Eduardo left. Right away I emptied the ashtray of my ex-husband’s butts. I wondered how it was that someone over sixty could have a friend in trouble at this time of the morning. It could happen in adolescence, but at this age? It reminded me why I left him. Eduardo was selfish and, forgive me, thought more with his willy than his head. How I hated the smell of cigarettes. One of the good things about my new place was that no one smoked here. That, and the silence, the peace. I bought a yoga book for beginners, a special mat and a few candles. Eduardo made fun of me. He thought it ridiculous that at this stage of my life I wanted to learn something new. Every afternoon I dedicated an hour to it, and bit by bit improved. The simple fact that I didn’t have to accompany Eduardo on his trips any more gave me lots of freedom. One or two afternoons a week, I went to the cinema, sometimes for long walks down Park Way. I even thought about getting a dog.
I got out a slice of bread and slotted it into the toaster. Mopped the parquetry floor. The smell of whisky nauseated me. I opened the windows. Prepared a coffee, watered the plants and brought the laptop to the dining table to go over what I’d written the day before. I served up the toast and coffee, put my glasses on and started to read: ‘This is how infidelity becomes the most common reason behind divorce and marital maltreatment. It can cause depression, anxiety, loss of self-love and many other psychological disturbances, representing the dark side of love.’ I read it twice. It made me laugh. I couldn’t read it again. The Dark Side of Love could be describing the two of us. I felt listless. What would happen if I didn’t write the book? The royalties from the others would be enough for us to live off. True, there was an existing contract for The Dark Side of Love and it was scheduled for release next year. But Eduardo could always find another ghost writer: nowadays there were a lot of decent young writers around, and some of them had studied psychology.
And he seemed to be doing very nicely from the business he had going with his associate. It wouldn’t matter in the least if we didn’t publish a book; it wasn’t as though we would starve. Though Eduardo was becoming increasingly ambitious. Greedy, you could say. In fact, that had been another catalyst for our separation. His plans to buy a place in New Hope, on top of the Gloria incident, were the last straw. It didn’t matter how much I criticised New Hope’s flashy Miami look, with all its showy pride at being the most expensive postcode in Bogotá. He’d insisted that we would be comfortable living among ‘people like us’.
‘People like us? And at what point did you become a prototypical, snobbish Colombian?’
‘Don’t start with me, Lucía,’ he’d said. ‘Anyone would think you were penniless.’
The conversation hadn’t lasted much longer. He argued that there was nothing wrong with wanting the best.
‘We deserve it, my Piccolina,’ he’d said.
He’d pulled out a green folder from his leather briefcase then opened it slowly and pulled out some papers.
‘Piccolina, the matter is already settled. All you need to do is sign here, and we’ll have made the best investment of our life.’
Eduardo leafed through the papers and started reading out loud and telling me about the property. ‘You have to see the vertical garden on the rocks out the back. There are 350 car spaces, a security room, 48 security cameras.’
He kept reading. ‘You’ll love the function room, my love, it has its own kitchen. And amazing furniture – all designer, very tasteful. But the best part is the clubhouse. You like swimming, you’ll love it. There’s a climatised semi-Olympic pool, with a swimming instructor, sauna, steam room, Pilates room …’
The phrase ‘you like swimming’ had echoed in my ears. The truth was, I did. I had liked swimming as an adolescent, and I had at university, too. Why had I stopped swimming? ‘You like swimming’ echoed in my head again and again until I felt like I was drowning.
I also liked Joan Baez and Simon and Garfunkel, I liked heading to the mountains on weekends, I liked preparing ajiaco soup – but Eduardo didn’t eat ajiaco, didn’t like my music, and if he left Bogotá it had to be by plane. So, I’d adapted my preferences to suit his, and I’d adapted so much I’d become blurry. He finished talking and, not noticing my red eyes or my silence, he put the papers back into his briefcase, changed his jacket and dabbed on some cologne.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ I said with a smile from the bed.
‘Don’t eat too much,’ he said.
