“Hey, Mary! So—do you still sell Susie Day makeup?” I asked her as I approached her cubicle.
From the way Mary reacted, you would think I asked her if she was selling crack.
“Hush!” she said, lowering her voice and her head, as if it were harder to hear her when she was hunching over. “Do you want to have a coffee?” she whispered.
“Sure,” I whispered back, “but what’s the problem?”
“Shhhh!” she shut me up while pointing toward Bonnie’s den.
She didn’t need to explain anything else. I knew exactly what was going on, but it would always be fun to hear the gruesome details directly from Mary.
“She has a two-hour meeting,” Mary whispered, referring to Bonnie. “Wait for my instructions.”
So I went back to my desk, and five minutes later she walked by and very discreetly dropped me a note asking me to meet her in the coffee shop across the street in half an hour.
“¡Gracias por venir!” Mary greeted me when I walked into the shop.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” I said, truly surprised. “¿De dónde eres?” I asked her, wondering what her Latin roots were.
“Mi familia es de Panamá, but I was born in Brooklyn,” she answered in perfect Spanglish.
It’s amazing how wrong I can be about certain people. I always had the impression that Mary was very serious and uptight, but the truth is that, with all the rushing around that was going on in the office, I never took the time to sit down and talk to her. I spent years sharing the same office space with this woman, and I had no idea who she was as a person. I didn’t even know how beautiful her smile was until I found her sitting at the coffee shop with all her catalogues and samples on display.
“When Bonnie realized that I was selling makeup at the office, she made a huge deal about it and almost got me fired,” she explained.
This was so typically Bonnie. It was as if having an assistant make some extra cash selling makeup could threaten the very fiber of the organization, and the future of the advertising community.
“Every so often she sends her friends to ask me if I’m selling, just to check on me and see if I’m still doing it at the office. She didn’t send you, did she?”
“Mary,” I said, trying to put it nicely, “I’m not her friend.”
“Thank God, B, because if I told you the things she says behind your back…I mean, she hates everybody, but you—I think she’s afraid of you.”
Afraid of me? I never thought that Bonnie could be afraid of anybody.
“I do have an idea of how she feels about me,” I said.
“But it’s not fair. You are too talented. She’s holding you back, and she’s doing it on purpose.”
“I just don’t know how to fight her back,” I replied.
“Don’t worry,” she said, holding my hand, “we’ll come up with something, but in the meantime…let me show you what I’ve got. How did you get interested in Susie May?”
Obviously, I couldn’t answer that truthfully, so I came up with something on the fly. “My godmother told me about it.”
“Your fairy godmother?” She laughed.
“Yes.” I smiled. “My fairy godmother.”
Mary started presenting her products, and as we browsed through her catalogues, I started paying attention to her face. That’s when I realized that she knew how to work wonders with makeup. She applied it so well that you could swear she was wearing nothing. I suddenly felt like I was in the presence of a Rembrandt, or a Vermeer. Her face was so well crafted that you couldn’t even imagine the amount of work and thinking that lay behind it. Mary had turned her face into her own work of art.
“Can I tell you what I would do to your face?” she asked, trying to control her excitement.
“Of course!” I said. With the enthusiasm of a chef working for the first time in a brand-new kitchen, she jumped off her seat, cleaned up my face with a handy wipe, and started applying shades and lip liner in all the right places.
“The lip liner and the lipstick should be different, but not noticeably different, see?” she said, putting a little mirror in front of my face. I saw it, and I had to agree.
She instructed me on the elusive art of mixing different hues of eye shadow, preparing the skin for foundation, and the advantages of using translucent powder—instead of colored—for someone with my complexion.
I noticed that she was thrilled that I wanted to listen to her, and that’s when I realized that you could only work for someone like Bonnie if you kept quiet, so Mary had been pretending all these years that she didn’t have anything to say. Given the freedom to talk, she would come alive in a way that I had never imagined.
Her demonstration was so impressive that the two Mexican ladies who work behind the counter of the coffee shop placed makeup orders at the same time I did. Mary was ecstatic.
Back in the office—about an hour later—I got a visit from Lillian at my desk.
“Hey, B!”
It was close to noon, and I was so focused on the red cell phone that she caught me off guard, making me jump to the ceiling.
“You scared the hell out of me!” I said.
Lillian immediately noticed my new cell phone.
“I love your phone! Is it new? Does it have a camera? Does it play videos?”
Since Lillian doesn’t know the meaning of the word “boundaries,” she helped herself to it. But it’s never too late to learn, so, marking my territory, I snatched it right back from her.
“Give me that!”
“What’s wrong with you?” she said, more surprised than offended.
“I’m waiting for a phone call.”
“Okay, okay, no need to get all bitchy. Do you want to come to a fund-raiser tonight?”
“I have plans for tonight,” I said.
“Tonight? On a Monday?”
“Well, aren’t you the one who says that Mondays are the new Tuesdays?”
“No, they’re not. Mondays are still Mondays, but all the cool charity events are on Monday night.”
