Dina saw red. ‘Which you wouldn’t market, Hector; you wouldn’t borrow a dime. You’d have been happy to sell it in our cramped little store.’
He flushed. ‘That shop is my home. You were happy enough when I hired you.’
She paused. ‘This is stupid. We have to work as a team.’
But Hector was brooding. ‘It was wrong of you to take half the rights. And now you want the rest of my work?’
‘You have to be kidding. I put everything I have on the line for this cream.’
‘I’m calling that woman back,’ the older man said. ‘I want a million dollars. It’s my research; nothing to do with you.’
Dina blinked back tears. ‘Hector—’
‘Really,’ he said. ‘You are the one who brought in lawyers. Just let me be, now, Dina, OK? I have a life without you.’
‘I’m worried about you,’ Brad said.
Johnny’s little sis, the model of control, of command, the workaholic – she looked a mess.
They had read about the beauty cream. Nice – Dina looked to be set up for life.
But here she was at his apartment, late at night and shaken. Her skin was grey and she was crying.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dina lied. ‘Just a business thing, breaking up. That’s all. Hector’s right: he can do what he wants.’
Brad, Johnny’s boyfriend, came over. He was in awe of Dina Kane – so strong; so ferocious. Old beyond her years and, from what Johnny had told him, he could guess why. But today she looked just like a twenty-year-old: upset and lost, stiffed by the older guy.
‘He can’t, actually, Dina,’ Brad said. ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but you have half of the Meadow product. Why don’t you get yourself your own lawyer? I’m guessing he can’t use the name, or anything in connection with the first cream, without you.’
She bit her lip. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘You’re not thinking straight.’
‘I don’t know. It hurts. Hector meant a lot to me.’
Because you never knew your father, Brad thought. But he wasn’t a shrink. Johnny, his love, was a messed up, insecure, lazy, sexy delight, and that was OK – Brad was grounded enough for the both of them. But Dina was more like him, full of duty and responsibility and the need to get on. Besides, she was going places; you could tell that the second she walked in the room.
‘I would just get a lawyer – not the local guy you had run up the contract – a good one.’
‘I spent everything I had on this cream. The packaging, the manufacture, everything. My apartment is hocked up to the eyeballs. It’s selling, but the money takes a while to flow in, and all the lab bills have to be paid first and—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Brad patted her on the shoulder. ‘Just my two cents.’
He had his own worries. He looked over at her brother. Two weeks ago, he was planning to drive Johnny to Vermont, ask him to marry him. Gay marriage was legal there. They could get a little place. He had his first job lined up: tax law at a small firm in Manhattan. It was a good gig for an Iona graduate, and he figured he could do well, get a promotion, get more money. He wasn’t going to wind up on the Supreme Court, but they could have a nice place together. Maybe Johnny would do social work; maybe he’d just be a hippy peace activist. Brad didn’t really care when he had those smooth limbs wound around him and that handsome face purring in his ear. It was white-picket-fence time, and he couldn’t wait. If he was boring, Johnny brought the fireworks.
But . . . maybe a few too many fireworks. Johnny was drinking; that was nothing new – he’d been drinking since he arrived at college. It started out of relief about getting away from home, or maybe guilt over the little sister without any college tuition. Then, as Dina pulled herself up from the pit, it was just drinking to party. Brad told him off; Brad worried. For a while, he switched to weed. The grades were plummeting, so he got a prescription to treat ADHD and crushed his Adderall. Next it was cocaine, just a little, here and there, when they were offered it at parties . . .
‘I’m OK,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m holding it together.’
But his grades were bumping along the bottom. Brad was anxious. Maybe he’d get chucked out. Maybe he’d get addicted . . .
Now here Dina was, and Brad didn’t know if he had anything left in reserve.
‘Poor little sis.’ Johnny stumbled over and gave her a bear hug.
‘Johnny, you stink of whiskey.’
‘Jack Daniel’s don’t stink.’ Johnny pouted. ‘What’s the problem? We don’t all want to be a party pooper, like you . . .’
‘Here, baby.’ Brad came over with a big glass of ice water and two Alka-Seltzers. ‘Take these.’
