The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  “You mean so we can’t whip it out in the middle of dinner?” snaps Georgia.

  I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”

  NIGHTMARES WAKE ME in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.

  Chapter Nine

  That evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.

  Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy—that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”

  We all nod quietly, not surprised.

  We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”

  We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.

  “I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But . . . let’s save that for the show.”

  He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.

  Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”

  “I may be open to suggestions.”

  Georgia says, “My method is infallible and can be used instantly. If I’m not remembered for my novels, I’ll be remembered for my Hiccup-Stopping Method. If everyone knew it, no one on earth would ever again have the hiccups for longer than a few seconds.”

  What she says is true. Her Hiccup-Stopping Method is her most popular invention in our group. None of us has had a second hiccup in four years because as soon as we get our first hiccup, we use her method and the second hiccup is stopped dead in its tracks.

  Georgia says, “The most remarkable thing about this method—considering how foolproof it is—is how unimpressive it sounds.”

  “Really? Sounds amazing. What’s the method?” Peter asks, hiccupping some more.

  “Stop moving and relax all your internal organs,” Georgia tells him.

  He laughs and hiccups again. “What does that mean—relax all my internal organs? Even my bladder? You want me to pee in my pants?”

  This makes me laugh, which makes him laugh harder.

  “No, not to that degree,” Georgia says. “Just relax your stomach, throat, lungs, even peripheral things like your jaw and your shoulders. Do it now. Close your eyes if it helps. Let your body sort of go limp. The method works best if you use it right away as soon as your hiccupping begins, but even if you wait, like now, it’ll still work. It’ll just take a minute longer.”

  Peter closes his eyes but he can’t stop laughing.

  “If you laugh you’re not relaxed. Stop laughing,” she commands.

  “Easier said than—”

  “Don’t talk! Just relax your internal organs.”

  Peter laughs some more, eyes still closed and hiccups still going.

  Jack tells him, “It’s true it’s not going to work if you keep laughing.”

  “Okay,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath and stops laughing.

  His self-control impresses me. I’m still laughing.

  He stays perfectly still. He has one more hiccup. And then he has no more.

  He slowly opens his eyes. “That’s dramatic. It’s gone. How did you come up with that method?”

  “I don’t know. It just came to me one day. Maybe instinct,” Georgia says.

  Peter leaves the room, smiling at us before disappearing.

  The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”

  Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar . . . I mean, not clinically, but you know . . . so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”

  Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”

  “It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”

  “Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”

  “No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”

  “Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.

  “We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”

  Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”

  We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”

  I shoot her an alarmed look.

  “What is it?” Peter asks.

  “I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.

  “That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”

  Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”

  “I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”

  We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.

  Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel, The Liquid Angel, is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

  When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”

  “Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”

  “No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagi
nation, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”

  “Like what?”

  “Happiness.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”

  We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.

  WHEN I REACH my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you—total darkness even more.”

  The taxi driver looks at him, startled.

  I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”

  He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.

  As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”

  That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.

  The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.

  Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”

  A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.

  “Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.

  “Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.

  As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”

  “How about never? Is never good for you?”

  “Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”

  Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

  He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”

  “Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”

  “A quickie?”

  I nod. “A short conversation.”

  “Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”

  “You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”

  “Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Your very name blisters my tongue.”

  I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”

  “Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”

  “This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”

  Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”

  “The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”

  “Please breathe the other way. You’re triggering my gag reflex.”

  “Okay, well, have a pleasant evening, Adam.”

  I walk to the elevator, concerned that his problem might be getting worse. He’s becoming less inhibited, less careful. He allowed a taxi driver to hear him. Who will be next? Someone who might get him fired?

  Once I’m in my apartment, my mom calls and tells me she saw the interview and that I was good, but that tragically the camera added ten pounds on top of the dozens of fake pounds already on me.

  IT’S THURSDAY MORNING. Only one day left. The NYU students arrive. By three p.m., they and I have finished searching my apartment for weapons and have found nothing, which raises my spirits slightly. Maybe the killer is not as determined as I feared.

  Late in the afternoon, I decide to go shopping. I need a change of scenery. I buy a cuckoo clock, in case we become complacent during the evening of Strad’s death. Every hour, the bird will pop out and scream “Cuckoo” to remind us there is one among us. It’ll keep our nerves on edge, where they should be.

  THE DREADED FRIDAY has arrived. The effort of trying to think of and guard against every possible murder method has drained me.

