Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Sure I do.” Charlotte leaned back against the counter. She really didn’t know much about Melanie’s career, other than it had taken a downward slide. As Freddy succinctly put it, “Her fifteen minutes are over.”

  “No, not now. I don’t want to go into ancient history.” Her voice turned hard-edged with an annoyance she was trying to disguise. “Look. Let’s keep this upbeat. I’m busy enough trying hard not to hate you right now.”

  Charlotte looked at her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Melanie sobered. Picking up a case of eye shadow, she began dabbing her brush in it. “Don’t be. Mine’s a common enough story here. You might as well know the way it is. I had lots of work when I first came here, but that started dwindling as I got older and well—” she leaned forward and applied a layer of cocoa shadow to her lid “—now I’m not so hot anymore. Most of us plod through year after year, taking a part here and there whenever we can find work. It’s not so much a thing where we get to decide if we want the part. Shit, it’s not even that Freddy is worried about what part I take. I’ll take any part, for any money, and say thank you. He knows it, too.”

  Melanie shrugged and brushed back her hair, revealing fine lines at the corners of her eyes. “Ups and downs, euphoria and depression. The only thing that’s steady is unemployment. Mostly, though, it’s a little bit here and there, just enough to keep us hanging in there.”

  Charlotte regretted having brought it up. She hadn’t meant to make Melanie feel badly. “Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, anyway. Freddy has all these plans for me, but it doesn’t mean they’ll pan out.”

  “They will.” Melanie took a deep, shuddering breath, then raised her large, heavily mascaraed eyes to meet Charlotte’s. “I knew it the moment I saw you standing outside my door with those soulful eyes. Freddy saw it, too. Everyone will see it.”

  Charlotte squirmed under the scrutiny.

  Melanie’s gaze sharpened and she pointed a finger at Charlotte. “Just understand this, girlfriend. When you’re out there, the men may fawn over you, but the women will be maneuvering to stab you in the back. Beauty is power, especially in this town. So use your beauty. While you can. It doesn’t last forever.”

  “You look like a goddamn Merchant–Ivory star,” Freddy said approvingly when he stepped into the hair salon the following afternoon. Several stylists encircled her, smoothing out a wisp of hair, patting her cheek.

  Freddy regarded them with disdain, knowing that as soon as he and Charlotte left the premises there would be a catfight among them as to who was responsible for the transformation of one apparently gawky girl into this goddess. By tomorrow the buzz of a New Girl would be on the street—as well as the news that she belonged to Freddy Walen.

  He had to admit they did a miraculous job on her. Charlotte’s pale gold, baby fine hair was trimmed but kept long and curled just enough to give her a classic sleekness that evoked memories of a young Lauren Bacall or Greta Garbo. Freddy liked that, not only because it smacked of Hollywood, but because it possessed that “look but don’t touch” elegance he was after. Everyone knew that only a woman with the absolute, unquestionable beauty of Charlotte Godfrey could carry that look off.

  “Real classy. Now, pull your shoulders back and raise your chin a notch. You want to walk like a star so people will think you are one. If you slouch, people think you don’t have confidence or you’re a nobody. Now, walk back and forth a little. That’s right, chin up,” he admonished as she took coltish strides across the salon. She had moments of natural grace, like an untried, untrained Thoroughbred. “Great,” he replied, waving her over. “You’re a quick study. I like that.”

  He took her elbow and guided her to the back room of the salon, a small sitting room for the employees to take breaks in. She looked around the cramped and dingy room with its few vintage sixties pieces of furniture and wondered why the employees always got stuck with such poor conditions. Even in a glamorous salon.

  “We have to get a move on,” Freddy said, his voice gruff with tension. “We’ve fallen way off schedule and dinner’s been pushed up to seven. Dole is bringing along a few of his cronies.” He took a swift look at the large Rolex on his wrist and scowled. “Damn. That hardly gives us enough time. Definitely not enough time to go across town to the hotel and back. So take your shoes off and rest here for a little while. I’ve arranged with André to let us use this room to relax in. I’ve ordered some food in, too.”

