Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The clerk smirked, eyes full of doubt. “Again, I’m sorry. But you can’t check in until I talk to Miss Godfrey personally and get her okay. Sir.”

  “Fine,” he said, cutting off the clerk before he could suggest other hotels. “Can you tell me where she is?”

  The clerk’s pale face suffused with pleasure. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Stupid little man, Michael thought to himself. He hated such games.

  “I understand,” he replied in a monotone. “Kindly leave this note for her. Is there a bar I can wait in?”

  The clerk took his note with a blank expression. He was apparently concerned that Michael might actually be a friend of Miss Godfrey’s and that he’d somehow offended him. Now he was all smiles and politeness, offering to hold his luggage behind the counter, guiding him to the bar and giving him a chip for a free first drink.

  Michael thanked him and strolled to the bar. He took one look around the smoke-filled room and decided he needed a walk more than a drink. Flipping the chip, he tucked it into his pocket and headed out the back for a walk.

  Melanie kept walking as the water covered her gently swaying hips, her waist, her back. Ignoring Charlotte’s pleas, she pushed forward toward the stars. Charlotte saw the waves rock her upward in its swell. She kicked off her shoes, threw off her sweater and dove into the frigid ocean water. The cold momentarily stopped her breath, but she stroked after the bobbing figure ahead of her, swimming farther outward into the blackness.

  She reached Melanie just as her head slipped below the surface. Charlotte held her breath and dove under the water, kicking her legs to add weight and speed to her descent. Down she went, her hands splayed in the murky depths, groping in the thickness of the frigid water for any part of Melanie. Her lungs burned and she felt the first stirrings of panic. This was her one chance. She’d never find her again in this blackness. Please, God…

  Suddenly she felt a wispy bit of wool brush her fingertips, and lunging forward, she grabbed hold of a handful of fabric. Yanking hard, she got hold of an arm and pulled the body up. When she broke the surface, her lungs burned and she took huge mouthfuls of air. Beside her, Melanie was coughing and flailing her arms. The back of Melanie’s palm cracked the side of her jaw, sending a white pain shooting up to her brain.

  “Stop it,” Charlotte screamed, choking back the icy water. “It’s me! Calm down!”

  Melanie was like a cat in the water, all snarls and scratches. She fought with her, screaming, “No, no, no, no.”

  Charlotte felt her strength ebbing. The cold was numbing. Her jaw ached. She couldn’t hold on much longer. But she had to.

  Michael turned up his collar at the edge of the beach against the biting sea air. A cold front was moving in, putting an icy nip into the wind. Weather here in Maine reminded him of Chicago; he’d forgotten how bitter a cold wind could feel. He was about to turn back to the hotel when he heard a scream down the beach. He lifted his chin and scanned the sands, but the beach looked deserted. Standing quietly, he waited. The scream pierced the air again, and it sounded like it came from the water. He took off at a run, pounding the sand. As he drew closer, he could see two figures in the water, not too far out. Closer still he could tell they were women. It looked as though they were fighting. He’d heard that a drowning person could bring down the lifesaver with him in the panic, and it looked like that might be happening now. He ran harder. There was something about the women….

  When he reached the water’s edge, his heart slammed to his throat in raw fear.

  “Charlotte!” he shouted, recognizing her. My God, no, no.

  He whipped off his jacket and shoes and dove into the ocean, cutting through the waves with strong, arcing strokes, pushing hard, needing to reach her quickly. He grabbed hold of Charlotte, swinging her away from Melanie’s flailing arms in one powerful push.

  “Michael, no!” she cried weakly, coughing back water.

  “I’m okay. Stop her…Stop her…”

  Melanie was coughing now, too, in a wide-eyed terror.

  Michael understood it all then. “Get back to shore,” he shouted at Charlotte. “Now,” he ordered when she hesitated. His face was grim.

  Not wanting to delay him, not able to keep her head above water much longer, Charlotte obeyed, kicking through the icy water that numbed her limbs and sucked the life’s warmth from her body.

