A New Lu

by Laura Castoro

  I hadn’t a clue about what I wanted because I haven’t been able to shut out the voices of those dear sweet others. Here, alone, it was so easy.

  I do love William. Maybe he’s the best XY-chromo-some combination to ever walk through my world. But at the moment he’s not the one to whom I owe my full-time allegiance or all-out efforts. Neither are Dallas and Davin.

  I cannot hope for better results than my first two kids. What I have this time around, in place of plenty of youth and a partner, is experience.

  For now and the immediate future, my full-out interest will be showing this being I carry the “aha” elements of this world. I’ve lots of plans for her. For instance, monthly trips to Manhattan when she is old enough…two sounds like a good beginner’s age. We will visit aquariums, zoos and museums. Later on, perhaps age three, art galleries and stage shows. We will shop and trek and have lunch in trendy places, ignoring the stares or envy of others. We will learn Japanese and Spanish, and then travel to places where we can use it, like Kyoto and San Antonio. Life will be an adventure, because I have time now to do more.

  I’ve begun making notes. And I often smile because what I write is gleaned from grandparents and aunts and uncles, and all the other wonderful ordinary life-size household human deities who have made my life a wonder. I even jotted down a few of Aunt Marvelle’s Marvelous Matrons’ witticisms. Some won’t be appropriate for Sweet Tum for years. But they’ll be there when she most needs them, even if I’m not. That’s not being morbid, that’s being real.

  Now, about me. I will continue to dye my hair. Vanity is good when it’s on a leash. To lift or not? Who knows? I say no, but in a decade or two I may want to open my eyes without needing props like toothpicks. I can’t tell from here.

  And it’s a relief to acknowledge that. If I don’t know, I’ve got options!

  Meanwhile, at the spa I’m content to sit and watch the world of the shamelessly indulged pass by. I often go all day without speaking to a single soul who isn’t directly connected to enhancing my pleasure zone. That suits me.

  October

  I know he’s a good man.

  You know he’s a good man.

  My bad days are when he knows he’s a good man

  —Katherine Hepburn, State of the Union.

  —“Katherine, The Oh-So Great”

  CUE LU!

  44

  “Lu, I know you’re angry. I don’t know why you’re angry. Just be angry at me in a way I can understand.”

  I smile as I punch Delete and move on to the next message. There are fifty of them. Far and away, William’s outnumber all others combined.

  “So, I guess you’re not back yet. I talked with Cy. I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”

  I punch Delete.

  “This is ridiculous. We’re both grown-ups. At least give me—”

  “For God’s sake, Lu! I—”

  “Look. I’m sorry, I—”

  I hang up.

  This record of pain bothers me. I’ve been rude, callous and selfish, deliberately refusing to ease the suffering of someone I love. Of that I’m now certain. But I’m not sure what I should do about that. I’m in flux. I’ve been home two days. It took me that long to decide to listen in on the world I left behind. Today I’m going into work with a new outlook, and a new plan. I need time to adjust to this new sense of me.

  The phone rings as I turn away. I hesitate and then push the speaker button but don’t speak.

  “Lu? It’s William. I care. I’ll wait.”

  “Thank you.” I hang up. Good man, my William. I hope he’ll be as understanding when he learns about what I’m planning to do next.

  I scarcely have both feet off the elevator before I register the mortuary silence. There’s not a soul anywhere to be seen in either direction except for Babs, who never deserts her post. “Did I miss the fire-drill announcement?”

  “It’s a three-alarm blaze!” Babs zooms up to me with a shrrrr and then a small squeak of her brakes. “Haven’t you seen it?”

  “Seen what?”

  She motions me to follow her over to and behind her desk. She picks up and unfolds a daily tabloid, out of sight of anyone who might pass by. Slim chance of that. The hall echoes with absence. “This is about our fearless leader. You won’t believe it.”

  She looks both ways before whispering, “It seems our sweet young thing, isn’t.”

  “I never thought Tai was sweet.” Still, I take the paper and scan the page until Babs points out the column.