  “Food? You just said we’re going out to eat soon.”

  “No. We’re going to an interview soon. Food is immaterial. I don’t want you thinking about what you are eating tonight. I want you focusing on the questions and how you act. Remember, when you circulate at large parties or small luncheons, you’re ‘on.”’

  Freddy began pacing back and forth in front of her, gesturing in his typical broad manner. She slipped off her shoes, accustomed as she was now to the signal that one of his long lectures was about to begin. She sat back in her chair with a fluidity of motion made easier by months of exercise.

  “I’ll remember, Freddy,” she replied in rote style.

  “When we’re in the restaurant, don’t eat. And definitely don’t drink. Stir your food around the plate a little bit, and if you must, consume a little. When I take you to dinner parties, then you gotta take a few bites. You don’t want to insult a hostess, after all, but better to let them think your art is your nourishment. Most certainly don’t eat when you are in a circle of women. Just look straight into their eyes and flatter them. Tell them they look beautiful.” Here he jutted his finger. “And never flirt with their husbands. Trust me. It’s never worth it.”

  Charlotte, who had been looking out the window with an aloof expression, turned her head toward him, uneasy. “It all seems so artificial. So fake. Why can’t I just be myself?”

  “Because, my angel, they will naturally envy you, and you must do what you can to avert their hostility. Looks like yours make other women edgy.”

  She nodded, tapping her lips in thought. Melanie’s words came back to mind. If beauty was power, especially in this town, then she had better pay attention. She’d never wanted beauty for the purpose of power. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure what her new beauty qualified her for. Everything was new and different. Suddenly she was noticed, fawned over. In this town, her beauty made her somebody. Yet, rather than give her identity or even satisfaction, this unsubstantiated appreciation left her feeling adrift, without a mooring and in need of an anchor.

  Right now, Freddy was that anchor. She focused again on his words, listening more carefully. Taking mental notes.

  “Keep your distance from people as a general rule,” Freddy continued, slowly gaining steam as he clicked off his list of instructions. “Stay close only to me. Don’t trust anybody but me and don’t make close friends.”

  “What about Melanie?”

  “Melanie…okay. I trust her to keep her mouth shut, and she can advise you if you get into any kind of minor trouble. But for the big problems, and the big decisions, you come to me.”

  “You I can trust…”

  “If not me, who?”

  She had to give him that. “Okay, go on. But first, when’s dinner coming? I’m starved.”

  “It’ll be here any minute. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. Keep your distance and don’t go accepting help from every corner. I’ll get you whatever you need. Be independent. Move fast. Moss doesn’t grow on a rolling stone and all that. When you receive an invitation, tell me. I’ll let you know which parties you should attend and which you should not.”

  Charlotte felt a sudden chill. Memories of earlier parties in her life crept back into her consciousness. Parties where she was mocked and teased mercilessly. “Promise me you will come with me.”

  He stopped his tirade suddenly to look at her. Stubbing his cigarette out on the marble floor, he came to her side and took her hand.

  “Baby, baby…you’re not scared, are you?”

>   She raised her eyes to his and he was struck by the genuineness of the emotion he found there. Looking into her eyes, so brilliant a blue against her pale cream-colored makeup, he was suddenly reminded of the cerulean skies of his homeland against white cirrus clouds. He was reminded of the robins’ eggs he’d collected as a boy. He was reminded of so many things….

  Freddy frowned. What the hell was the matter with him? This fixation with the girl was becoming an obsession. It was worrisome. Irritating. But he was powerless to stop it. Like her, he’d committed to ride this train all the way.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, surprised by the tenderness he felt. “I’ll always be beside you.”

