Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  “How was everyone’s weekend?” Tori asked, and the girls responded with various iterations of tedium.

  “Really?” Tori said, cocking an eyebrow at Daisy. “You had a boring weekend?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even Friday night?”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “That’s not what Liam Kenneway said.”

  Emma and Mia gasped, scandalized, but Daisy maintained her composure. “Really? What did Liam say?”

  “I don’t know if I should repeat it here. It’s kinda . . . personal.”

  Daisy caught Emma and Mia exchanging a panicked glance. They couldn’t be dismissed for this! Daisy also clocked the smug, almost triumphant glint in Tori’s dark eyes. A hint of jealousy had always emanated off the compact girl, a subtle resentment toward Daisy’s effortless popularity. Her glee in this moment confirmed it.

  “Go ahead,” Daisy said coolly. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Liam said you guys . . . did it.”

  Emma and Mia gasped again, but Daisy remained nonchalant. “Did he?”

  “Yep,” Tori said, with a cruel smirk. “And that’s not all he said.”

  Daisy’s heart was thudding in her chest—anger, betrayal, fear—but she would not give this little blond bird the satisfaction. “Tell me.”

  “He said you did some weird stuff to him.”

  “Weird stuff?”

  “Kinky stuff. Porny stuff.” An ominous smile. “Butt stuff.”

  “Oh my god,” Mia muttered over Emma’s simultaneous “Ewww!”

  “He said,” Tori continued, clearly delighting in her narrative role, “that you . . . licked his butt.”

  “Gross!” Emma shrieked, and Mia visibly cringed.

  Blood was rushing to Daisy’s cheeks, betraying her blasé affect. Liam was trying to destroy her socially. But why? Had her laughter damaged his ego so badly that he felt he had to disparage her? To hurt and humiliate her? It was the only possibility.

  “He said you seemed really experienced,” Tori said, biting her lip to hold back a blatant smile. “Like you must have done a ton of guys at your last school.”

  “That’s not true!” Emma said, with unearned confidence. Her voice was less assured when she added, “Is it, Daisy?”

  It wasn’t. Of course, it wasn’t. But Daisy didn’t respond. She rose to her full height, looming over the girls on the floor. “Where’s Liam?”

  The tiny diamond stud in Tori’s nose caught the fluorescent light and sparkled, rivaling the cruel twinkle in her eyes. “He’s by the vending machines with his friends. But I’m not sure you want to go over there.” She feigned sympathy. “It was getting pretty graphic when I left.”

  Daisy turned on her heel and walked away. “Should we come with?” Mia called after her, halfheartedly, but Daisy didn’t respond.

  As promised, Liam was ensconced in a group of his peers, regaling them with tales of Daisy’s sexual expertise.

  “She’s a total freak,” he was saying. “I would never have guessed it.”

  “Maybe she’s a nymphomaniac,” Dylan Larabee suggested.

  “Probably. She couldn’t get enough!”

  “Hi, Liam.”

  All eyes turned toward her: the freak, the nympho, had been conjured by their words. Liam paled and she saw the terror in his eyes. He had been caught in the act: lying about her, vilifying her, slut-shaming her. Daisy could destroy this little twerp and he knew it. She could tell his posse that he couldn’t get it up, that he had a tiny penis, that he had prematurely ejaculated. Or she could just tell them the truth: that he had run away from her because he was too scared, too childish, not ready.

  She opened her lips, prepared to ruin him, but then she looked at his face. It was white, trembling, almost tearful. Liam was a soft little boy—a child—trying, desperately, to maintain his rank in the social order of Centennial High School. Daisy wasn’t like him. She was strong and resilient. She would recover from his slander, and if she didn’t, so what? Her family would move again, she’d go to a new school, and make new friends. If she took Liam down now, he might never recover.

  She pasted on a smile. “I had so much fun on Friday night.”

  “Umm, okay . . .”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “N-no problem.”

  “And, I just wanted to say . . . ,” she leaned in, and lowered her voice a tad, “. . . your butt tastes great.”

