Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells

by Lisa Cach

  Sophia also directed her minion Darlene to steal and destroy orthopedic sandals prescribed by Author’s podiatrist. S. refused to compensate Author for cost of sandals, and is clearly unrepentant; S. seems unable to see her actions as excessively controlling. Sociopathic tendencies suspected.

  June 15

  Lessons today consisted of screenings of several film noirs with femmes fatales: The Maltese Falcon; The Big Sleep; Gilda; and Niagara. Author was asked to meditate upon what made each femme fatale sexy. Author responded that the f.f.s seemed mentally unstable and emotionally immature, and that men who liked that type of woman deserved what they got.

  Author notes consumption of Scotch by Sophia in response to frustration with Author. Author’s suggestion of yoga as a stress-reduction alternative was met with unwarranted outpouring of inappropriate language.

  June 16

  Day was devoted to Sophia’s extensive collection of art history books and discussion of beauty, charisma, and sex appeal of various naked subjects of varying weight, coloring, and facial features. S. contends that the artist painting each woman saw beauty where others might see none, and by virtue of putting the woman in a painting, both convinced her she was beautiful, and also convinced the viewer. S. uses this as proof that beauty is not based upon physical reality, but upon attitudes and expectations. If you behave as if you are beautiful, others will believe you.

  Author pointed out that many models were prostitutes in real life.

  Sophia’s arguments beginning to lack energy; responded to prostitute comment with weak sigh. Author feels Author may finally be getting through to S., and changing her mind.

  Or perhaps Sophia’s enthusiasm for bombshell lessons is waning.

  Either way, S.’s Scotch consumption notably on the rise.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “Grace, come in here. I have a surprise for you,” Sophia called from the Louis Quatorze living room.

  Grace froze like a burglar in the night, in midstep across the checkerboard floor of the foyer, her hands full of purloined chocolate chocolate-chip banana cookies fresh from Renata’s oven. Sophia hadn’t put her on a diet, but Grace knew her aunt’s sharp eyes observed every crumb that passed her lips.

  “Grace?”

  In desperation Grace eyeballed a potted palm as a cookie stash, but rejected its stems and soil—cookie spoilage danger!—in favor of caching the goods under her T-shirt, in the small of her back. She stuffed the hem of her shirt into her jeans, making a neat little pouch above her waistband. As long as she didn’t turn her back, Sophia would never see the warm, soft lumps of sweet heaven.

  With the cookies making gentle heating pads over her kidneys, Grace sidled nonchalantly into the living room. “What’s up?”

  Sophia sat perched on the seat of an easy chair, dressed in a white silk blouse and navy, high-waisted pants that Katharine Hepburn would have loved, her hair neatly held back in a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her neck. A large cardboard box was open on the coffee table in front of her.

  “I’ve decided you need something more lively and hands-on than books,” Sophia said, looking pleased with herself. “Something to distract you from thinking too much.”

  Grace’s heart soared, one crazy, impossible thought suddenly filling her mind. What other “lively” thing could be in a big cardboard box other than: “A puppy? You got me a puppy!” she cried, overjoyed. Any moment now, a furry muzzle and black eyes would pop up over the edge of the box.

  “Why in heaven’s name would I buy you a puppy?”

  “No puppy?” Grace said, her smile dying. A small spark of hope flared back to life. “I don’t suppose it’s a kitten?”

  Sophia’s lips thinned. “Women who want to marry should not be allowed to own cats.”

  The comment surprised a laugh out of Grace. “You can’t have a logical argument for that.”

  “All a cat is is a surrogate lover. Instead of fawning over an animal that cares more about a can of Fancy Feast than about her, a woman should be out looking for a real man to take care of her.”

  Too caught between disbelief and horror to speak for several seconds, Grace put her hand to her forehead and shook her head, gaping at her aunt. “Where do I even begin?” she finally said.

