We Could Be Beautiful (36 page)

“He couldn’t make it. His mother called. He wasn’t feeling well.”

“But I heard playing. Who was playing?”

“I was, my darling.”

I told myself not to prod, but I couldn’t help it. “Would you have told me that if I hadn’t asked?”

“Of course.” William was defensive. “I would have told you now, if not for your sister’s state of emergency. I think that should be our main focus, don’t you?”

“It is my main focus,” I mumbled. Hand on my stomach. “I don’t feel well.”

“Oh, darling,” he said, “is there anything I can get you? Perhaps you can have some of your seltzer.”

I picked the seltzer off the table but didn’t drink. Caroline reappeared. She’d obviously thrown some cold water on her face because her hairline was wet. She collapsed onto the couch next to William again—why hadn’t she chosen to sit next to me? what about me?—and tucked her twig legs into her chest. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” she said.

William put his hand on her back. “You’ll get through it, Caroline.”

There was something so effective about the way William called people by their names. It made them feel special. Caroline, I could tell, felt special right now.

“Caroline,” I said, “you will get through it. You really will.”

“Why do people do this stuff to each other?”

“Cheat?”

“Cheat, lie, steal, everything. I mean, just living is hard. Eating three meals a day, exercising, doing your hair. All that stuff takes so much energy. I don’t understand how Bob has the energy to cheat on me. And he’s not even calling it cheating, by the way—he’s calling it ‘expanding his horizons.’ I feel like a doormat.”

“In my view,” William said, “people are sometimes consumed by impulse. When there is something one wants very badly, it may be hard to account for the pain one causes others.”

Caroline whipped her head back to face William. “You’re saying he wants his mistress very badly? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, Caroline, no, I simply—”

“You’re saying he just doesn’t want to be with
me
very badly.”

“No, no, I am—”

“Are you defending Bob right now?”

“No, I am not defending Bob. I’m only saying that people make mistakes.”

“But this isn’t a mistake. It’s a life choice. A ‘lifestyle choice.’ That’s what Bob is calling it.”

“I think it’s terrible,” I said.

“It is,” William said. “It is terrible, Caroline.”

Caroline was quick to forgive. She’s always been like that. “Thank you,” she said, her head dropping to William’s arm again. “It is terrible. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The conversation ended on a light note, with Caroline staring off into space and then suddenly exclaiming to William, “Look at our hands! They’re identical! William and I have identical hands!” She was all over the place today. “Catherine, come look!”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I believe you.”

I was glad when she left. Of course we said, Call us if you need anything, anything at all. William gave her his cell number. I hoped she wouldn’t call us. Bob would return in two days and everything would go back to being normal and okay.

•

In bed that night I felt like I should still be talking about it, so I said, “I feel so sorry for Caroline.”

“As do I,” William said. He reached for his hair, began to twirl. “But she is also so fortunate. You both are.”

I knew what he meant, but I said, “What do you mean?”

“Extreme wealth,” he said. “You know, when I was young, I wanted your family to adopt me. I wanted to live in your house. It was so enormous.” He yawned.

When he said that, I knew the wine spritzers he’d continued to drink after Caroline had left had gone to his head because it wasn’t like him to talk about the past so freely.

“I would have liked to be in your family, maybe. That bohemian artist lifestyle. It seems so real.”

He laughed. “Real?”

“Yeah, salt of the earth. Or…you know what I mean.”

“It was glamorous sometimes, but most of the time we were…”

“What?”

“Money was an issue. It’s very difficult to make money as an artist.”

“But you still went to the best schools.”

“I was fortunate in that way, yes.”

“It must have been hard for you, though, not having as much money as your friends.” I imagined a horde of boarding school boys in Moncler jackets leaving for a weekend ski trip and poor William being forced into a lie about why he couldn’t go: I have to study for this test, guys.

“It wasn’t easy.” William sighed. “A life without money is not an easy life.”

“I know. Can you imagine being homeless? Some people actually have no homes. And when it’s cold? They have to sleep outside?”

