The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty (2 page)

I close the dressing room door behind me.

It’s just me and Lily. And the mirror.

Mirrors take on a whole new meaning when Lily’s in the room. They become a loaded silence.

“How are you holding up?” I ask her.

“Fine.” She’s standing at the sink, soaking her hands in hot water, which she always does before a performance.

“Will you be okay if Strad doesn’t show? Or if he does show?”

“I’ll try to be.”

I know if Strad doesn’t show up she’ll be devastated.

“These are from Georgia,” I say, giving her the sunflowers.

“That’s sweet.” She puts the flowers in a vase of water.

I decide not to tell her about Georgia’s lost laptop in case it disrupts her preparation. “Just remember, you are fantastic. You’ll be great. You’ll knock ’em dead,” I say, staring earnestly into her eyes. I hug her.

The sad thing is, now that I’ve known Lily for eight years, I find her nothing but beautiful. My perception has been skewed by affection. I know what she looks like to others because I remember what she looked like to me when I first met her. My breath was taken away, repeatedly, by the ugliness of her features and their arrangement. I found myself hoping she’d change expressions, but every time she did, the new configuration was worse than the last.

Lily is not disfigured. Her face is not deformed or medically abnormal. It is simply extremely ugly—the kind of ugliness that is inoperable. Any attempt at improvement would be fatal. Changing the distance between one’s eyes is not surgically possible. In fact, it is one of the few facial characteristics that cannot be altered. But Lily’s eyes being far, far too close together is only one of her multitude of flaws. She does have one attractive feature, though. Ironically: her eyes. But only when looked at one at a time, in isolation.

As for her body, it’s fine but irrelevant because people always focus on her face.

Despite the fact that Lily takes some getting used to visually, in every other way she is pure loveliness.

When I get back to our seats, Jack and Georgia are chatting quietly. Our friend Penelope, looking sumptuous and beautifully dressed as usual, is pacing the aisle at the other end of the theater, keeping an eye out for Strad.

He never shows. Lily plays magnificently, but through the whole concert all I can think about is how upsetting it is that someone as talented as she is suffering so much over someone like him.

AT THE END
of this strange, upsetting day, when I return to my building, the doorman mutters to me, “You fucking bitch.”

His insults are nothing new. They began gradually, about three months ago. I accept his claim that I haven’t done anything to provoke him because I can’t think of anything I did. I’m concerned that he must be suffering from some sort of mental illness. Tourette’s syndrome, perhaps. That makes me feel protective of him.

I don’t think his insults could be related to my disguise, mostly because I was wearing it long before I moved to this building a year ago. None of the doormen has ever seen my true appearance. They have no clue this is not it.

I’m not in the mood to acknowledge his insult tonight. One day, though, I should encourage him to seek professional help for his possible disorder. Which reminds me of a phone call I need to make.

Chapter Two

A
s soon as I step into my apartment I call my mother. “Your ridiculously early dying wish has been fulfilled.”

She gasps. “Thank you. How did it go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Do you think you’ll get rid of the padding?”

“It’s not that easy to lose weight.”

“But it’s not attached!” She always harps back on this point.

“Just because it’s not attached to me doesn’t mean I’m not attached to it. It’s attached to my soul.”

“Do you think you’ll try another session?” my mom asks, full of hope.

Since I’m not sure, and I don’t want my mom badgering me about it, I will nip this nagging in the bud by claiming I will never go back. Even though the therapist seemed fine, she did say one ridiculous thing, and that is the thing I relay to my mom so that she will leave me in peace on the topic forever.

“No, I’m not going back,” I state. “She’s stupid.”

Pause. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“She told me I should go to a support group for fat people.”

Another pause. “That seems reasonable to me,” my mom says, and adds, “You’re fat.”

“No, I’m not. And you know it and she knows it. I stripped for her.”

“In the eyes of the world you’re fat.”

“Whatever.”