  She sauntered away, savoring the stunned silence she left in her wake. The character assassination would resume when the boys recovered from their shock, she knew that, but for a moment, she felt satisfied. She was stronger, braver, tougher than these kids.

  She was invincible.

  frances

  NOW

  The rustically hip Edgewater Hotel was perched (as per its name) on the edge of Elliott Bay, offering stunning views of the Pacific and silhouettes of the distant Olympic Mountains. The restaurant, Six Seven, served seafood in an upscale yet funky environment: tree-trunk pillars, ornate light fixtures, a massive river-rock fireplace. . . . Frances had been here before—for an anniversary dinner with Jason—a couple of years ago. It must have been their tenth, so it would have been three years ago in June. (For all other anniversaries, they celebrated with takeout Thai food and a movie. Marcus didn’t react well to babysitters, so they were reserved for milestone occasions only.)

  A distinguished host ushered Kate and Frances directly to a window seat (a table for four, though they were only two), and a handsome young waiter arrived promptly with a wine list and menus. Excellent service was to be expected at such a popular restaurant, but Frances knew that Kate’s looks were a contributing factor. There had been a short period when Frances had experienced a similar attentiveness. She had been beautiful, for a moment, like a peony that blooms spectacularly before quickly losing its petals. Then she started putting on weight, and gradually became invisible.

  Kate was perusing the wine list. “White or red?”

  “We’re drinking?”

  Her friend looked at her like she’d suggested they were about to drop acid. “Just wine . . . Unless you want something stronger? They make a great martini.”

  “No, no . . . I have to pick up Marcus after school.”

  “I’ll pick him up when I get Charles.” Kate smiled. “I’m the designated driver. Feel free to get tipsy.”

  Frances did not get tipsy in the daytime. She had responsibilities, she had obligations, she had secrets to keep. She couldn’t afford to drop her guard. But then the waiter was pouring them glasses of a crisp California Sauvignon Blanc, and Kate was offering up a toast. “To friends,” she said, her smile warm and sincere, and Frances clinked her glass to Kate’s and drank. The moment felt almost celebratory. Maybe Frances could get tipsy in the day . . . just this once.

  When they had ordered (mussels to share, followed by smoked-salmon tacos for Kate and an arugula salad for Frances), she took a sip of wine. The late-October sun was shining over the ocean, a last glimpse of blue sky before the long dreariness of a Pacific Northwest November set in. Well-fed seagulls swooped and dove over the navy water, and, above a layer of thick forest, the Olympic Mountains rose. A gleaming white ferry trudged across the blue vista. Frances had lived here since her early twenties, but the natural beauty never failed to impress.

  “It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm . . .” Kate murmured her agreement.

  “Do you like living here?”

  “It’s okay,” Kate said. “Better since I met you.”

  There was something almost flirtatious in Kate’s tone that made Frances’s cheeks pink.

  Kate clarified. “We move so often that I usually don’t bother making friends. But when I met you . . . I don’t know . . . I just felt a sort of connection.”

  Before Frances could respond, Kate said, “Oh god. That sounded weird.” She took a drink of wine. “I’m not hitting on you.”

  Frances laughed, remembering th
e day Kate had come to her defense on the school playground. “I feel the same way.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Do you miss Montana?” Frances asked.

  “Not really. We were only there a couple of years before we had to move for Robert’s work.”

  “He’s a legal consultant, right?”

  “Yeah. He only deals with very specific cases.”

  “What type of cases?”

  “Environmental. Boring.” Kate unfolded her linen napkin and placed it on her lap. “What does Jason do again?”

  “He works in procurement at a tech company, so boring-er . . . which I know is not a word.”

  Kate chuckled. “But it should be.”

  “Jason seems to like it. He works a lot. And I think he’s underpaid. But he’s not one to complain.”

  “What about you?” Kate asked. “Did you work?”

