Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  Now came the hard part. How could she say it? It was so humiliating.

  Well, they offered to help. They’re ready to help. Who better than these three?

  She took a really deep breath.

  Jumping out of a plane must feel like this.

  Okay, here goes.

  “He’s beginning to feel I’m not good enough to be with him. He’s pretty much said so. Not in quite those words. But he wants me to change. Be more domestic. Pay more attention to him, as though—” she added, with a touch of sarcasm, “as though it would be possible to pay enough attention to Warren. He is definitely self-centered.”

  “He should do well in the banking world,” Ira said drily.

  “But I think what he really wants is a prettier woman in his life. He thinks I’m—well, he kind of makes fun of me. He thinks I’m sort of funny looking. I think he’d be happy if I were—well, not like I am. If I were beautiful.”

  There was silence at the table. Marge and Ira and Romy were staring at her.

  She looked at each one in turn.

  “What?” She was puzzled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Ira said, “Well, right now, it’s true. You’ve been crying. So your face is a mess.”

  Marge stopped him with a look and then said, “Gena. How long have you been at Lady Fair? You must have learned more than that about beauty by now.”

  And Romy said, “It is a simple matter to make you look beautiful. But I think that is not really the problem.”

  “Yes. I agree,” said Marge.

  Ira had been studying Gena’s face closely. “Of course,” he said, “with the right light and the right makeup and hair, it would be easy. I could make you look completely gorgeous in an afternoon.”

  There was silence around the table, as though Marge and Ira and Romy were all arriving at the same thought.

  Then Marge said, “Ira. Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Ira said.

  And Romy said, “Can I watch?”

  And before Gena could quite catch up with what was happening, Marge had paid the check, they’d gathered up all their stuff, taxied themselves back to the Lady Fair offices, and whisked her up to Ira’s lair on the fourteenth floor, which Ira loved because in New York, many fourteenth floors are really the thirteenth and he found that funny.

  * * * *

  The call went out to Nell and her crew. Damien, Lady Fair’s go-to hairstylist, was brought in from his salon. Ira’s people were all taken off whatever they were doing and told to hop to it. And from there on, it was a whirlwind of activity and lights and equipment, and changes of clothes, hands wielding makeup brushes, shears clipping at split ends, and eyes peering at her mirror reflection. Ira was running the whole show, with Romy making an occasional quiet suggestion about an accessory or the application of a bit of blush to a cheekbone.

  A couple of hours later, he was ready to show Gena the result. He put the photo proofs into her hands and stepped back.

  “Well?”

  There wasn’t a sound from her. She was just staring, silent as a stone, giving each photo careful attention.

  Ira’s impatience spilled over. “Well!?”

  She looked up from the photos. “That’s me?”

  “No, it’s Minnie Mouse. Of course it’s you! And very good pictures of you, too, if I must say.”

  “Ira, I look beautiful. I mean, I look like a beautiful person. You’re a genius.”

  “Well, of course I am. That’s what I do. I don’t make a woman look beautiful. I show that she is beautiful.”

  She stared at the photos some more, as though maybe she hadn’t seen them correctly the first time around.

  “I don’t understand it, Ira. When I look in the mirror, I see a funny looking woman. All spiky and angular and gawky. And yet, though these are certainly photos of me, you’ve made what’s spiky and angular and gawky look really very lovely. How did you do it?”

  “Gena, honey. What comes across as beautiful is not only the magic of lighting and makeup and camera angles. I can show you Oscar winners who are funny looking when they get out of bed in the morning. Of course, there are women who are blessed with perfect features. But perfect features are a dime a dozen. Hollywood is full of them. What you see in film and photo is a combination of what’s outside and what’s inside, plus some kind of magic. It’s truly a mystery. But I think you already know all that.” He turned to Romy, who was nodding approvingly. “Ask Romy. She knows.”

  Romy’s smile was both wise and sly. “Yes. Some photographers are magicians. But mostly it is a mystery. Beyond the genius of even the most brilliant photographer.” She pointed to the proofs in Gena’s hands. “You see there how it happens.”

  “Yes.” She looked at them again. “Is it okay if I keep these?”

  “Sure,” Ira said. “They’re a birthday gift. But you’ll get the final prints, too, of course.”

  “I’m going to treasure these. You have all made this a special day.” She hugged Ira and then she hugged Romy. “You don’t know how special.” Then, as though coming back to earth, she checked her watch. “But I’ve hardly done a lick of work today and now I have to get back to my office.”

  As soon as she was gone, Ira said to Romy, “Let’s take these up to Marge, see what she thinks.”

  And when Marge saw them, she said, “Wow! These are wonderful. That girl is absolutely delicious. And she doesn’t even have a clue.” She studied the photo proofs thoughtfully, and suddenly, Marge came to a conclusion.

  “You know what I’d like to do? Let’s surprise Gena. You’ve still got those releases she signed when you were doing the shoot in Connecticut?”

  “Of course. Legal has them.” A smile was spreading over Ira’s face. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, I think it’s a great idea.”

