Elle magazine was hosting the party, ostensibly to thank supporters of a charity event they’d hosted, but really to give advertisers a chance to press the flesh with celebrities. I didn’t think I fit in that category, and the press’s interest in me had caught me off guard.
Of course it could have been the cleavage. Leo had left very little to anyone’s imagination. The strapless bra was stabbing my underarms as it relentlessly pushed down on my stomach.
I couldn’t smile anymore. “Leo, the shoes are the wrong size. I think they’re Liza’s, not mine. I’m going to limp for a week.”
“A few more,” he said.
The electric-blue cocktail sheath had been designed exclusively for me and I knew that hundreds of women would count themselves lucky to be squeezed, pinched, prodded and taped into it for a few hours. It was far less comfortable than the clothes Leo would be rolling out in New York. The bodice was cut so low I felt indecent, which was silly. Women had been taking their tops off to be rich and famous for, well, forever. My body was my passport to immortality, but tonight was turning out to be one of the occasions when I didn’t like what it did to everybody around me and the damned clothes just plain hurt.
The clamor didn’t end. “Bella, could you bend over a little? One more! One more!”
I straightened my spine. I hated that the photographers called me Bella, as if I was some Italian trollop, and I was not going to drop to all fours à la Marilyn Monroe to give them their cheap thrill. I wanted immortality, but if I had wanted it for being a sex symbol I would have stayed in Hollywood.
I wanted to be remembered for my face and my full name, not my breasts. I had my mother’s face, and her mother’s face, and if I could make the world remember me, it would seem as if they were remembered, too. That all the women in my family weren’t pathetic drones, used up before they turned thirty.
“It’s time to go, boys,” Leo announced. “La Christabel has been very accommodating.”
He twirled me toward the elevator, a graceful move he liked. It photographed well. But before I knew it, I was in his arms and he was dipping me, ballroom style.
The next thing I knew I was looking at the bank of photographers upside down.
Leo pulled me upright again. I stumbled into the elevator, blinded from the flashbulbs. Of course it had been deliberate. I wouldn’t cooperate, so Leo had practically dropped me on my back so the whole world could take a good, long look down my dress.
I swung at him before I knew what I was doing, but he easily caught my arm, and then deftly twisted it. My fingers went numb.
“Don’t give yourself airs, darling. They’ll put your face on the cover, but all they really want”—he shoved his hand up my skirt, and the sheer pantyhose I wore was no protection from his fingers—“is this.”
He let go of me so suddenly that I fell. He yanked me back to my feet as the elevator doors opened.
“Smile,” he hissed.
“I need the bathroom.” It was the only place he couldn’t follow me—at least not without making the kind of scene he loathed.
“Fine. Get some color in those cheeks. You look like a ghost.”
I sat in a stall, feeling as if I was going to throw up. Once upon a time I had thought that what movie producers, theatrical agents and casting managers wanted me to do both with them and on film was dirty. That it would make me feel soiled and used, and it would set me on the same path to self-destruction that had claimed my mother. But at least it was honest. I don’t think any act I performed in honest exchange for money could make me feel as degraded as Leo did.
Except with my luck I would have gotten AIDS and died just as useless and forgotten as my mother. Or her mother—she’d died before I was born, from a botched abortion. She’d been trying not to bring another victim into the world. She was just thirty-three. When she’d died, my own mother had been seventeen and pregnant with me. My father, whoever he was, was long gone.
I reminded myself that looking back it might seem that doing skin flicks or escort service wasn’t that bad compared to Leo, but my mother had made the rent on her back sometimes. She’d killed herself after a customer had brutalized her yet again. I was only sixteen when she died, and at that time I’d promised myself that I’d walk in front of a bus before I’d go to bed with anybody just for money.