  Ever wondered why Bling, the essential magazine for the style-consumed urban influential jettisoned its twentysomething guru, Tai Leigh? Here’s a clue. That purveyor of forward-focus, youth-obsessed editorial style just celebrated her (shush!) fortieth b’day! But who’s counting? And that’s not all…

  “Whaddaya know?” I might have read this bit of nastiness four months ago and not blinked. But I’ve learned a few things since about Tai. We will never be close, but she did give me a chance to save my career when not twelve other editors in a dozen would have done the same. She has class, and the kind of savvy this backstab is meant to undercut.

  I look up at Babs. “How’s she taking it?”

  Babs’s eyes roll. “She’s in her office. Told me if her phone rings, I’m fired.”

  “That doesn’t sound like all-access all-the-time Tai.” I hand the newspaper back to Babs. “Who needs to be thirty again? Right?”

  Babs shrugs. “What do I know? I wish I were sixty again.” Then she blinks. “But you. You look…so different!”

  I wink. “Desert heat.”

  “No, I mean you look ‘so different’ good. You’re younger, thinner, prettier.”

  “All for the reasonable price of ten Gs at a first-class spa.”

  “On you, it looks like a million!”

  Who knows what makes a person think she can offer aid to someone she doesn’t know well enough to ring at home? Tai’s worse than a total stranger—she’s my boss.

  This debate with myself goes for a whole five seconds while I stand outside her office. Then I hear, “Get away from my friggin’ door!” Sounds like an invite to me.

  I knock lightly and turn the knob. Just in case she’s waiting to heave a heavy object, I call out, “Incoming pregnant woman!”

  Tai is, as usual, standing. She looks, as always, glorious in a slim miniskirt and a one-button, cut-away jacket that leaves her navel bare, and no doubt about the fact that she’s not wearing a bra. The thick, wild bangs are more ruffled than usual. Otherwise, nothing is different. Even her superior smirk is in place.

  “That isn’t the reason I left Bling! Bastards!”

  “I didn’t think so.” Interesting. After a two-week absence, she assumes I’m here about her. She’s right, of course. “Does the truth matter? You got column inches.”

  “What?” I guess she was expecting sympathy.

  I slide myself into the narrow wedge of one of her modern chairs. “I’m genuinely curious. What’s wrong with being forty?”

  She lunges forward, both hands flat on her pristine desktop. “It’s as simple as this. No one looks at a woman of forty.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “I look at you. We all look at you. Every day. With great green envy. And that’s just us hens. Men? Men get whiplash looking at you.”

  “That’s because they didn’t fucking know how old I was.”

  “So, you’re eight, nine years older than everyone thought. So what?”

  “I recently went out with a guy who’s twenty-seven. He teased me about being an older woman. Can you imagine he’d even have spoken to me if he knew the truth?”

  “Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’m channeling Demi and what’s-his-face.”

  “Demi has had everything lifted, tucked, vacuumed and buffed. And she’s got leverage in Hollywood. But you’re the lifestyle editor for accepting the inevitable.” She folds her long, lean arms. “You tell me. How do you remain smug when all you have to look forward
to is wrinkles, sagging boobs and old men—if you can find them.”

  “Did you know that if an Australian widow is young and sexy, her accidental-death compensation can be reduced because she’s supposedly more likely to remarry? That’s a scary precedent, and a reason for married women to let themselves go. And, contrary to rumor, many men like older women, even the un-engineered kind.”

  “Yes, you would say that. You have no choice. I do—did.” She makes a sound like a sob. “They even printed my real name! Bertha Leighton.”

  Bertha? I suppose I should have finished the column. And to think I have issues with Tallulah.

  Tai resumes pacing, and it’s like watching a kettle coming to a boil. I swear I see a whiff of steam before she boils over. “That bastard Marc told them!”

  There’s no point in asking why Marc would be so vicious. People who do these things don’t need reasons, just opportunities. More to the point, “How did he find out?”