Dina looked up slowly, shaken out of her self-reflection. Suddenly, Meadow cream seemed miles away. Johnny was in trouble. Johnny – the only family she had. It was obvious from the look on Brad’s face. She didn’t want him to get sick, but maybe he was already.
‘No way,’ Johnny slurred. ‘I’m getting some ecstasy; Stacey has some down the block. She works porn, did you know that? She always has the best fucking shit. We’re here; we should party . . . You think too much, Dina. You worry too much . . .’
‘Johnny –’ her voice was sharp and commanding – ‘take the glass from Brad.’
He tossed his head, but he took it.
‘Now swallow the pills. And the water. All of it.’
He did.
‘Thanks.’ Brad passed a hand over his face. ‘I’ll take him to the bathroom, get him to bed. Can you stay a minute?’
He was back out in five, with Johnny moaning in their tiny bedroom like a stuck elephant.
‘He needs help.’
Dina nodded. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Maybe a month, maybe two. But we have to stop it before it gets any worse. I don’t know how.’
Neither did Dina. For once, her self-possession deserted her. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll go and see Mom. She loves him.’ Even if she doesn’t love me. ‘She can decide what to do.’
‘Does she know yet . . . ?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dina said, with more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll tell her.’
The train out to Tuckahoe was a long thirty minutes for Dina. Every stop was redolent with memories. Bad memories.
Her golden dream was going wrong all around her. Hector was drifting away from her, corrupted. There would be lawyers . . . lawsuits. Her job was gone, with all she’d ploughed into it. It might have been only a year, but to Dina it was an age – it was her life.
And now her darling Johnny needed help. Something was rotten in his soul, something from childhood. They dealt with it in different ways, he and she. He wanted to get along, quietly, and hope it went away. Booze made pain go away. So did drugs.
‘Woodlawn,’ said the conductor. ‘Wakefield next . . .’
She shivered in her seat. It was January – icy cold in New York. Dina was dressed for it, though; the ticket inspectors did a double take; the louche teenage boys sprawling across the banquettes were openly leering. She didn’t notice any of them.
Everybody else riding to the suburbs was bundled up in so many layers they looked like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Not this girl. Dina Kane was dressed with effortless style. Her silk T-shirt was copper, with a bronze cashmere sweater draped lightly over the top. The blinking ticket inspector didn’t notice the thermal vest under that shirt, keeping her warm without thick layers; she was just stunning, her hair long and loose, her legs chic in chestnut leather trousers.
But the thing the ticket inspector noticed most was the determined look on that beautiful, minimally made-up face. He shot a warning look at the boys: Leave the lady alone. And then he walked on down the carriage. No catcalls on his train, no trouble, no thanks.
Dina was oblivious.
Even on bad days, she lived for beauty. She wasn’t trying to attract attention – this was something she did for herself. Looking her best was her comfort, her armour. She felt strong
er when she looked better. Today she wore Meadow cream – a perfect bulwark against the cold – and a light, airbrushed foundation from the store, a little number imported from Germany. Her eyes were playful: dark green shadow at the lashline, copper mascara, golds and browns up to the brow. And her lips were plain – nothing but a tangerine gloss. To her, this was as simple as putting on moisturiser. Why wouldn’t everybody do it? Five minutes, and you could almost be someone else . . .
Today she wished she was someone else – someone with a normal family, a normal life. One of these kids, heading into the suburbs.
Oh, no, you don’t, chided the small voice in her head. Not at any price.
‘Tuckahoe.’
She grabbed her Mulberry purse and stepped out of the train. Good clothes, good cosmetics: these were luxuries for some, necessities for her. Dina invested, every time she stepped up the ladder. She bought key pieces, classics that worked, and let her face be her canvas.
It was her business. Had been, anyway.
She walked carefully up the stone steps by the platform and found herself at the centre of the village – the post office to her left, a diner to her right – just a few minutes’ walk from Ellen’s house. They hadn’t spoken in a year, other than a snatched phone call on her mom’s birthday and at Christmas. Dina hadn’t gone back. What was the point in pretending things were great?
