by Dyan Sheldon
“Right now it looks like it’s seeking revenge,” says Otto from behind her.
She doesn’t turn round.
“Everything’s going really wrong, Remedios.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He stands beside her, but what Otto sees as he looks out at the watery night is not what Remedios sees. “I don’t see that there’s any maybe about it.”
Remedios folds her hand around the dancer. If something is off-balance, it can only be righted by movement.
“You started this, Remedios,” says Otto. “And you have to end it. You can’t let them go into those award ceremonies tomorrow as someone they’re not. You have to straighten it all out.”
A breaker of rain smashes against the terrace doors.
“I will,” says Remedios. “But I’ll need your help.”
Another example of how things rarely go as planned
“Oh my God!” yelps Lucinda. “Will you look at the time? We have to get going. We don’t want to be late.”
She and Gabriela have been up for hours. Several miracles had to be performed: on Beth Beeby’s short, badly cut hair the colour of cardboard; on Beth Beeby’s plain face, as exciting as a boiled egg. And then they had to pick the perfect outfit for the first part of the morning’s programme – the awards’ ceremony.
“That’s it,” says Lucinda, fastening the last of a jangle of gold necklaces around Gabriela’s neck. “Let’s see how you look.”
Gabriela takes a gulp of air. She hasn’t felt this nervous since her first day at middle school, when she changed her outfit three times, brought an extra pair of shoes with her in case she’d picked the wrong ones, and decided to buy her lunch rather than risk showing up with a loser lunch box. “Well?” she asks. “What do you think?”
Lucinda steps back and gives Gabriela a critical appraisal. There was nothing they could do about the length of Beth’s hair, but they dyed it blonde and gelled it so that it circles her head like a halo. Gabriela, an artist not only with a needle and thread but with a make-up brush as well, has changed Beth’s plain features and sallow complexion into a face that might look at you from the cover of a magazine. The open-toed platforms and filmy dress in a patchwork of different patterns complete the transformation.
“It’s incredible,” Lucinda says at last. “I mean, I knew we could make you look better, but you look better than better. You look—” She hesitates for the bat of an eyelash, as if she’s afraid to say the secret words. “You totally look like one of us!”
Gabriela allows herself a few seconds of being pretty pleased with herself, then she puts Beth’s glasses on again so she can actually see and turns back to the mirror for a final check. “But I still don’t look like me.” She frowns at her reflection (in which, if you looked very hard, you might see the unremarkable face of Beth Beeby peering through). “Everybody’s going to know it’s someone else.”
“You look more like you without the glasses, so if they don’t get too close they probably won’t notice,” judges Lucinda. “Anyway, it’s only Taffeta who really matters. If you can keep out of her sight till the show starts, it’ll be OK.”
Gabriela raises one carefully brushed eyebrow. “You think?”
“I know. Everybody’s going to be all wrapped up in themselves. Besides,” says Lucinda, “even if somebody does say something, you are you, right? You’re not Beth pretending to be you. You made that dress. You did your face. You did your hair. You know what to say and how to act. Guaranteed, you’ll be able to talk them round.”
Gabriela makes an exaggerated gesture of relief. “Phew! At least I don’t have to pretend to know anything about books any more.”
“What are you doing in there?” Delila rattles the doorknob. “It’s almost show time. Professor Gryck’s going to go into meltdown if we get there late.”
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Beth gives herself one last look in the mirror, puts her spare pair of glasses on, and opens the bathroom door.
Delila whistles. “Well, kiss my grits,” she says, laughing. “Will you look at you!” Slowly shaking her head, her eyes move up and down the girl in the sober grey dress and sensible shoes. “You look almost like you!”
Beth steps in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. “What about the hair?” She squints at her reflection through the thick lenses. “You think the hair’s all right?”
Beth and Delila have also been up and busy for hours performing miracles while the rest of their group dreamed and snored, turning the silk purse that is Gabriela Menz into the sow’s ear that is Lillian Beeby’s only child. They cut off Gabriela’s blonde curls, darkened them with a box of henna from the hotel’s drugstore and flattened them with Gabriela’s electric hair straightener. Topped off with the understatement that is Beth’s wardrobe, it’s possible that Mrs Menz herself would walk by her without wondering, even for a nanosecond, if that girl reminded her of Gabriela.