  Sophia flicked negligent fingers at her. “Let’s skip your part. It’s too predictable. ‘Women can take care of themselves, blah blah,’ yes, we’ve heard it all before. The part of the equation your kind never wants to see is that women need men just as much as they need us. Owning a pet diverts attention from seeking and securing that primary human relationship. A lot of men dislike cats, and I’m certain it’s because men sense the competition for a woman’s affection.”

  “For God’s sake, who’d even want a man who felt threatened by a cat?”

  Ignoring her, Sophia went on philosophically, “Of course, it never helps the cat’s case when it craps in a man’s shoes while he takes the mistress to bed.” She shrugged. “But that’s neither here nor there, and nothing to do with what I’ve ordered for you. Come see.”

  Wary, Grace inched forward. With trepidation she peered over the edge of the box and was confused to see a colorful array of tissue paper, lace, and silk. “PJs and underwear?” she asked. No one had chosen her underwear for her since she was fourteen.

  “Darling, please. Children wear PJs and underwear. Women wear lingerie.”

  Grace picked a peach silk tank top out of its tissue paper wrapping, and her confusion turned to delight. She had always secretly yearned for silk pajamas. She went through the box, eager to find the other half of the set. “Did they forget to send the bottoms?”

  Sophia reached in and hooked a scrap of silk by her finger, raising it up for Grace. “Here.”

  Grace blinked at the G-string, with its tiny triangle of fabric and its strip of satin elastic butt floss, and felt her delight fade. She should have known Sophia wouldn’t buy her anything she’d want to wear. “I can’t wear that.”

  “It’s in your size.”

  “You know what I mean. I’d look ridiculous.”

  “You’ll only look ridiculous if that’s how you feel.”

  Grace poked a finger into her thigh. “How I feel won’t change the shape of these, or the size of my butt.” She went back to the box, her skepticism increasing with every item she pulled out of its tissue paper.

  Garter belt. Black and red push-up bra. White lace negligée that would conceal nothing bigger than a freckle. More G-strings, and panties made of stretch lace.

  The lavender satin item in the bottom of the box pushed her over the edge. It was a corset. A goddamned corset, with black lace trim. Grace lifted the offending item and its matching panties out of the box and glared at her aunt. “Exactly how far back in time do you intend to push women’s liberation?”

  Sophia beamed. “Isn’t it beautiful? The Victorians understood a thing or two about female sexual power. They say that men would faint at the sight of a woman’s ankle.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Only you could see sexual power in the oppression of Victorian women.”

  “Why else do you think the men were so obsessed with oppressing them? They were terrified of the strength of their own desires. Give a woman an hourglass figure and then put a ‘do not touch’ sign on her, and a man can think of doing nothing else.”

  “While the poor woman struggles to breathe, and has her organs displaced by a medieval torture device.”

  “There’s an elastic panel in the back of this one, so you’ll be quite comfortable wearing it under your clothes.”

  Grace laughed in disbelief. “Do you have a hoop skirt for me, too?”

  “I’m not putting you in costume, darling. I’m simply asking you to wear lingerie that says something other than ‘abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ You must dress as if you believe yourself a woman of sexual substance, who invites the admiration of men.”

  “And a corset and G-string are supposed to do that for me?
”

  “You cannot achieve a sex-vixen mind-set while wearing granny panties.”

  Grace groaned and sank down onto the sofa. The lingerie spread over the coffee table represented everything she had spent her life trying not to be. To dress in such froth would be to say her value was determined solely by the sexual desire of men.

  “No,” she murmured.

  “What was that, darling?” Sophia said, examining a transparent pink chiffon robe with marabou trim.

  Grace held her hand palm out at the lingerie, as if to stop it from existing. “I don’t want it.”

  Danger glinted in Sophia’s green eyes. She set down the robe. “And why not?”

  “It’s not who I am.”

  “We have already established that for this summer, you will be other than you have always been. God knows we have a lot of work ahead of us; do not tell me you balk at a mere upgrade to your lingerie.”

