Girl Before a Mirror

Home > Literature > Girl Before a Mirror > Page 14
Girl Before a Mirror Page 14

by Liza Palmer


  “Sure.”

  “And I can’t remember all of the details, but this serial killer was trying to come after her and of course she was denying her feelings for the rough-and-tumble guy who was in charge of her horses.”

  “As you would.”

  “So when the serial killer came after her—at her country house, no less! It was her sanctuary!—well, the two of them finally admitted their feelings for each other and battled the serial killer together. That’s the thing about romance novels.”

  “That true love is your best weapon against serial killers?”

  “No, ladyhawke.” I bark out a laugh, shooting chips everywhere, and Sasha crumples in laughter.

  “Ladyhawke,” I repeat, still laughing.

  “Well, the one and only Helen Brubaker lays into you just this morning and you still can’t get over yourself,” Sasha says.

  “Well, I can’t help it; it just sounds so ridiculous. Gorgeous blond doctor! She loves horses! He’s hot and ready to protect her! And feminism wept as he swooped in and saved her with his magic penis. I mean . . . come on!”

  “Not enough shape-shifting wolves for you?”

  “It was a curse and he was the captain of the—”

  “This is your problem,” Sasha says, cutting in. She takes a giant sip of her Coke, as the salsa has choked her up again. She continues, “Yes, romance novels are extreme. The situations are turned up to eleven and everyone is beautiful without dieting or exercise and the sex is always amazing, but when I strip all that away what I get is that all of this”—Sasha motions to everything around us, and I’m assuming she means the world and our existence and not this particular Mexican restaurant—“that all of this is nothing without love.”

  “I know you’re right,” I say, my face flushing. Again.

  “Thank you.”

  “In theory.”

  “In theory?”

  “Whenever I think about what will remain of me after I’m gone? My legacy, I guess. It always hinges on what I did, not who I loved,” I say.

  “Oh, I know that.”

  “I can’t ever seem to work the idea of having both in my life. I troll the music blogs for bands no one has ever heard of and listen to pop stars. Read Jane Eyre nightly and cuddle up with the newest cozy mystery series. Take over the world and love someone greatly.”

  “Yeah, I have a hard time with that, too,” Sasha says.

  “It’s like once you start talking about love, people seem to write you off. Like you don’t get—”

  “What’s really important. Yeah, I know.”

  “So, when you talk about romance novels and great love, I immediately jump to I’m barefoot and pregnant and I’ve lost my edge and I’m telling people that we loved that movie and oh my God, we stayed at the cutest little B&B in Williamsburg and all of a sudden I’ve forgotten how to be just an I. And who’s to say that gorgeous blond doctor couldn’t have bested that serial killer on her own, you know?”

  “Because she was in the bathtub trying to have a moment to herself and—”

  “I don’t know why anyone takes baths anymore. I really don’t,” I say. “Oh, is there a serial killer after me? You know what I need? A nice long bath. I can’t with these people.” I motion to our waitress for our check.

  “You okay?”

  “No!” I yell. Sasha is quiet. Maybe she’s smiling. She’s definitely smiling. I just keep shaking my head and I feel like I’m sitting on Michael and Allison’s couch again as they go into that bathroom and change that stupid pooey lightbulb. The flush of vulnerability tingles throughout my body as I remember my night with Lincoln. The waitress brings our check and I hand her my credit card, trying to keep things moving and not dwell on not having heard from him so far today.

  “You can be great and have great love, you know,” Sasha says.

  “Can you?” I ask, my eyes flaring.

  “God, I hope so,” Sasha says.

  “And is that who you’re constantly texting? Your great love?” I ask, eyeing her still buzzing phone. Sasha looks completely thrown and I feel terrible instantly.

  “He’s not my great love,” she says, unable to make eye contact with me.

  “So why are you—”

  “I . . . How do you . . . Helen’s workshop the other day? I’m not doing any of that,” Sasha says, ripping her napkin into millions of tiny pieces.

  “Sasha, I—”

  “No, it’s true. I’ve read her book cover to cover a thousand times, highlighting and putting little stickies everywhere. But every time . . . every time, I’m right back to my old tricks again,” she says. The waitress brings me back my card and the receipt. I sign it and tuck the card back into my wallet.