  Michael lunged forward, reaching out for Melanie. When she feebly flailed at him, he reached back and socked her in the jaw, stunning her. Then, grabbing the limp body around the neck and shoulders, he headed for shore. When they reached the safety of shallow water, he released Melanie into Charlotte’s waiting arms.

  Melanie wobbled on her feet out of the water to the sand, where she dropped to her knees. No one spoke. The shock of what might have happened stunned them into a morbid silence.

  Michael moved to Charlotte and held her in his arms. She was shaking uncontrollably. When he thought that he could have lost her, his mind went blank. It was beyond comprehension. He knew in that moment how much she meant to him.

  “You’re here,” Charlotte kept repeating with surprise, wonder, affirmation. “You’re here.”

  “I’ll always be here,” he replied, holding her tighter as his love for her grew more defined. “Always.”

  “Why didn’t you let me go?” Melanie moaned beside them. She, too, was shaking violently in the cold night air.

  Charlotte slipped from Michael’s warmth to wrap an arm around Melanie’s thin, fragile shoulders. She seemed so small, so childlike. “I’m not going to let you end your life like this. Not for a film. Mel, you have so much to live for.”

  “What? I don’t have anything to live for.” Her body swayed and her face twisted into a mask of anguish. “I’m all alone.”

  “You have everything to live for. I love you, Mel. I’m your friend. I’ll stay with you.”

  Melanie wept briefly, then she wiped her face roughly with her hands. Struggling to her feet, pushing away Michael’s helping hand, she walked a few steps away, staggering like a drunk, dragging her stretched black wool dress behind her in the sand. Mascara was running down her cheeks and her hair clung to her forehead in clumps.

  Michael and Charlotte watched her warily when she stopped, weaving, not having anywhere to go.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she said in a high voice. This time when she cried, it was not with hysteria, but sorrow.

  Charlotte closed the distance and again placed an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go in and get warm. We can talk more then.”

  Charlotte looked up at Michael. He was waiting, listening for his cue to do whatever was needed of him.

  His gaze met hers and nodding his head, he walked toward the hotel with them, picking up their shoes, wrapping his jacket around Melanie’s shoulders as he took hold of her other arm. They brought her to Charlotte’s room, past the lobby and the prying eyes, ignoring those who had the insensitivity to laugh and mumble something about those crazy film people who had gone for a late swim in the ocean. At this time of year.

  Much later, Melanie had soaked in a hot tub, dressed in Charlotte’s Swiss cotton nightgown and settled into bed with a cup of herbal tea. Charlotte sat beside her on the bed, huddled under blankets that could not warm her. Melanie looked washed out, depressed, a small doll that had been cracked and not yet mended.

  “I feel like I’m still in the water,” she said softly, her eyes vacant. “I’m still slipping down into blackness.”

  “You’re not,” Charlotte replied, holding on to her hand.

  “I’m here. Don’t let go.”

  She looked at Charlotte, questioningly. “Why are you doing this? You risked your life. You don’t know me that well. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You’re my best friend.”

  Tears welled up in Melanie’s eyes. “I can’t believe what I did. I could have taken you with me.”

  “Shhh, don’t think about that,” Charlotte replied, t
aking the cup from Melanie and setting it on the bedside stand.

  “You were panicked. You didn’t know what you were doing.” She paused. “Mel, suicide isn’t the answer. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m more afraid of being alone than of dying.”

  “You’re not alone. I’ll always be there for you. That’s what friends are for, right?”

  Melanie looked away, crumpling the blankets in her fist and drawing them close under her chin. “Friends…Some friend I am.”

  “You’re a wonderful friend. You’re funny, spontaneous. You have a big heart. You have great makeup.” She smiled when Melanie snorted. “I was such a curmudgeon, such a wallflower before you shook me up and made me laugh at the world and myself. I know I can count on you. With you I can blurt out what’s on my mind and not worry that it’ll come back to haunt me. I can laugh, I can cry, I can swear a blue streak or binge on potato chips and ice cream and feel safe. I know that, at any time, I can call you for help and you’ll come running. You’ve taught me the meaning of friendship.” She reached out to take Melanie’s hand.

