The Portrait of a Mirror

by A. Natasha Joukovsky

  Vivien Floris endeavored to comfort herself with this scene and the illusion she imagined herself creating from the perspective of her friends. For under the hat, things felt anything but glamorous. She was a veritable ball of nerves, Middlemarch proving nowhere close to an adequate distraction. How about that photogenic glisten? Personally experienced as the sticky, pungent mix of sunscreen and sweat. For all its distant beauty, Vivien’s was a physical state of marked discomfort, hardly benefitted by the offhand mention of the name Wes.

  There is a well-documented medical link between the human body and mind, a continuous feedback loop known to Hippocrates and rediscovered by modern medicine, whereby a psychosomatic reaction triggers a somatopsychic response, which in turn reinforces the original psychosomatic reaction, further exacerbating the somatopsychic response. Vivien’s mind and body had been so thoroughly ravaged by this phenomenological loop in the past twenty-four hours that this casual auditory development threatened to expose a whole new level of anxiety. The surge in her blood pressure and heart rate was momentarily incapacitating, only compounded by the concern that she’d exhibited an incriminatingly delayed response to Julian’s greeting. He at least allayed this secondary fear:

  —Oh, no—no need to get up, it would wreck the tableau. Far be it from me to disturb your studies.

  —Vivien’s studies aren’t very deep, said Gage, slumping into a nearby lounger. She’s only reading a novel.

  —What do you know about depth? scoffed Julian. You’re a fucking plastic surgeon.

  —Who better than an expert in superficiality to judge depth?

  —I don’t know, maybe an expert in depth?

  —You want to be an expert in depth? Gage teased, sitting up and threatening to push Julian into the deep end.

  —Don’t even think about it. Gage! These loafers are bespoke!

  Vivien laughed, or rather, instructed herself to laugh, thumbing compulsively at her bookmark.

  It was right there. Tucked between pages 102 and 103: the strange postcard that had arrived yesterday, whose mysterious dark properties Vivien was still in the process of investigating. Keeping it so close at hand, she recognized, amounted to a sort of penance, encasing a pathetically brazen plea—almost as if she wanted Dale to find it, which, on some level, perhaps she did. There is, after all, a certain kind of freedom, a perverse sense of relief, experienced when an uncertain dread actually comes to pass. The nature of uncertainty in human minds is frustratingly illogical like that: for uncertainty itself often produces anxieties far in excess of the worst possible outcome, wrapping around even the most innocuous thoughts and impressions, infecting them with the vast poison of wanting things to be—or not to be—a certain way. The possibility that Dale was embroiled in some sort of freaky bestial affair with Wes Range’s perfect wife was ghastly, yes. It needled Vivien’s every insecurity; it practically germinated and reproduced them. She’d thought the only thing worse than losing Wes would be losing Dale, too, but that wasn’t the half of it. The worse possible outcome was for someone else to have both of them. That Diana might have been in Paris with Dale, while Wes waited patiently for her stateside? This was definitional torture. Diana’s employment status at Portmanteau had been a well-known fact to Vivien, and yet somehow, prior to yesterday, the likelihood of Dale’s knowing her had categorically failed to register. Portmanteau was such a large firm, and Diana was based in New York. Moreover, in retrospect Vivien at least partially recognized the irrationality of her expectation here: that Dale should have somehow intuited that meeting Diana Whalen was an occasion of which Vivien should be immediately made aware. As if Vivien had ever mentioned Wes!

  It would be a gross understatement to say that the inkling of Dale’s extramarital guilt had forcefully resurrected Vivien’s own. Absent those six or seven hours in May, there would have been an obvious course of action here. She would have confronted him casually, almost off-hand, flipping him the postcard as if she fully expected a reasonable explanation. On the off chance he had one, Vivien would have sought corroborating evidence, and if his story checked out, let it go. This was the best-case scenario. But the alternative would have been almost as good: the right of indignation, the unimaginable grace and equanimity with which she might have assumed the high-dramatic role of Woman Wronged. Vivien could almost see herself, extracting long-term concessions without appearing to extract long-term concessions, finally offering her forgiveness with the serenity of the Pietà.

