The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel

by Amanda Filipacchi

  Strad is staring at her, looking quite upset.

  Lily continues. “I refused to take off the mask. I wasn’t only wearing it to stop attracting sexual abuse, I was also wearing it out of shame. When my parents tried taking it off by force, I had a fit. I told them that if they didn’t let me wear it, I’d find another mask and glue it to my face with Superglue, or I’d cut up my face. They were horrified. They sent me to therapy, which was useless. Finally, there was one shrink who did help, though only a little. Now I’m going to explain to you those inconsistencies that offended you.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” Strad says.

  “After three months, the psychiatrist found an alternate way to make me feel safe. I was only eight years old, keep that in mind. He made me listen to a piece of music and said that whenever that piece was playing, I’d be protected. He claimed the music had properties that would make people around me inoffensive and relatively normal-acting in the face of my looks.”

  Strad strokes Lily’s hair.

  She continues. “My parents were thrilled, at first, that the therapist was able to add the musical piece to my derangement. They thought I was on the road to recovery. What they didn’t realize was that my progress toward mental health would stop right there. They had to learn to live with their daughter either masked or accompanied by music, and they got so tired of both that sometimes it was hard for them to decide which they could bear. To this day, things haven’t changed. I can live either behind the mask or behind the music. I can choose between my two prisons.”

  “But now, as an adult, I assume you know the music doesn’t protect you.”

  “On some level I know that. But on an emotional level I still believe in it. I need it.”

  “What a sad story.” He pauses. “I don’t mean to sound nitpicky, but I still don’t understand the bookstore. You took off your mask, yet I assume your special music wasn’t playing.”

  “Yes, it was, actually.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Connections.”

  Strad nods.

  “Now you know. I’m very screwed up,” she says. “It’s hard for me to have a normal life. That’s why Barb thought we might be a good match. Most men wouldn’t stand for my lunacies, but she thought that you—because you value physical beauty so much—might be willing to . . . or be able to . . . overlook these huge psychological aberrances.”

  He hugs her. “Thank you for being open with me about your past. It all makes so much sense now.”

  Georgia never fails, Lily marvels to herself.

  OVER THE HOLIDAYS, I spend a few days with my mom in her house in Connecticut, just the two of us. We have a nice time. She hasn’t mentioned my fake fat since I went to the Excess Weight Disorders Support Group, that one time. I can tell it takes some effort on her part, but I appreciate it. Instead, we talk a lot about her upcoming trip to Australia in March, which is a topic I much prefer.

  I devote a large portion of each day to working on some designs for the dream sequence of a new movie. And I dedicate the rest of the time to fantasizing about Peter. I’m feeling optimistic. He said he would not neglect his sense of touch at our next meeting. Who would say that if they weren’t interested? Only a sadist. I think he’s interested.

  In the end, my mom can’t help herself. Right before I’m about to go back to the city, as we’re standing at the living room window staring out in silence at the countryside, she says, “Barb, you’ll never find a worthwhile guy if you keep wearing that disguise.”

  I’m sure my mom would find Peter Marrick worthwhile. In the window, my own reflection is staring back at me with a tiny, hopeful smile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Strad tells Lily it’s been three years since he’s been with a woman who made him want to take a vacation with her. He suggests they go on a trip for two weeks to the Puerto Rican island of Vieques. Then he says, “Why not leave tomorrow?”

  Excited by his spontaneity and enthusiasm for her, Lily agrees to go on vacation with him the next day. Worried that the airline might not let her wear a mask, she insists they take separate flights. She says she always travels alone.

  MY FRIENDS SANS Lily come over for a Night of Creation. I’ve been daydreaming about Peter a lot since he gave me that frustratingly incomplete demonstration a few days ago, so it stirs me even more than usual when he walks through the door and kisses me on the cheek.

  While we work, the room is quiet without Lily here playing her piano. Half an hour into our session, I go to the kitchen to get some juice. Peter joins me.

  Softly, so the others can’t hear, he says, “Can I see you tomorrow evening?”

  I don’t answer right away, wondering how I’ll survive twenty-four hours until then.

  “Please say you can see me tomorrow,” he whispers, leaning against the island, his back to our friends. His smile is so seductive I nearly drop the knife I picked up to cut a lemon. He adds, “We need to finish that demonstration I started. One of the five senses was missing, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” I clear my throat. “Okay, tomorrow.”

  “Thank God,” he says. “Otherwise we’d have to wait a week because I’m leaving after tomorrow to visit my dad in California for five days.”

  “Oh.”

  “And that would be too long to wait, don’t you think?”

  That he’s showing this much interest in me moves me deeply. My gray curls shield my face as I lean over my lemon and answer “Yes,” casually.

  “We can hear you!” Georgia hollers, and then mutters to herself, “Where is Lily when we need her to mask the noises of love?”

  She resumes her typing, but louder.

  I LOOK FORWARD to Peter’s visit with utmost anticipation. But he calls me in the morning to let me know that sadly he will not be able to come over tonight because of unforeseen work obligations. He says he’s very disappointed and can’t wait to see me when he returns from his trip, in six days.

