by Lynda Curnyn
“God, Grace, I would love to get together with you,” he said. “But my brother and his wife are coming into the city this weekend with the kids.” Then, as he went on to describe how they were going to see the tree in Rockefeller Center and do a little shopping in Herald Square, I felt once again like the girl pressed up against the glass of a world she would never truly be part of. And though I knew it was too soon to expect too much, I also felt like it was too late for me to accept so little. I cared about him too much. Too much to risk that hurt I felt sure would come. He wasn’t ready to let me in. And I sensed he never would be.
“Hey, maybe we could have a little sleepover on Monday once they’ve gone,” he offered.
It was that last statement that did me in, conjuring up for me as it did the history of my love life, which was strewn with men like Michael and Ethan. And though I knew Jonathan’s reasons for not being able to open up might be a bit more sympathetic, I was tired of men who wanted me in their beds but not in their lives. I knew what it would all add up to—and I emphatically didn’t want to do it again.
“You know,” I found myself saying, “I’m going to be pretty busy myself next week. I have my own office Christmas party,” I continued, hoping he might wonder—even for a moment—if I would invite him. But since I was riding so strongly on a tide of painful feeling, I didn’t give him time to wonder. Instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do to protect myself.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” I said lightly. “The holidays are coming, and I’m sure we’re both going to be very busy.”
“That’s true,” he agreed with a sigh. “I have finals to prepare for.”
His easy agreement, the resignation in his tone, stabbed at me. “And I have this campaign I’m working on, friends to see. Parties to go to,” I continued, making my life seem like the big merry event it wasn’t.
“I bet you do,” he said softly. “A beautiful woman like you.” Then he chuckled, “God, I bet I’m putting a crimp in your style. I’m not really one for the holidays….”
“Yeah, well, the holidays are rough,” I replied philosophically, despite the tremor moving through me at my words. “Maybe we should just take a little time,” I said.
He was silent on the other end, and for one fleeting moment, I wished he would beg to see me. Which only made tears flood to my eyes when he said finally, “If that’s what you want, Grace.”
Swallowing hard against the thickness in my throat, I said with as much firmness in my voice as I could muster, “Yes, it’s what I want.”
And then, before I could cave to the crushing feeling of loss, I quickly wished him all the best, and hung up.
The problem with learning the truth is that you have to live with it. I would have been fine, if not for the fact that everyone else was living in some other kind of reality.
Like Angie. “I sometimes think I get more attached to your boyfriends than you do,” she said.
“I wouldn’t exactly call Jonathan a boyfriend,” I replied. “We didn’t last very long.”
“I know,” she said, relenting. “But I guess I just thought he meant something to you.”
He did, I thought, feeling the dart of pain that had lain beneath my rib cage ever since my conversation with Jonathan. He did….
I found myself resorting to my usual formula of all work and as little play as possible. Because idleness only brought on lonely thoughts. And social outings only brought out a longing that no one in my present company could possibly fulfill. So I worked and was more than glad to submerge myself. Claudia seemed in a better frame of mind now that she had met with the plastic surgeon, who called her the “perfect candidate.” You’d think he’d just named her Miss America, the way she practically preened as she told me she was planning on going under the knife in the New Year. I think she felt like she had gained some control over her life, believing she could get one over on the aging process through the miracle of modern surgery. She even seemed cheerful. For Claudia, anyway. And though at first Lori and I questioned how long this chipper mood would last, eventually we started to count our blessings.
20
“A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.”
—Sophia Loren
“Good news, Gracie darling.” Claudia dropped a copy of Vogue on my desk. “You’re in.”
I glanced down at the magazine cover, which featured Xander Oliva, a Brazilian beauty known as a model succeeding despite having a bit more in the hip area than a standard size 2 and verging just beyond a B cup. The Bombshell Is Back, the headline declared, and drawn in by this claim, notwithstanding it was for a model I probably could have shielded against a wind storm with my own body, I turned to the spread. It featured Xander posing in pencil skirts and tapered, feminine jackets as she pranced across a quasi-1940s setting. Yes, her lips were pouty and her eyes long-lashed and glamorous, but a bombshell she was not.
“So what do you think?” Claudia asked, heading for my file cabinet, which she proceeded to rifle through for something or other.
“I think I need to go on a diet,” I said, my eye roaming over a new page, which featured Xander in a powder-blue Chanel suit, arm-in-arm with an equally waiflike counterpart in soft pink Chanel, as they pranced girlishly down a New York City street.
I looked up to find Claudia’s speculative gaze move from my half-eaten muffin to my blouse, which, I noticed when I glanced down, appeared to be pulling. I sat up, giving my blouse a surreptitious yank, and said defensively, “What do these girls know about being a bombshell? They’re barely out of their training bras.”
Claudia raised an eyebrow, a smile curving the corners of her mouth, as if she found my sudden distaste for youth amusing. As if she were somehow above it all, now that she believed she had found a way to beat it.