  Five days later, Charlotte sat quietly on a stool in the shadows of a very large screening room at Universal. She was here to read for the film American Homestead. Her thick makeup and elaborate Victorian dress felt stiff and stifling, even in the deep air-conditioning. In the center of the room there was a circle of lights and cameras, and beneath them long, thick cables entwined like pythons. She didn’t know the names of most of the equipment, or what it was used for. Freddy did, however, and was out there in the middle, talking animatedly with the lighting cameraman, Josef Werner. Earlier he’d introduced her to him, nudging her forward while whispering in her ear how she always wanted to have the cameraman on her side. Now he was out on the set arguing the angles, determined that they get the lighting right.

  Charlotte’s hands were sweating, her breath came short and she couldn’t seem to drink enough water to keep her mouth moist. The scene she was scheduled to read was not the one she had prepared for. Freddy was elated that the studio execs were so enamored with her during the dinner that they were asking her to read for a bigger part. It had been easy to follow Freddy’s admonitions and merely push her food around her plate. What wasn’t easy was to not stab Dole’s sausagelike fingers with her fork each time he grasped her hand.

  Freddy was elated with Dole’s response to her, however, and whispered in her ear after dinner, “A good man to have on your side.”

  Which side of the bed? she’d wondered.

  She’d received the new script last night by special messenger. Even though it was a push to study the scene in time for today’s reading, she felt much more empathy for this character. Her name was Celeste. She was the beautiful, slightly neurotic bride of a possessive brute of a man who kept her virtually imprisoned on their estate. It was a small role, but significant. What Freddy called “a juicy part.” A get-noticed kind of role beside big, billable stars.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” called out the director.

  Charlotte’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, but she managed to slide from the stool to walk to the center of the room. Her legs and arms felt stiff, her head was balanced on her neck like a ball on a stick. Once in the center of the cameras, she couldn’t find her mark. Her knees felt watery. She looked around with vague, uncomprehending eyes. The cameras and lights began to blur.

  Freddy, sensing her panic, hurried forward and gently guided her to where she was to stand, murmuring soft reassurances, handling her as carefully as a trainer would a spirited racehorse at the gate.

  “There are only two things you have to keep in mind,” he said, holding on to her shoulders and forcing her to focus on his steady gaze. “First, you must be aware of the period the character is living in. This is 1897, New York, with Victorian morals, and you are very, very rich. Second, you must be aware of who the character is. It’s simple. It is you.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  He shook her shoulders lightly. “You are Celeste.”

  She stared at him with the dawning of understanding.

  “Off the set. Let’s go!” called the director.

  “You can do it.” Freddy looked into her eyes, straight through to her, and repeated, “You can do it.” He released her and hurried from the set.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and shut out the cameras, the lights, Freddy, Josef, everyone and everything. She traveled down the velvety blackness within herself to that secret place in her heart where Charlotte Godowski felt most comfortable and secure. It was in this private place that she stored her favorite books and music, her cherished memories, her most precious dreams. It was to this place that she went whenever she’d been teased as a child, or hurt as a teen, or neglected as an adult, to nurture whatever it was that was unique about herself.

  She realized with a burst of sudden clarity that from these carefully wrapped units inside of herself, which she’d lovingly tended all these years, her strength as an actress would come. Like an actor rummaging through old costume trunks, she’d find her inspiration here.

  Charlotte Godowski slipped deeper into herself, shrinking very, very small. She was skilled at doing this, had done this so many times all her life. Then slowly, tentatively, she allowed the character of Celeste to emerge. She opened her eyes and blinked heavy lids, like one awakening from a deep sleep, then with smooth steps, took her position under the lights. Her mannerisms, her voice, her inflection, they were all Celeste.

  And Celeste knew exactly what to do.

  There was absolute silence on the set as though everyone else sensed that they were witnessing a remarkable transformation. The director gave the cue, the cameras whirred and with her beautiful, clear voice, Celeste began to speak.