I got into bed with a bag of potato chips and a box of chocolates. By midnight I’d watched an episode of CSI and two of Mad Men, and I was tired. The women in those series are heroines, I thought, but, in the end, it never does them any good. Eduardo still hadn’t come home. My eyes were swollen from crying.
When I turned off the TV I imagined sleeping in another bed. A smaller one, but my own. I fell asleep thinking about a window overlooking the street, hopefully alongside a park, an open-plan kitchen, a few plants, a round dining table and a little lamp hanging above it. Eduardo came back when dawn was breaking. I was up and sitting in front of the computer, looking for apartments in La Soledad.
‘Up working so early?’ he’d said.
‘What do you think?’ I’d said, determined to find the perfect place for myself, the room of my own where there would be no space for him.
And now I was in that place of my own, collecting his cigarette butts. When I finished cleaning, I decided to ask Claire if we could make a habit of catching up once a week. I decided not to let him smoke at my place again. I raised the calendar and marked the date: 23 July. From this day forward, no one smokes in here, I said to myself, circling the date with the same red pen that I used to correct drafts of his books.
5.
Sabrina was in her uniform. That’s why they didn’t let her into the hotel bar where she was meant to be going on her date with Luis Armando. She would have liked to go for a drink, or for him to take her to a restaurant, or at least to go for a walk. But he insisted on seeing her in his room.
‘I can’t wait to cover you in kisses,’ he said.
And that phrase was enough for Sabrina to feel her heartbeat quicken.
‘Do you love me?’ he asked in the voice that often murmured over the telephone how much he wanted her.
‘A lot,’ Sabrina said, turning red. It was the first time a man other than her father had asked.
When she went up to his room, she saw that Luis Armando was drunk. She was drunk, too, from the brandies she tossed back earlier so that she could bear the pain of the waxing. If she’d been sober, perhaps she would have reacted faster. But she wasn’t. She realised that coming here hadn’t been a good idea. Nevertheless, instead of leaving, she stared into his eyes, searching for the spark of love she thought she’d detected in them once. She was ready to become a woman.
6.
When she left her boss’s office, Karen felt the women’s eyes on her. The three in the eyelashes section looked up from the faces before them and scrutinised her. Even the woman distributing coffees turned to stare. Karen imagined that if they didn’t have clients right then, they would interrogate her. What was it? Did all of them know that Sabrina Guzmán had died, and that she’d been Karen’s client?
She went downstairs to give Susana her jacket before she went back to her cubicle. Susana was immersed in whatever she was typing into her phone, which she hid as soon as she saw Karen.
‘Thank you,’ Karen said, handing her the jacket.
‘No problem, gorgeous,’ Susana said with a smile.
Karen noticed the handbag at her feet and wondered if it was original.
‘Yes, it’s real,’ said Susana, who apparently had the power to read minds.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Thank you, gorgeous!’ said Susana. ‘You seem nice. Save my number, you never know when you might need a friend. There are some green-eyed, catty little minxes round here – they’ve been known to get their claws out,’ she added in an almost whisper.
Susana got out her phone to call Karen
and, while she typed in her number, Karen noticed she had the latest iPhone. A tablet was peeking from her handbag.
‘Why do you bring that handbag to work, to make them jealous?’ asked Karen.
‘Yes, that too.’
Annie interrupted to tell Karen her next client had arrived.
‘Don’t you worry about the minxes,’ said Karen. It was the first time she’d used that word to refer to their House of Beauty colleagues. ‘They’d never have the money for a tablet like that.’
‘Oh, gorgeous,’ said Susana, ‘It’s so obvious you’re new. If they had to stop eating they would, if it meant they didn’t have to miss out. Anyway, if you ever need a lend of the handbag, or some clothes, just let me know.’
Karen went up to the second floor thinking that Susana seemed like a good person. Once in the cubicle, she lit the wax warmer. There were two knocks at the door. Before opening up, she called Annie at reception and asked who to expect.
‘You really don’t know?’ she answered on the other end before hanging up.
Fortunately, Karen remembered her name when the door opened. Even if she hadn’t seen her before, she would have recognised her from the celebrity news, which she presented in the evenings.