  After we hang up, I wander from room to room, stunned, like a human being dying of thirst having just been told the water will not arrive today as promised, but possibly after I’m already dead.

  I get back to my work in a daze. It takes me a while to regain my focus.

  AS LILY REPORTS to me later, the first few days in Vieques are heavenly for her and Strad. She wears her mask by the hotel pool and on the beach. She even swims with it a few times, trying not to wet it too much.

  People stare, of course. But Strad and Lily don’t care. In their rooms, she doesn’t wear the mask, only the music.

  Strad feels protective of her. He’s attentive to her psychological and emotional needs. The more she gets to know him, the more she loves him.

  BACK IN NEW York, I’ve been having an intense e-mail correspondence with Peter while he’s away visiting his dad. Our exchanges are flirtatious and titillating. I can hardly sleep. I spend most of my days smiling or snickering to myself while working, reminiscing about the last message sent or received.

  I can’t wait for him to get back, can’t wait for him to indulge his sense of touch. I wonder what first move he has planned, how he will touch me, how he will kiss me, how he will undress me, how surprised he’ll be to encounter my fake fat under my clothes, how astonished—though not overly ecstatic, otherwise that would make him shallow—he’ll be to discover I’m attractive by every conventional standard, not only by his open-minded, evolved, and big-hearted one. For the first time, I will take off my disguise out of love, not out of hate, like I do in bars. And then I can keep it off, because I will no longer be searching for my soul mate. I will have found him.

  My friends have remarked that since I’ve met Peter, I’ve stopped going to bars and doing my stripping ritual. It’s true, I’ve lost the urge to rub shallow men’s faces in their own superficiality.

  PETER RETURNS FROM his trip, and our long-awaited reunion is that same evening, during which he will complete his demonstration by delighting his sense of touch.
I’m very excited, imagining his caresses.

  When he walks through my door, right on time, he gives me a big hug and smiles at me, saying, “I missed you.” He’s lightly stroking my gray curls with the tips of his fingers. I’m glad my wig is made of real hair.

  We position ourselves just like we did at his apartment, with me on the couch and him on a chair facing me, close.

  He opens his bag and pulls out a piece of fabric. He begins stroking the fabric—red velvet—while staring at me.

  Needless to say, this is not the kind of touching I expected.

  After what feels like ten minutes (but maybe it was just one), I say, “Is it still good?”

  “Remarkably.”

  “You’d think the pleasure of touching that thing would wear off after a few minutes.”

  “Hasn’t yet. It’s really very soft.”

  I nod. Maybe if I act ever so slightly bored, that will nudge him in the right direction. So I lean my head back and gaze past him, as though momentarily lost in thought.

  After another minute, he says, “Well, that was great.” He puts his piece of velvet back in his bag.

  I smile and nod again. And wait. He does nothing.

  “So, is the demonstration complete?” I ask.

  “I think so. At least for now. I mean, one can always do better, I suppose. There are always more pleasures one can come up with.”

  I wait a moment, hopeful, but he still does nothing.

  I laugh, worn out. I could try to nudge him a little more, but I’m tired of it, so instead, I say, “You know, you’re a bit strange.”

  “I know,” he blurts. “The reason is . . . there’s something I need to tell you. But I don’t want to, because it’s something about me I’m not sure you’d like.”

  Everyone has secrets these days—I think of KAY’s secret identity, whoever KAY is, of mine, of Lily’s.

  “Really? You’d be surprised, I’m very open-minded,” I say.

  “Maybe not as much as you think.”

  “What is it? I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

  “If I tell you,” he says, “I don’t think you’ll want to see me again.”

  “Now I’m intrigued. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “The consequences could be dire.”

  I don’t insist because I don’t believe him. I think it’s the classic: It’s not you, it’s me.

  And I’m starting to think he’s the classic guy, like all those guys I’ve met at bars. He can’t get past my teeth, my fat, my gray, my frizz. I suspect that’s the secret thing he knows I won’t like about him—the fact that he’s not attracted to me.

  He says he should be getting home because he has an early day tomorrow, and that it was lovely to see me. He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then he’s gone.

  ON LILY AND Strad’s seventh morning in Vieques, they are sitting on her balcony, her legs resting on his. Her music is playing just inside and is very audible from where they are, so she’s not wearing her mask. But she’s holding it on her lap, just in case.

  The empty breakfast dishes are on a low table in front of them. Lily is staring out at the ocean.

  “You seem melancholy,” Strad remarks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

  “No, I’m fine,” she says, smiling.

  But that’s not quite true. What she’s thinking about is the one flaw in their happiness: her dishonesty.

  Yet what can she do? Nothing, if she wants their relationship to continue.

  Looking down at her beautiful mask, she thinks about how much she hates it, about how much she wishes she didn’t have to wear it. And she thinks about the guilt. And the fear. Guilt about lying to Strad. Fear of being discovered. Plus, the mask is uncomfortable to wear. And the music is annoying.