  In the morning, I decide to bake a lemon chocolate cake. I’m not a fan of the cake because I don’t like cakes in general and Jack isn’t a fan of it either because he doesn’t like lemon, but the rest of our group loves it, and baking it usually helps me unwind.

  As I’m grating the lemon peel, my phone rings. I assume it’s one of my friends with a last-minute point of anguish.

  But no. To my surprise, it’s Peter Marrick, the news anchor.

  “I just wanted to thank you for coming on the show,” he says. “You were great. And your friends, too. Captivating, all of you.”

  “Thank you. It was fun doing it.”

  He then asks me if I’d like to have dinner with him some time, adding, “I so rarely meet anyone I find interesting.”

  He meets politicians, actors, scientists, some of the most important and powerful people in the world. I’m a little confused by his compliment, though I tell him I’d be happy to have dinner with him. He asks if tonight would work.

  “Oh, I can’t tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got something I wish I could get out of, but it’s impossible. Though I could have dinner another night.” Unless a murder takes place, in which case it might be some time before I’m up for dating.

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Ah . . . tomorrow is not ideal either,” I say, thinking I may have to stay in bed all day and evening to recover from tonight’s stress. Or we may need tomorrow to hide the body. Or to prevent Lily from killing the killer. Or to deal with any number of other possible horrifications. “I can do Sunday, though. Or next week.”

  We settle on Sunday.

  I get back to my cake. As I mix the ingredients, I think about how nice that was, talking to Peter Marrick. And rare. Ever since I’ve been wearing my disguise, men simply haven’t shown any interest in me romantically—not that Peter Marrick’s interest is likely to be romantic, actually.

  Chapter Ten

  When I’m done with the cake, I lock up all my cutlery, my hammer, my screwdrivers, and anything else that could be used as a weapon, such as items made of glass, that could, in a split second, be smashed and slashed across Strad’s throat. I bought plastic cutlery and paper cups and plates for the dinner.

  AT SEVEN, MY friends arrive, as planned. Strad is supposed to get here at 7:30 p.m., and the danger is supposed to start at eight. I thought it was best to get Strad here well in advance of the danger so that if he’s running a bit late, he won’t risk being assassinated on his way here by a hired gunman.

  I frisk my friends carefully and then search them with the metal detector, which I practiced using on the NYU students yesterday. Everyone is wearing pants, as I’d instructed. No one sets off the metal detector, which means they didn’t conceal razor blades on or in their bodies. It’s nice to know I won’t have to worry about them whipping out a razor blade when they go to the bathroom. I will onl
y have to worry about them whipping out a piece of broken glass encased in a nonmetal tube inserted in their bodies in the fashion of a tampon or suppository. Frisking them every time they exit the bathroom should be enough to guard against such a danger. Metal detecting won’t be necessary again.

  I confiscate bags, cell phones, and shoes.

  I then stand before my friends and say, “I want you to be extremely vigilant this evening. The killer could be swift. Be on the lookout for any abrupt movements from any of you, and be prepared to pounce. If the killer is Jack, we should be particularly alert because he’s stronger than the rest of us and will be more difficult to restrain.” They all nod, including Jack.

  I continue with, “The rules are: No one goes near the kitchen area; no one near the food before it is served; from the moment it’s served until Strad has finished eating, we should all keep a close eye on Strad’s plate and glass to be sure nobody puts anything in them; everyone stays in the living room at all times, no wandering in the rest of the apartment; and nobody goes to the bathroom unaccompanied.”

  They all nod again. “Sounds good,” Jack says.

  “Oh, and let’s not forget to try to act natural, for Lily’s sake,” I say. “We don’t want him to think her friends are weirdos.”

  “I appreciate that,” Lily says.

  “Even if we’re weirdos, we’re still the Knights of Creation and he knows it,” Georgia says, scornfully.

  We wait for Strad as 7:30 approaches. It comes and goes. We look at one another. At 7:45 p.m., I instruct Lily to call his cell phone. She does, on speakerphone. He says he’s on his way, had to take a cab because there’s a problem with the subway.

  I stare at my cuckoo clock as eight o’clock nears. I ask Lily to call him again. She does, again on speaker. He says he’s two blocks away, that maybe he’ll get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way because there’s traffic.

  “No!” I exclaim. If he’s out on the street alone when eight o’clock strikes, who knows what could happen, what the killer might have planned. “No,” I repeat, more calmly, and whisper: “Tell him not to worry, to stay in the taxi until it reaches my building.”