Leo’s cage was gilded a little better than the trap my mother had been in. She had tried to keep regular jobs, and so had I. But, like her, every time I got settled along came a man who wanted to make my life easier. I always said no. And then something bad would come of it. How could I explain it to someone like Dina? It sounded like excuses to say I had lost three waitressing jobs because the unhappy man in question had made me drop a tray of food by either bumping or fondling me, and two more because the management didn’t want me saying no so forcefully, not getting it that anything short of a slap in the face was “yes” to some men. In offices, I “just didn’t work out,” a euphemism for the problems that happened when co-workers, some married, asked me out. It didn’t matter how I answered; I was held responsible for being asked.
Poor little me, I thought. Millions of women starved and mutilated themselves to have the body I thought of as a curse. But I’d learned the hard way that while it might seem that I could open any door with my body, all of them led to someone’s bed. I sometimes wondered if my preference for women came solely from my loathing for men. At least I thought I preferred women. The only time I came close to submitting to the casting couch or a casual proposition had been when women asked. More recently was the way I felt when I allowed myself to think about Dina.
Two chattering women entered, and I shook myself out of pointless picking over the past. Aside from his cruel handling of me from time to time, like tonight, Leo hadn’t been abusive to anything but my soul, which, considering my future, wasn’t worth that much. And my face would be on the cover of Vogue next month.
I could only get up because I wanted to laugh. It was funny in a way. Leo thought when I got my sixth cover I’d willingly go to bed with him. I didn’t intend to live that long. Too bad I wouldn’t get to see the look on his face when he realized I’d won in the end.
I joined the party, aware that my eyes sparkled with mirth. Leo gestured me to his side. He was so sure of me that it made me all the merrier.
I was flirting with a product manager from L’Oreal when the black edges of my hysteria turned to silver. My cage dissolved, and my blood sang for joy.
She was here.
Out of surprise I didn’t react, but I saw Leo start, and knew he was aware of her, too. I couldn’t look her way or he would notice. I knew that she was in London to go over financial matters with Leo and inspect his inventories and other assets, but I hadn’t thought she would be here tonight. I remembered her light as a brilliant glow that was nearly blinding. If anything, it was brighter still. I was amazed that no one but Leo and I seemed to notice it.
Leo had arranged it, of course. He was already turning toward me.
“Look who’s here, darling.”
I feigned my usual mix of curiosity, wariness and boredom. “Who?”
“Ms. Financial Wizard. I wonder if she’ll want to...show you her etchings.”
There was no answer to be made to that, so I watched her slowly make her way to the bar and then turn to survey the room. She was looking for me, I was certain of it.
A man sidled up to her and she was pleasant in return, but he seemed to take the hint because he sidled away again. She studied her drink and raised her head to look right at me, as if she’d known all along exactly where I was.
The green in her eyes was like a warm ocean of tenderness.
“By all means,” Leo whispered in my ear. “Go speak with her. But stop panting. It’s unattractive.”
I turned to the balcony off the crowded room, and within a few minutes she was at my side in the cool air. As she approached, the metallic scent of pollution and the harsh grating of traffic faded.
“I have to leave Thursday,” she said, without preamble. “But my afternoon is open tomorrow, if you want to show me the sights. The British Museum, perhaps?”
“I have a refurbishing scheduled tomorrow,” I said. “Hair, nails, dead skin, that sort of thing.” She smiled as if she understood. “But I’ll do my best to reschedule. There’s the museum and Harrods is an experience. Like Bloomingdale’s, though most Brits would slap me for saying so.”
“That could be fun.”
“I can’t really talk for long right now.” Leo would be keeping track of how much time we spent talking. Clearly, he wanted Dina and me to go to bed together, after which he would either manipulate Dina or destroy her. He had never tried to get me to sleep with anyone but him before, so his stakes had to be high. The stakes were high for me, too—I wanted to be close to her, but I didn’t want to open her to his malice and spite. It seemed very important to keep him in the dark as to how much I wanted her, and how much pain, therefore, he could cause her through me.
“That’s okay. I really only came so I could make a date. You weren’t in when I called a couple of times.”