Karen admired the TV presenter. She had put out of her mind that she’d treated her badly on two or three previous occasions. She was even more beautiful in real life than she was on TV. Karen loved her straight hair.
‘Doña Karen, how is life treating you?’ Karen asked cheerfully.
Doña Karen didn’t hear her, or didn’t want to answer.
‘You can pop your clothes on this chair, I’ll leave you a moment so you can change. Are you here today for a bikini wax? Do you need the disposable briefs?’
‘No, only legs and underarms.’
‘All right, Doña Karen, in that case you can leave your underwear on. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Would you like a coffee? Or a herbal tea?’
‘A herbal tea would be nice.’
She requested a herbal tea to cubicle 3, then searched the cupboard for an electric blanket. There it was. If anything from the central closet went missing, everyone’s pay was docked. She returned to the cubicle where Doña Karen was lying on the treatment table. Doña Karen was thirty years old and had been coming to House of Beauty for years. Another worker had always looked after her, until one day Doña Karen’s phone went missing and the worker was dismissed, even though there was no proof or inquiry. That’s how twenty years at House of Beauty had ended for Karen’s predecessor, and how the crown jewel had been placed in Karen’s hands.
‘Karen’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Señora.’
‘It’s a bit uncomfortable for me, the two of us having the same name, you know?’
‘How so, Señora?’
‘Drop the “Señora”, I’m not married. Let’s see. How can I get across that we can’t have the same name? Should I draw a diagram? “Hello, Karen, how are you?” “Fine, and you, Karen?” “Fine, Karen.” Get what I’m saying, now?’ said Doña Karen while Karen passed a tissue daubed with cleansing cream over her skin.
‘Would you like a numbing cream, or will you be fine just like that?’ asked Karen.
‘But are you listening to what I’m saying?’ said Doña Karen, irritated. ‘You’ve got to have a middle name, right? Or can I give you a nickname?’
‘If you like, Doña Karen. I don’t have a middle name.’
‘Is the concept really so difficult for you to grasp?’
As she dusted Doña Karen’s calves with talcum powder, Karen took the wooden spatula and tested the temperature of the wax on the back of her left hand. Doing this always reminded her of testing Emiliano’s bottles to make sure they weren’t too hot. She thought Doña Karen must be having a bad day. After all, it couldn’t be easy being famous. No doubt people hounded her on the street asking for autographs, and it had to be tiring being on everyone’s lips. She used the spatula to spread wax over Doña Karen’s legs up to the knees. Then she cut a strip of cloth, which she pressed against her skin before ripping it off in one go. Her client let out a whimper.
Karen remembered the time a client at another salon filmed Doña Karen making a scene during a pedicure because they’d cut a toenail too short. It was rumoured this was why no one could have phones inside the cubicles, so workers couldn’t take photos or videos of clients that might lead to House of Beauty facing a lawsuit.
‘We’ll be finished in a sec. Would you like the blanket?’
Doña Karen nodded.
‘Now we’ll move on to underarms, and then we’ll be done,’ said Karen, softly massaging aloe vera into her legs.
Karen thought that whoever had secretly filmed the video was a bad person. It wasn’t right to benefit from others’ misfortune, she told herself as she admired the smoothness of Doña Karen’s skin.
‘I know,’ said Doña Karen suddenly, pulling Karen out of her musings, ‘Pocahontas!’ She laughed maliciously. ‘Adorable, isn’t it? It suits you perfectly, with your black hair, those eyes and your big lips. You must be part-Indian, are you?’ She started laughing hysterically.
‘If you want to call me Pocahontas, that’s fine by me,’ said Karen, as she started over: she cleansed the surface to be waxed, tested the wax temperature, dusted on talcum powder, spread numbing cream, applied the wax with the wooden spatula, ripped it off with a cloth strip and massaged in aloe vera. Doña Karen had her eyes closed most of the time, but there was a faint smile on her face. Karen wondered if the smile was always there or if she was faking it for her. In actual fact, Karen Marcela Ardila – as she did have a middle name – had had a smile stuck to her face since she was crowned Little Miss Colombia at the age of eight. She’d been so persistent with the expression that now it was difficult to control. She smiled all the time, even in sad or dramatic situations, which was another reason she could never present anything but the celebrity news.
