by Dyan Sheldon
“Are you a model?” He grins at her over his shoulder. “I get a lot of models. There’s almost as many models in this city as actors. I get a lot of them, too. Always in a hurry. Rushrushrushrushrush. But you can’t go faster than you can go, you know? That’s just a fact. And I say to them, God didn’t make all the beautiful things in the world so you could keep looking at your watch, you know?” He more or less throws the cab into traffic. “So are you?” he goes on. “Are you doing a show at the college?”
Able to tell the truth for the first time all day, Beth says no. “No, I was just— I was just visiting the school with a friend. Actually, I’m a writer.” And she explains that she’s in LA for the weekend because she’s a finalist in a national competition.
“A writer? Now that is something.” He glances into the mirror, a colourful collection of talismans and chotskies swaying gently below it. “I’d never guess that. You don’t look like a writer.” He laughs. “But a book doesn’t look like its cover, you know? What do you write?”
“Short stories. But some day I want to write a novel.” Barefoot and no longer bashful. “That’s what I really want to do.”
“A novel! Now that is a thing to want!” For some reason his laugh makes her think of cinnamon. “You know what you should do? I’ll tell you. You should write about me!” With one hand he cuts into the next lane and with the other he thumps himself on the chest. “You wouldn’t believe the life I’ve had. It would be a bestseller.” And while he weaves rather recklessly through the traffic, rarely looking at the road, but frequently shouting good-naturedly at drivers who are even worse than he, he tells her the story of his life. Which, at a rough estimate, contains enough material for a dozen novels, each of them marked by hardship and struggle, and quite a lot of joie de vivre. He laughs again. “Everything but the kitchen sink, you know? And every word is true.” He sounds his horn as a man in a Humvee comes close to ending the story once and for all. “And then I came to this country,” he finishes up. “Where anything can happen, you know?”
“Yes,” says Beth, “I know.”
The cabbie comes from a place where you might also say that anything can happen, but most of it is unpleasant. “Here, I have a chance. I can make the best of things, you know? Nothing’s perfect, but you can make the best of things.”
Does she? Make the best of things … the best of things … The three shells and the plastic Snoopy hanging on a red ribbon from the mirror clack against the wooden cross and the glass beads on the piece of string. Make the best of things. Instead of the worst.
Horns honking and brakes squealing, the cab lands in the drive of The Hotel Xanadu.
Beth stands on the pavement, waving good-bye until he disappears. And then she marches into the hotel. But instead of going upstairs, she goes straight for the beauty parlour on the first floor. If she is going to make the best of things, she might as well have someone who knows how to style hair and put on make-up take charge.
The party is being held in the Grace Kelly Room of The Hotel Xanadu. The walls have been decorated with blow-ups of Vogue covers through the decades and tiny star-shaped lights have been strung from one side of the room to the other. Waiters weave through the throng like bees through a meadow, carrying trays of canapés that are more a suggestion of food than a meal. As Taffeta promised, everybody who is anybody on the LA fashion scene is here – models, designers, journalists, buyers, and all their PAs. Many of us are nervous of meeting new people, and Beth has always been more nervous than most, often making herself ill with worry. But tonight she is as fearless as a blade of grass. Tonight she is Gabriela Menz. She spent nearly an hour just staring at her made-over reflection in the bathroom mirror, saying silently to herself, Think Gabriela, think Gabriela… And it seems to have worked. She greets each new person with the confidence and efficiency of an assembly-line worker installing her part of an engine. Smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here; smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here; smile, shake hands, murmur something about Los Angeles or fashion or how excited you are to be here…
Beth stands near the door, propped against the wall for both moral and physical support. Tonight she is wearing shoes that make the ones she had on earlier look like loafers and a dress that fits her like a bandage. The skirt is so short it feels as if there’s a fan blowing on her thighs. Her eyelashes feel as if they’ve been glued together (which they have) and her face feels as if it’s been varnished (which it might as well have been). But she knows she looks like a million dollars. Indeed, she doesn’t look like just a million; she looks like a million packed in a Louis Vuitton bag and locked in the trunk of a Bugatti Veyron. Lucinda practically swooned when she saw her. The other girls looked like their smiles hurt them. Taffeta, who tends to dole out compliments like a miser doling out alms, adjusted the shoulder of Beth’s dress and said, “Well, that’s more like it, Gabriela.”
