Beautiful You

by Chuck Palahniuk

  “Go away, Omaha girl.”

  “Brillstein asked about you today.”

  “Go away.” The buzzing restarted.

  Penny went away.

  Around Wednesday, Monique stumbled into the kitchen, squinting against the sunlight as if she’d been trapped for months in a collapsed coal mine. Fumbling in the fridge for a carton of milk, she grumbled. “Damn cheap piece of junk.” She drank from the carton. Gasping before another swig, she added, “I can’t wait to buy a replacement.”

  Penny looked up from the textbook she was highlighting. “It broke?”

  “I guess,” Monique said. “At least, the wings came off.”

  Penny stiffened. She was sitting, the breakfast table in front of her covered with books and legal pads. “Was it the dragonfly?”

  Guzzling milk, Monique grunted in the affirmative. All the bright Austrian crystals had been chipped off of her fingernails. Her braids were kinked and tangled in disarray.

  Warily, Penny asked, “Did it split down the middle?”

  Monique nodded. “I was asleep.”

  Penny made a note to talk to Brillstein. This might be just the high-profile case she needed. With the land-office way Beautiful You was selling, if even a small percentage of the products were defective it might warrant a recall. If she could prove real damages and assemble a pool of plaintiffs, women from around the world who’d been hurt in any way by the shattered dragonflies, she might have an enormous class-action lawsuit. The idea wasn’t without precedent; it seemed that every time a new tampon or form of birth control came to market women died. Toxic shock. Ruptures of the vaginal wall. Men engineered these innovations, but it was always women who paid the price.

  Alouette, for example. She’d been among Maxwell’s stable of lab rats. What was to say her embolism wasn’t the long-term result of some stimulant-infused silicone coating? It wasn’t impossible that the queen of England and the president of the United States might be compelled to testify. Penny could see herself as another bold Erin Brockovich. This was a case that would make her career.

  Sure, Maxwell would be furious. He might cut off the payouts from her trust fund, but the income and prestige from winning a huge settlement might yield more than that loss.

  Highlighting passages in a text about patent law, Penny said, “I was afraid you’d died in your bed.”

  “Only about three thousand times,” Monique quipped.

  “Have you used the douche?” asked Penny.

  Monique was peeling the top off a cup of yogurt and stirring it with a spoon.

  “When you do,” Penny continued, “read the directions. Make sure you use imported champagne, not domestic sparkling wine. Definitely do not use brut. And the temperature must be between forty and fifty degrees Fahrenheit.” She wondered whether this was how Max had felt when he was coaching her.

  Jotting a citation in the margin of a page, she felt like Maxwell. Without meeting Monique’s curious gaze she said, “When you use product number thirty-nine, start with the oscillations at fifteen bpm and slowly dial them up to forty-five bpm. After that, you’ll maintain the best effects by alternating between twenty-seven-point-five and thirty-five-point-five.”

  Monique was impressed. She’d yet to eat a spoonful. She kicked a chair back from the table and lowered herself into the seat. “What’s product number …?”

  Penny completed the sentence. “The Happy Honey Ball.” She asked, “Do you know where your urethral sponge is?”

  “In the bathroom?” Monique ventured. “On the shelf next to the tub?”

  Penny gave her a wilting glance. “Did you buy a pair of those awful Peruvian married stones?”

  “Of what?”

  “Good,” Penny confirmed, remembering the miserable scene where Alouette had come to her rescue in the restaurant. “Don’t.”

  Monique set her yogurt on the table, careful not to cover any of Penny’s study materials. “You sound as if you designed this stuff.”

  Penny thought, but didn’t say, I sort of did invent them. Her resentment toward her housemate dwindled. Life was too short. A few days of physical indulgence wouldn’t kill Monique. It was pleasure without affection; she’d recognize that and outgrow it. “Listen up,” Penny said. “When you use the Daisy Love Wand, keep in mind the coefficient of friction and only use it with the Glassy Glide Cream.”

  The expression on Monique’s face was one of complete bewilderment. “This shit,” she marveled, “is going to change the fabric of society.”