The house was there, much as she remembered it: tall, neat, well painted. Maybe there was some relief in that. Dina noticed that the curtains were open. She could see her old room; it had been repainted, and was now a garish pink.
She rang the bell.
‘Yes?’
Her mom looked her up and down. There was a slight start of recognition, then shock.
‘My God, look at you!’ She couldn’t keep the admiration out of her voice. Then it coloured with jealousy. ‘What are you, some kind of model?’
‘I work in beauty, Mom. In a store.’
‘Right. You could never be a model. You’re not tall enough. Not skinny, either.’
Ellen was wearing black slacks and a matching polo-neck, with ballet slippers. Her hair was a darker blond, cut straight; she wore a little powder, some blusher and mascara. Nothing on her lips, and Dina knew right away she was too proud to show the fine lines she had there, to let anything bleed. She was stylish, still, but nothing to match her daughter.
‘Can I come in, Mom?’
‘I guess.’ She opened the door.
‘Wow. Things are different.’ Dina glanced around. Every trace of teenagers had vanished. There were pictures in frames, though, portraits of Ellen and Paul, the family together, lots of frames of Johnny. No pictures of Dina, unless she was with her brother.
‘Yeah. This is the house my way.’
‘You want to give me the grand tour?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘You can go round if you want.’
Curious, Dina mounted the stairs. Johnny’s room was there; the posters had been taken down, but his bed was the same, his rug, his framed artwork. In Dina’s room, the pink walls were just the start; her bed, her carpet, her toys, everything had been removed. It was a Home Shopping Network fantasy, with a double bed made up in pink and gold, and matching drapes over the windows, a shagpile rug and silk roses in a glass vase.
‘You got your guest room,’ she said, lightly, once she’d returned downstairs. It only stung a little bit; she was hardened to her mother’s hurtfulness at this point.
‘Yes. Sometimes my friends stay – from church, or the Friends’ Club.’
‘That’s great, Mom. Look, I didn’t come to socialise . . .’
‘Of course not; why would you want to see your mother?’
‘You’ve never called me once—’ Dina stopped herself, swallowed her anger. ‘Whatever. This is about Johnny. Mom, he’s sick.’
‘Sick? What kind of sick?’ Actual concern spread across her mother’s face. ‘Is it cancer?’
‘No. No. He’s OK; it’s not that.’
‘Jesus. You scared me, Dina. Always so overdramatic.’
‘Mom, he’s having a rough time at college. Like, maybe it’s too hard for him . . . Anyway, he’s getting into alcohol. And drugs.’
‘A little pot and booze never hurt anybody.’ There was anger in Ellen’s eyes. ‘You always were the goody two-shoes over that. You ruined my life, back then. You know that?’
‘I saved your life. You were being passed round like popcorn, Mom.’
Ellen pursed her lips. ‘Now I don’t even dare to take a drink at New Year’s Eve.’
‘You’re better off.’ Dina couldn’t stand the self-pity. ‘You have an addictive personality. Johnny inherited it. He’s drinking out of control and he’s popping pills. Coke, ecstasy. Prescription pills.’
‘Maybe he needs a good romance. I got one, you know,’ Ellen said, triumphantly. ‘I’m dating again. Oliver Guyden.’
‘Of Guyden’s Funeral Home?’
‘It’s a good business,’ Ellen said, defensively. ‘And his wife died. She was in the church group with us. Oliver and I have been going out for a while, since the summer. I think maybe he’s going to pop the question.’
‘That’s great, Mom. Really.’ Dina smiled at her mother. Despite it all, she still wanted her to be happy; maybe it would soften her a little.
‘No thanks to you,’ Ellen said.
‘Let’s sit down.’
‘Why? Are you staying?’
‘Jesus,’ Dina said, softly. ‘I’m your own daughter. Why can’t you be nice to me?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘I would if you ever showed any respect. But it was always all about Little Miss Perfect. Come on, Dina, I have work to do here. What do you expect me to do about Johnny?’
‘Talk to him. Reason with him. He still loves you.’ Dina took a deep breath. ‘Mom, you need to give Johnny acceptance.’
‘I’ve always accepted my son.’