  “We can move a couple of things around—maybe pull the piece on eyebrow threading, save that for the fall issue. It’ll be a quick little behind-the-scenes piece about a hard-working Lady Fair features writer. I’ll write the copy. If we work quickly, it can just make this next issue before it closes.”

  “Love it! Great idea.”

  “It will be Lady Fair’s birthday gift to Gena.”

  “I’m on it right now.”

  He was gone, and Romy said to Marge, “You are all very kind to this girl.”

  “I guess she touched a nerve.”

  “I think the boyfriend is not so good for her.”

  “I think the boyfriend likes a rigged deck.”

  “I agree.”

  “She’s going to have to figure it out. It’s not her looks. Or her cooking, or her housekeeping. He likes having a woman who feels off balance. It’s just a mean bit of sadism. I hate men like that!”

  “Yes,” Romy said. “I agree. She will have to figure it out herself.”

  * * * *

  They’d planned a birthday dinner with Viv and Dan at Galba’s. She was feeling fizzy with excitement and they hadn’t even ordered the champagne yet.

  “Wait till I show you what Lady Fair did for my birthday today.” She took the proofs from her bag and handed them first to Warren. “Ira Garlen did this. The man is a genius.”

  Warren flipped through them, looked really surprised, then laughed and said, “The man must be a genius. Look at these, Dan.” He handed them on, and to Gena he said, “How did he make you look so good?”

  “I—I—guess he—I guess he just—” She was suddenly tongue-tied. This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

  Viv took the pictures from Dan’s hand, took a good look at them, and then gave Gena a huge smile. “These are fabulous. You could be a model, Gena.” She gave Warren a sharp look and added, “And you, Warren, should appreciate what a beautiful girlfriend you have.”

&n
bsp; “That’s true, Warren,” Dan said. “I’m really impressed.”

  “Yeah. Well, as long as she can carry that photographer around with her all the time. And have someone to do her makeup. You haven’t seen her when she gets up in the morning.”

  “Come on,” Viv said. “This is Gena’s birthday. Let’s play nice.”

  So Gena’s pictures were put away, the subject was dropped, and they pretended not to notice that Warren sulked through the rest of the dinner. When dessert came it was a small cake, and the wait staff and Nick Galba came over and they all joined in and sang “Happy Birthday” to Gena. Warren gave her an obligatory birthday kiss and the waiter took a group picture using Viv’s cell phone.

  Gena and Warren walked home silently, and when they went into their apartment, Gena took the pictures out of her bag and spread them across the coffee table.

  “I think they look nice. I like them. I like how I look.”

  Warren put his arms around her and said, “I know, baby.” His expression was almost sad; it seemed to say he felt sorry for her. “They are nice. They really are. But honey, don’t forget, the camera can do wonders. I’m just glad you could see how nice you can look. Maybe that will encourage you to do something about, you know, your makeup, your hair, how you present yourself.”

  And then he kissed her. It was a long-lasting, serious kiss, and somehow, inexplicably, it seemed to Gena that Warren felt that with that kiss, he was sealing a bargain. She didn’t know what her side of the agreement was, but she knew it wasn’t the winning side.

  She needed to think.

  “I’m going to take Wiley out. He hasn’t had a proper walk today.”

  “Don’t be long. I have to be up early.”

  And while she walked Wiley around the block, she shared her thoughts with him.

  “Do you think it’s possible, when I get back, I’ll find that he painted mustaches on my pictures?” Wiley said nothing. “And if he did, I bet he’d expect me to think it was funny.”

  The pictures were untouched, fortunately, and when she got back to the apartment she put them in a drawer. Warren was already in bed, reading, and when she came to bed, he turned out the light and he made love to her. Afterward, she stared at the ceiling and reviewed the events of the evening.

  When she was sure Warren was asleep, she went into the living room with her ice cream, a spoon, and her phone and thought for a while. She ate some ice cream and thought some more, then she ate some more, and then she picked up the phone and texted Paul.

  Do u think W. really WANTS me 2 feel bad?

  Not just “teasing”???? Not just 4 fun?

  Paul’s answer came right back.

  U bet I do.

  In a meeting now. Go 2 bed. I’ll text u tmrw

  Chapter Thirty-two

  She stopped at a Staples on her way from the subway and bought a calendar. Nothing expensive, just an ordinary month-at-a-glance on wire binding. When she got to the office, she cut out the pages for the next two months. She found a space on the wall, right at eye level, got some push pins out of her top desk drawer, and fixed those pages where she could see them easily.

  “Two months. That’s my deadline. Not such a long time when you’re sorting out your life.”

  And then she got to work. By ten o’clock she was putting together an idea that had been on the back burner of her brain for several months—a piece about the annual Ninth Avenue Food Festival for the spring issue—when Paul’s text came through.

  Ur on the right track.

  It’s freezing here.

  Wish I were there.

  Much to think about.

  Bundle up. Stay warm.

  Two months, she reminded herself.

  But it didn’t take two months. Within a few weeks, she’d finally figured it out.