  “Is this about Ryder?” I ask.

  “No.”

  An awkward long moment.

  She spins her watch around on her tiny wrist and checks the time. “We’d better go.” She grabs her purse and stands.

  “Sasha,” I say, standing. She turns around and her eyes are just beginning to well up. “You deserve someone amazing.”

  “Do I, though?” Sasha continues walking out of the Mexican restaurant without another word. She is quiet as we drive to the Irish Cultural Center—which turns out to be a beautiful gray castle inexplicably in the middle of downtown Phoenix. She is angry and red-faced as we brave the thousand-degree heat, trying to find parking in the back lot. She becomes melancholy as we find the open bar in the stunning barnlike room where the registration table is. And she’s downright wretched as she orders her first glass of wine from the open bar. Great. We’re early.

  I look out from the raftered barn and see a group of people actually braving the tables set up on the outside patio.

  “Give Arizonans a mister and they’re fine,” Ginny Barton says.

  “It must be—”

  “It’s about 103 degrees. It was 112 degrees earlier today. I was getting worried,” Ginny says, sipping her lemonade. She winks. “Spiked.” And she toasts me with her now much more interesting lemonade. “Map of Ireland.” Ginny motions to the patio and sure enough, there’s a map of Ireland in the cobblestones. “If you go up to one of the libraries, up there?” She motions to the larger building, spilling a bit of her lemonade in the process. “You can really get a good look at the map.”

  “How does this place exist?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it something? You must take a look around; it’s the genuine article,” Ginny says, in a full Irish brogue. “P.S.? I hear they sell British candy and real Irish tea right over there.” Ginny points to a little gray cobbled cottage just across the patio.

  “Real Irish tea, hm?” I ask. The live band positioned just next to the large black fireplace at the end of the barn begins playing gorgeous Irish music and the entire scene brightens. A line of alabaster-skinned girls with their arms tight to their sides begin dancing for the revelers, and we’re all swept away to the Emerald Isle just like if we were in a romance novel.

  I am pulled from my Irish dream as I see Sasha order another glass of wine right after downing the first one. I scan the room for Ryder Grant and find him “wooing” some poor woman over in a corner of the barn. I focus back on Ginny.

  “Have you spoken with each of our cover models yet, Ms. Wyatt?” she asks.

  “I’ve spoken with Josh at the Pirate Booty Ball and had my picture taken with Colt at the kick-off,” I say.

  “Five more to go,” Ginny says, offering up an impossibly toned brown-haired gentleman whose black T-shirt looks like it’s approximately five sizes too small.

  “Billy,” he says with a cool head tilt. Do I . . . do I head-tilt back?

  “I’ll leave you two to it,” Ginny says.

  “Anna,” I say, extending my hand. He takes it and then . . . holds it? Are we . . . He takes my hand in both of his and . . . smolders at me for what feels like hours.

  “A for Anna, B for Billy. C for . . .” He trails off, unable to come up with a C word. I’ve got a few. I pull
my hand away. Quiet. He’s just nodding. Pursing his lips, narrowing his eyes, and nodding.

  “So, have you always wanted to model—”

  “It’s more of a calling, you know,” Billy says.

  “Well, it’s great that you’re fulfilling—”

  “Yeah, I was hot and modeling called me,” Billy finishes, laughing.

  “Your passion,” I finish, trying to wipe off the confused and annoyed look I’m sure I have on my face right now. “So, which covers would I know you from?”

  “Romance novel covers,” he says.

  “Yep. I . . .” Deep breath. “Would I know any of the books?” I ask, scanning the room. Help. Hellllllllp.

  “Probably,” he says.

  “Good. Very cool,” I say, noticing gratefully that there are books scattered on tables throughout the meet and greet. “Are you on the cover of one of the books here?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Here.” Billy spins around and plucks a bluish book from among the many stacked on a nearby table. He hands me the book and I can hardly believe it’s the same guy. “Cool, right?”