“True,” William said, “but that is also a choice.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Everything is a choice. Circumstances are not created out of thin air. They are chosen.”

“But what about people who have terrible things happen to them? Like tsunamis or, I don’t know…What if you fall down the stairs and you can’t work anymore and you have to declare bankruptcy?”

“Every event is a choice to give up or to persevere,” William said, and I wondered if this was a line he repeated to himself a lot. “The terrible things separate the weak from the strong.”

I laughed. “It sounds like you’re in the army or something.”

“Has anything terrible ever happened to you, Catherine?”

I thought of Mae Simon’s story. Of me, young, on the bathroom floor. I still couldn’t remember what I’d been doing there, and I still had no memory of my mother or of any guy. And if that guy had been William and he was right here next to me in bed now, that physical closeness would jog some sensory part of my brain, wouldn’t it?

He said my name again. “Catherine?”

“A horse broke my leg once. It trampled me.”

“That is traumatic.”

“But it’s strange. I barely remember it. I went into shock.”

“That often happens during trauma,” he said. He kissed my neck, and then he kept kissing my neck, and then he was moving in for more.

“Sorry. I’m not really in the mood,” I said, and felt guilty. I was asexual; I was a bad partner. I made it all about me and blamed myself. Until I realized that, no, this was Mae Simon’s fault; I could blame her. I hated that she’d made me feel unsure about the man I was so sure I loved.

“I understand.” He patted my leg twice and moved his hand away.

Because it was dark in the room and because he was tipsy, I felt brave enough to ask. “William?”

“Darling?”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“When we have the baby, we’ll inherit more money. And who knows, maybe we’ll have more than one.”

“I mean
us,
though. Are
we
going to be okay?”

“Oh.” William fumbled. “Oh, Catherine, I’m sorry. I thought we were discussing finances.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “You’re right. You’re being logical. We do need that money, don’t we?”

“I suppose we could manage without it, but it would be more difficult.”

“I don’t like difficult.”

“Neither do I.”

And then, despite not wanting to be touched by him, I was compelled to kiss his brow. Why did I do that? Maybe to show him I understood we were bound to each other now. Maybe to show myself that I could pretend. It didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like instinct.

38

M
arty brought three makeup artists to the house. He explained to them in his bitchy way that I wanted heavy eyeliner, light lips, and glowing—not powdery!—skin.

As I sat in the dining room chair we had pulled up to the window for better light, feeling nauseous, Marty told me he worried that Cass would leave him for someone better-looking. My initial thought was, Yeah, probably, and you should give him a bigger allowance. What I said was, “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re a bad liar, Cat.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh my God,” the MAC girl said. Her fingers smelled like garlic. I had discounted her already because of this. “Oh my God. I can tell, kind of, from your skin.”

“So happy for you, Cat. Is William freaking out? Oh God, what about the dress? Are you going to fit into the dress?”

“Hopefully,” I said, and was very surprised at how little this mattered to me.

The Estée Lauder girl smelled like cigarettes. We ended up choosing the Lancôme girl, who smelled like a fragrance that was fragrance-free, and who also kind of smelled like my mother. Plus, Marty said she had done the best job.

After they’d left, Marty said, “Cat, in less than a month you’ll be hitched. Is it sinking in? Tell me all your emotions! I love this part.”

He pulled up a chair next to mine. We sat facing the window. My tree was beginning to lose its leaves.

“I’m excited,” I said.

“Are you? Are you nervous? What are you going to eat for breakfast on the day? Tell me everything that’s going through that pretty little head of yours.”

“I am a little nervous.”

“Of tripping when you walk down the aisle? Oh my God, I would be.”

“Yeah, I guess that, too.”

“Okay. For breakfast, I recommend nothing heavy, but you don’t want to be hungry either. Yogurt is good, a thick yogurt. And nothing that might give you gas. Oh my God, a horror story? I had a bride who ate a plate of spinach before the ceremony. I’m talking huge plate of spinach. No, no, no.” He wagged his finger. “It was ugly.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh, and for the gift bag? I found something very clever. It’s a lock-and-key box. Your face is on the lock, William’s is on the key, and inside we put the gifts. Keith Haring salt and pepper shakers, also with your faces on them, and okay, I caved on the olive oil. Blue Hill’s going to give us a bunch of small bottles. We’ll put those in the box, add some gorgeous paper filler for padding—white, obviously—maybe in the shape of doves? What do you think?”