Think Gabriela Menz, Beth tells herself. Be her… She does a pretty good job. Most of the talk is about clothes. Who’s wearing what. Isn’t that a McCartney…? Do you think that’s really a Morgana…? What are going to be the big names next season and the season after that. Sambucco…? Wu…? Austin Finch…? The major trends. Mid-calf…? Maxi…? Mini…? Feathers…? Bows…? Beth listens, laughs and nods, giving the impression that whether or not something is cut on the bias or double-stitched are questions that keep her awake at night. What do you think about linen? someone asks, but all Beth can think of is bandages – the mummy look – all the rage this spring. She smiles and nods. And what about crops? Corn? Wheat? Beans? She smiles and nods some more. Giving up on ever having a real meal again, she nibbles and sips. She knows Taffeta is watching her – measuring her, judging her – so she makes certain that Taffeta likes what she sees. That’s more like it…
Thinking that – at least in this part of the nightmare that her life has become – the worst must now be over, Beth allows herself a sigh of relief, as slim as the hips on a size 0 model. But it could be a sigh too soon.
Suddenly, a hand grips her arm – lightly and firmly as plastic cuffs.
“Gabriela, honey,” purrs Taffeta. “I have some people here you absolutely have to meet.”
The people Gabriela honey has to meet are Mo and Inda Linger, two of the hottest young designers in the country, and Estella Starr, a model whose face could only be seen by more people if it were put on a postage stamp. Beth turns to find them all lined up behind her, and smiling. It’s like staring at a wall made of Chiclets.
“This,” says Taffeta, her cool fingers still on Beth, ‘is the girl who designed that dress.”
This announcement is greeted with a chitter of approval.
Ohmigod, really…? Awesome… Fantabulous…
“I can’t believe you’re still in high school,” says Mo. “This is kind of embarrassing, but when I was your age I was still following the flock, baa baa baa…”
Inda laughs, a sound reminiscent of a bottle of soda being shaken. “I don’t want to be the one to make the bad pun, but, really, your angel dress is so divine…”
“I’m starting my own label,” says Estella, “and that dress is just the kind of thing I’m looking for. Only maybe I’d change the bodice detail and drop the hemline? What do you think about that?”
Beth has got through the evening with nods and smiles, and so she nods and smiles now, in an enthusiastic if ambiguous way.
“Though I do wonder about the palette…” murmurs Estella. “It could be that stronger, less innocent colours would really set off the purity of the design and give it an even sexier edge.”
Beth nods; Beth smiles. “Um…”
“You know what I really wanted to ask you?” cuts in Inda, the glitter in her false lashes seeming to make her sparkle. “I know that you’re incredibly talented, but what and who are your inspirations?”
“My inspirations?” echoes Be
th. How on earth should she know? Not only does she have no idea what dress they’re talking about, the clothes she buys don’t have names. They might as well be asking her which architects or scientists have influenced her the most. I owe everything to Christopher Wren and Isaac Newton.
“Gabriela?” prompts Taffeta.
“Well … my inspirations …” Beth mumbles. “That’s a very good question.”
Taffeta’s smile glints like sharpened steel. “I believe it is. And we’d all like to hear your answer.”
“Well…” It may be true that the only thing Beth knows about “fashion” is how to spell it, but there is something that she does know quite a lot about and that, of course, is literature. She takes a deep breath, and plunges in – substituting the words “fashion” and “designers” for “writing” and “writers” where appropriate. “I don’t think I can pick just one or two influences. I just sort of immerse myself in all the styles and trends from today and yesterday and decades and centuries ago… I mean, fashion is organic, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but organic materials are so expensive,” murmurs Inda.