  Tearing a blank page from her legal pad, Penny went to work with a pen. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m writing this all down.”

  That same day she went to Tad’s office and asked him to lunch. As boyfriend material Tad had more moxie than skill. He was fun and spontaneous, often sneaking a quick kiss and trying to slip his finger inside her while they rode crowded subway cars. Over hot dogs on a park bench she broached the subject. Maybe she was hypersensitive to it, but it seemed like half the women on the street were toting the bright pink shopping bags of Beautiful You. Even if half those bags were just being reused to carry sack lunches, they’d become the new status symbol for liberated, take-charge females in Union Square.

  Penny mused that Max’s greatest accomplishment wasn’t the toys themselves. It was the idea of combining ladies’ two greatest pleasures: shopping and sex. It was like Sex and the City, but the four playgirls didn’t need Gucci belts or troublesome boy toys. They didn’t even need to sip cosmos or share girl talk.

  “Theoretically speaking,” she began gradually, evading Tad’s gaze, “what if there was a fantastically successful new consumer product? It was making its inventor a fortune.”

  Tad listened attentively, his thigh almost touching hers.

  She tried not to think about what went into making hot dogs.

  Since Maxwell’s toys had gone on sale, New Yorkers seemed so laid-back. At least the half who’d made the trip to the big pink store and forked over their cash. The only tension seemed to be in the grinding teeth and toe tapping of the shoppers who were waiting. The line was longer every day. Today the Post carried a front-page article about a woman who’d tried to cut into the front of the queue. The frustrated shoppers already waiting there had beaten the interloper almost to death.

  “Just suppose,” Penny ventured, “a potential client had been crucial in the testing and development of these successful new products.”

  The pink bags really were ubiquitous. A city bus drove by, the side covered with the slogan “A Billion Husbands Are About to Be Replaced.”

  Penny didn’t especially want to tell Tad the gory details about what she’d done with Maxwell, but there were larger principles at stake.

  “Let’s say the person in question is a woman,” she proposed, “a young innocent woman, and she allows a man to experiment on her with a number of sex-toy prototypes?”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” Tad confirmed, a burr in his voice. His eyebrow arched quizzically. “That sounds hot.”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” Penny redirected, “do you think the test subject might have a claim to part ownership of the subsequent patents?”

  Tad licked a dab of mustard that threatened to drip from his dog onto the pant leg of his Armani trousers. “Is the plaintiff over the age of twenty-one?”

  Penny discreetly picked at the chopped onions on her own wiener. “A couple years.”

  “Is she someone you know personally?”

  Penny nodded glumly.

  “Is she very pretty?” he teased. “With flawless skin and a brilliant legal mind?”

  Penny protested, “Don’t be patronizing. She’s not a slut. This girl could really use some sound legal advice.” It might’ve been her imagination, but some of the ladies with bright pink bags appeared to be limping. She worried that demanding partial credit for the Beautiful You products meant she’d be culpable if they—the Dragonfly in particular—were found to be faulty and dangerous. A cut of the pro
fits might also mean a share of the actionable blame.

  Tad looked at her. His features darkened with concern. “Is the client ready to go into court and publicly describe the testing process?”

  Penny swallowed. “Would that be absolutely necessary?”

  “ ’Fraid so.” He asked, “Are there any corroborating witnesses?”

  Penny thought. There had been the flight crew of Max’s private jet. The household staffs at his château and penthouse. And his various chauffeurs and admin assistants who at times, when she lost all control of her flailing, had been drafted to hold her spread-eagled on the bed. None of them could be subpoenaed as anything but hostile witnesses. Brightening, she said, “But there are handwritten records that we can subpoena.”

  “What kind of records?”

  Penny considered all the names that might be in Max’s notebooks. The anonymous women as well as the sex workers and the world leaders. “Would it complicate the process if those notes might be considered a threat to national security?”

  “You mean,” Tad asked ruefully, “if they depict the president of the United States in some compromising situations?”

  He was way ahead of her. Tad Smith had a sunny, take-charge outlook on life, and Penny found that she enjoyed pulling in harness with this hopeful go-getter.