  “You saved me, I saved you. I’d say we’re even.”

  Melanie squeezed Charlotte’s hand, too choked up for a few moments to speak. When she did, it was with the air of a confession.

  “I know I’ve been a bitch lately. I’m so sorry. It’s just that everything started to fall apart at once. My looks, my career. And to sit by and watch everything turn to magic around you…I was just so jealous. It wasn’t your fault. I know this, but I couldn’t help myself. You have Michael. You have talent. You’re so damn beautiful. I think I’m most jealous of that.”

  “Stop. You don’t have to explain.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She paused, looking down at her hands. “Being beautiful is very important to me. I like looking good and getting glances from men when I cross the room. I never realized how much attention I did receive until the attention stopped. Now, when I look in the mirror, I can’t believe what I see. The skin sags, there are angry wrinkles around my eyes. I look tired and worn-out. But the real fear is that no matter how many new hairdos, new face-lifts, tummy tucks or whatever, I’m still a middle-aged woman. I’m at the end of my career. I’m alone. I can’t hold on to a relationship. Charlotte, I’m so scared.”

  “You’re not alone, I wish you’d get that through your head. Just because you’re getting older doesn’t mean your life is coming to an end. That’s crazy. We all age. It’s life.”

  “Easy for you to say. When I was twenty-three, I never thought I’d age. Not really. I believed I would always look great. Ten years younger than my age, at least. Never tell your age, that was my motto. Well, I’m here to tell you, girlfriend, I’m forty. It comes sooner than you think. One of these days you’re going to look in the mirror and not recognize the face that’s staring back at you. You’re gonna look at yourself under the bright lights and think. What the hell kind of face is that? Just what do you think you’ll do then?”

  Charlotte looked away. She knew exactly what that felt like and exactly what she’d done.

  “Oh, God, Charlotte,” Melanie cried, covering her face.

  “What do I have to live for? My life has been a series of failed relationships and meaningless sexual encounters. I’ve given up on ever finding someone who will love me.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes, smiling tremulously. “Except maybe you, Charlotte. You keep telling me how I’m your only friend. The truth is, you’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.”

  They cried and hugged and bonded as surely as if they’d cut their fingertips and become blood sisters. Charlotte thought of Dr. Harmon’s warnings never to tell anyone about her surgery. She knew if word of her transformation leaked out her career would be over. Freddy would drop her in an instant. And Michael?

  He was sitting in the next room, waiting for her. She was tormented by the irony of her dilemma: the truth for Melanie, lies for Michael? Deception was a cruel role to play, lies were foul lines to recite. Tonight, she vowed, she would tell him the truth. After she talked to Melanie, she would go to his side, hold him close and remove the deceit from their relationship.

  But first Melanie. Looking at her swollen eyes, her fingers plucking apart the tissue in her hands, her utter despair, Charlotte felt compelled to take a risk, for both of their sakes. Ignoring the voice in her mind that told her not to speak, she sat back, crossed her legs Indian-style on the mattress and took a deep breath.

  “Melanie, I want to tell you about myself….”

  Hours later, Charlotte tucked the blanket under her friend’s chin, dimmed the light and, grabbing a few extra blankets from the armoire, tiptoed from the room.

  Michael was stretched out on the couch, asleep, with her script in his hands. He looked so handsome her heart lurched with love for him. Did loving him make him more beautiful? His hair fell down across the angled bones of his face, exposing his unusually bowed, full lips. She sighed and leaned against the door, filled with the surge of desire to kiss that mouth. To feel his arms around her again.

  She felt safe in his arms, protected and loved. She was drained and needed him desperately. But in a few hours, when the dawn shed its light, she’d somehow have to rally and reshoot two scenes with Melanie’s replacement…and do the love scene with Brad Sommers. She wanted nothing more right now than to lock the doors, unplug the phone and collapse onto the sofa with Michael.

  She closed her eyes, swaying with fatigue and the weight of her responsibilities. Her commitment to her career came first. George would not forgive her if he didn’t get his shots tomorrow.