  But unfortunately for Vivien, her fiancé was uncertainly guilty of an undefined crime, and thus the cruelest, most precipitous uncertainty at play lay in her moral position to judge him for it. And for Vivien, for whom clear, good personal judgment was nothing short of a self-defining feature, such uncertainty with herself was, in and of itself, a scathing judgment on her person.

  —So, where’s Dale? Julian asked, looking around.

  How sharply the thoughts she’d been able to quash with some dry cleaning and a few mental gymnastics had resurfaced. And in a far more virulent strain. The hard, now inescapable certainty of her own actions made the potentiality that Dale wasn’t having an affair with Diana Whalen almost worse.

  —Flying into JFK, said Vivien, a bit too cheerfully, checking the time on her phone. He, ah, had a work trip. Probably landing any minute now.

  —Oh, he didn’t come with you? Where’s he flying from?

  —Paris, said Gage emphatically, before Vivien could answer.

  There was, Vivien thought, a perceptible shift in Julian’s facial expression, primarily discernible in the secondary overcorrection to the initial shift.

  —You don’t say, Julian said. And . . . how are the wedding preparations coming along?

  There was something pointy about this question too, but Vivien felt a surge of gratitude for it nevertheless. It helped to redirect at least her superficial consciousness back to the comfort of smaller concerns.

  —So everything was going fine until yesterday when—and you’re not going to believe this—our officiant backed out. He’s going on a mission trip and I can’t possibly be upset about it—I mean, it’s for such a good cause—but . . . I’d already had the programs printed, you know? Obviously I don’t blame Father Hummel or anything . . . but it just would have been really, really helpful to know this was a possibility sooner, so we could have chosen someone else in the first place. Or even if he could have, say, emailed instead of mailing a letter . . . it’ll be fine, but we have to find someone by Monday in order to have the programs reprinted in time.

  —I could do it, Julian offered nonchalantly.

  —What do you mean?

  —I’m a Universal Life minister. Turns out, this is a fairly straightforward accreditation to obtain online. I got it a few years ago to officiate another wedding—Wes’s wedding, actually, so feel free to call him as a reference.

  For those skeptical of the psychosomatic-somatopsychic cycle, consider, for a moment, the blush. Vivien hoped she had already overheated sufficiently to mask her body’s unwitting crimson confession, sharper than a sunburn, staining her cheeks with shame.

  —Julian, that is so kind of you to offer! I’ll have to—to talk to Dale, of course—but, I mean, I can’t think he’d object.

  —No pressure.

  —Don’t be ridiculous! We’d be indebted to you.

  —Excellent. I much prefer people to be indebted to me.

  Dale did not find the postcard when he arrived poolside some two hours later. He did not find it that night, nor the following morning, when it sat, still nestled in Vivien’s book, inches from his head on the cramped little nightstand. Far more vexing to Vivien was that in the twenty-four hours following Dale’s arrival, she could discern no fault whatsoever in his behavior. Indeed, he’d been as close to the perfect weekend companion as she could imagine. He was affable and humorous, sparring with Gage and Julian and Harry, making light small talk with Grace and Jackie and their boyfriends. He understood the tenor of each moment and drank
the socially correct quantity of alcohol: two over Gage, a notorious prude—but several behind Harry Sinclair, who had twice already pantomimed elaborate fornication scenes with the swan. On the afternoon of the Fourth, Vivien was painfully delighted to discover that Dale hadn’t neglected to pack appropriate attire for Gage’s parents’ club: a white polo and needlepoint belt atop gracefully frayed khakis that didn’t quite fit, but didn’t quite fit in just the right way. She had molded him so well, so painstakingly, that he’d just about hidden her art—hidden it even from her. When they crossed the threshold of the Montauk Yacht Club, she clutched his arm with a surge of bittersweet pride. They looked like its founding members.

  The lawn was teeming with booze and patriotism. Flags and streamers hung from every conceivable surface; the music was set to a merry volume. The raw bar overflowed with fish and with people, edging one another out to dig in.

  —Oh my god, Vivien Floris?