  When she didn’t speak, he did. “If the plaintiff will make a deposition, we can file it and begin the discovery process.” He took a sip of soda. “If we get the defendant’s written records and they match the deposition, your theoretical client would have a very winnable case.”

  Penny didn’t ponder her reaction. She didn’t need to. “What’s our first step?”

  It wasn’t two days before Penny was summoned to Mr. Brillstein’s office. BB&B, it seemed, had a leak. Some insider had tipped off higher-ups to the possibility of a pending lawsuit, and her boss wasn’t happy. To make everything worse, the president was in town to address the United Nations, and that meant traffic in the city was gridlocked. Armed squads of antiterrorism guards were patrolling the subways with bomb-sniffing dogs. The few citizens whose tempers weren’t on edge were the placid, relaxed ladies with their bright pink bags. Watching them stride, calm and unfazed, down the streets made even Penny want to get in line on Fifth Avenue.

  Conversely, the male residents of the city—more specifically the hetero ones—were grouchier than ever. Not a man could compete with Maxwell’s lifetime of erotic training, and the effects of his tantric studies could now be bought with a bright pink Beautiful You credit card.

  Tad’s idea was to immediately start by fishing for plaintiffs. They’d run a series of television ads to identify consumers who’d bought the faulty Dragonfly device and found that it broke while they were using it. Those numbers poured in by the millions. Around the world, users had fallen asleep while enjoying the deep pulsations, then awakened to find the toy in pieces. In every statement they collected the details were the same: The wings had snapped off; the body had split. Just like what Monique and Penny had experienced.

  It would be difficult to prove real damages, because no one was so much as scratched in the process. Many of the women had gone to see their doctors, but no fragments of the toy could be found lodged internally.

  In Tad’s office, Penny stuffed her case notes into a file folder. The manila folder she stashed in her Fendi tote bag to take home. That done, she hurried to Brillstein’s office on the hushed, wood-paneled sixty-fourth floor, the carpeted inter sanctum where she’d first met Max.

  Outside his door, she knocked. A familiar voice said, “Come in, please.” It was a female voice. Penny turned the knob, stepped through the doorway, and came face-to-face with someone she’d seen on countless newscasts. The woman’s cheekbones were high and widely placed. The combination of these and her small, pointed chin gave the impression that she was always smiling. Her golden-brown eyes glowed with a warm compassion.

  Penny’s cantankerous boss sat behind his polished desk.

  President Hind turned her serene smile on Brillstein. “Would you be so kind as to leave Miss Harrigan and me alone for a few minutes?”

  “Miss Harrigan,” she began.

  “Penny,” the younger woman prompted.

  The president motioned for her to take a seat. She was roughly the same age as Penny’s mother, but much more put-together. Her tailored suit fit as snug as a uniform. She wore a silver-filigree brooch on one lapel like a badge. She waited for Penny’s boss to leave the room. Shutting the door, she locked it. The president motioned for Penny to sit in a red leather wing chair. She took the chair facing that, and the two sat toe-to-toe like old chums enjoying a chat.

  “My dear,” she said, her tone placating, “I’m here on a matter of gravest national security.” She spoke as if giving a speech in the Oval Office. “Please do not pursue any legal action against C. Linus Maxwell.”

  Penny listened, dumbfounded. It was impossible to picture this resolute leader subjecting herself to Max’s torrid exercises. Penny could scarcely imagine this well-dressed, articulate woman reduced to the chicken scratchings in a notebook. Clarissa Hind had been her role model, but the courageous leader Penny had always imagined bore no resemblance to the person who now glanced furtively at the locked office door and spoke to her so softly.

  “As a fellow attorney,” continued the president, “I can empathize with your desire to see justice done, but this showdown must not be undergone in a public forum. Trust me when I say that millions of people, worldwide, will presently be put in danger by the legal actions you’re about to embark upon. For you to organize this class action or contest Maxwell’s patents would jeopardize their lives as well as yours.”

