by Emily Beyda
I move through the maze of buildings with unconscious ease, pulled through by the tug of some invisibly fine internal thread. Everything around me feels uncannily familiar, impossibly strange. It is like something from a dream, the dark night and the high white walls, the purple light-polluted sky, a smell of something sweet in the air, jasmine, oleander, a fleshy white flower opening its petals in the dark. I round the corner into an open courtyard filled with the bright chemical light of a kidney-shaped swimming pool. At the bottom there is a mosaic depicting some kind of animal, lifted on its back by a bird’s sharp talons, the lines of it shimmering with the shifting light and movement of the water, writhing with sinister purpose.
There is a narrow bridge spanning the water, and on the other side a door, Marie waiting, her face lit from below with shifting blue light, an echo of the full moon rising over the house—pale, judgmental, pristine. For a moment, I pause on my side of the water, almost afraid to cross over. I feel as if I will have a hard time coming back. Like I am looking into the portal to another world.
“Rosanna,” she calls, beckoning, breaking the spell.
It’s just Marie, I tell myself. Just Marie’s house, just Marie’s pool, nothing to be afraid of. I close my eyes and cross. When I reach the other side and slip a little on the flat damp of the paving stones, she catches my arm and, without letting go, leans close and kisses me, just once, on the cheek. Her glossed lips leave a mark on my powdered skin, a sticky track like the path of a snail. I do not raise my hand to wipe it away.
“Thank you,” I say.
Marie smiles like she doesn’t understand. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she says. “And don’t you look beautiful!”
There’s something in her voice that makes me wonder if I’m overdressed. It’s a little too kind, a little too careful not to give offense. Marie herself is dressed more simply than I expected, in dark pants and a white shirt, gold glinting at her wrists and throat. Her husband comes out and stands beside her. The overhead light casts shadowed circles under his eyes and shows how his face has been allowed to age naturally, even wrinkle a little. He wraps his arms around Marie’s shoulders like he has to protect her from me.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Rosanna,” he says. “That’s a stunning gown.”
“Rosanna is always the best-dressed girl at the party,” says Marie, “famously.”
But she sneaks a sidelong glance at him as she says it. There is something between them that is invisible to me. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Well, thanks,” I say.
My voice sounds oddly cheerful, false. In the silence that follows, a woman comes forward from the doorway, her hands already stretching out to clasp mine. I run through her card: Louisa, married to a producer, two children, nominally designs clothes, ask her about her diet. She, too, is wearing jeans, a striped shirt, and red lipstick, although her jewelry is brighter and more dangly than Marie’s, her heels stacked higher. So much for the shoe-free house. I smile and take my hands from hers, smooth the fabric of my new dress down over my thighs.
“Rosanna!” she says, “how wonderful to see you. It’s been ages. And look at you, such a glow, have you gotten a little work done?” She attempts to lift her eyebrows, but her face remains smooth.
“And you!” I say. “Amazing. What is it, no carbs? Are you still doing that raw diet, you brave thing?”
Marie disappears into the living room on her husband’s arm, leaving me alone with Louisa. I have to force myself not to call out to her, not to look at her as she disappears. I tell myself she will come back to me. She always does.
“Please,” says Louisa, “time marches on. And clean living can only take you so far! You’ll really have to give me your doctor’s name. It’s hard to find someone who’s enough of an artist to keep you looking like a better version of your old self, not a total stranger. All the microdermabrasion in the world isn’t going to turn back time. We’re all getting older, aren’t we?”
She laughs, and this time I’m sure there’s something unkind in it. In the bright light of the hallway, I can see the telltale stiffness at the corners of her eyes, the plastic smoothness of her undimpling cheeks. She puts one hand on mine, testing the elasticity of my skin. I wonder what’s next. Is she planning on asking to bathe in my blood?
“Well, most of us are,” she says, leaning in. “You seem to be getting younger and younger. Honestly, Rosanna, what’s your secret?”
“A lady never tells!” I say, shaking my hair back and trying to lift my eyebrows in feigned amusement. Max has taken care of this as well. My forehead is as stiff as hers, glossy and supine, the paralyzed skin pulled tight on the frame of my skull. I see her notice it, the smug little look of satisfaction that flashes across her face. I’ve passed.
“Excuse me,” I say. “There’s someone I simply must say hello to.”
I walk past Louisa into the open living room, carefully decorated in a manner simulating the accidental results of good taste, with beautiful little objects scattered everywhere, handblown glass bowls and wooden figurines, wildflowers in rough clay vases. One whole wall is lined with books, grouped so a ripple of shifting color runs along the room, useless for anyone who actually wants to read. Through the large window I can see the lights of the city, a million unblinking eyes staring up toward the splendor of the hills. There is a small cluster of people sitting on the couches in front of me.
“Well, hello!” I say. “Good to see everyone.”