  She marshaled the last of her energy to walk to Michael’s side, remove the script and spread a blanket over him. She smoothed the hair from his face and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, allowing herself a moment to linger there, relishing the scent of his skin and the feel of his breath on her cheek. Then, yawning with the satisfaction that she was not alone, that she had two very special people in her life—a best friend and a man she loved—she cuddled into the armchair like a cat, wrapped a spare blanket around her shoulders and quickly fell asleep.

  That night she dreamed of her mother, and when the telephone call came to awaken her for the day’s work, she was surprised to find her cheeks were wet with tears.

  The next morning, Michael stood just off the set, watching men and women scurry in preparation for the love scene. Charlotte lay in a four-poster bed, supposedly in the room of the wealthy young college student played by Brad Sommers. It was a skeleton crew; all unnecessary crew members were ordered off the set at Charlotte’s request. She wasn’t an exhibitionist and was nervous at performing a love scene.

  “I won’t be nude,” she assured Michael when he insisted that he wanted to watch the scene. “But won’t it be difficult for you to be there?”

  It was only a perverse curiosity, an overwhelming possessiveness that made him stay and watch the scene. He’d read the script and knew the take would be tough for him to watch.

  He stayed out of people’s way. Just the preparation for the shot was a show. The director was in a snit, shouting and whipping off his cap in a fury as the crew scrambled to set up the shot. The cold front had moved in and threatened an early snow. They had to hurry, hurry, hurry. Two more scenes had to be shot today, reshoots of the scenes with Melanie’s replacement, and George wanted to get it all in today before the overcast sky opened up.

  Michael caught the director looking at him. He thought him a sour-faced sleaze, and when their gazes met, the director scowled at him, though he couldn’t understand why. The director walked to the bedside and delivered a few last-minute instructions to his actors. Then he leaned over to Brad Sommers and whispered something private in his ears. He saw Sommers’s eyes look up and search the room, settling on himself. The actor looked again at the director and nodded. Michael had the strange feeling that the words had been about him.

  The cue was given. The set quieted, cameras whirred and the filming began.
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  Michael watched Charlotte intently, holding back the desire to cover her creamy shoulders, to throw the other man from the bed and to take her somewhere, anywhere, away from these prying eyes. She was wearing a white nightgown, embroidered with delicate rose-colored flowers and long, thin ribbons that encircled her breasts. One shoulder was bare where the gown slipped low, exposing her long, swanlike neck and the soft swelling of one breast.

  The dark circles that framed her eyes when the phone woke them at five-thirty that morning had disappeared under the mastery of the makeup artist. Her head was resting on the pillow, her hair spread out in waves. Long, slender arms, thrown up over her head in a kind of ennui, invited a man’s lust. Her hair, her face, her body, everything was so beautiful he stared at her like one caught in a spell.

  He was seeing her in the camera’s lights as he’d dreamed of seeing her for the past few months while she was away. As he’d wanted to see her last night. The problem was, the man lying beside her wasn’t him. The arms drawing her close, the hands caressing her cheeks, sliding down her neck to cover that bare, rounded shoulder, were those of another man. Michael knew it was acting, that this was a film, of course. But the scene was none the less galling, no less painful to watch.

  The man—for Michael refused to give him a name—spoke fervent words of love. From the dreamy expression on Charlotte’s face, he could swear that she believed him. Her eyes were soft with yearning and her breasts rose and fell with the passion he’d hoped was saved only for him. Michael could feel his own body stirring as he watched, like some cheap voyeur, as another man stroked, kissed, made love to the woman he himself loved.

  What infuriated him was that he knew, as one man knows another, that this actor was physically aroused. He could tell from the trembling hands, the natural flush of his cheeks and the fervor of his kisses. At some point his acting had stopped and the passion expressed was very real.

  Michael looked sharply around at the others on the set; the cameramen, the lighting men, the director. Each man bore the same rapt expression as they watched the love scene unfold. They breathed through parted lips.