  “It’s not mere to me. You keep talking about sexiness coming from within, and all bodies being beautiful, yet you try to dress me in a corset that changes my shape.”

  “It’s not your shape I’m trying to change, but your perception of it.”

  Grace jumped off the couch and grabbed at the lavender G-string panties. “And these are supposed to make me feel better about my body how? Can you imagine what these will look like on me, with my big butt exposed like a full moon?”

  Sophia’s eyes widened and then she sighed with resignation. “Good afternoon, Andrew.”

  Horror slowly frosted Grace’s skin, and for one chilled moment she felt she might faint.

  Behind her, Andrew cleared his throat. “H-hello, Sophia. Er—Grace.”

  Grace squeaked and tried to throw the panties into the box. They tangled in her fingers and fell to the floor at her feet, where they lay sprawled and tawdry.

  “Er, let me get that for you,” Andrew said, coming round her and bending down. He was wearing a white doctor’s coat and, on his head, an old-fashioned reflector.

  Startled out of her paralysis, Grace said, “No, no, I’ll get it,” and bent down quickly. She got her hand on the panties just as Andrew did, their fingers meeting on the satin. Their eyes met, and Andrew’s face turned scarlet.

  “Er, yes, okay,” he murmured.

  She felt the desperation of the misunderstood and wanted to correct the impression she must have just given him, but what to say?

  “Grace,” Sophia broke in.

  Grace felt a spurt of gratitude. Thank God, Sophia will save me from myself. “Yes?”

  “There’s a smear of brown at the back of your T-shirt. You’ve also left a brown stain on my sofa. Why, pray?”

  Grace gasped and slapped her hand to her back, finding the squashed cookies. She twisted her face in miserable apology as she turned to Sophia. “It’s cookies. The chocolate must have soaked through when I sat down. I’m so sorry; I’ll scrub it off the sofa.”

  “But why on earth do you have cookies tucked into your shirt?” Andrew asked in bewilderment.

  Sophia raised her own brow in question.

  “I, uh—wanted my hands free?”

  “Grace,” Andrew said, stiff and professionally concerned. “I think you and I should have a private word.”

  “What? Why?”

  He didn’t answer, though, so she followed him out into the foyer with the dragging feet of a child knowing she was in trouble, but not knowing exactly how bad it was going to be. She tried to postpone his words by asking, “Where did you find that thing you’re wearing on your head? A prop shop?”

  Flustered out of his clinical seriousness, Andrew put his hand to the reflector, his face showing his surprise to discover it there. “Sophia bought it. From eBay, I think.”

  “Do you actually use it?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s just to humor her, like the costumes she makes the rest of her staff wear. You don’t feel silly in it?”

  He cleared his throat, his lips tightening again. “I do. A little. If you must know.”

  “Then why do you wear it?”

  He rubbed his hand over his face. “Because it’s easier than not wearing it.”

  “Ah.” The reflector looked silly, undignified. A man who had gone through medical school and a residency should have the strength to say no to a patient who wanted him to dress up as a caricature of his own profession.

  Maybe Sophia made Declan wear a green visor and ink guards on his wrists when he talked money with her, too. Or maybe coattails, cane, and a top hat like the millionaire in Monopoly. And a bushy white mustache. Grace giggled, on the edge of hysteria.

  Andrew evidently took her giggle personally, and grew stern again. “Grace, I want you to be honest with me.”

  Trepidation smothered her smile. She nodded, wary, and tried not to let the hysterical giggles escape.

  “How long have you been a food hoarder?”

  She gaped at him. “A what?”

  “Food. Hoarder.”

  “I’m not!”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round, then tugged up her shirt. The cookies fell out onto the marble floor with a splat, splat.

  “I just didn’t want Sophia to see them!” Grace said.

  “Why not?”