It wasn’t the first time Gerard hadn’t passed on messages. I wanted to tell her not to call, not to give Leo any evidence that he was right about her feelings. But if I did, I would have to tell her the whole ugly truth about Leo and me and my very probable future.
She would try to change it. She would try to get me away from him. Her caring would give him the hold he needed to try to break her, to bend her light to his plans. I had no idea what his plans were, but they were never good for anyone but Leo.
I shouldn’t see her again. I knew that. But I couldn’t help myself. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. I’ll call with the time and place.”
She handed me a business card with her hotel number written on it. Our fingertips brushed, and I smelled fresh grasses and pine. If hope had a smell, that was what filled me.
I went back to the darkness by Leo’s side and tried not to show the futility that swept over me when she left.
Dina accepted Leonard Goranson’s lunch invitation with some trepidation. She hadn’t heard from Christa yet as to their meeting place and time, and she didn’t want to miss that call when it came. However, she did need to go over some business with him and had no excuse to avoid the timing.
She went to the address of his club, as he’d called it, and waited in an opulent outer lobby because only a member could escort her inside. She’d been killing time for twenty minutes before he breezed in, his long leather jacket spread out behind him like a black cape.
“Sorry I’m late, darling. Let’s go right in.”
A tuxedoed maitre d’ showed them to a small booth in what was almost a corridor. She couldn’t see into other booths, and there wasn’t the usual clatter of a restaurant in the background. After they were seated, their knees touched. There was no room and not enough light to go over papers.
“Could we get a larger table? I’d like to take this opportunity to go over—”
“I never mix meals and business. Relax, Dina. The food is excellent here, as is the...service.”
“I’m sure it is, but I do have limited time before I leave.”
“After lunch, then. I promise to be good.”
He’s doing this on purpose, Dina thought. He knows I have plans with Christa for later.
“Here is our server now.” His tone was so smug that Dina stared at him, puzzled, and then followed his gaze. Every thought of business went out of her head.
The woman wore a skintight red latex bodysuit that could have been spray-painted on for all it didn’t hide. A whip was tied casually around her waist, and a chain linking her stiletto-heeled boots limited her step.
Dina stared at the so-called server, then at Goranson. She lived in New York, and very little astonished her anymore. But this was so unexpected. That a client would bring her to a club so inappropriate to business was completely unnerving.
Goranson was smiling, obviously enjoying her horror at his audacity.
Her voice unusually high, she asked, “Is this some kind of joke?”
He bared his teeth. “Of course not. I thought being a woman of your persuasion you would appreciate it.”
“My sexuality has nothing to do with the business we’re conducting.” Dina took a deep breath to conquer the angry quaver in her voice. What the hell did he know about her sexuality anyway?
“My only thought was to give you a nice lunch, my treat. If you like, she could be on the menu.”
Dina gasped, so upset she could not speak. The glasses on the table jangled as she extricated herself from the booth. She snatched up her briefcase.
“Dina, darling, I was just joking. Don’t you have a sense of humor?”
“When you treat women like property, no, I don’t.” She knew he understood she meant more than just this woman.
“But Dina, she’s here of her own free will.” He meant more than just this woman, too. “By the way, have you seen this yet?”
He handed her a tabloid, open to the first inside page. A full color photograph the width of three columns featured Christa and him dancing. He was dipping Christa, and her head was thrown back to reveal her lush body barely covered by the gown she had worn last night.
“Keep that copy if you want. I can get plenty where that came from.”
She dropped the newspaper as if it were on fire. “Let me know when you want to talk business,” she snapped.
His voice carried after her. “Christa will meet you outside the Harrods tearoom at two. Have fun.”
She walked as rapidly as she could away from that place, afraid to be associated with it in any fashion. In her whole life she’d never felt like this, cheapened and insulted. It was supposed to be a business lunch. A business lunch.
By the time she got to Harrods, some of the anger was gone. She waited outside the tearoom until three, then had Christa paged over the next hour.