I scan the group as quickly as I can, reminding myself of the names of their dogs (Antonio, Sandwiches, Goldie, Bea) and children (Olive, June, Plume, Francis, Eliza-Jane), the time when we last saw each other (meetings, mostly, a couple over lunch), the way that I addressed them on the tapes, each with their own diminution, a slip of a nickname to bring them under my power. For a moment, their faces are blank. They look at me as if they’ve never seen me before. And there are a few of them, it’s true, whom I don’t recognize from the cards. These must be Marie’s friends, not mine. I will not let myself worry about them. Not yet.
“What’s wrong?” I say. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your old friend Rosanna. Surely it hasn’t been so long as all that!”
When I left the house, I felt beautiful. I had made a good decision, I thought, a long black dress with a slit up the side, tasteful, elegant, sexy but still restrained. But the women here are all dressed like Marie. I look woefully out of place, a poor person’s idea of how a rich person dresses. One of the men takes pity on me.
“Rosanna,” he says, standing up.
I recognize him from his card. Leo. An acquaintance, the man Rosanna had lunch with.
“Leo!” I say, filling my voice with enthusiasm, reaching toward him, my life raft, my thrown rope. “So good to see you. We haven’t been in the same room since the Golden Globes, what was it, almost two years ago, now?”
He laughs a small laugh. “Don’t remind me. I think I’m still hungover.” Sitting back down, he motions to a place beside him on the couch. “And you’re looking better than ever, of course.” His voice is strangely tight, with this weird fake jokiness I don’t quite understand.
I look around for Marie, but she is nowhere to be found. Around us, men and women lounge in small clusters of two and three, drinking bright red liquid out of tiny crystal glasses. Their casual air is the product of spending years cosseted by so much money and power that they never have to bother with the pursuit of perfection. Perfection is for the middle class, the striving women Marie and I sell our lifestyle brands to. You don’t have to be perfect when your own flawlessness is contextually implied. Not sure what else to do, I sit down beside him and take a glass from the silver tray on the table, downing it faster than I should. I want to consume something, to feel grounded in this world of getting and taking and having. I smile at him, the closest I can get
to a true, warm Rosanna smile.
“It’s been too long!” I say. “I’ll need a lot of catching up. What have you been doing with yourself the past few years? How is Eleanor? I have to say, I loved your last movie. What was it like for the two of you to work together?”
“Eleanor?” says Leo, sounding surprised. “She’s fine.” He lowers his voice. “But really, Rosanna,” he says, “it is so nice to see you. I didn’t know if I ever would again.”
I smile with noncommittal warmth. That’s what Rosanna would do with this presumptive attempt at intimacy. There must be something incredibly compelling about her that so many people, so many men, cling to her image as though they are drowning. She doesn’t care about any of them. I look around for Marie in the kitchen, which would hold my entire apartment, its glossy blue open shelving crowded with bottles of olive oil and vinegar, a whole shelf devoted to different kinds of salt, all of it perfectly neat, lined up, unused. Someone else is making dinner. Maybe Marie is supervising them. I want to be with her, helping her, that intimacy of helping, of being the one asked behind the scenes, allowed access to the imperfections of preparation.
“Oh, you know me,” I say, “always popping up in the most unexpected places! And speak of the devil!”
Leo’s wife is standing beside the counter, talking to a tall man who has one sleeve of his pristine white shirt rolled up to reveal an armful of tattoos. I give her a little wave. Immediately she breaks off her conversation and makes a beeline for her husband and me.
“Rosanna!” she says, a little too loudly, I think, with a little too much false cheer.
What is it with these people, so insistent on this phony intimacy that they’ve built up between us? I hope she isn’t as bad as her husband is proving himself to be.
“Eleanor!” I say, sounding equally cheerful. “Leo and I were just talking about you. And here you are, looking better than ever.”
“How nice,” she says. “And what a lovely dress that is! Leo, don’t you think Rosanna’s dress is lovely?”
“Hmm,” says Leo, “I hadn’t noticed. Yes, it is nice. It’s a very nice dress.”
“I thought you’d like it,” says Eleanor, her tone barbed. “It looks like a dress you’d like.”
“Well, you look lovely, too,” I say, hoping this will stop them talking. “You’ve always had such a wonderfully restrained style.”
I remember the card.
“And how are the children?”
“The children?” says Eleanor, “How kind of you to ask. I didn’t know Rosanna cared about the children, did you, Leo?”
Her voice is as loaded with fake sweetness as a sugar-syrup-soaked baklava. I am growing increasingly annoyed at these people, this obnoxiously vast room, the domestic set dressing, whatever impulse led Marie to invite me here and leave me stranded, listening to strangers try to involve me in their domestic squabbles. I don’t care about any of this. All I want to do is find Marie. And then there she is, sitting beside the husband of the woman who greeted me at the door, a little too close, I think, suggestive of an intimacy that should be exclusive to me, to us. Her husband is nowhere in sight. I’m glad, at least, for this small mercy. I have to go see her, remind her that she should be focusing on me.
“Sorry,” I say, “I really should see if Marie needs anything. These parties make her so anxious, I can’t help but feel it’s my job to pitch in. I’ll be right back.”
It’s out of character, I know, helping, but maybe I’ve changed in my time away. Maybe I’m helpful now. Sure enough, Eleanor looks at me strangely.