“The hair looks dynamic. A little longer than it was, but no one’s going to notice that.”
“You mean because nobody looked at me that closely to begin with?”
“That’s right.” Delila puts on a deep, portentous voice. “It’s grey and brown and it’s wearing glasses – it must be Beth Beeby!”
Beth laughs. “I knew there had to be some advantage to being geeky and invisible. I just could never figure out what it was.”
Delila picks up her bag. “So I guess it’s time to strut our stuff.”
“At least I can walk without falling over,” says Beth.
At one side of the lobby of The Hotel Xanadu, stands a calendar of the day’s events. Welcome Tomorrow’s Writers Today: Cary Grant Conference Hall, it says in plastic letters. Underneath that, also in plastic letters, it says, Welcome The City of Angels College of Fashion and Design: Grace Kelly Room.
On one of the sofas in front of the desk, with a view of both the elevators and the calendar of events, sits Otto Wasserbach in a pinstriped suit and horn-rimmed glasses. Otto has been sitting here since the restaurant opened for breakfast, pretending to be reading a very thick thriller, but in reality keeping watch for Gabriela and Beth. Meanwhile, Remedios Cienfuegos y Mendoza, having made certain that only one elevator is working, has been riding up and down in it for hours. It has been, to say the least, a long and tedious morning. Otto’s book, compared with his own experiences, is about as exciting as a cup of warm milk; and if there is anything more boring than silently and swiftly going up and down and down and up in a metal box, Remedios doesn’t want to know what it is.
Nonetheless, they are both feeling confident as the breakfast hours pass and the time for the day’s events draws nearer. There is no way today’s plan can go wrong. Remedios has taken everything that might possibly go wrong into consideration and has prepared for every contingency. There are distractions that can be made; delays that can occur; diversions that can be created – should one of the girls make an appearance before the other comes downstairs. That is Otto’s job. One way or another, Gabriela and Beth will find themselves in the same place at the same time. It won’t take a second to switch them back, and the change should be complete even before they take their seats.
Remedios is almost wishing that she’d brought a newspaper with her so she’d have something to do, when the doors open and several chattering girls step in, among them Lucinda and her room-mate, almost glowing in the bright colours of their make-up and clothes. Remedios doesn’t look at them, but keeps her head lowered so that no one sees her smile but the floor. At the next stop, Delila and her room-mate get in. Remedios can’t believe her luck. This is going to be even easier than she’d hoped. Gabriela and Beth stand only inches away from Remedios – close enough to one another to touch, but not so much as giving each other a fleeting look. The elevator hits the ground like a feather falling on a cushion, and, in the instant before the doors swish open, Remedios lays a gentle hand on the girls in front of her. Bingo!
Otto peers over the top of
his book as the elevator doors open. And nearly cries out loud. They’re both inside! Standing next to each other. If he needed a signal that they’re doing the right thing, then this is it. He leans back with a sigh of relief, and watches the girls walk out, hurrying towards the calendar of the day’s events. The last person out of the elevator is Remedios, a smile on her face like a sunny day.
“Holy Hosanna!” says Otto as Remedios fairly floats towards him. “You did it!” But he wouldn’t be Otto without a second thought. “You did do it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did. Beth’s back in her body, and Gabriela’s back in hers.” Remedios smiles condescendingly. “Happy now?”
“Yes. Yes, I am happy.” Otto stands up, tucking his book under his arm. “Let’s go back to that taqueria for breakfast. We’ve got a couple of hours before the winners are announced. Celebrate with a burrito.”
Remedios, always a wing beat or two ahead of Otto Wasserbach, turns so she can see Beth and Gabriela walking along as if they know where they’re going. She allows herself a small but satisfied smile, but it disappears almost immediately. It will take a minute or two before the switch back is completed and everything’s normal again, and yet Gabriela sails along effortlessly in her platforms and holds a pair of glasses in one hand; and Beth wears her glasses pushed down her nose so that she’s actually looking over them. And then Remedios realizes the horrible truth. Merciful Michael, they’ve taken each others’ places! Remedios turns back to Otto. “You know, I think we better stay here.”