‘He’s gay. He has a boyfriend – Brad Evans. He’s steady, going to be a lawyer. He’s just what Johnny needs.’
Ellen’s face drained white. She stumbled and gripped the top of a chair.
‘Bullshit,’ she hissed. ‘You’re lying, lying just to hurt me. Johnny’s not gay.’
‘He is. He’s with Brad.’
The whiteness drained and came back red. Ellen looked flushed, as if she’d just downed a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. ‘He’s on drugs. You said so yourself. He’s just confused. There’s no way he’s homosexual. His dad was always chasing strippers . . .’
‘Mom!’ Dina shouted. ‘I don’t have time for this. Johnny is gay; Johnny is almost addicted. He needs your compassion and your love. For once in your horrible life, think about somebody else. He was born gay and he’s going to die gay. Put aside the nineteen seventies, focus on your son.’
Ellen sat heavily on her couch. ‘What will Oliver say?’
‘Nothing, if he loves you. And if he has a problem with Johnny, you should cut him loose.’
Ellen sat quietly for a few minutes, chewing on her bottom lip. Dina could see her mother thinking, see the hamster wheels turning as she chewed it over. ‘I’ll see my son; I’ll see the boyfriend too. He’s mine. I don’t care. Whatever it is, that’s what happens these days, right? Things are different.’
Dina breathed out with relief. Thank God. ‘Yes, Mom, things are different. The ladies at church would judge you a lot worse if you abandoned your boy. You know that.’
Ellen was rocking to and fro, hugging herself. ‘Why did he tell you? Why not me?’
‘You never go to see him, Mom.’
‘I pay for his college.’
‘It’s more than writing a cheque. I’ve been by most Sundays since I landed in the city. He was even nervous of telling me, at first. Then he met Brad and it kind of just happened.’
Ellen stared at Dina. ‘You’ve been over there every Sunday. Trying to get in with him. Talking to him about me.’
‘Mom, don’t be crazy.’
‘Crazy? I’
m not crazy. Why is he talking to you? You’re just trying to take him away from me. Encouraging him in all this drug-taking and gay stuff.’
‘He can’t be encouraged; he’s just gay.’
‘You’ll do anything to be first – anything to make him drop me. Me – who raised you both from children, on my own.’
Dina breathed in, raggedly; her mother’s cruelty was toxic to her. She found herself shaking; the lack of love was making her anxious, panicky.
‘Do you want me to bring him to you?’
‘No. He can come on his own. He doesn’t need you, Dina. Johnny needs his mother.’
‘You accepting Brad will be good. After that, you probably need to pay to put him in rehab.’
Ellen looked up again. ‘Pay? I pay for college.’
‘Rehab is expensive, Mom. Don’t you have anything left?’
‘I need my savings. Oliver and I are going to sell this place, buy something nice. It’s all been discussed. We’re going to move to Bronxville.’
Bronxville: the fancier village next door. Her mother had been talking about Bronxville for years before Dina left. It was her goal, her Shangri-la.
‘But Johnny needs it.’
‘Right. And he needed college, only he’s blowing that. And so did you, but you have a job, correct?’
‘I used to have a job. I’m kind of self-employed . . .’
Ellen wasn’t listening. ‘And what if I sink my savings into rehab and he comes right out and just starts up again? What’s to stop him?’
‘We just have to hope. There are no guarantees—’
‘Well, I can guarantee that, if I don’t spend my money on junk, I’ll still have it.’
‘Thanks, Mom.’ Dina had had enough. ‘I’ll get Johnny to see you, at least. Maybe that’ll do something.’
‘I’ll meet his boyfriend,’ her mother said, grandly. ‘I’ll give them my blessing.’
But no money.
‘That’s great.’ Dina stood up. Her mother didn’t rise, not even for a peck on the cheek.
‘I’m feeling faint,’ she said. ‘You can see yourself out.’
Brad took Johnny down the next day. Dina waited in her apartment; she had to think. She’d tried calling Hector, but he wouldn’t pick up the phone. When she went round to the store and pressed the buzzer on his apartment, there was no reply; she’d seen his curtains twitching shut.
Beauty Page 12