  Grace snorted. “Why do you think? She—” Grace suddenly stopped, her tongue tripping over the knowledge that she could not say one word about the bet between her and Sophia, and Sophia’s efforts to transform her into a bombshell. She couldn’t say that she knew gorging on cookies didn’t fit Sophia’s ideas of how a bombshell behaved.

  “You’re hiding food,” Andrew said.

  Grace chafed under the accusation, but she couldn’t exactly deny it, what with the evidence lying on the floor. “Just cookies.” She pursed her lips. “And maybe a Snickers bar now and then.”

  “You’re a binge eater, aren’t you? You have the puffy, bloated look of someone who has a carbohydrate addiction.”

  Deeply affronted, Grace drew herself up. “I beg your pardon!”

  “You’re damaging your metabolism, and I hate to think of what your liver must look like.”

  “What’s wrong with my liver?!”

  “It’s probably fatty. You’re on the road to becoming a diabetic.”

  “It was a couple of freakin’ cookies!”

  “The simple carbohydrates, the sugar, the binge eating—you’re killing yourself.”

  “I don’t have an eating disorder!”

  He looked at her with deep medical compassion. “Look at the evidence and face the truth, Grace. Accepting that you have an addiction is the first step to healing it.”

  His misguided compassion was too much, on top of everything else. Devastated, she cried out, “So what if I do?” and burst into tears.

  “Good, Grace! Acceptance is good!”

  “Screw you,” she wailed, and ran up the stairs to the safety of her room.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Research Notes

  June 18

  Author in deep mental funk. Is liver fatty? Is love of a good cookie a sign of carb addiction? But what then of equal, if not greater, love of bacon? Bacon ≠ carb.

  June 19

  Author admits to self that real cause of funk is sense of being hopelessly unattractive to males. Dr. Andrew thinks she’s bloated, and obviously finds Author physically unappealing. Declan finds Author both physically and psychologically unappealing. Not that his opinion matters, the scum-sucking son of a carp …

  Bombshell lessons obviously a waste of time. Author either incapable of learning, or Sophia’s premise of being able to teach sex appeal is erroneous.

  June 20

  Sophia’s frustration with Author’s lack of progress and “poor attitude” is expressing itself in a surprising decline in personal tidiness. Lock of hair escaped control of clip, and food stain was noted on blouse. More alarming, S. only shrugged when food stain pointed out.

  Sophia has declared Author’s core b
eliefs about sexiness of self to be inadequate to the job of creating external sex appeal, and beyond remediation. (“Beyond God and the devil,” exact words.)

  Lessons aborted midday.

  Scotch decanter is empty.

  June 21

  S. has formulated a new plan for education of Author. Author must now “fake it till she makes it”; i.e., mimic the sexy until she truly becomes sexy. Focus of training will now be on external appearance, with Author’s interior self left to languish.

  Sophia contends that once Author looks sexy on the outside and experiences success re: capturing the attention of men, Author will gain confidence and become sexy on the inside. This is directly opposed to S.’s initial thesis of the inner woman determining the outer woman.

  Author is pleased to note that this is in keeping with Author’s original beliefs re: pursuit of beauty leading to an empty soul.

  (Ha!)

  June 23

  Author being put on strict weight-loss diet.

  Author would like a glass of Scotch.

  June 24

  Author has suffered the mental and physical horrors of a bikini wax. Great holy monkey balls, the pain.

  June 26

  Sophia’s external sex appeal lesson focusing on posture and gait:

  Heeled shoes must be worn at all times, up to and even including the sexual act. Author suspects that resultant painful foot deformities may partially explain S.’s foul temper. (Author freshly mourning theft of orthopedic sandals.)

  In order to create the desired hip sway while walking, feet must be placed directly in front of each other as if walking on a balance beam. S. has installed such a beam on the floor of her exercise room for the purpose of training Author, which has proven an ineffective teaching method when coupled with five-inch platform heels. Author’s ankles strained, toes blistered, arches aching.