  Her confidence has been soaring lately—foolishly, she knows. She’s been thinking that perhaps he’d still love her if she revealed she’s Lily. After all, their great times together seem based on so much more than just her looks. Maybe beauty matters only at the start of a relationship, when it sparks the initial interest. But each time she formulates this thought, she beats herself up about the stupidity of it. The thought, however, comes back: Strad was very nice about her childhood sexual abuse story. Very supportive and understanding. Isn’t there a chance he might be equally understanding if she revealed her true story, which in a way is no less tragic: extreme ugliness, no romantic or sexual interest from anyone, ever. And once again she can’t believe how dumb she is to think he’d be understanding. He already knows Lily. Has he seemed charmed by her plight? Did he court her? No.

  They go parasailing together over the ocean, both under the same parachute. People stare at Lily in her white mask. Afterward, they lie on chairs on the beach, reading and people-watching, commenting to each other about the beachgoers’ swimsuits, flirtations, affectations, and reading material. They laugh and play in the water, touching each other naughtily, and return to the hotel.

  Lily heads for her room, which is adjacent to Strad’s. She’s the one who insisted they have separate rooms so that she could sleep without her mask or the music on.

  Strad stands behind Lily as she slides her electronic key in the lock. She pushes her door open and gasps when she sees what’s inside. The room is filled with flowers, bouquets resting on every surface. A little dinner table that wasn’t there before is beautifully set for two.

  She looks at Strad. He admits responsibility and tells her a bath has been run for her if she feels like one before their dinner here at eight.

  Strad goes back to his room. Enchanted, Lily steps into the hot bath. She’s never had rose petals floating on her bathwater before. She takes off her mask and places it on the floor, within her reach. The music is off. She closes her eyes and enjoys the silence.

  After her bath, she dons a pretty yellow chiffon dress and lies on her bed, waiting for dinner. No further preparations are needed. Her music is the only makeup she wears. Applying regular makeup on top of her musical makeup mars perfection, as she discovered recently when, out of curiosity, she tried it.

  Strad knocks on her door at eight. She turns on the music, puts on her mask, and opens the door. He’s dressed in an off-white linen suit. Very charming, she thinks. Once his brain is certain to be under the influence of the music, Lily unmasks.

  Dinner is brought to them, and when they are finished eating and laughing about the fun day they had, Strad leans back in his chair and says, “A big part of who I am, as a bastard, is my desire to show off my beautiful girlfriends to my friends, acquaintances, and enemies, in order to arouse their envy.”

  This takes Lily by surprise, and she half expects him to say, “Therefore, it’s not going to work out between us, and we better call it quits.”

  Instead, he says, “But I’m so in love with you that none of that matters anymore.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black velvet box, which he hands to her. She opens it. Inside is a beautiful diamond ring.

  He goes down on one knee and says, “I would love to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

  Lily is shocked by the proposal. And happy. But something is holding her back from giving him an answer.

  Nevertheless, the awkward silence is not painfully long, because Strad has more to say. He sits back in his chair and declares he wants to help her get over her mask-wearing. He says he’ll go with her to therapy if she wants, because he’d like to help her achieve a normal, mask-free existence—for her sake. If she doesn’t want to, that’s fine. He will happily marry her and spend the rest of his life with her masked and put to music.

  Lily still doesn’t know what to say, except, “Thank you. I’m incredibly honored. Would it be okay if I gave your beautiful proposal a little thought?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So . . . you’re not sure?” he asks.

  “It’s just . . . that . . . my situation is very complicated,
as you know. I have issues I need to consider.”

  “Of course.”

  WHEN LILY IS alone later that night, she calls me. She doesn’t want to talk about herself yet, she just wants to be distracted from her problem. She asks if things have progressed between Peter and me. She’s the one person to whom I’ve confessed my attraction to him.

  “Not really. He says there’s something about him he thinks I won’t like,” I tell her.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. But I suspect it’s just an excuse and that the real problem is my disguise.”

  “That would be disappointing,” Lily states softly.

  “I’m tempted to take it off.”

  “That’s major. And funny because I’m tempted to take mine off, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you disapprove?”

  “No, I’m just surprised.”

  “Why would you be? You’re thinking of taking yours off.”

  “Yes, but I’d be doing it to see if his lack of interest is due to my appearance. And if it is, I can forget about him. You’d be doing it to . . . I’m not sure why you’d be doing it.”

  “To see if his love can survive my appearance.”

  I refrain from pointing out that if she puts her happiness at risk, she might also be putting Strad’s life at risk. I don’t remind her that there is a killer among us who’s had trouble tolerating Lily’s unhappiness and whose promise not to try harming Strad again may not hold as much weight as we’re all hoping it does.

  THE NEXT DAY, Lily and Strad try to have a good time, but they’re both so tormented for their own reasons that they can’t enjoy themselves. They drive around the island in their little white Jeep. They aren’t able to take much pleasure at the sighting of wild horses roaming like stray dogs along the sides of the roads.

  They stop at a deserted beach and sit, in silence, on a rock. The ocean is calm, barely making a sound.

  Strad speaks. “I have a surprise for you the day after tomorrow, in the evening. It’s something I’ve planned since I booked this trip. It’s one of the most extraordinary things you could ever imagine.”