Mo nods. “We do a lot of stuff for the big outlets. You can get certificates to say things aren’t made in sweatshops, but organic material really jacks up the price.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that it’s kind of a living thing. You see something here that you like, and then something else there. And then you start putting things together or taking out the best parts, and it all starts to grow, doesn’t it?”
Because no one responds, Beth keeps going, chattering on as if she’s a sound system that’s been programmed for continuous play. If she had half a second right now to think about it, she might wonder why she’s always been less articulate than a talking doll; stuttering and stumbling, certain her opinions will be as welcome as a contagious disease. She starts to warm to her subject, gesturing emotively and making expressive faces, only vaguely aware of the women in front of her, the voices around her, the waiters sidling past.
No one ever looks at the waiters at this kind of thing, but Beth doesn’t know that and while she talks her eyes move from Taffeta and Mo Linger to the young man standing behind them, who is proffering a silver tray, but looking at her.
Beth stops mid-word, staring back at him as if he’s holding not a platter of miniature Thai spring rolls, but a very large and fiery sword.
Taffeta clears her throat. “Gabriela? Gabriela? You were saying?”
“That’s him!” cries Beth, pointing over Taffeta’s shoulder. “Ms Mackenzie, that’s him!”
The polite smile vanishes from Taffeta’s face. “Excuse me?”
The others look to where Beth is pointing, but now there is no one there, just a white-coated back gliding effortlessly through the clusters of guests.
“It’s him!” Beth points towards the retreating waiter. “It’s the man who’s been following me!”
“Gabriela.” Taffeta’s voice is low but urgent. It sounds as if her teeth have been cemented together. “Gabriela, not now.”
“But it is! It’s him! I’ll prove it!”
It is Beth’s intention to charge after the waiter; to stop and confront him; to make him face her once and for all. The only thing wrong with this plan is that she’s forgotten that one of the reasons she’s been propped against a wall all evening is because she is balanced on her shoes like a book on a bottle.
There have been times in Professor Gryck’s life, as there are in the lives of all of us, when she has said things she didn’t mean and made threats she never intended to keep, just because she was angry or wanted to seem as if she was in control. But this is not one of those times. This afternoon, Professor Gryck is as good as her word and sticks as close to Gabriela as a pair of tights.
“No, no, Ms Beeby!” she calls as Gabriela prepares to take the empty seat next to Delila on the bus. “You’ll be sitting up front with me.”
Oh, goody.
And so, as the shadows slowly lengthen over the City of Angels, the Tomorrow’s Writers Today group makes its way to yet another repository of human culture. The others can all surreptitiously send texts or emails or play games while Professor Gryck reads from her guidebook, but Gabriela – wedged in between the shatterproof glass of the window and the sturdy, unyielding form of Cybelline Gryck – has no choice but to keep her eyes open and focused on the good professor and not on the more interesting sight of the city outside the bus. But though she looks as if she’s paying attention, her mind wanders off on its own.
As the bus creeps through the traffic-choked streets, Gabriela finds herself thinking not about herself, for a change, but about Beth. Now that she has some small idea of what it’s like to be Beth, Gabriela has stopped thinking of her as some alien life form and started thinking of her as a real person. Like the girl in the painting. Like whoever wore the jewellery or ate from the clay bowls that they saw. Like Gabriela herself. Someone with longings and fears. Someone with dreams. That Beth’s longings, fears and dreams are very different to Gabriela’s doesn’t seem to matter any more. And if Gabriela often feels lonely, then how lonely must Beth feel? Competing with girls like Aricely, Esmeralda and Jayne; bossed around by people like Professor Gryck; fussed over and controlled by her mother; terrorized by even the air she breathes. Beth is no match for any of them. And at that thought, Gabriela sits up a little straighter, and the determined look she had when she successfully put in her first zipper comes into her eyes. So far today she’s done no more than complain, sulk, systematically destroy everything Beth’s worked so hard for and come close to getting arrested. What she needs now is to repair some of the damage she’s done. And not cause any more. Which can’t be as difficult as it sounds. All she has to do is not do anything and say even less. The day is half over. How can she fail?