But Christa didn’t come, and that little shit of an assistant informed Dina haughtily that “La Christabel was not taking calls.”
Christabel leaned against the warmth of the Sacred Tree, marveling again at how green the leaves were. The sky gleamed blue above. The water from the nearby stream had never tasted so good. Sunshine had never been so dazzling. Wild mint had never seared her senses as it did every day of the most wonderful spring Christabel could ever recall.
“I’m tired, Chrissy,” Bitsy whined. “Let’s go home now.”
The world had indeed become a miraculous place, but Bitsy Albright was unfortunately still part of it. “If you’re tired, you start back and I’ll catch up.”
“You can’t stay here alone.” Bitsy sat down on an exposed root to fiddle with her boot.
“I already did, remember?” They’d only been there a half hour. Not nearly long enough.
“I still don’t believe you did.”
A quiet chirp from deep inside a thicket brought a flush to Christabel’s face. “I did so, and if you don’t believe me, ask her.”
Bitsy followed the line of Christabel’s pointing finger. She fell back with a gasp. “Chrissy! We have to run!”
Christabel assumed the same tone that Bitsy often used when explaining things she’d learned from her older sister. “Don’t be silly. She’s just a girl, like us.”
“A savage. Godless. And…unclean.”
Rahdonee stood watching them, her head cocked to one side. Her braided hair was slung over one shoulder and her face glowed as if she’d just scrubbed it. Christabel didn’t know how Rahdonee knew, but every time she came to the Sacred Tree, as she’d learn to call it, Rahdonee would appear a short time later.
“Geraldine,” Christabel said formally, “this is Miss Bithia Albright. Bitsy, please meet Geraldine Manhattan, a doctor.”
“Girls aren’t doctors.” Bitsy still cowered on the root, her hands clutched in her dress.
“She saved my life. You know that. And she’ll te
ll you that I slept right here that night last winter.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Albright.” Rahdonee smiled politely, but there was an extra twinkle in her eye as she added, “Christabel did sleep here that night.”
Christabel knew she was smiling in a silly way, but it felt marvelous to have a secret adventure that just she and Rahdonee knew about. Every few weeks they would meet at this tree and talk about anything. That was also a secret, a beautiful secret. The best secret ever and Christabel wanted her life to go on just like this forever.
Bitsy clambered to her feet, acting like a doe about to bolt. “Reverend Gorony says we should not talk to her kind.”
Christabel stamped one foot. Bitsy was being such an idiot. “Reverend Gorony’s been saying the sky was going to strike us all dead the last three months, and that hasn’t happened, now has it?”
“Who knows when God will strike? God gives us a chance to repent. Repent and—”
“Would you like something to eat?” Rahdonee sank gracefully to the ground and opened her leather pouch. “I have fruit—” she held up a pear “—and meat.”
Rahdonee was, in Christabel’s estimation, one of the cleverest girls that could ever be. Within minutes Bitsy and she were chatting like old friends while Bitsy ate a wedge of pear and some smoked venison. Rahdonee even appeared to be interested in Bitsy’s account of her cousin’s dress, newly arrived from England.
“Two hems of lace?” Rahdonee passed a piece of pear to Christabel. “Is that rare?”
“Of course it is.” Bitsy gave a patient sigh. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but French lace is very dear.”
“Your world is so large. Christabel tells me that the language you speak is not shared by all.”
The sound of her name on Rahdonee’s lips distracted her from Bitsy’s prattling reply. How could it always sound like bells? Not just any kind of bell, either. Like chimes at a temple on a hillside over a deep, still lake, those kinds of bells, sweet and strong at the same time.
She had wanted Bitsy to meet Rahdonee but now she wished Bitsy away. It didn’t seem right for her to be here, under this tree, talking about nonsense when they could be listening to Rahdonee’s stories about the Sky God and Great Mother, the games of the River God and the Wind God. Christabel hadn’t finished telling her about Poseidon and Athena either.
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