  “Yeah, you look great,” I say. And he does. Without the inconvenience of him opening his mouth, Billy is, of course, stunning in photographs. He looks like an all-American boy I would have definitely looked twice at in some catalog or magazine.

  “That chick was super hot,” he says, pointing at the lovely woman he’s ravishing on the cover of the book. “That dress of hers just wouldn’t stay up, if you know what I mean.” He winks at me. I couldn’t be less turned on. But. But. This is casting. This Billy guy would appeal to a large cross section of women, especially in the Midwest, and would look great in the Lumineux ad campaign, but oh my God, he’s an idiot.

  “Well, I won’t keep you all to myself,” I say, looking at the crowd of people at the meet and greet, none of whom are clamoring to speak to Billy. I have genuine Irish tea to buy and a drunken associate to monitor.

  “Oh, well, hey. You’re welcome,” he says, and again he takes my hand in both of his. “You know, I’m just going to throw this out there. You’re a nice-looking lady, so . . . I want to let you know that I am very open to making an impression on you and your vote, if you know what I’m saying.” He pulls my hand closer.

  “You’ve made quite the impression on me, I assure you,” I say, trying to pull my hand back.

  “No, I mean . . . an impression impression,” he says, giving me a look that makes me want to take a shower right now.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I say, finally freeing my hand.

  “You know I’m talking about sex, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “I have sex with you and—”

  “Yep. Loud and clear.”

  “You vote for me.”

  “I am trying to save you a shred of dignity, Mr.—”

  “Billy.”

  I heave a long, weary sigh. “Mr. Billy.” He steps closer. “I’m not interested and now you’re being officially creepy.” He stops and begins to speak, but I stop him. “Nope. Thank you for your time and I wish you all the best of luck. Billy.” I find Sasha in the crowd and am making a beeline for her when Ginny stops me once again. She presents me with Jake, the cocoa-skinned, once–shirtless fireman. I spend several delightful minutes talking with him, and the conversation couldn’t be better. After making idle chatter about juicing, I’m happy to find out that Jake and his partner, Richard, are planning on getting married back in Manhattan on Valentine’s Day, and he’s mad with wedding planning. We talk about An Affair to Remember and florists and centerpieces some more, and I joyfully wish him well as he is pulled into a group of giggling publishing ladies who’d like a picture.

  As I’m learning the ins and outs of carpentry from Lantz, which is actually quite fascinating, I see Preeti and Audrey walk into the meet and greet. I look past Lantz’s broad shoulders and find Sasha in the crowd. She’s kept her distance from me all afternoon, but with Preeti and Audrey’s entrance she immediately walks over to me. I introduce her to Lantz and then politely extricate us from This Old House so we can get our bearings.

  “Have you actually tried to talk to these guys?” Sasha slurs. Oh, no.

  “How many glasses of wine have you had?” I ask, watching as Preeti separates from Audrey to fall in with a couple of the publishing ladies over by the bar.

  “I don’t know . . . fourth—maybe two?”

  “Okay. So, you can’t talk to Preeti in this state. We’re going to go into the bathroom, and I’ll tell them that you’re not feeling well. Something about the Mexican food,” I say.

  “Why hasn’t hot British guy texted you? Has he and you just haven’t told me? Are you . . . you have . . . And there it is I said it,” Sasha slurs.

  “Okay, honey. Let’s get you in the bathroom,” I say. I walk Sasha into the bathroom, and thankfully there is a small anteroom just inside. All the little Irish girls’ clothes and bags are strewn everywhere. I manage to get her onto the love seat, and she slides down just enough that her little dress hikes up. I set my club soda down on the side table and pull down her skirt. She makes a woo-hoo noise as I do this.

  “He hasn’t, has he? So, maybe, maybe you are just as screwed as I am! Ha-ha! I don’t mean that. Shhhh, I don’t mean that. Hey. Hey. I don’t mean that,” Sasha says, trying to cradle my face in her hands.

  “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  “But Anna. Anna. Why hasn’t he, though?” Sasha is now whispering. This is a secret apparently.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know,” I say, honestly. It has occurred to me that I haven’t heard from Lincoln all day. Of course it has. But I rationalized this radio silence, thinking he’s here on business and has probably been busy. Just as I have. “I’m supposed to go to his room after tonight’s party.”

