Reaching Lily

by Vivacia K Ahwen

  ‘How artistic of you, Lily. Quirky.’

  ‘Your ironic mockery won’t get a rise out of me, Beatrice. I’m onto you Holders. And you’re the teenager with a millennial sense of entitlement and hipsterly snobbery.’

  ‘I’ll be twenty in November,’ she huffed.

  ‘And, for the record, I’m not being “cool”, I’m being private. I used to keep a journal, but they require too much commitment and are inevitably discovered and cause fights. Not too many people pick through the trash.’ Though I could totally picture Dorian being a trash-picker. ‘And no one touches my junk trunk.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Had I a dollar for every document I’ve shredded, I would –’

  ‘– be a billionaire?’

  ‘Touché. Being an heiress does have its downsides, believe it or not. Especially when you request to be taken out of the will.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘So I’m nineteen. You’ve deferred to me as though I were your elder since we’ve met. Perhaps it’s the economic gap. Or not? Why did you let me treat you like you were trash? It’s been exhausting trying to provoke you into standing up for yourself.’

  ‘Excuse me, I’ve deferred to you?’ Flashing back on last night’s showdown when she was trying to leave Boulud’s was humiliating. Cheers to her for not referring to it once throughout the day.

  ‘You’re scared to death of me, Lily Dewitt. And rightly so. The age thing, well –’ she shrugged ‘– I’ve been going on forty from the first time my mother ended up in rehab.’

  The unanswered question hung in the air.

  ‘I was twelve, Lily, for the record. Which makes me forty-seven, in theory. Older than you. Which, perhaps, is why you defer to me. And yes, you do defer.’

  ‘I never asked.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She looked back at her iPad, clicked a few times, and her flat affect returned. ‘Your medical records are in, Lily.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  As though on cue, the travel-fax machine ran off several pages, which Beatrice Collins looked over with a curious frown.

  ‘I will pass on the word to your boss-slash-lover that you are “clean” so the two of you can enjoy your ill-fated melodrama to its fullest. God forbid anything should come between Dorian and his soap opera.’ Her eyes scanned back and forth, then widened. ‘But I will disclose neither the abortion nor the miscarriage. Nor the – oh. You had a tubal ligation? When you were twenty-two? What is your mental diagnosis, Lily Dewitt?’

  ‘Beatrice, you have no idea what you’re talking about, nor why I made the choices I did, and I don’t owe answers to you … or anyone else.’ Yeah, now. Fuck her. ‘My body, my choice. Let’s just say I’m not the mothering type. And Dorian already knows about the abortion.’

  ‘You told him that? On your first night?’

  If she was being sarcastic, I decided to ignore it, and checked again for the nonexistent message from my best friend on my new phone.

  ‘All right, Lily. We shan’t discuss it. Assuming you treat my brother with decency and respect, he won’t know about any of the rest of your history, including your … barrenness.’ She slipped my records into a folder. ‘Or that nasty chlamydia situation. Glad to see you got that one cleared up.’

  ‘Wow.’ I stared out the window. ‘You’re right. I am totally scared of you, Ms Collins. Happy?’

  ‘No.’ She looked out of her own window. ‘I cannot even picture what happy looks like.’

  ‘You’re sorry for being such an asshole, then?’ Because Beatrice Collins wasn’t a bitch, not like she tried so hard to be, though I had a distinct feeling that her mother might be. Beatrice was just kind of an asshole. Like Dorian. And since age actually does matter, and she has no idea what my story is, it came down to this: Beatrice Collins was just a little punk with a lot of money, some brains, and a lot of trips to Europe under her belt.

  ‘Genetics,’ she answered, by way of explanation. ‘Let’s get that cup of tea, shall we, Lily?’

  ‘Do let’s.’

  * * *

  Poor Benton took off to entertain himself, while Beatrice Collins and I sat down together: dirty chai for me, Cinnamon Sunburst for her. She glanced up from her iPad to ask why I bummed a ginormous coffee filter from the barista.

  ‘Because,’ I said, uncapping my pen, ‘I haven’t written my entry today. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not so much.’ She frowned. ‘So you’ve got a trunk full of garbage at home. Do you think you just may be a hoarder?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Well, all right. Judging from what I’ve heard, there’s no room in your hell-hole to store anything. But I will call you out on being just a blogger in disguise. A paper blogger. Normally bloggers do a stream-of-consciousness thing in front of a screen, but de gustibus non est disputandum.’

  ‘Words, words, words. I’m a collector.’

  ‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ she said. ‘You are a hoarder, contrary to your claims. Not of “stuff”, like my Mommy Dearest, but random reflections that you’ll surely turn into the next Harry Potter. You know that J. K. Rowling –’

  ‘I’m aware of how the book was written. No, I just kind of scribble down a few ideas during the day, because every time I’ve tried to keep a diary I’ve either misplaced it or someone’s stolen it from me.’ I twirl a few strands of newly awesome hair around my finger. ‘Can I please do my Lily thing?’

  ‘Someone stole it from you? I see.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Someone, I assume, is a nosy ex-lover. You attract privacy invaders.’

  ‘Maybe. It’s not really your business.’ Exactly why was I telling her this? Gwen never asked me about my scratching away on placemats and whatnot. Maybe she just assumed I was writing a to-do list. Or perhaps didn’t notice, since it had always been The Gwen Show.

  ‘So this explains the giant bag you were lugging around. It’s got to kill you to just have that tiny clutch today. Maybe you’ll stop writing down all the non-memories that happen in your life and shoving them away where no one else can see.’ She snatched the coffee filter from me. ‘So far, there’s a scribble.’