  “I did. In human resources. But then Marcus . . .” Frances didn’t quite know how to phrase it without sounding disloyal. She picked up her wineglass and swirled the platinum liquid. “He’s a full-time job.”

  “Kids are a lot,” Kate said, with an understanding smile.

  “Yeah . . . but I always wanted to be a mom. It sounds old-fashioned to say it, but I never really dreamed about a career.” For some reason, a lump of emotion clogged her throat. “I dreamed about having a family.”

  “That’s what feminism means to me,” Kate said. “Allowing women to pursue their dreams, whatever they are, without stigma or judgment.” She toyed with her fork. “I never really thought about having kids. Not seriously, anyway. Until Robert. He was desperate to have a family, and I wanted to give him that.”

  “You must really love him.”

  “He saved me,” she said. And then, noticing Frances’s concerned expression, she elucidated. “From myself. I was headed down a bad path and Robert got me back on track.”

  “And now, you have your beautiful family.”

  “Yep,” Kate said, flippantly. “And I can’t work anyway. For one, I’ve got a useless art history degree. And for two, we never stay in one place long enough.”

  “How long will you stay here?”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” she lowered her chin slightly and looked up at Frances, “. . . I’d like to stay for a while.”

  Their eyes met, and Frances felt an odd sensation stirring in her, something akin to arousal. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought Kate was flirting with her. It was rather effective. Frances had never considered herself sexually adventurous, and certainly not bi-curious, but as she looked across the table at her friend—so elegant, so pretty—she briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss her. She really shouldn’t drink during the day.

  “Food’s here,” Kate said, as the waiter approached. Frances was glad of the distraction and the sustenance.

  As they ate, they discussed the Forrester experience. “My kids have been to a lot of schools,” Kate said, picking up her second salmon taco (seriously, how did she stay so skinny?), “and the Forrester mothers are the worst I have ever encountered.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re pure evil. They have their own level of cunty-ness . . . which I know is not a word.”

  “But it should be,” they said, in unison, before dissolving into laughter.

  When Frances had composed herself, she forked an arugula leaf. The salad was light, the dressing tangy, and she was glad she hadn’t given in and ordered the burger that had tempted her. Combined with the cold glass of wine and the excellent conversation, Frances felt utterly satisfied with her low-calorie lunch.

  Kate leaned forward. “Someone’s staring at you.”

  “What?” Frances was bewildered.

  “Don’t look . . . but the two guys in the booth. They’ve been watching us.”

  “They’ve been watching you,” Frances retorted. “Men never look at me.”

  Kate sat back in her chair. “Are you kidding me? You’re gorgeous.”

  Frances snorted.

  “Frances, you are absolutely luscious,” Kate said, bestowing that adoring gaze upon her again. “And the guy in the gray suit thinks so, too.”

  Frances glanced, subtly, toward the curved booth. Two men, their business attire casual—collars open, jackets undone—were looking their way. Boldly, Frances let her eyes drift over the man in gray. He was in his early forties, with dark hair graying at the temples. His jawline was strong, his lips shapely, and under thick brows, his eyes were warm and brown. He was attractive; not as attractive as Jason, but Frances knew that her husband would never look at her across a restaurant now. She had met him in that (very short) window when she had been slim and pretty. The man in gray smiled at her and, for a moment, she was again. She smiled back.

  “Oh my god,” Frances whispered, fiddling with her salad in an attempt to maintain composure, “I think I just flirted with that guy.”

  “Good!”

  “It’s not good. How is it good? I’m married.”

  “It’s harmless. And everyone deserves a little fun. Especially you.”

  Frances wasn’t sure why she, in particular, deserved a little fun, but it felt odd to ask for clarification.

  Kate spoke quietly but directly. “Give me your wedding rings.”

  “What?”

  “Pass them to me under the table. I’ll put them in my wallet.”

  “Why?”

  Kate held up her own bare ring finger and smiled. Her eyes danced wickedly. “Let’s play a little.”

