The Art of Undressing

by Stephanie Lehmann

  “But the restaurant business is tough,” he said. “Very competitive.”

  “Lots of egos involved!” Nigel said as he chewed. “Lots of people hoping you’ll fail. You have enemies out there, Robert, never forget you have enemies.”

  Kingsley looked really uncomfortable and took quite a big sip of wine. Ralph and I exchanged glances.

  “I didn’t realize,” Coco said, “it’s so cutthroat.”

  “It’s a nasty business,” Nigel said. “Always got to watch your back. Isn’t that right, Ginger.”

  I nodded and swallowed a gnudi. “Yes.”

  “So,” Kingsley said, “I’m planning on Paris this summer.”

  “Paris!” Nigel practically yelled. “Paris is the answer, darling!”

  “I find that I need to go back there periodically,” Kingsley said, “just to get my bearings.”

  “I’ve never been,” Ralph said, “but I’m dying to go.”

  “Ooh la la,” Coco chimed in. “Gay Paree. Now that’s a place I could get into. Those people know how to make marriage work!” She was already done with her first glass of wine. Akiko appeared out of the kitchen to pour her another and kept a poker face as Coco shouted, “Bored with your sex life? Just fuck your married friends!”

  Kingsley smiled at me (with sympathy?) and shook his head.

  Nigel laughed. “I love this woman!”

  “Not that I’m some big advocate of marriage,” Coco went on. “God knows, the best way to ruin your sex life is to get married.”

  “Amen!” Nigel said. “I can’t figure out why gays think they want to get married.”

  “Maybe,” Ralph said, “so they can also get divorces.”

  No one laughed at his pitiful attempt at a joke. He shrugged.

  “This food,” Coco said, “is fabulous!”

  After dinner, I helped Akiko clear the dishes while the others went back to the living room. I was thinking I might be able to figure out her age and if she was his girlfriend. But I’d only had a chance to thank her for the meal when Kingsley came in. “Ginger, you don’t have to do this.”

  “I want to.” I was leaning over, scraping bits of food into the garbage, wondering how much my breasts were showing.

  “You’re such a hard worker. Someone is going to be very lucky one day.”

  “To have me as a wife?” I couldn’t believe he was saying that.

  He laughed, and then—did he just pat Akiko’s butt?—“To have you as an employee.”

  “Oh, right.” Of course. Akiko was smiling to herself as she rinsed dishes.

  “Would you like to see the garden?” Kingsley asked. “It’s incredibly beautiful, and totally unexpected right here in the middle of the city.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Whoa. He was taking me away. From the others. To be alone! How would I keep up a conversation with him, like an adult, just the two of us? Okay, not like an adult. I was an adult. I could do this. I could rise to the occasion. I could pretend to be his equal. Maybe I was his equal. If he thought I was, who was to say I wasn’t? Maybe he didn’t know me very well, but I could pretend that I was confident and self-assured, and then maybe eventually I actually would be. Except. Oh, god. Were my nipples showing? I glanced down. No. Calm down. Relax!

  I followed him to the back of the kitchen through a small eating area and out some glass double doors. There was a slate patio with some bushes and small trees along the side and a little fountain with perpetually trickling water. We sat on a cement bench under a tall ginko tree.

  “Your sister,” he said, “was not entirely wrong about my restaurant. Zin has been losing money, losing customers. And, sadly, I have to admit the food has been compromised.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.” So he was going through a rough period. But why was he telling me? “But it is a very cyclical business. I’m sure you can find a way to revive it.”

  “People expect to see me there, but how can I cook and promote my book and do my shows at the same time? So when Nigel offered to invest, I jumped at the opportunity. I know he’s a bit flamboyant, but I am fond of him, and he is pretty amusing—”

  “It makes total sense.” Why was he telling me this?

  “We’re also planning on opening a café in Calistoga. A bakery café. Something more casual than Zin, of course, but with the same commitment to high quality ingredients drawing on local flavor . . .”