  Tai runs her fingers through her bangs. “It had to be that he read the birthday card my mother sent me. It’s one of those awful cards that says ‘Happy 40th’ right on the front!”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Exactly, which is why I left it at my apartment.” She reaches out to smooth the top of her teakwood desk, as if it had a wrinkle. “In a bedroom drawer, between the layers of my underwear.”

  “But that’s awful!” I’m referring to Marc digging through her undies, not her need to hide a birthday card.

  “Bastard!” Tai begins again. “He waited a couple of months to try to throw me off, but I know it was him. I fired him. So sue Five-O. Sue me. Why kill my career?”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Of course that. If you want to reach the top you need to have more secrets than the competition.” She comes around in front of her desk. “I knew Marc bloodied the waters wherever he went, but in doing so he brought attention. Unfortunately, his ability to generate a buzz is overrated. Completely. He wasn’t even good in bed.”

  “He’s a first-class bastard!” I say in support of womanhood scorned. “But there is truth in that old saying, Tai. ‘You knew he was a snake when you brung him in.’”

  Tai blinks. “I’ve never heard that.”

  “You’ve heard similar. Play with fire… Dance with the devil… If you lie down with dogs…?”

  She folds her arms across her bosom and leans back in that impossibly swayback stance that only the long and lean can achieve. “Your cozy comments aren’t helpful.”

  “You have a point. The milk’s been spilt.” She nods. “So how are you going to handle this?”

  “I’m not. I can’t respond without confirming that the story is true.”

  I stand up. That chair is so uncomfortable that being on my feet is preferable. “Of course, it’s your life. But I would just hate it if everyone’s last thought about me was that I’m a coward.”

  Tai tosses her head at that word. “I suppose you’re now about to bore me with some other shit piece of disgustingly uplifting and wise advice.”

  I smile. “Did you ever hear the one about taking your skeletons out of the closet and setting them in the front window as advertisement?”

  She just stares at me.

  “Then let me confess this. I know how sorry everyone has felt for poor old screwed and abandoned Lu. There hasn’t been so much head-shaking over a lost cause since little Ollie North thought he should run for president. The truth is, none of you know a thing about the real me.” I smile big. “Since I became pregnant, I’ve taken a lover, been proposed to by another man, and had a guy in his twenties following me about like a puppy.”

  Tai smirks. “You’ve obviously been fantasizing while reading your e-mail.”

  I smile. “If it’s spun right, not even the truth will be believed. So tell your truth and see where it gets you.”

  Tai actually takes a moment to think. “You’re saying a great offense is better than a great defense. Therefore I should—”

  “Actually, I was thinking more of—”

  “I could leak it that poor Marc hoped to sandbag his drooping rep by screwing me, but—news flash!—he’s a lousy lay. I bet I can get backup for that. I know a woman he dated—”

  “That’s not—”

  “Oh, but that’s good!” Tai has a really nasty laugh.

  I think my work is done here.

  As I’m leaving she calls out, “Lu! You look fabulous! But I don’t believe that crap about your boyfriends. Still, if you put it in your column, I’ll print it.”

  45

  I’ve decided to pose “starkers” after all, as they say in Jolly Olde England.

  The word to describe this act is important to me. “Nude” invokes taut, nubile flesh. “Naked” sounds like every super-sized pore and ingrown hair will be featured in 3-D Technicolor. In the case of its country cousin, “nekkid,” kegs of beer are involved. “Bare” can only truly be effective when applied to a baby’s bottom. “In the buff” has a mellow groovy vibe, such that mind-altering drugs may be involved.

  No, only “starkers” works, as in stark raving mad, but joyous about it.

  I’ve told only those it immediately involves. Curran, obviously. And KaZi, for makeup, prop placement and artistic value. Curran’s hired the studio and a lighting specialist because he has ideas that require exacting standards, he said. Said person is required to be female, I replied. I told Dallas to keep the sisterhood of mothers and daughters tight. She was silent. I consider that a victory.

  “Thanks for everything,” I say as Cy pulls up before the photographer’s studio. I asked him to drive me because the numb-leg problem that floored me at the wedding has returned with more frequency. My doctor revoked my driving privileges until after delivery.