Because they lost so much time what with “one thing and another”, as Professor Gryck put it (clearly meaning Beth), they have to adjust their itinerary and spend the afternoon in the contemporary art museum, which is much nearer the restaurant and the theatre than the museum Professor Gryck originally chose. Gabriela would have preferred an afternoon of Etruscan relics – anything so long as you can tell what it is – but she walks demurely beside Professor Gryck, keeping her face expressionless and her mouth shut tight, without so much as a sigh. Even when Jayne becomes almost lyrical over a model house made entirely from garbage, Gabriela merely smiles vaguely and says nothing. When Aricely decides she likes the hillock of dolls’ heads even more than the pickled pig they’d seen in the morning, Gabriela simply nods as though carefully weighing the merits of each. And when Esmeralda talks for five minutes and forty-five seconds about how the black canvas with the purple stripe down one side is a moving meditation on the relationship between hope and fear, Gabriela refuses to catch Delila’s eye.
None of this brings an actual smile to Professor Gryck’s face, but at least she isn’t shouting. So far, so good.
But not that far, and not for long, as things turn out.
For, as both Otto and Remedios would be quick to point out, good intentions pave the road to Hell, and despite Gabriela’s efforts to have as low a profile as a hem stitch so that all her mistakes can be forgotten and forgiven, things take a turn for the worse at dinner. The entire group sits at a long line of tables in the middle of the restaurant, Gabriela and Delila on either side of Professor Gryck. The conversation is all about writing and who the greatest American writers of the last hundred-and-fifty years are. Gabriela keeps her eyes on her plate and her expression blank. If she could, she wouldn’t listen, but because this is less a discussion than a duel of strongly held opinions, it is impossible to turn it into background noise. Munchmunchmunchmunch… turgid … overwritten … brilliant word play … deconstructionism … historiographic … dialectic between authority and community … postmodern violence against the conventions of narrative and form … parodic punning … structural complexities … slurpslurpslurpslurpslurp. There is nothing i
n any of their comments that makes reading the novels they mention sound like a particularly good idea.
And then, just when the dinner plates have been cleared and the ordeal is almost over, Professor Gryck turns to her and says, in the tone of someone daring you to throw a stone at that very large window, “I must say, Beth, that I’m surprised you have nothing to contribute to this discussion. After all, you hope to write a novel yourself some day, don’t you?”
Gabriela looks up from the dessert menu. “Excuse me?”
Everyone nearby is looking at her; especially Professor Gryck with her know-it-all smile. The woman really is the human equivalent of a hangnail.
“I said I’m surprised you haven’t contributed anything to our discussion.” If Professor Gryck’s smile were a dress it would be a severely cut sheath, something futuristic and angular, and possibly made out of sheet metal. A dress to disguise not flatter. “I was under the impression that you know as much about literary criticism as you do about novels.” This definitely sounds like a challenge.
One to which Gabriela rises with a smile of her own. “I do.” And that much, of course, is true. She knows little about novels, and equally little about literary criticism. But Professor Gryck’s expression is so insincere that it makes Gabriela wonder why she’s baiting Beth this way – like a matador waving his cape at the unsuspecting bull. Especially after the arguments the two of them have had today; you’d think she’d be grateful Beth finally shut up. And it is because of that that she forgets she’s meant to do nothing and say less. “I do have one question.” Gabriela pushes the dessert menu aside. It seems that in some small corner of the closet that is her brain (possibly on a high shelf, right at the back), part of Gabriela has actually been paying attention, and this is the part that speaks now. “I was just kind of wondering why all the writers you’ve been talking about are men. Every one of them.”