“Well, sorry, but I’m busy tonight.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Busy doing…busy things.” I know, it was a lame answer, but I had not prepared myself for Lillian and her pushy ways. She looked at me, suspecting foul play.
“Do you have a date?”
“Maybe.”
“You do?” she asked, her voice going up an octave, as if she had never been so surprised in her life.
“What the hell is so strange about me having a date?” I said, arching my left eyebrow so high that my face hurt.
“Nothing, I’m just…I don’t know…I haven’t heard you mention anybody. Who’s the guy?”
“It’s…it’s a blind date.”
“Who set you up?”
“One of my cousins.”
“One of your cousins in Miami?”
“No, another cousin.”
“All your other cousins are in Cuba.”
“It’s a second cousin.”
She stopped for a second and looked at me, trying to figure out what I was up to.
“Do you want me to go with you for moral support?”
Before I could say, “Are you out of your freaking mind?,” the cell phone rang, and I was saved by the bell.
“I gotta take this call, but thanks for the offer,” I said, covering the mouthpiece.
But before I could start talking to Madame, I realized that Lillian was still there, fixed to the floor, ready to listen to my whole conversation.
“Thanks again, Lillian. You can go now.” I shooed her away. She finally left—half pissed, I could tell, but at least she left.
My mom always says, “Donde hay confianza da asco,” which means, “Too much friendliness is just gross.” Apparently, it’s a quote from my abuela Celia, who until the day she died bragged about not having one friend in the world and not needing one. She was betrayed by her neighbors in the early years of the Cuban Revolution
and never trusted another stranger again. Her philosophy of life was kind of radical, but it came to mind as Lillian walked away. Maybe Lillian knew too much about me. Maybe I needed to separate a little bit from her and live my adventure with Madame on my own.
As soon as Lillian was out of sight, I returned to my phone call. Before I could say hi, Madame had delivered her instructions:
“Alberto will pick you up at seven, and he’ll take you to the Lancashire Hotel, where you will meet Lord Carlton Arnfield. You won’t have any trouble with him; he’s a complete gentleman. He’ll pay you in British pounds, and you don’t need to count them.”
“Got you,” I said, intrigued that I was going to meet a British noble.
“Oh!” she added. “One very important thing. Do not wash your feet.”
“What?” I looked down at my feet—still trapped in the heels that Madame had advised me never to use again. Okay, my feet were not in terrible shape, but after a long day at work, the perspective of going on a date—let’s call it a date for now—without refreshing them sounded preposterous. Not to mention somewhat gross.
So I went home that night and took a bath, but kept my feet out of the water. You should have seen me. Half submerged in water, holding my feet up in the air. It was like taking a Pilates class in a bathtub. It was a good thing that no one was watching me, because it was truly embarrassing, but I was determined to follow Madame’s instructions to a T.
I needed music to get me in the mood, so I chose a Nikka Costa song called “Everybody Got Their Something” and I played it over and over while I was going through my beauty ritual. I picked one of Madame’s gowns—it was a spectacular form-fitting caftan in black raw silk, with silver embroidery—and I posed in front of the mirror, getting used to my new posture. I went through the laundry list in my mind: the head high, the expression confident, the lips soft, the bosom resting under the chin, the shoulders relaxed. This was very interesting, because I realized that your mood affects your posture, but your posture also affects your mood. The moment you stand up straight, and you own the space above and around you, you feel like a different person. As I walked out of the apartment, I felt how the skirt of Madame’s dress flowed softly behind my thighs. Was it the dress that made me feel beautiful? Or was it the way I was walking, tall and proud of my body?
Downstairs, Alberto was punctual and waiting for me. I didn’t have my contact lenses yet, but I figured I’d take off my glasses as soon as I got to Lord Arnfield’s suite at the Lancashire.
I entered the car, and my heart started pounding.
CHAPTER 11
As far as I know, there are two types of limos in New York City: the fancy limos, and the college-kid-on-prom-night limos. The college-kid-on-prom-night types are tacky and gross. They are huge and white, with televisions, disco lights, a bar full of cheap liquor, and the stench of vomit. The fancy ones are black and sober, and they smell like vintage leather, the way you would expect an expensive lawyer’s office to smell. Needless to say, Alberto’s limo was the fancy type.
That night, I was so afraid of what I might find in my second work-date that I couldn’t start a conversation with Alberto—I just kept sighing over and over in the backseat. He probably noticed my anxiety, and at some point, as we were waiting at a red light, he asked, “Is everything okay, Miss B?”
I exhaled deeply and whispered, “Yes.”
“If you have any problems, you just push the number-two key on your phone and I’ll be upstairs in a second.”
“Thanks, Alberto,” I said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. We smiled at each other, and then I took another deep breath and told myself, “Relax, B, relax.”
Finally, we arrived at the Lancashire. I wondered if I was going to be seen as a hooker by the hotel staff. Would they stop me and kick me out? How the hell could I explain to them what I was about to do if I wasn’t sure about it myself?