Beat what, exactly? I wondered, looking at the blank gazes above the pouty lips and thinking of Sasha and Irina—how each of them, in her own way, wore her youth like some thorny crown. Then I thought of those bombshells of yesteryear—Jayne Mansfield, Rita Hayworth, Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich. Yes, they had been young, too, but somehow they seemed more like women. Maybe it was the wardrobe, but I sensed that it had more to do with their era. A time of sophistication. When men were men and women, were, well…women.
Whereas these two… “They look like they’re playing dress-up. They’re just…girls.”
Claudia smiled even wider, resolve in her eyes. “These girls, Gracie, darling, are the future. Get used to it.”
But I didn’t want to get used to it. My eye skittered over the spread and landed on a movie still that had been juxtaposed against the laughing girls, featuring Rita Hayworth looking every inch the queen of an earlier era in a floor-length ball gown as she stood against an equally regal background. I was suddenly reminded of the picture of Roxanne Dubrow herself that I had seen in the family history album we kept at the office. She hadn’t been quite as beautiful as Hayworth, but she had been dressed with the same sophistication, posing before the mantel of the Dubrow’s Sutton Place home. I remembered that photo well; it had been captured for Vogue in 1942, when the Dubrow cosmetic empire had just exploded onto the fashion scene, and it had been featured prominently for years in the company sales catalogues.
That, to me, was a bombshell. And she had been there from the beginning, but buried away in the company’s past.
An idea came to me then, so powerful that I nearly burst out with it on the spot. But I didn’t, of course, knowing that this one was too good to share with Claudia, who would only claim it as her own.
If the bombshell was back, then why not bring back the bombshell who started it all?
I stayed late that night. In fact, I stayed late every night that week, watching my flash of inspiration grow into a bona fide brilliant idea for the new Youth Elixir campaign. Digging through a veritable library of Roxanne Dubrow sales catalogs, I pulled photos from the company’s beginnings—includi
ng, of course, the famous fireplace shot of Madame Dubrow—and juxtaposed them against the quasi-scientific claims and smooth-skinned radiance of the models who had launched Youth Elixir, crafting a proposal for a new campaign that capitalized on the company’s history as one of the first major players in the cosmetics industry in the forties and the leader in skin-care technology in the eighties. Yes, I thought, at week’s end, after enlisting Lori’s help to design a polished and dazzling proposal in full color, this proposal held all the promise of my initial idea and more. I even included the front cover of Vogue, since I had, after all, pilfered the headline as the headpiece of the new campaign: The bombshell is back, my positioning page declared. Only better. Smarter. She had the Old World glamour and sophistication of the company’s early days—and Roxanne Dubrow herself—with the benefit of the new quasi-science that had taken the company to further heights in the eighties: the formula that promised—and in some ways even delivered—the skin that could carry a woman through her best years. Youth Elixir.
For the bombshell who knew better than to rely on anything else, of course.
And because I knew better now, I waited until Claudia had left on her annual pre-Christmas vacation—a long weekend that she claimed she used to catch up on her Christmas shopping but that the glow she always returned with suggested had more likely been spent in a spa—to send the proposal to Dianne myself. With a cc to Claudia, of course. It wasn’t that I meant to go over her head so much as fly under her radar. By the time Claudia got her hands on my work and either tore it down or claimed it as her own, Dianne would already have judged for herself. And could give credit where credit was due, for a change.
Besides, my deadline to propose a new budget was the end of this year. And like the good employee I now aspired to be, I hoped the early bird would catch the campaign dollars.
With luck Dianne would read my proposal before the Christmas party. But then I remembered her ailing mother and wondered if she could do anything right now. How was she even going to handle the Christmas party, with the knowledge of her mother’s illness weighing her down?
How was I going to handle the Christmas party? I asked myself two days before it. Especially when I realized that I would be facing Michael Dubrow again.
And single once more, to his nearly married.
As I passed the Armani store on my way home from work, I had my answer. I would handle my own personal crisis just as Dianne would surely handle hers.
With dignity. With style. And, of course, with a great dress.
Which was why I felt perfectly entitled to splurge on the positively devastating one I found the moment I walked into the store.
A stunning strapless floor-length sheath in a color the sales clerk dubbed “oxblood red.” It fit me like a second skin, I discovered, after rushing into the dressing room with it. Even transformed those few extra pounds into a personal triumph, judging by how curvy I looked. I bought it without batting an eye. After all, I considered it an investment. In myself.
Yes, the bombshell was back.
And, I told myself confidently, when I donned the dress the following night, she was stunning.
The Waldorf, of course, was as lovely as ever. I took another measure of satisfaction in returning to this grand old dame for our holiday party. There had been talk of finding a newer, more trendy venue to go with the younger and ostensibly more chic vision for Roxanne Dubrow, but Dianne ultimately vetoed that. And I was glad, my eyes roaming around that elegant space once I’d checked my coat.
Everyone was here, from Marketing to Production to Research and Development. And our support staff, of course. I spotted Lori looking prettier than ever in a soft pink strapless gown and standing next to an adorable man. Ah, Dennis, I realized, watching as she leaned in close to him.
I didn’t recognize him in a suit. He looked…like a man. No wonder Lori was angsting so much over losing him.