  “He’s going to tell you he has a girlfriend,” Sasha says and mimes zipping up her zipper. “But after.” More whispering and then she nods conspiratorially. “I’m not a hero.” She pulls herself up into a standing position and puts her arms akimbo. “Superhero of nothing!” Sasha yells.

  “Honey, I need you to sit down,” I say, wrangling her back into a seated position.

  “We’re nice and ‘you ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re all right,’” Sasha says, cracking herself up. “It’s such bullshit. It’s okay to say bullshit, because Helen Brubaker says it, you know. You are a beauty, Anna. Hey . . . you know . . . do you think Helen likes us? Do you think she can tell I don’t do her book?! Do you think she can tell that I’m bad at it??” Sasha crumples onto the armrest. “Did you know . . . did you know what I do to make men like me?”

  “I imagine being gorgeous, twenty-five, and an awesome person probably has something to do with it?” I say, craning my neck to see if anyone’s coming. The coast is clear.

  “I text ’em naked pictures.” She is holding out her phone to me as proof. “That’s where it happened. That’s where the naked was. Who does that??” She slumps over on the love seat and just repeats, “I do. I do. I do.”

  “That’s in the past, Sasha. Sasha?” She’s starting to pass out, the blinks becoming longer and longer. “I need you to stay awake. Stay with me.”

  “Lumineux Shower Gel! Bing boop bop, naked pictures in your you-know-what,” she says.

  “You okay in here?” Josh says, walking in.

  “Ladies only, Mr. Hot!” Sasha says. The Mr. Hot thing makes me laugh. I can’t help it. Sasha touches my face and laughs with me. I can’t with this one.

  “She’s had a bit too much to drink. It’s the heat. She was thirsty and . . . ,” I say, trying to pull her skirt down again, as her whole “Ladies only, Mr. Hot” line was accompanied by an elaborate arm movement that pulled her dress up a bit too far.

  “Can I help?” he asks.

  “I have to get her out of here before our boss sees her like this. I can make up a story about her being sick, but I can’t do that if—”

  “He sees how drunk she is,” he finishes.


  “She, but yeah . . .”

  “Right. Sorry. There’s got to be a back way; let me see if I can find something,” Josh says, walking back out into the raftered barn. Sasha is about to pipe up and I quiet her.

  “Don’t even make a back way joke right now,” I say.

  “I totally was. Oh my God.” Sasha crumples into laughter and then is just as quickly crying, falling onto the floor like a tantrumming child.

  “I swear to God, Sasha Merchant. You get up off this floor right now,” I say, standing over her. “Enough is enough. Sit your body down on that couch.” Sasha gets into a kneeling position and pulls herself up onto the couch. “Do you have a game on your phone?”

  “A what?”

  “A game. Solitaire, Scrabble . . . something like that?” I ask.

  “I have this word puzzle thing that—”

  “I want you to play that game right now. In order to get the prize that I have in my purse you have to beat at least five levels,” I say, patting my purse with no prize in it.

  “Five levels?” she asks, pulling her phone out and turning it on. “Where’d you get that prize?”

  “At the store,” I say.

  “The Prize Store . . . okay, five levels and I get it?” She pulls up the game on her phone.

  “On your marks.” Sasha sits up straight and looks up at me with this . . . childlike wonder that just breaks my heart. “Get set.” She straightens up and lets out an excited squeal. “Go!” And Sasha is off and running, focused—however drunkenly—on the task at hand. I look out into the raftered barn, and the meet and greet is now going full tilt. I have got to get Sasha out of here and be back as soon as I can—with Preeti and Audrey here I can’t risk anything.

  “Okay, we can take her out through the kitchen,” Josh says, appearing again in the small anteroom. His blue gingham shirt is casual, but specifically chosen to accentuate an upper body that is distractingly muscular. His black hair is mussed without any product and his ice-blue eyes would make any woman swoon.

  “Sasha, can you pause the game? We’re going to take you back to your room,” I say.

 

‹ Prev