  * * * *

  It started one evening on the subway. She was heading uptown to pick up Wiley, and some high school kids on their way home from school caught her attention. About sixteen years old, she judged, and she got a kick out of eavesdropping on their adolescent banter, their teasing and kidding and just generally being such kids. She was only ten years older now, not even, and already she felt like the “older” generation.

  Was I ever that young?

  They were two girls and three boys. One of the boys had his arm around one of the girls. The boy was really cute, with curly dark hair and the kind of baby face that would stay cute into his old age. The girl had a plain face and seemed shy and—Gena saw it right away—she was so grateful to have a cute boy paying attention to her. He was telling the others how lucky he was to have a girlfriend who always got good grades, because if she hadn’t written his papers for him, he never would have made it through their history class. And Gena thought, Dummy! If you’re so smart, you should know better than to let him get you in trouble. The girlfriend squirmed a little, with her head down, and she glanced sideways, as though fearful they’d be overheard. But the boy’s friends nodded approvingly, told him yes, he really was very lucky, and gave him a couple of light high fives. And the boy squeezed his girlfriend a little closer, kissed her lightly on her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, baby. If you get caught, we’ll bring you a pizza in jail.” And she laughed a nervous little laugh at his joke, and he kissed her again, and her face brightened with an expression that made Gena’s heart twist inside her. Gena recognized on that young girl’s face the glow of gratitude—because this boy, popular and good-looking, had singled her out for his affection. When the train stopped at Sixty-Eighth Street, the two girls got off. And after the doors closed behind them, Gena heard the cute boy say to his friends, “At least she’s good for something.” And they all laughed.

  Gena heard nothing more for the rest of her ride. She was too stunned. What she’d just witnessed was exactly what Viv and Romy, and her own good sense, had been trying to tell her. She was still in a daze when she came up out of the subway and all the way over to Dog Prep. She collected Wiley, and all the way home to Seventy-Third Street she felt she was going through the five stages of grief. As she came off the elevator and opened the door to the apartment, she had reached anger.

  And it was anger that greeted Warren when he arrived about twenty minutes later and saw there was no dinner waiting.

  “I thought we had an agreement. I thought you said as long as I let you know when I was getting home, you’d have dinner ready for us.” He looked around. “I’m home. I don’t see any dinner. What’s up?”

  “Dinner’s going to have to wait tonight. We’re going to talk.”

  “Oh, my God. You starting that again?”

  “I’m not starting anything.” But I may be ending something, she thought. “I’m not starting anything,” she repeated, “but you better sit down, Warren, because you’re going to have to listen to me.”

  “Gena, it’s been a long day, and I’ve had to deal with people a lot tougher than you, so don’t push me. If you don’t want to make dinner, fine, we can order something in. Or we can go out, if you want. Just don’t bug me, okay?”

  “We’re not going out, and we’re not ordering in, and we’re not having any dinner at all until you’ve heard what I’m going to tell you. After that, you can do whatever you want.”

  This was a Gena he didn’t know, and he looked at her long and hard. Then he walked over to the bar. “Mind if I have a drink?” He didn’t offer to make one for her.

  She didn’t answer him. She knew the question was rhetorical.

  “I heard something on the subway today that reminded me of us ten years ago. High school kids. A girl who is smart enough to know better lets herself be a fool, maybe get herself into serious trouble, just to please a boy. Because he’s cute and popular. And she’s not.”

  “And that’s why my dinner isn’t ready tonight?”

  “It’s not about dinner.”

&n
bsp; “What are you telling me, Gena?”

  “I’m telling you that I’m not sixteen anymore. I don’t know why you always needed to make me feel bad, I don’t know what bad thing happened in your childhood, or what gene mutation makes you have to be mean, or some anomaly in your brain, or what there is about the investment banking business that makes you want to hurt me, but hurting me is what you’ve been doing, and I’m not allowing it anymore.”

  Warren didn’t move. As far as Gena could tell, he didn’t react at all. He just stood there silently. He looked her up and down. She watched his face turn very hard and she had the odd sensation that she was seeing a different Warren—whether a new one or the real one, she couldn’t tell. It really didn’t matter. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool and businesslike.

  “Listen honey,” he said. “Life is a zero-sum game. For every point a winner wins, a loser loses a point. That’s how it works. Now you know.”

  Everything fell into place. Totally clear.

  “I get it, Warren. In other words, you need someone, anyone—might as well be me—to be less so that you can be more. That’s what made you pick me, way back then, when we were kids in high school. With me, you could always feel like a winner—because teasing me made me feel bad and that made you feel good. Warren, that’s so sick! You could always say you were just joking, and I could always tell myself it was all in fun, because I was so sure I was lucky to have you. A little teasing was a small price to pay. But it’s not a small price—and Warren, it’s no longer teasing. You’re not telling me I’m a cute sort of gawky string bean. You’re telling me I’m not good enough for you. Not good enough for a man who means to be important. Do you honestly think I can let myself be that person for you? The person who loses so that you can win? No, Warren. I’m not that person. Not anymore.”

  Warren continued to look her over carefully. Sizing her up, like she was a piece of furniture he was considering buying. Or not. He went to the bar and set his empty glass on it. He didn’t fill it again. He turned and said it very simply.