Alberto diligently opened the door for me, but I took a couple of seconds before stepping out of the car, just to get my mind out of the gutter. Following my own philosophy, I realized that thinking “I’m a hooker…I’m a hooker…I’m a hooker…” would make people spot me as one. I needed to repeat some other kind of mantra. First I thought about using “I’m invisible,” but it didn’t feel right, so just as an experiment I tried “I’m stunning.”
I walked into the lobby repeating to myself “I’m stunning…I’m stunning,” and I actually felt kind of stunning. I don’t know if it was the dress that Madame had lent me, or my recently acquired posture, but each and every employee at the hotel greeted me as if I were some movie star who was staying in the Presidential Suite. My fear of being identified as an escort and being kicked out vanished as soon as I got into the elevator. I went straight to Lord Arnfield’s door—-unannounced—since I knew he was expecting me. I knocked and he opened.
Ludwig Rauscher may have ended up being younger than I thought, but Lord Arnfield ended up being older than I could ever imagine. Way older. He must have been eighty-five at least. He was wearing a tuxedo, and he had that aristocratic demeanor of people who seem to have been born wearing one.
“Welcome!” he said with a decrepit smile.
As soon as I stepped in, he gave me a tight roll of British pounds, which I carefully placed between my breasts. If he tries to reach for my boobs, I thought to myself, I’ll pull out his hand and throw the money at him in one motion, and I’ll get the hell out of here before he can say “I beg your pardon.”
No need to worry. Maybe I had “a gorgeous bust,” as Madame told me, but Lord Arnfield wasn’t interested in it at all. He seemed to have eyes only for my lower parts. Lower, as in below the ankles.
“Please, take a seat,” Lord Arnfield invited me.
While I sat down on the couch, he turned on an expensive sound system that started playing a Marlene Dietrich song, “Falling in Love Again.”
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“I think you would be more comfortable if I removed your shoes.”
Under any other circumstances I would have said, “No, ’cause my feet stink,” but, invoking Madame’s instructions (don’t make fun of the customers), I said “sure,” and he proceeded to kneel in front of me and delicately remove my shoes.
“Oh! Your feet must hurt after such a long day!”
“Sure!” I said for lack of a better answer.
“Maybe I should give you a foot massage.”
“Sure!” I repeated for the third time.
He started stroking my feet gently and slowly. For the remainder of the song, he touched them and examined them as if they had come from outer space. It was a mix of sensuality with scientific curiosity. Marlene’s song ended, and he must have programmed the stereo in “shuffle,” because the next song was from a very different album. It was the eighties hit by Vanity 6: “Nasty Girl.” And, naturally, that’s when things got nasty.
With the faster beat, his movements increased in speed and intensity; now he was lifting my feet and sniffing them all around. He put his nose right between my toes and took deep whiffs that made him spasm. His tender touch was tickling me, so I started giggling, and he seemed to like that, because he started huffing and puffing. The more I giggled, the more he huffed, and the more he huffed, the more I feared that he would have a heart attack and die with his nose between my toes.
I was starting to freak out—first, because I wouldn’t know what to tell the cops if Lord Arnfield died on me, but mainly because, though I didn’t find him particularly attractive, this whole thing was somehow turning me on. I closed my eyes, but it was worse. If I didn’t see him, it was even more of a turn-on. Then I opened my eyes and realized that the turn-on wasn’t him as a person: it was the enjoyment he was getting out of me. To think that someone could have such a fantastic time with the most unclean and unsexy part of my body was the most powerful aphrodisiac I had ever encountered. Did I want to jump in bed with this guy? Certainly
not; but the fact that he was enjoying my body in such an unexpected way was making my heart race. I decided to close my eyes, get lost in the music, and fantasize that I was in a shoe store being run by Chippendales.
Out of nowhere, Lord Arnfield pulled out a box from an expensive men’s store, and, opening it, he revealed a whole collection of brand-new men’s socks.
Yes, you heard me well: men’s socks. Not silk stockings, not bobby socks, not fancy pantyhose from Christian Dior; he pulled out black and brown cotton and polyester socks, the type that businessmen wear to work.
He started trying them on me, and with every new pair of socks that he placed on my feet, a longer and more intense spasm arched his body. His breathing got heavier and heavier, and in the middle of trying a pair of white cotton tennis socks, he convulsed and collapsed at my feet.
Before I could call 911—and, trust me, I was ready to do that—he got up, with a smile, and, covering his groin with the lid of the box, he showed me the way out.
“Oh dear,” he asked me before I left, “you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of old sneakers that you were planning to throw out, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, thinking of an old pair of gym shoes in my closet that were barely held together by a thread.
“I would be most interested in purchasing them from you.”
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to pay me for that,” I replied.
“I insist; maybe I could send my driver to pick them up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll send mine,” I said, thinking of Alberto. “Maybe you can tip him or something.”
“I most certainly will. Thank you,” he said as he closed the door behind me.
“Sure,” I said. What else could I say?
B as in Beauty Page 10