“Stay here? Why should we stay here?”
“I think that, perhaps, there’s been a little complication,” says Remedios. “But it isn’t my fault.”
Otto closes his eyes and groans very softly. “Oh, no, now what’s gone wrong?”
Gabriela wears the smile of a winner – head held high, eyes as bright as Venus, so happy that it’s all she can do not to laugh out loud. Oh, but it feels good to be wearing her own clothes again, even if she’s not in her own body. To be attractive; visible as a gazelle on a golf course. To see the way people look at her as she struts along the corridor.
“Wait a minute.” Gabriela stops by the door of the women’s room. “I just want to check my make-up before we go in.”
“I thought we didn’t want to attract attention by being late.” Lucinda points down the hall. A line of people, as glamorous as a diamond necklace, is slowly moving past the guards and into the Grace Kelly Room. “Everybody’s going in.”
“Two minutes,” promises Gabriela. “Two minutes isn’t going to make any difference.”
But Lucinda has had quite a weekend herself and isn’t about to have her better judgement derailed now. “I know your two minutes, Gab. You have a compact. Check your make-up here.”
Meanwhile, Beth and Delila walk slowly because Beth has to pause every so often to adjust her glasses to see where she is. Nevertheless, Beth, too, is about as happy as a bear at a dump to be back in her own persona, if not her own person. It makes her feel more positive about the future. Optimistic. Surely this is the solution to her and Gabriela’s dilemma. It may take their family and friends a little while to get used to, but this is all they have to do; just change their styles. Even Lillian Beeby will have to accept that although her daughter is a little blonder, has 20/20 vision and can eat nuts, she is still her Beth. Isn’t she the one who always says, “It’s what’s inside that counts”? Yes, she very definitely is.
“Dang it, but this is going to be one giant of a story to tell our grandchildren,” Delila says as they come in sight of the Cary Grant Conference Hall. “Can’t you just picture their faces? Their eyes’ll pop out.”
“Delila!” Beth stops suddenly. Her voice is low, but urgent and not particularly optimistic. “Delila! Wait.”
Delila turns around. “Uh-oh.” Delila has only been on two boats in her life: the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan and the Staten Island Ferry. In both cases, the day was clear and bright and the water was as calm as a garden pond. Delila, however, is not a sailor and might as well have been in a washbasin in the middle of the Atlantic during a hurricane. Beth looks the way those boat trips made her feel. “What’s wrong?”
“Delila?” The girl whose skin is suddenly tinged with green takes off Beth’s glasses and looks down at her hands. The nails, though clean of polish, have been cut, not gnawed to nubs. The skin is lightly tanned. She moves her gaze to her chest. She no longer has the physique of a twelve-year-old boy. “Oh my God,” breathes Gabriela. “I’m me!”
Delila is now standing very close, staring into those dark blue eyes. “When you say me, which me is it you mean?”
“Gabriela.” Her voice squeaks. “I’m me, Gabriela.”
And it is at just about this same moment – as Delila groans and the girl who a minute ago was Beth Beeby blinks back a tear – that Gabriela snaps the compact shut and slips it back into her bag.
“Ready?” says Lucinda. “Let’s go,” and she starts off down the hall.
Gabriela doesn’t follow. “Lucinda?” she calls. “Lucinda, I don’t feel well.” Her voice wobbles, as do her legs. She leans against the wall. “I’m kind of dizzy.” Beneath the foundation, blush and toners her skin is colourless. She tugs at her skirt, which suddenly seems to have shrunk. “And I’m having trouble walking.”
Lucinda sighs, but turns round. “For Pete’s sake, Gab, it’s just nerves. You’ll be OK once we get inside.”
“I don’t have butterflies. I feel weird.” She feels like a wet cotton ball. Boneless. Weightless. Her voice breaks as she mutters, “Something’s wrong.”