  Frances was about to object, but the wine had made her feel daring, even reckless. A quick glance to her right confirmed that the two businessmen were standing, picking up their drinks, preparing to join them. Frances realized how much she wanted them to. She wanted to meet someone new, to chat and flirt . . . to play a little. She would never cross the line into adultery—she loved Jason, she knew how lucky she was to have him—but she wanted to feel mysterious and attractive and desired. Kate was right; it was harmless. Twisting the two gold bands off her finger, she reached under the table and placed them in Kate’s open palm.

  “Mind if we join you?” It was the other man, in a navy sport coat, his eyes resting on Kate. He was the more classically handsome of the two, but he was too slick for Frances’s liking. Her guy was more interesting looking, had more character. Her guy? Was she really thinking of this stranger in proprietary terms already? Claiming him after one brief moment of eye contact? It was sophomoric . . . but titillating.

  “Of course,” Kate said, gesturing to the seat next to her. The man sat. His companion slid in next to Frances.

  Their names were Pete (her guy, in gray) and Tom (Kate’s navy-blue friend). They were from Nebraska, in Seattle for a trade show. “We’re in commercial refrigeration,” Pete said. (Boring-er-er, Frances thought, but didn’t say.) Tom and Pete’s conference didn’t start until tomorrow. They’d come in early to enjoy the city.

  “And the scenery,” Pete said, eyes devouring Frances instead of the spectacular view their prime table afforded. She blushed at the overt flirtation. The comment was cliché, cheesy, she knew that, but she ate it up anyway.

  They bantered about life in the Midwest versus the Pacific Northwest (a thick juicy steak versus fresh seafood, old-fashioned drip versus designer coffee, tornado season or the omnipresent threat of an earthquake), and laughingly agreed to steer away from politics. The men weren’t particularly witty or charming, but Pete’s eyes on her, the way he attentively refilled her glass (at some point, another bottle of wine had been ordered), made Frances giddy. She had now had three (or was it four?) glasses of wine, and was teetering on the precipice between tipsy and drunk. But she was having a ball.

  Finally, Pete asked, “What do you ladies do?”

  Nothing. It was Frances’s inner voice, that little gremlin that taunted her. Parenting her son, looking after her husband, managing the household, was not a real job. Her efforts were not enough.

  “We’re
location scouts for the film industry,” Kate said, lying with aplomb. “We’re looking for a seaside restaurant to film a pivotal scene in a movie.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tom said. “Who’s in it? Anyone big?”

  “Not really. . . . Just this little actress. Her name’s Angelina.”

  “Get out!” Tom was clearly impressed. “Have you met her?”

  “Briefly. In a preproduction meeting.” Kate’s fabricating skills were impressive.

  As Tom peppered Kate with questions about celebrity encounters, Pete turned to Frances. “I’m not impressed by Hollywood.”

  Frances shrugged. “It’s a job.”

  “Everyone’s so plastic. And the women are so scrawny. I like a little something to hold on to, if you know what I mean.” The look in Pete’s eyes had turned lascivious, and Frances shifted uncomfortably. She focused on the remnants of her salad as Pete leaned in and spoke directly into her ear.

  “And you know what they say about fat girls . . .”

  She did, of course she did.

  “They try harder.”

  The acidic white wine in Frances’s stomach churned and she truly feared she might vomit. Her cheeks burned with shame and humiliation, her eyes threatened to fill with angry tears. Pete’s words were vulgar, his tone full of loathing, of contempt. He didn’t find her interesting or beautiful or sexy. He was a chubby chaser. He was a misogynist. He was a pig.

  “We should go.” Frances tossed the linen napkin from her lap onto her plate. She stood abruptly, her thighs hitting the table, jostling the wineglasses.

  Kate looked up at her, momentarily confused, but she read the distress on Frances’s face.

  “Yep. Back to the old grind.” She rose.

  “Wait,” Tom said, distressed. “Can we meet up later?”

  “We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Kate replied, fishing her wallet from her bag and placing several bills on the table.