  Freddy watched the rushes with Sam Bonnard, the director, Dave Dole and a few other men, including Josef Werner, who insisted he see the dailies. After her entrance on the scene, there was a gasp followed by an intense hush. Charlotte on film was even more illuminating than Charlotte in the flesh. It had something to do with the skin. It had a luminous quality that only a few others had: Greta Garbo, Marilyn Monroe, Uma Thurman. The camera loved her; she literally lit up the screen. Her voice was low and seductive with a natural cadence. He was right about her eroticism, too. Paired with her innocence, it was a lethal combination. Looking at the men in the room, he could tell she was having the same effect on all of them. They stared at the screen, transfixed. A few shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  Freddy faced the screen again, filled with glee. He wanted to laugh out loud. Charlotte was the one he was waiting for. His instincts had been correct. She had it all, beauty and talent. She was going to be big. Very big.

  And nobody was going to get to her—except through him.

  Freddy Walen returned to his large Mediterranean-style home, locked the door behind him and dropped his briefcase on the floor. The sound reverberated through the empty house. He moved on to the large, sterile kitchen, stuck a frozen low fat dinner into the microwave, poured himself a Scotch and water, and went straight for the phone and dialed. One thing he’d learned in this business: be fast. After a few rings, he reached John LaMonica, a deal maker.

  “I saw her,” LaMonica said. “I want her.”

  Freddy smiled and swirled the ice in his glass. “Everybody does, John.”

  “I’ve optioned this book,” he said, excited. “I’ve got bound galleys coming to you by rush messenger. Read it, then we’ll have lunch at La Scala. Already some big interest in the project. Major capital infusion. We’re getting preproduction started and we all agreed. We’d like to see Charlotte as Nancy.”

  “Nancy? Who the hell is Nancy? I don’t know what that means, John.”

  “Nancy as in the lead,” he replied, smugness ringing across the lines.

  Freddy sat down on a flimsy little iron chair beside the mosaic-and-iron kitchen table, one of the few pieces of furniture his wife had left him after the divorce. Cleaned him out, the bitch, but it could have been worse. She got most of the cash, the furniture, the summer home up north and every damn stick of furniture and piece of china or crystal they’d accumulated in their ten-year marriage. He got the house and his sanity.

  Freddy wiped his face with his hand. Who the hell cared about that now? He had Charlotte Godfrey.

  “You’ve got backing?”

  “As I said. Really dee
p pockets, as in Asia and Germany. Look, read the book. You’ll see why she’s perfect for the role. If Garbo was alive, we’d a wanted her. But this girl. Damn if she might not be better.”

  John was flattering him by building up his client, but a little kiss-ass was expected in this business. He smiled, thinking how good it felt. It’d been a long time since anyone had bothered.

  “Sure I’ll look at it, John. If you like it, I’m sure it’s great. I’ll call you as soon as I finish it.”

  He hung up the phone and stretched his arm out on the counter, resting his head. He was tired, heaving like he’d just run five miles uphill. He removed his sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and said a short but fervent prayer of thanks to God for giving him Charlotte Godfrey. LaMonica was interested in her? He wanted to weep.

  With his left foot he kicked the other iron chair, a bistro chair Ali had called it, and sent it flying across the room. Fuck this cheap furniture, he thought, feeling exuberant. Fuck his ex-wife. And her new husband who was loaded, though part of him loved the guy because he didn’t have to pay alimony anymore. Ali had married again and was already pregnant with her second child. Freddy swallowed the Scotch, feeling the burn slide down his throat. Yep, that’s what she always wanted. A kid.

  And it was the one thing he couldn’t give her. An injury years ago, as a young man, had rendered him impotent. “Shrapnel to the groin will do it every time,” the doctor had said with a laugh. Freddy never saw the humor in that.

  Ali had been a good sport, he’d give her that. She’d really tried to make the marriage work. On those rare occasions, like tonight, when he could get past his bitterness, he could forgive her for dumping him.

  The microwave’s high beep let him know his pasta Alfredo was done. He grabbed a mitt, pulled out the small orange box and carried it to the single chair in his living room. He swallowed a forkful of the Alfredo, then another, but the runny, tasteless, overcooked noodles didn’t match the excitement of the day. Setting the box on the floor, he nursed his Scotch instead.