  My ears perked up. “Calistoga is right near Napa?”

  “A lovely town famous for its hot springs. It has these lovely Arts and Crafts bungalows from the twenties and thirties. People are starting to buy them up and renovate; it’s very exciting. The main street is a little run-down, but charming.”

  “Main Street?”

  “There are not one, but two bookstores, an old-fashioned candy store, some funky old motels from the forties that have mud baths and hot stone massages and that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Did he want me to come work for him? Because my answer was yes. Yes. Yes! I wouldn’t have to care about Jean Paul anymore, or the stupid Master Class, or Tom, or Tara, or Coco or anybody, I could just fly across the United States and end up on Main Street with Robert Kingsley doing what I wanted to do most!

  “You’re a lovely young woman,” he said. “And I think you’re very talented.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’ll have a wonderful career.”

  “It’s nice to hear that.”

  “I have to say, I haven’t made very many friends here in New York.”

  “No?”

  “So I wanted to ask . . .” Kingsley leaned ever so slightly closer to me.

  Oh, my god. This was it. He was going to ask me to go to dinner, just the two of us, and then we would become lovers, and then I would move out to California with him, and then we would get married, and eventually I would take over the the Main Street Bakery, and our children would work behind the counter when they were old enough and I would live happily ever after for the rest of my life!

  “Your sister.” He cleared his throat. “She’s not seeing anyone, is she? Because . . . I think she’s a lot of fun, and I was thinking of asking her to dinner . . .”

  My eye focused on a cigarette butt lodged between two slats of slate.

  “But I wanted to check with you first,” he went on. “You don’t mind, do you? Since you are a student, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  My skin felt raw. “My sister . . .” Exposed. “Is not my sister.” Freezing. “She’s my mother.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Coco is my mother. She likes to tell people she’s my sister. But she’s actually forty-three years old, and she’s engaged to a man who used to manufacture buttons, and he isn’t even making her sign a prenup.” I got up.

  “I see. Well.” He stayed sitting. Rubbed his chin and chuckled. “I guess it’s a good thing I asked you first. Save myself the rejection.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It’s always good to avoid rejection.”

  I went inside to get my sweater.

  chapter thirty-three

  j ack sat in the living room sewing a button on Coco’s only white dress, a vintage full-length gown we’d found in a secondhand store in the East Village. Coco read a book on how to play craps. They were leaving for Vegas the next day. He licked a piece of thread before poking it through the eye of a needle. As I watched this cozy scene, I actually felt a thimbleful of warmth towards Jack. He would give my mother security for the first time in her life.

  “If I don’t see you before you leave,” I said, before going to bed, “have a great time.”

  “Thanks!” Jack said. “We will!”

  Coco seemed to be unusually quiet. Serene? I imagined she was in shock that she’d never have to worry about money again. I kissed her on the cheek. “Good night.”

  “ ’Night, sweetie. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  She gave me a wink as I went off to b
ed.

  The weekend dragged. For once I had the place to myself, and should’ve enjoyed every second of it, but instead, I found it depressing. I missed Coco, who didn’t call. I felt bad about Emma, but didn’t call her. I thought about Tom, and even walked by L’Etoile Saturday night just to be in the vicinity of him, but didn’t dare go in. Sunday was really depressing. I hated midtown when all the office workers were home and the streets were relatively empty and even the theater crowds were gone. Ralph came by Sunday night, thank god, and we watched Mildred Pierce, an old Joan Crawford movie we both loved about a woman whose husband leaves her and she starts her own restaurant and it becomes a big success—partially because of her pies—and she has an evil daughter who ends up sleeping with her new, rich husband who gets murdered . . . I’d seen it four or five times before. I went to bed feeling glad the weekend was over.

  Monday morning, I woke up before my alarm went off and walked to school with purpose. Ralph and I had discussed it the night before. I had to seize my opportunity and seize it now. As soon as I got there, I went straight up to Tom.

