works best if you use it right away as soon as your hiccupping begins, but even if you wait, like now, it’ll still work. It’ll just take a minute longer.”

Peter closes his eyes but he can’t stop laughing.

“If you laugh you’re not relaxed. Stop laughing,” she commands.

“Easier said than—”

“Don’t talk! Just relax your internal organs.”

Peter laughs some more, eyes still closed and hiccups still going.

Jack tells him, “It’s true it’s not going to work if you keep laughing.”

“Okay,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath and stops laughing.

His self-control impresses me. I’m still laughing.

He stays perfectly still. He has one more hiccup. And then he has no more.

He slowly opens his eyes. “That’s dramatic. It’s gone. How did you come up with that method?”

“I don’t know. It just came to me one day. Maybe instinct,” Georgia says.

Peter leaves the room, smiling at us before disappearing.

The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”

Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar . . . I mean, not clinically, but you know . . . so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”

Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”

“It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”

“Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”

“No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”

“Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.

“We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”

Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”

We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”

I shoot her an alarmed look.

“What is it?” Peter asks.

“I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.

“That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”

Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”

“I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”

We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.

Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel,
The Liquid Angel,
is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”

“Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”

“No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagination, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”

“Like what?”

“Happiness.”

“Really?”

“Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”

We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.

WHEN I REACH
my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you—total darkness even more.”

The taxi driver looks at him, startled.

I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”

He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.

As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”

That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.

The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.

Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”

A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.

“Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”

“How about never? Is never good for you?”

“Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”

“Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”

Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”

“Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”

“A quickie?”

I nod. “A short conversation.”

“Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”

“You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”

“Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Your very name blisters my tongue.”

I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”

“Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”

“This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”

Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”

“The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”

“Please breathe the other way. You’re triggering my gag reflex.”

“Okay, well, have a pleasant evening, Adam.”

I walk to the elevator, concerned that his problem might be getting worse. He’s becoming less inhibited, less careful. He allowed a taxi driver to hear him. Who will be next? Someone who might get him fired?

Once I’m in my apartment, my mom calls and tells me she saw the interview and that I was good, but that tragically the camera added ten pounds on top of the dozens of fake pounds already on me.