“Please promise me you’ll go to a support group for fat people. At least once.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No. Wearing fake fat is crazy.”

Whenever my mom dwells on her favorite topic—my fake fat—I try to change the subject with her second favorite topic: her upcoming trip to Australia in March.

“Hey, by the way, have you figured out what hotels you’ll be staying at in Australia?” I ask.

“No, not yet,” she says. “I can’t concentrate on that and I won’t feel at peace until you promise me you’ll meet with a group of fat people.”

“You said I didn’t have to go to more than one meeting with a therapist.”

“And you don’t. This is different. It’s a support group. Give it a chance, please. I don’t often ask things of you, do I?”

I don’t answer.

“Barb, I beg you, do it for me.”

“Okay, fine,” I answer.

We say good night and hang up. I take a deep breath. I wish my mom could be patient. I
will
take off my disguise, in time, when the disguise of old age takes hold of me.

I adore my mother. We get along very well. Our only point of tension is my appearance. I inherited her looks. She used to be a top model, appeared on dozens of
Vogue
covers, as well as all the other major fashion magazines. Despite her disapproval of my appearance, she is not a shallow person. Unlike many ex-models, she is not obsessed with beauty. She’s not particularly interested in clothes or fashion. But even she has her limits. And I surpass them.

She grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, and moved to New York to become a model. The first year she was here, she met my father, a professor, at the New York Public Library when she wanted to escape the unbearable summer heat and spend a relaxing hour in one of the beautiful, cool, quiet rooms. They immediately fell in love and married soon after. She continued to work as a model until she had me.

Eventually, my dad started having affairs with younger, beautiful women, often his former students. My mother was devastated. She tried leaving him a few times, but he always persuaded her to stay, promised her that things would be different. But they never really were. Even when they were for a short while, he resented her for it, and then things went back to being the same. His affairs were making her life too miserable, so she finally did leave him, after having been with him for thirty-five years.

She bought a house in Connecticut, an hour and a half away, in the woods.

Far from being devastated by the split, I was relieved. I’d seen her so unhappy, and now she would start a new life. She was fifty-six and still looked great.

A few months after the separation, she tried dating a man, briefly. But her heart wasn’t in it. After him, I heard of no one else. She would come to the city sometimes, and we’d have lunch or dinner.

It was Georgia who noticed that my increasing lack of interest in my appearance coincided with my mother’s suddenly finding herself alone. Without really realizing it, I guess, I started dressing more casually and stopped wearing makeup. I took things even further, of course, after my close friend Gabriel died, almost two years ago.

A year after Gabriel’s death, I moved into this beautiful apartment which I love and which I thought would distract me. It has a ballet bar anchored to the floor, because the woman who owned the apartment before me was a dancer with American Ballet Theatre. I’m not a dancer, but I still find the ballet bar beautiful and handy. I’m a costume designer. All around the edges of the room are mannequins wearing some of my most extravagant, historical, fairy tale-like creations. These mannequins—many of which are fur-covered animals with upright human bodies—are all wearing fanciful masks I designed. Atmospheric stage lighting adds to the effect, making the room look like some kind of enchanted forest.

But my beautiful living room can’t distract me from thoughts of Gabriel, and neither can my ugly disguise shield me from them.

Gabriel, who was my best friend, made it perfectly clear in his suicide note that he was killing himself because he was in love with me. Until that note, I had no idea he had romantic feelings for me (or perhaps I chose not to know it). He never told me. He knew I didn’t feel the same way and never would, and he was right.

Why didn’t I fall in love with Gabriel? He was quite handsome, had an amazing voice—deep and smooth—and had so many other qualities. I don’t exactly know why I didn’t develop those kinds of feelings for him. I suspect the reason was something intangible.

His suicide was a complete shock, and yet, looking back, he often seemed a bit melancholy. I noticed it especially when I was alone with him.