  “So . . . I was thinking . . . seeing as you want to experience the city, and I’d like to experience it the way tourists do, I thought maybe you’d like to go see a play on Broadway with me.” I continued in a rush, not wanting to give him a chance to turn me down. “It’s something I haven’t done in years, but you can get cheap tickets when you stand in line at this booth in Times Square, and I thought maybe it would be fun in a cheesy sort of way. . . .”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Great. So. What’s a good night for you?”

  “I have tomorrow night off.”

  “So should we go tomorrow night?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  That night, I hardly slept. I was up obsessing about what I was going to wear. Did he even know it was a date? Because I was intending on dressing up. Would I feel like a fool? I didn’t want to be dressed up if he wasn’t dressed up too. My eyes felt sore in the morning, as if I’d been squeezing them shut all night against their will.

  That day at school, Jean Paul was in a particularly bad mood. The banquet, two days away, was a logistical nightmare, and he was in a snit trying to organize everyone. There was going to be lots of competition for the ovens, so I had to get to work on my choux paste and bake it off in advance. I found myself resenting my task. I didn’t want to think about making the swans. I wanted to think about whether I was going to wear the red dress. Already, being an object was getting in the way of being a subject.

  I went to get my recipe and, even though I knew it well, stood there and read it over three times trying to focus. There were two shapes that had to be baked to assemble the swans: the main body, which would be cut open on top and filled with cream—that top piece would be cut in half and placed upside down on the cream to make wings—and the long delicate pieces that would make the swan necks.

  I set up my mise en place. Measured everything out. Set it up on a spot I staked out on the counter next to the stove. Milk, water, butter, sugar, salt. Flour to be added later. Then eggs.

  I mixed everything but the flour and eggs to a full boil. By the time I was adding the flour, I’d completely forgotten about my wardrobe crisis. I stirred fast without stopping until it was thoroughly incorporated. Then I continued to cook it, never letting up on my stirring.

  Other than Tom, who was at that moment sautéing mushrooms at the next stove down, I was oblivious to everyone else in the kitchen. Baking really did make me happiest. It was all about combining things. Once you assembled your ingredients, it was a matter of letting it all fuse. By the time it was in the oven, your work was done.

  “So we’re on for tonight?” Tom asked, as he passed behind me on the way to the sink.

  “Yep.”

  Were we ever! My mise en place? Ready. The underwear. The dress. The shoes. The makeup. Sexy Ginger was ready to assemble. Teddy optional.

  I focused back on my saucepan. My choux paste had formed into a big lump of a ball. I took it off the flame, transferred it into a bowl, and then immediately added my eggs. With each egg, it got smoother and softer and glossier. I checked with my spoon to see if it would peak. It still seemed a little thick. I added another egg. Tried again. It seemed good. I didn’t dare add another.

  And so, for better or worse, my choux paste was ready. I was counting on these swans to show Jean Paul that I was perfectly capable, no, more than capable to make it in this profession.

  I filled a bag with the paste and piped out the delicate S-shaped necks. Did my best to make each one flair with confidence. Curvy and dramatic. Yes. They looked good. Then I pinched the end of each one to make a little beak.

  With the rest of the dough, I made the bodies of the swans that would be filled with whipped cream, and put them in the oven.

  Ralph was at the same time putting his tartlet shells in the oven. “So you’re coming over later, right?” I asked. He’d already promised to help me with my “makeover.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t wait! This is so exciting!” He looked at me, his blue eyes as wide as his smile. Sometimes he was just so cute.

  I baked my swans to a light golden brown, checking the tray of necks often, because they didn’t need as much time. When I took the mounds out, I made a small slit in the side to release the steam so they wouldn’t soften while cooling. Jean Paul had not bothered to warn me to do this, but I’d read it in a recipe I had at home, so I felt clever about it. After letting them cool, I carefully covered them and slid my trays into the reach-in refrigerator. The morning of the banquet, I would make the raspberry coulis and the cream filling. Then I’d assemble everything, and voila. My little flock of swans would be ready to be admired and consumed!