  Despite the tail-end upward inflection, the voice behind her sounded more like an accusation than a question—a genre of greeting with which Vivien was acutely familiar. It belonged to Kate Manningham. Vivien probably hadn’t seen her in a decade, and they had never been remotely close, but that hardly mattered. There was a strict salutatory protocol for unexpected encounters with fellow Sill alumnae: two or three impassioned hugs, animated reiteration of “how are you” without ever answering the question, and the introduction of all members of your present party with the appropriate modifiers to convey their socioeconomic importance, sexual availability, and degree of relation to you. It turned out that Kate was accompanied by Ainsley Cooper, also of Sill repute—and this process was promptly repeated. What was new? They both lived in New York, although Ainsley was “imminently” moving to Los Angeles. No, she didn’t know exactly when. And this was Kate’s boyfriend, Hugh Winslow. How did they not know Vivien was working at the Met this summer? They were all going to the Young Members’ Party next week. This was more than enough common ground to merit a group expedition to the ladies’ room. Hugh Winslow, meanwhile, was ushered into conversation with Dale, Gage, and Julian.

  —That’s the problem with hedge funds, though, Hugh was saying, slurping down an oyster—too short-term focused. We only do private equity. It’s a totally different approach to high finance.

  Hugh pronounced finance with an ultra-soft “i,” and Julian’s eyes lunged into a roll:

  —What, because leveraged buyouts have such a history of ironclad ethics?

  —Bro, this isn’t 1985. We don’t do LBOs. YW is a fund-of-funds; we only invest in other PE firms.

  Hugh picked a bit of oyster from his teeth.

  —So you’re limiting your exposure to one PE fund by offsetting it with another, Julian ventured, not taking kindly to being called “bro.”

  —Sure, I guess you could say that.

  —Sounds awfully like a hedge fund.

  —Quick, get some champagne, said Dale.

  —Good idea, said Gage, turning toward the bar.

  —Yes, good idea, Dale, said Julian. You really know how to defuse a situation.

  —Alcohol is always the answer, Hugh said.

  —Until it’s the problem, said Julian.

  Hugh broke into a hooty laugh and clapped Julian on the back, as if he had been the one to burn Julian.

  —Thanks, said Hugh, accepting a glass. Last one, though. Then I have to go load the fireworks into my boat.

  —Oh, that’s great, said Julian. Drinks, fireworks, and boating. What a winning combination.

  —To America! Hugh cheered, ignoring Julian’s sarcasm, downing his champagne in a swig, and heading to the dock in a relaxed sort of jog.

  —He makes me want to be European, said Gage.

  Dale had been mid-sip as he said this, and promptly aspirated on his Veuve Clicquot.

  —Why, Gage, how uncharacteristically astute of you! said Julian. Thank you. Thank you for saying something.

  —Are you okay? Vivien asked Dale, reappearing with a hand on his back.

  He nodded and waved her off.

  —Vivien, your friends are vile, said Julian. This is why I hate the Hamptons.

  —Montauk’s not the Hamptons, Gage corrected him.

  —I barely know those girls, said Vivien. And I’m sure you had a great deal of fun at his expense. I have so little sympathy for you right now.

  —And I have so much sympathy for myself.

  —Try not to drown in it, Julian, said Dale. They’re liable to blow themselves up with those fireworks anyway.

  —Oh, I certainly hope not! Julian exclaimed. That would absolutely ruin the party. No, they have to go home and live their lives. That’s the punishment for them.

  Vivien wondered if this was not, perhaps, the punishment for her, too.

  It was not Dale but Julian Pappas-Fidicia who ultimately found the postcard, when, on the late Sunday morning descent from his bunk, he missed a rung and sent the little nightstand flying. While entirely unhurt, he was predisposed to call downstairs in a rage—until he saw the addressee—and stopped to examine the curious artifact.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  If you were inclined to forecast a metaphorical cold front blowing into Philadelphia on Monday, July 6, 2015, please remember it is with good reason that resisting temptation does not have the reputation for quelling it. Indeed, there is nothing like the increasing seriousness of things to fertilize a landscape for jokes. The fifty-second-floor conference room that morning was, shall we say, well fertilized in this regard, and a palpable, prefrontal-cortical heat radiated from their enhanced imperative. The authenticity of the feelings at play had metamorphosed what might have been a Parisian anticlimax into a blood-boiling raising of stakes. The pressure to be witty had taken on the focused glare of Olympic competition. If the rest of the team didn’t think they were romantically involved already, they certainly did then. Dale and Diana were more viciously flirtatious than ever.