I thought it was tacky and too food-focused, but I wasn’t in the mood to brainstorm something better. “Sounds great,” I said.

“Amazing. And the scalloped silverware—I want to come back to that. I know the Upper East Sider in you wants scalloped, but I’m strongly suggesting the non. It’s more modern, and I think we’re going to need that after a day at church.”

“That’s fine, Marty,” I said.

“Really? You’re not even going to argue with me?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Great. Also, hello, we haven’t discussed the throwing of the bouquet! Is that something you want to do, or should we skip it?”

I felt nauseous again. My mother was right. Being pregnant was hard. And I had so many months to go. “I don’t know, Marty. Whatever you think.”

“Moi?” Marty looked puzzled. And then he was nodding. “Okay, I see, you’re one of those—I get it. Some brides, when we hit the stress month, go crazy over the details, and other brides just say no, no more, you take care of it. I got you covered, girl.”

“Great.”

“Well.” He slapped his knees. “I’m leaving. You look like you need a nap, my friend. But don’t get me wrong, you look gorgeous. That makeup? To die. You’re a model. No! You’re a princess! Princess Catherine Stockton!”

•

I had to lie down. But then that was too much. It was too quiet. I turned the TV on. I turned it off. I went to the kitchen for seltzer. I took a sip. It wasn’t good; there was something wrong with it. I threw the bottle away, opened a new one. I wandered into the study. I walked in a circle around the music stand. William’s violin was propped against the bookshelf. I’d never seen it before. Cherrywood. Looked expensive. I scanned my books and felt bad, as I always did, that I hadn’t read most of them. I took
The Powers That Be
off the shelf. I hadn’t read my father’s inscription in a long time. “For Catherine, This is the way the world works. Be POWERFUL! Love, Dad.” On a different day this might have inspired me. Today I had to laugh at how unpowerful I felt.

Lucia had taken the afternoon off to do her immigration stuff, so there was no one to talk to. I could have called someone. I could have taken a walk. I could have at least gone downstairs to get the mail. As I thought about all these options, I found myself sitting down in front of my computer and then I found myself at the Neiman Marcus Web site, where they were having an online sale that would end in an hour, which meant I could discard the other options and focus on this. Because it was a big sale.

I found a Stella McCartney bag at 80 percent off and felt more powerful. I didn’t love it, but I liked it a lot. And it was such a good deal. I added sunglasses to the cart. Where had my mother’s collection of sunglasses gone? Did Caroline have it? Caroline had everything. Well, except for a loyal husband. But still, she had enough money to buy a whole country of sunglasses. I should get Mom’s. I would ask her.

I had vaguely promised myself that I would spend only $1,000, just to see if I could stick to a budget, just for fun. When I went to check out, it was closer to $3,000. I didn’t know if I felt more or less powerful when I hit Buy.

I ate some pretzels because I was supposed to eat more and then I went to take a shower because I felt dirty. The image of myself in that mirror—I couldn’t believe it was me. My body had filled out nicely so far. I didn’t look fat, I looked healthy. And my face, all done up in the makeup I would wear on my wedding day—it was flawless. I stood there for a long time. This is you, Catherine, on this day in this house in this life, and you are gorgeous. So why are you crying?

39

“I
’m sorry I’m late, but I did bring flowers.” He set them on the nightstand and kissed my forehead. I was in bed not reading the book about apartheid and not watching the late-night shows. I waited for him to notice that my eyes were puffy and ask me what was wrong, but he didn’t. He was undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, bending down to pet Herman.

“Geraniums,” I said.

“They reminded me of you.”

“How was your day? Did you have a client dinner?”

“No. In fact,” he said from inside the closet, “I had dinner with Caroline.”