  Ralph and I went straight to my place after school. Tom was coming by later, at seven, to pick me up.

  The first thing I did (while I made Ralph wait out in the living room) was try on the Hello Kitty thongs.

  Whoops. Hello, pubic hair. I could just see Coco melting her wax with glee.

  I pulled off my T-shirt and forced myself to evaluate further. This was not for the faint of heart. The elastic from my hipsters left a jagged outline around the thongs that would totally destroy any sexy image the item was meant to promote.

  Okay, the outline would go away, but who would’ve predicted such a thing? Why was achieving sexiness so complicated?

  The worst thing was the back of the thong. It kept digging into my butt-crack. I kept pulling it out. My god. How did someone spend a day in this? I called through the door to Ralph, “I’m taking a shower!”

  “Don’t forget to shave your legs!”

  “Thanks!”

  God forbid . . . I mean, GOD FORBID a woman wear a dress exposing hairy legs.

  The spray of the shower cascaded on my back as I steadied my left foot on the edge of the bathtub and hoped I didn’t slip, fall, crack my head, and bleed to death. Running my pink plastic razor through a cloud of apricot-scented shaving cream, I pondered the tyranny of hair. The folly of follicles.

  Hair.

  Always growing.

  On the top of your head? Feminine power. On your legs? Too masculine. Armpits? Get rid of it. The space between your eyebrows? Bad news. Over your lip? The unspeakable shame!

  I rinsed the razor under the spray and did my ankle. Somehow, over the years, women had become slaves to the management and maintenance of hair. Condemned to spend a great deal of time monitoring the constant, unrelenting growth. Why? The human race survived for a pretty long time before the invention of Nair.

  One leg down, another to go.

  Did men even appreciate how much effort women put into this? I planted my left foot on the rubber floor mat, balanced my right foot on the edge of the tub, steadied my hips, and slathered on a thick layer of cream. No, they didn’t, because it was all done in secret. As if that sleek, silky skin came about naturally. Sure, it was okay to watch a guy shave his face. That showed what a
manly hunk he was. But watch a woman pluck one stray little hair off her chin? Ew.

  Yet, I had to admit, as I rinsed off, there was something nice about a freshly shaven leg. Sort of like a cucumber with the skin peeled off, revealing the slippery soft perfection underneath.

  Next, my pits. I raised my left arm and slathered on more cream. At least the apricot scent was nice. Kudos to some chemist. Better than any real apricot I could remember whiffing. Hard to smooth that concave surface in there, but I persisted. Tom would not spy one stray hair on my body. I was even going to go for the pubes. Deceive him with my pristine hairlessness. Flawless. Defying age. Denying death.

  Now for that remaining triangular patch—the most offensive growth of all. I wasn’t going to get rid of it completely. Couldn’t bring myself to. But I trimmed the hedges, knowing I would pay for this later with a rash. Good-bye, little hairs. Nothing personal. Off you go.

  I gave myself one final rinse under the spray. Even if we did get down to the thong or beyond, was I about to parade myself around? Was he really going to notice my landscaping?

  Stop thinking! Thinking, in this context, was blasphemy. This was about not thinking. I stepped out of the shower and dried off.

  Ralph was knocking on my bedroom door. “Can I look? Let me in!”

  “Hold on!” I slipped on the dress and put on the red heels and avoided looking at myself. “Be honest.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “But be nice.” I opened the door.

  His chin dropped.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m stunned.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “No.”

  “Weird?” I looked down at myself. Why did dresses make me feel dorky?

  He rubbed his chin. “No . . .”

  He stood back and looked me up and down some more. “Ralph, would you say something? You’re freaking me out!”

  “You’ve got . . .”

  He paused, and I filled in the blank. Ugly calves. Boobs! Balls! (to go out in public like that). A lot of nerve . . .