In some ways he was the most talented of our group, because he was the most versatile, intelligent, and funny. He was a renowned chef who owned one of the best restaurants in New York City. But unlike Georgia, Lily, or me, who are creative only in our specific fields, Gabriel was creative in all areas. When any of us encountered a bump in our work, he seemed always to come up with some suggestion, some little idea that made all the difference. We were in complete admiration. No one could talk to Georgia about her novels the way Gabriel could. He was the only one she actually discussed her ideas with as she was writing them.

He was a private person, never granting interviews or posing for photographs. Even with us he was a bit reserved and mysterious. Whenever we asked him if there was anyone he was romantically interested in, he just brushed the topic aside good-humoredly. Yet there were plenty of people interested in him. When I walked down the street with him, I noticed women and men eyeing him. And they flirted with him when he stood in lines. He could have had his pick. But he never seemed interested in anyone. I had no idea it was me he was in love with.

I do remember one evening when he was supposed to drop off some food. I was wearing a dress I’d just finished making for a period movie and I was eager to get his reaction to it. I loved showing him my costumes because his face was expressive and gave away his opinion even before he spoke.

When he arrived and I opened the door for him, I said, “Tell me what you think of this dress.”

He didn’t look as pleased as I’d hoped. He stared at me and said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s physically painful to look at you, you’re so beautiful.”

I smiled broadly. “I knew you’d like it! I think it might be my best one yet.” I twirled.

“It’s not the dress. Your beauty interferes with my ability to judge the dress.” He looked away.

My whole life, people have given me compliments on my looks, so this compliment didn’t particularly stand out. I felt my face drooping. “So you don’t like it that much?”

“I’d have an easier time judging it on a hanger.” He seemed pained as he went to the kitchen and put the food in the fridge.

After that, there was a period when I hardly saw Gabriel. He threw himself into his work and began dating obsessively. Eventually, that tapered off and he spent more time with us again, until one day, after I had a pleasant and uneventful visit with him at his apartment, I exited his building, and he caught up with me by taking the most direct route.

Falling at me from the twenty-eighth floor, he shattered himself at my feet. I don’t think he intended to traumatize me for life—though he has.

I REFUSED TO
leave my apartment for weeks after Gabriel died, except to attend his funeral. I was devastated by the destructive effect I’d had on him without realizing it. I wondered if I might be harming others as well. I moped around, feeling dreadful, feeling like a wreck. My face felt shrunken and shriveled, ravaged by sadness, as though it must have aged twenty years, but each time I gazed in the mirror, hoping I looked as bad as I felt, I never did.

I found it unbearable. It didn’t have to be that way. There could be ways to solve this problem. And if anyone had the skills to solve it, I did.

I began by trying on a frizzy gray wig. It helped a little, but I still looked very good. So I experimented with some imperfect fake teeth that changed the shape of my mouth in a slightly unflattering way. I toned down the brilliance of my aqua eyes with brown contact lenses. And I put some glasses on top.

There was still the problematic body to deal with. I knew how to create a simple-but-convincing jiggling fat suit. I’d made several for body doubles in movies.

I had the materials delivered, and constructed the suit. It was easy to put on, weighed about ten pounds, and made me look eighty pounds heavier. It helped tremendously.

I finally agreed to see Georgia, who had been trying unsuccessfully for weeks to get me out of the apartment. I was wearing the full disguise when I opened the door for her. She seemed startled and said, “Oh, hi. I’m a friend of Barb’s. Is she here?”

“It’s me,” I said.

She was speechless. She squeezed my arm, to feel the consistency of my bulk, perhaps wondering if I’d genuinely gained all that weight in a few weeks.

When she had assured herself that my fat was fake, she said, “Is this one of your new costumes? I’m glad you’re working, at least.”

“No. This is how I should have looked. Then Gabriel would still be alive.”

After a pause, she said, “Yes, he probably would be.”

She walked around me, examining me from every angle.

“From now on,” I said, “I think I should wear this costume. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. My looks are to blame for his death.”

She looked stunned for a moment, but then said, “Absolutely.”