  She was no longer the pretty woman smiling on the cover of the National Enquirer. Three years in the Oval Office had etched wrinkles across her forehead. The president said, “I understand that you were attacked on a subway platform a few weeks ago.” Her tone sounded tentative, hushed with sympathy. “That must’ve been terrifying, but, my dear, don’t assume that it was a random crime. Whoever was hired, Max’s motive was not to harm you.” The president’s eyes were earnest and pleading. “Maxwell was simply demonstrating his own power. For the rest of your life you must always assume that no matter where you are, he can reach out at any time and destroy you.”

  It struck Penny that the president was seated in the same chair Max had occupied when she had cowered at his feet. Today the carpet showed no stain to bear witness to the flood of coffee drinks. Penny thought back to the last time she’d heard this same subdued voice. Suspicion sharpened her own voice into a dart.

  “How much is Max paying you?” Penny spat the accusation. “You helped him. When I answered by mistake in Paris, that was you on his telephone.” She waited for a denial that didn’t come. “You persuaded the FDA to approve the distribution of his … personal care items.” Penny was livid. “People are being sold defective, dangerous sex toys, and you’re helping.”

  The older woman continued, unfazed. “In exchange for your cooperation I’m prepared to mentor you as my political protégée.”

  Penny understood their plan. To avoid being exposed, Max and the president were offering her a slice of the global political pie. They would groom her to inherit their corrupt dynasty. A weaker person might’ve accepted, but she felt nothing but disgust for their bargain.

  “It doesn’t matter what office you eventually run for,” the president offered. “If you side with us you’ll get virtually every vote cast by women between the ages of eighteen and seventy.”

  Politics aside, Penny knew it was an insane promise. “You can’t guarantee that,” she said.

  “I can’t,” countered Hind, “but Max can.” The president lifted her wrist and slid back the sleeve of her suit jacket to check her watch. “I’m due to speak at the UN. Can we continue this discussion in the car?”

  The gray Manhattan streetscape oozed by outside the limousine windows. President Hind shut her eyes for a moment
and kneaded her temples with her fingertips, as if she were suffering a migraine.

  “First he makes you famous,” the president said in a weary voice, “so famous that you can’t show your face in public.” From that first paparazzi snap, she claimed that Maxwell had hired the press to hound Penny. He’d stoked the public’s curiosity. He’d created the circumstances that left her trapped at home. Hind smiled ruefully, knowingly. “Eventually, the only place you feel safe is at his penthouse. He isolates you. He becomes the only person you can trust, and he provides the only comfort you know.”

  The tabloids that seemed to vilify him? According to President Hind, Max owned them all. He’d acquired them a few years back, when journalists started to dig a little too deep. With this arrangement, as secret owner, he could publish red herrings. He libeled himself with outrageous stories, providing a smoke screen to hide the real truth while undermining the credibility of all news media.

  “Even if you discover the truth about Maxwell,” the president warned, “you’ll never be able to make it public. No one believes anything they read about him, not any longer.” Apropos of nothing, Hind muttered as if to herself, “I never wanted to be the president of anything.”

  En route to the United Nations building, the president’s cell phone rang. Settled into the leather seat, partitioned from the driver by a soundproof panel, Penny held her tongue and looked out the tinted window.

  “I’m trying to reason with her,” Hind told the caller. “Please don’t take any action.” She paused a moment, eyeing Penny. “No, I’d never tell her. And even if I did, she wouldn’t believe me.”

  Without hearing a word on the other end of the discussion, Penny knew the caller was Max.

  The motorcade moved through the streets, unhindered by traffic lights or competing vehicles. As they passed Bryant Park, Penny glimpsed a long line of people standing, waiting to enter a shop on Sixth Avenue called Bootsy. For the most part, the same consumer demographic that had gone nuts for Beautiful You was now swarming to buy a new style of shoes. It was a trend Penny couldn’t understand. To her, the shoes were clunky and ugly, with wide straps across the arch and thick heels, but some group dynamic had taken hold. The same block of women, nationwide, was making a banal romance novel about vampires into a megabestseller.