“It seems that girl isn’t a complete idiot,” came Claudia’s voice in my ear as she suddenly appeared by my side. “That boy of hers is delish. I had hoped to take him home for dessert myself, until I realized it was none other than Dennis the Menace. All grown up, it seems.”
“Hmm,” I replied noncommittally, not wanting to encourage any sort of Lori-blasting on Claudia’s part. I glanced at my boss, noting that she looked rather elegant herself in a slender column of black dress that fell to her ankles and which I suspected was Calvin due to its chic simplicity.
“Well, you look nice,” I said, then realized how that might have sounded, especially considering that I had unintentionally injected a certain amount of surprise in my tone.
“So do you,” she replied, her tone containing an equal dose of surprise.
I smiled. Yes, things were back to business as usual.
Almost, I thought, seeing Dianne across the room, presiding over the room as she usually did, with one exception. She was alone. Well, not alone. Her husband, Stuart, stood off to one side, greeting guests with his usual charm and grace. But her mother wasn’t here this year, standing by Dianne’s side and looking like the queen she once was although leaning heavily on a cane, or her daughter’s arm.
I saw the crowd part temporarily, leaving a clear path to Dianne. Taking the opportunity, I excused myself from Claudia and stepped forward to say hello.
“Dianne, how good to see you,” I said, and meant it. She hadn’t been around the New York office much since her mother had taken ill. I realized now that I had missed her warmth, her elegance and, most of all, the inspiration her rallying spirit seemed to bring out in everyone she encountered.
“Grace,” Dianne said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. “You look smashing, as always.” Then she did something uncharacteristic, leaning forward to brush my cheek with a kiss and squeezing my hand in hers. When she drew back again, her corporate face was carefully back in place, but her eyes still glowed with what looked like need. I realized, in that moment, that despite all the devoted employees surrounding her and her husband lingering nearby, Dianne Dubrow was feeling very much alone tonight.
On some level, I recognized that loneliness. “I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t attend.”
Her eyes misted. “Thank you, Grace. She always loved coming to this party, and the fact that she—that she couldn’t—was a…a real blow.” She smiled wistfully. “I don’t think I ever quite realized how much I counted on my mother to be there. Always.”
I nodded, understanding what she meant. My mother and I didn’t always have the closest of relationships, but I always knew that she was there, looking out for me. Suddenly that sole image I had of Kristina Morova, laughing glibly from a frame in her sister’s dark and lonely living room, filled my mind. To my surprise, instead of the usual anger, I felt a well of sadness. If she had ever thought of me, I knew for sure she didn’t now….
“Well,” Dianne said, “at least the party is lovely.”
“Yes, it is,” I replied, “it always is.”
She smiled. “Always let them see you sparkle,” she said, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it again. “There’s a strength in beauty. That bit of wisdom I learned from my mother.” Her mouth moved into a wise smile. “And for that, I am very grateful.”
She let go of my hand and seemed about to let go of me, but then she paused. “Oh, that reminds me, I read your proposal for the Youth Elixir campaign. I really like your ideas—harking back to the company’s history to show what’s possible for the future.” Her eyes gleamed. “We’ll need to put it in perspective in terms of our financial year, but I like it. I really do.”
“Thank you, Dianne,” I said, excitement thrumming through me.
“And I love how you included my mother. She was an icon back than. A real bombshell.” Then she winked, her eyes roaming over my floor-length gown as she took me in once more. “A bit like you…”
It was just the boost I needed to get me through. Well, that and the second martini I helped myself to, the minute Michael Dub
row waltzed in with the ever-so-lovely Courtney Manchester on his arm for all the world to see.
I watched as Dianne greeted them both, feeling a shiver of need as they stood in a huddle, talking intimately. Well, at least Courtney and Dianne talked. Michael, on the other hand, was already scoping out the room.
Clearly, he hadn’t changed. For a moment, I took a small satisfaction in that fact, even felt a sharp thrill of triumph when his eyes finally landed on me, moving slowing up my dress, pausing over my breasts, then widening with recognition when he saw my face.
Take that, you bastard.
Fortunately, I was saved from meeting his gaze when Lori popped up next to me. I turned to her, holding out my martini in a toast. “Here’s to the happy couple,” I said. Then, before she could even touch her glass to mine, I downed my drink in one fell swoop.
She looked at me in surprise. “The happy who?”
“Exactly,” I said, feeling that martini move right through me. Strengthening me. Or shielding me.
“You having a good time?” I said to Lori.
She nodded, her gaze moving on to Dennis, who was chatting with one of the younger sales reps.
“And Dennis?”
She dropped her gaze. “Yes…”
“What’s going on?”
She sighed, looking up at me again. “Well, I made my decision, Grace,” she said. “I’m going to SVA in the fall. It’s just a better program for me.”
“Oh, Lori, that’s wonderful!” I replied, and not just because it meant she’d probably stick around at Roxanne Dubrow a little longer. But I sensed she knew it was a good decision for her, despite the chagrin she clearly felt over leaving Dennis. Her gaze sought him out once more.