  It had been a breathy relief to enjoy their weekends with easy conscience, but it was an even greater one to learn that nothing had been permanently spoiled between them. To the extent there had been any fundamental sort of shift, it was more like a pattering barometer—vague and future-oriented; indicative, rather than prophetic. A lulling, homelike sense of security belied their escalating tensions; there was a comforting normalcy to them, almost—to all that anticipation and possibility, hanging thickly in the air once again.

  When Prudence Hyman entered the conference room around half past eleven, she stifled a little cough before summoning Dale to her office alongside Parker Remington. Horace yapped when they stood up, and seemed, Dale thought, to be judging him over Prudence’s shoulder as they made their way down the hall.

  —I’ve been instructed to invite you to an event, Prudence said, in the least inviting way possible.

  She closed the door to her office and bid them to sit.

  —It’s on Thursday, in New York, Prudence continued. Something called the Young Members’ Party at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I daresay you won’t want to go, and I apologize for the late notice, but Jack was insistent. Mercury’s sponsoring it.

  Enshrined behind her massive desk with Horace sitting in her lap, Prudence Hyman produced an effect hovering somewhere between an authoritarian Catholic school nun and Austin Powers’s nemesis, Dr. Evil.

  —Oh, no need to apologize. What a lovely invitation; we’d be delighted, Parker answered, without conferring with Dale.

  —Delighted, Dale echoed, less delightedly, but I should let you know that, coincidentally, I already have a ticket. My fiancée’s a visiting curator there; she curated one of the feature exhibitions, actually.

  Prudence rubbed at the sides of her mouth and gave Dale a squinty look, as if she was disappointed to learn he had any semblance of a personal life. This would have undoubtedly concerned Dale more if his attention hadn’t been otherwise consumed by Horace—who began to lick his genitals ferociously.

  —Okay, give it to Dian
a, then, Prudence directed. She’s based in New York, isn’t she? You know what? That’s even better. We need all the Millennials we can get. That’s why we’re sponsoring this ridiculous bacchanal anyway. To “win the war for Millennial talent,” whatever that means.

  —It means shoddy T-shirts and free LaCroix at work, Dale said lightly.

  —What is LaCroix?

  Dale cleared his throat, reneging on any attempt at humor. He tried not to look at Horace, who had pivoted his attention to Prudence. To her utter oblivion, the Pomeranian now gnawed at the bunching fly of her pantsuit.

  —It’s, uh, canned sparkling water.

  Prudence rubbed at the sides of her mouth again, her blood-red manicure lending a certain extra deliberateness to the gesture. She picked up the phone and called over to the conference room. Two minutes later, Diana was standing behind Dale. At some point during Diana’s acceptance of her invitation, Prudence finally noticed Horace’s undue attention to her fly and whapped him on the nose with a curt little stop it. Diana paused in accommodation, as if the rebuke were meant for her. At this moment, perhaps more than any other before it, Dale felt a powerful, almost Orphean longing for the briefest glimpse of her face. But he didn’t dare turn around.

  There would have been few parties inclined to pique Diana Whalen’s interest more than one that Vivien soon-to-be McBride was certain to attend, but its setting at the Met—the opportunity to see Vivien in her natural habitat—this made the prospect of the Young Members’ Party almost too delicious. Vivien would be, if not a sort of host, then at least a star of the show. To be nestled in the audience, Diana knew, would be a distinct advantage: she’d be free to observe Vivien while remaining unobserved. Diana could control the moment of introduction and the tone of engagement, scripting her first few lines and the modifier qualifying their connection. These were valuable options to preserve when you wanted someone to like you. And make no mistake, this was Diana’s goal: for Vivien to like her—to like her very, very much.