“Oh,” she says, “I didn’t know you two were still so close. I had thought when you left—well, you have a hard time with women, don’t you? I didn’t think female friendship was really your thing.”
She reaches over and takes Leo’s hand firmly in her own. She must be drunk, I think. This strange woman, overly personal, acting like she’s better than me, and her husband practically crawling into my lap.
“Really,” I say, giving her an extra bright smile, “I don’t know where you got that idea. Of course Marie and I are still close. Closer than ever, actually.” I remember my line from the talk show. “You know I’m all about women supporting women. Female entrepreneurship is a core value of my practice! Anyway, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”
Marie doesn’t even look up when I approach her. She is listening to whatever that stupid man is telling her, and for a moment it is almost as though she does not recognize me. I look at her blank upturned face, and I know with absolute certainty that she does not want me here. I am filled with rage at these people, so smug and cosseted by their money, at myself, once so poor and stupid and now what? Nothing, worse than nothing, a cheap copy, a knock-off. I want to disappear. But I am here now. And there is nothing I can do about that. This was her idea, not mine. Her fault. I am determined to show her I fit in. That I belong.
“Marie,” I say, “darling, I just had to tell you that you look magnificent, the house looks magnificent. You absolutely must give me the name of your decorator. You know, for my renovations. There are so many changes I want to make.”
She looks at me with pity. It’s too much. She must be able to hear my voice shaking, the falseness in it, how strangely overdone and arch I sound. I am doing so badly, I am trying so hard.
“Thanks, Rosanna,” she says, ever gracious. “That’s nice of you to say.”
She smiles at me and gives me her hand, as small as a child’s, the fingers light, her hollow bird bones. I can smell her, roses, and something else, earthy, animal, musk. I want to unwrap her fingers from mine one by one, bending them back until they break.
* * *
—
Dinner is held on the terrace, a long open-walled room a famous design magazine had described as an indoor-outdoor space, a term like bespoke or xeriscape that I had never used before I came here but now slips off my tongue easy as breath. The air feels thick, a physical presence. It seems to grow worse and worse every day, pressing up closer to my borrowed clothes, my borrowed skin. Some days, hot days, when I wake up too late and open the window, it is as though I have forgotten how to breathe. But it will rain soon. I can feel it. Something is growing, gathering force. There is a storm about to break. It’s strange to think of water pouring down on this thin-spread city, the wide lonesome streets, the hollows of the canyons, everything filling up with water, clear and blue and clean. The ocean taking over places we have ruined for ourselves.
The place settings alternate man, woman, man, woman—the awkward arrangement of a singles mixer, a debutante ball. It’s strange, after so many months of talking only to Max, to be so close to the bodies of other men. They have the faces of strangers, but they smell like he does, that same cold leather scent of expensive cologne. I keep my face on when I look at them, neutral but friendly, a slight upturning at the corners of my mouth that could be interpreted as a smile if a smile is what they need from me. To one side of me is a handsome stranger, and to the other sits Leo, whom I had hoped I was rid of for good. I tense my face up into a gracious little smile.
“We meet again,” I say.
Before he can answer, I turn to the man on my other side. His face is new to me, not familiar from the cards. He’s a little too handsome, almost showy, with his glossy tanned skin and hair combed into a mussed wave, falling in a perfect slope across his forehead. Like me, he is overdressed. An outsider. His suit is so new that the fabric seems to shine, expensive looking but not quite right somehow, a little long in the cuffs, the lapels cut slightly too wide. I find this comforting, that there is at least one other person here working as hard as I am.
“Hello!” I say brightly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No,” he says, his already overwide smile widening even further when he sees who I am. “No, Miss Feld, I don’t believe we have. Of course I’m a big adm
irer of your work.”
“How sweet of you to say so!” I say.
What work? This man knows Rosanna’s name, her face, and not much more. I’m sure to him I’m just a projection of some adolescent fantasy, but I’m glad that I at least have that. When we talk, he’ll be trying to impress me. This will make things easier.
“It’s always so nice to meet a fan,” I say. “And you’ll have to tell me all about your work as well!”
He beams, pleased to be accepted, “Just Like Us.” On his other side is Marie, sitting a little too close, I think. But I’m sure she’s seated him here because he’s a nonentity who can be counted on to listen while she and I get to our true business of concentrating on each other. Finally things are settling into a pattern I recognize. Her husband is on the other side of her, talking to a neighbor, his hand clasped proprietarily over Marie’s clenched fist on the table. But she’s not looking at him now. Her attention is focused on me. A waiter sets down the amuse-bouche, a single quail egg crowned with one leaf—perfect, delicate, totally uninteresting.
“Marie,” I say, leaning over the man between us, “this is so nice. Thank you again for having me.”
She gives me a warm smile. “Of course,” she says. “I’m glad you could make it.”
But I keep her attention for only a moment. She turns to the man between us, asking him about the sitcom adaptation of Waiting for Godot he’s workshopping for HBO, how he performed it in college (how long ago was that, I wonder), and isn’t it a fascinating play, really speaks to the present moment, and Marie just smiles and nods. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m the extraneous one here. I try again.