Doña Karen’s implants looked like they were threatening to burst. She had a curvaceous body and liked to show it off, not only in the underwear catalogues. She was wearing a lace thong and a size 30G black silk bra. She had a caramel skin tone, her hair was a reddish champagne and she had a tiny nose. It was as if the features of a Walt Disney princess had been superimposed onto the body of a Playboy bunny.
‘We’re done,’ said Karen in relief.
Doña Karen got down off the treatment table, her smile fixed firmly in place. She swayed her huge backside from one side to the other like a peacock in courtship. Karen was handing her a bathrobe when the cubicle phone sounded.
‘Your next appointment has arrived, this time don’t ask who,’ Annie said and hung up.
Karen didn’t remember.
‘You can get changed while I go downstairs to get your receipt ready,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Pocahontas,’ Doña Karen said, not looking at her, still smiling. ‘Your beauty’s so savage, you know. You’re like a little Indian girl in a loincloth.’ She let out a childlike, shrill laugh. ‘Though that hair of yours has been straightened, hasn’t it?’
Karen didn’t answer.
Doña Karen gave her a 1,000-peso tip, not enough for even a bus fare. She also paid 1.5 million pesos – double Karen’s monthly earnings until a few weeks ago – to buy herself a couple of creams, a Sisley and an Olay. Out of everything that happened, the thing Karen found most offensive was that 1,000-peso note.
Karen hid her tips under her mattress, where she had more than a million pesos now. Once she had 2 million, she would bring Emiliano here. It was enough to pay for his food, schooling, and someone to take care of him while she was at work, at least for a few months. She would save up the rest of the money by doing home visits, getting a Sunday job – whatever was necessary. At this rate, it would be three more months. It wasn’t such a long time, she consoled herself.
She was going back up the stairs when she heard Doña Karen’s voice:
‘Pocahont
as!’
She turned around.
‘How!’ she said, emulating a greeting she’d heard in a Hollywood Western.
Karen stared at her. This time she was the one faking a smile. The TV presenter had called her an Indian in front of everyone, in revenge for the fact that she had the same name. She could feel everyone’s eyes latching onto her like leeches. She could hear their treacherous giggles; they were like Cinderella’s stepsisters. Minxes, she said to herself. Luckily, Susana came to her rescue:
‘Wow, you must have won over Karen Adila if she’s given you a pet name already!’
And she kept walking.
Karen was relieved to have at least one ally. She didn’t know what her reasons were, only that Susana had decided to protect her. She hadn’t reached the door of her cubicle when she bumped into a middle-aged woman with poorly dyed hair, long legs and too much make-up. She still wasn’t sure where she’d seen her face before when the woman took her by the arm.
‘Are you Karen?’
‘Yes, Señora, how can I help you?’
‘I’m Consuelo, Sabrina Guzmán’s mother. Do you remember her?’
The image of a weeping mother with her arms around a small boy at the funeral a few hours before came to Karen’s mind.
‘Did you book an appointment with me?’ she asked nervously.
‘Yes,’ the woman said.
‘Come through, please,’ Karen said, guiding her towards the cubicle. ‘And what would you like done?’
‘Me? Nothing. Charge me something, if you like, but I only came to talk to you.’
‘Would you like a coffee or a herbal tea?’
‘I don’t want anything,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the treatment table. Karen went to fetch her a glass of water, more to leave the cubicle a moment and not have to look at her than because she thought she needed one. When she came back, the woman was sliding down the wall. Sobs were racking her body. She’ll end up on the floor, Karen said to herself, and she did. She crouched down before Consuelo. She was going to ask her to get up, but at the last moment she had a change of heart. The mother in her made her put an arm around her shoulders. The woman cried. Who knows how long they were bent over like that? Then, in an instant, she stopped. Her face was wet, her make-up running. She looked terrible.
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