“Gabriela?” Lucinda walks back to her, very slowly. Paintings have atmospheres. Rooms have atmospheres. Cities have atmospheres. And people have atmospheres, too. Lucinda can feel that the atmosphere that is Gabriela Menz has suddenly changed. Again. “Gabriela, is that you?”
“No,” says Beth, the wooziness passing. “It’s me.”
Delila and Gabriela are already hurrying towards them.
One of the differences between this morning and yesterday morning is, of course, that this morning neither Gabriela nor Beth is alone. They have Lucinda and Delila; they have each other. Another difference is that this body swap, though unexpected, isn’t quite the terrifying shock it was yesterday. And they’ve changed back to who they were, too, which should be good news.
“So there’s no problem.” Lucinda looks from Gabriela to Beth to Delila. “Right?”
“Right,” says Delila. “Everything’s back to normal.” At least, she thinks it is; it’s getting hard to tell.
“Normal? You call this normal?” Gabriela doesn’t share their cheerful smiles. “How do you figure that?”
“What do you mean?” Delila’s smile looks slightly less cheerful and her eyes dart to Lucinda for moral support. “You’re Gabriela, in Gabriela’s body.” She nods to the girl across from her. “And she’s Beth, in Beth’s body. That’s called back to normal.”
“You’re forgetting something.” Beth, also, looks less than joyous.
“And what’s that?”
Beth opens her arms. Tada! “I’m dressed as Gabriela.”
Gabriela makes a curtsey. “And I’m dressed as Beth.”
And there isn’t time to change; the doors of both rooms will be shut within minutes and no one else allowed in.
Delila shrugs. “OK, so maybe it’s not ideal, but for now you’ll have to keep pretending to be each other.”
“It’s only for a few more hours,” adds Lucinda. “I mean, it’s a bummer that you’ll miss the show, Gab, but, you know, after everything that’s happened… I mean, it’s not really a big deal, right?”
“Wrong.” Gabriela isn’t looking at any of them now, but at the entrance to the Grace Kelly Room. Another minute or two and she would’ve been in her seat. “There’s no way I’m missing the show.” Not after all she’s been through. “I’m going in.”
“But you can’t,” bleats Lucinda.
&
nbsp; “Why can’t I?”
Lucinda throws a help-me look at Delila.
Which Delila obligingly catches. “Because you look like Beth Beeby, that’s why. They’d be nuts to let you in.”
“They have to let her in if she has a ticket.” Beth removes hers from her bag and hands it to Gabriela.
Delila moans. “Oh, mama… Don’t tell me you think you’re going into the writers’ gig dressed like a body-spray commercial?”
“I’d like somebody to try to stop me,” says Beth.
The moment they’ve been waiting for
The Cary Grant Conference Hall is, in fact, an auditorium with staggered rows of seats and a stage across the far wall. It is a windowless room, lit indirectly, climate controlled and acoustically advanced, so that pins can be heard to drop no matter where you sit and no one has to shout to be heard or tap the mic or blanch when the sound system shrieks. Its anodyne walls have been decorated for the occasion with large black-and-white photographs of famous writers (Hemingway with a dead animal, Tolstoy with a beard, Jane Austen with a cap on her head), creating an atmosphere that is at once exotic and intellectual.
Every English department in every college in the area has been invited to this landmark event, and almost every seat is taken. The finalists in the Tomorrow’s Writers Today competition sit in the middle of the front row, ready to take their turns at the podium, flanked by the distinguished writers and academics who acted as judges. Professor Gryck (who will be giving the opening address) stands like a sentry on the bottom step of the stairs that lead to the right side of the stage.
Among her many skills and talents, Professor Gryck is a consummate multitasker. Although she is busier than a Viking raiding party this morning, she knows exactly who is seated and waiting for the ceremony to begin – and who isn’t. Beth Beeby. Of course. Who else? Apparently Beth Beeby is, if not the Devil’s spawn, at least a close relative, who for some reason is determined to undermine Professor Gryck every chance she gets and is doing a splendid, almost inspired, job of it – so splendid that not even two run-ins with the law have been enough to make her stop. Professor Gryck looks at her watch. And then back to the two empty seats in the front row. Where in the name of Snorri Sturluson is she?