  “I’ll find a place to park and be right up,” he says as he helps me out.

  “Oh, you don’t need to wait around here. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

  Cy shakes a finger at me. “I’m no Peeping Tom, but someone should be the chaperone, to keep things professional. You can’t run around in the altogether alone with a young Tom like Curran. People will talk.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  “And you’re not going to be!” Which means Cy will sit on the studio steps in the rain if I don’t let him in.

  “Fine. But, Cy, not one word. No matter what you see or hear or even think. Understood?”

  Cy shrugs. “What do I know about nudie pictures? I’m an old man.”

  “Not that old.” I feel myself blush. “You really want to do this?”

  He looks positively eager. “When will I get another chance to risk being picked up in a police raid?”

  “I don’t have to tell you how weird this feels, having someone put makeup all over me.”

  “All actors do it for nude scenes,” KaZi says matter-of-factly, as she applies opaque makeup to my torso with a chamois-like puff. “Men are more insistent about it than women. Talk about ego. I could name names of the A-list actors who won’t even take their shirts off without time in the makeup chair first. Contoured pecs and all. It’s a psychological trick for confidence. You know you’re covered head to foot, yet everything shows.”

  Not quite everything. Strategic covering will be required. For instance, I’m holding a towel to my front, which she’s finished, while she does my back.

  “You’re in pretty good shape for your age,” KaZi says as she stands back to get a perspective on her work. “You’ve got a nice strong back, not much cellulite on the thighs and really nice calves.”

  I’m really touched by her generous statement. “Thank you.”

  “Squat,” she commands, and begins to shellac areas I don’t even put suntan lotion on. “This is super-good stuff. It’s used as a surgical cosmetic. It’ll cover every kind of defect: scars, burns, freckles, moles, tan lines, stretch marks, birth marks, age spots, even those big blue veins on your breasts. Pregnancy is, like, so weird!”

  It occurs to me that
we’re not after reality here, but rather a state of mind. As with all photographic efforts, like prom photos, what the poser really wants is a record of the essence of the moment. My body, only better, as it will seem in retrospect.

  When she’s done, I’m dusted with anti-aging powder. “For that natural look. Now, give yourself about fifteen minutes to dry and you can put on a loose robe. But don’t sit or tie the sash. That will rub off the makeup.”

  “You ready?” Curran calls from the other side of the door after a few minutes.

  Am I ready? The adrenaline rush is instantaneous. I begin to hyperventilate.

  “Breathe slow, slower,” I hear KaZi say at my shoulder.

  I take a deep breath, a really deep breath. But I only get about half inflated before Sweet Tum thumps in protest. “Okay, okay,” I say, and smooth a hand over the area.

  “Watch the makeup,” KaZi warns.

  I remind myself I’m doing this not for any reason but that I want to. It’s not vanity. It’s not an act of defiance, or provocation, certainly not sleazy titillation or even simply to be outrageous. It’s a conscious decision to put me out there, on the line, in the light. Just me. And Sweet Tum. In about twenty years she will understand. Or, just maybe, she will need to be on the upside of forty to fully grasp the audacious joy of Eve before the fig-leaf police arrived.

  “I guess we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be.”

  The studio is the typical slant roof loft with a wall of high windows for natural lighting. Curran has set up a series of backdrops and props—like a crib, a rocker, gigantic blocks and a desk. “Desk?”

  “You are a writer, after all,” Curran says as he leads me to the chair behind it. “Now, take your time, Lu. I need you to relax. See the heaters? They will be turned on the moment you disrobe. You don’t want goose bumps or a case of the shivers. Just take your time. Feel your way into the moment, into the space.”

  “Uh huh. You just go over there, on the other side,” I say, for suddenly my teeth are chattering like castanets.

  It’s not only me. Curran is speaking Standard English, and chewing his soul patch as his gaze darts from me to KaZi as if he’s watching Ping-Pong. She shrugs and turns away.