  ‘You really are your brother’s sister, aren’t you?’

  ‘Half-sister. So you’re writing a memoir?’

  ‘No, clearing my head. Maybe I’m the star of my own narrative.’

  ‘How meta of you. Unfortunately, you don’t get to be Mary Sue, as that’s my role, unless I’m still being cast as the Evil Blonde.’ She took a delicate taste of her tea. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘No. Kind of.’

  ‘Well, you don’t get to be Manic Pixie Dream Girl, either. That’s your BFF, Gwen, who is fired as of tomorrow.’ She nodded her head. ‘Yep, and you can’t even warn her, because I’m betting she no longer speaks to you. Seeing as you’re the boss’s pet.’

  ‘So, are you a psychic on top of everything else?’

  ‘No.’ Beatrice flipped open her leather folder and handed me an envelope. ‘Though I am a certified life coach. Go ahead, open it. A gift from me to you.’

  She returned to her typing while I checked out my ‘gift’, written on official Apollyon letterhead. A strong letter of recommendation for a random new career (‘working for your company, in any capacity’), signed by none other than Dorian Holder. The man, the dream. The fuckhead.

  Granted, it was a glowing reference, illuminating my attributes of being a ‘Jill-of-All-Trades’, but also? Well, pretty obvious. He wanted me out of Apollyon Enterprises. As in, don’t let the door hit your ass …

  ‘So.’ I folded it up again and aimed for a pokerface. ‘You’ve been taking me on this fashionista tour de force to let me go, because Dorian lets you handle all his dirty work.’

  ‘Au contraire. I wrote that myself, and gave it to Dor with a stack of other letters he needed to John Hancock. He never reads any of these, and pretty much signed your Apollyon career away, unbeknownst to him. Or, at least, this leg of your career. Assuming you want an out, and why not? They say our generation will change it up every five
years or so, based on whatever new trends and technology enter the picture.’

  ‘I knew it.’ I stuffed the letter back into the envelope. ‘It’s not Dorian, it’s you, Beatrice. You’re trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘No.’ She reached across the table and touched my arm. ‘I’m giving you an out, Lily. Run. Run while you still can. I was kind of unclear in parts, so if you’re displeased, send me a rewrite and I’ll pull the same stunt. Dor will sign anything. You should find a new position anywhere now. I’ve already lined up a few companies where you could be fantastic. Do you really want to be that girl who got her career jump-started by screwing her boss? Because that will be your legacy. Trust me. If you’re everything my brother seems to think you are, then you can and will thrive someplace else. Make it on your own terms. Not on Dorian’s Cavalli coattails.’

  ‘Like you did? Holder is pretty much a brand name.’

  ‘There’s worlds of what you don’t know, Lily. In case you haven’t noticed, my name is Collins. There’s a reason. And every penny I’ve earned, I’ve made it myself. I’m hardly my mother’s daughter.’

  ‘Tell me about your mother.’

  ‘No, Sigmund. Though I appreciate your interest.’ She snatched the letter and looked it over again. ‘You can thank me for that stellar recommendation now.’

  ‘Thank you. But if you were serious about me rewriting it myself, I will, since you’re way off on describing my skillset.’

  ‘How so? I thought it was nice and vague.’

  ‘Not vague enough. I’m hardly a Jill of All Trades.’ Once I began overdisclosing to her, I couldn’t stop. She had the same piercing stare as her brother, and it was unnerving. ‘Though Master of None works.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘I’ve got a knack for new things, but I quit when the challenge gets to be too much, or I lose faith, or just become uninterested. When I tried to take up knitting, I cranked out a scarf and one legwarmer. Then that was the end of it.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Maybe that was a silly example.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Unless you’re looking for a job at a blanket factory, in which case I’ll tear this thing up.’ Her eyes darted over the words and she shrugged. ‘But I understand what you’re saying. Kind of goes with the B.A. in English.’

  ‘Right. I have no idea what I want to be when I “grow up”. Maybe there hasn’t even been a career invented for me yet.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, Lily.’ Her voice became low and conspiratorial. ‘My theory about Dorian’s sudden fascination with you is precisely because of that. You’re a blank canvas. He wants to create a masterpiece. There is psychology involved that I won’t get into, as it’s mere speculation. Besides, I’ve decided you’ve got a brain, and will put the pieces together yourself.’

  I stared at her, and she handed back my recommendation.

  ‘So, rewrite your life story. Go to town. Perhaps when faced with writing down all that you can do, and why you are “an asset to any company who is lucky enough to have you”, you’ll be able to break free of your self-created shackles.’

  I flashed back to Dorian tying me up last night.

  ‘Couple more things.’ She handed over another envelope, the return address of which was Medical Center of Aurora, Colorado. ‘Herein lie Dorian’s records. See if you can trust him without opening them. There’s information that will inevitably lead to questions, and I can’t believe he gave that up to you. I’ll grant you the same respect, and suggest Dor leave your history unopened, as a matter of power balance. Since these documents only go up to two years ago, I have to double-check: you’re still HIV and STD free, practise safe sex and are barren on all counts?’

  ‘Wow.’ I nod. ‘Horrible to answer these, especially to you. But yes on all counts. You’ve got the deeds to prove it, lest there be any doubt.’

  ‘I’ll let my brother know he has nothing to worry about, and you two can carry on with whatever nonsense you’ve begun. Which seems to have taken precedence over his company overhaul.’

  ‘You’ve made your point, Beatrice.’

  ‘Third envelope. Whatever this is, don’t open in front of me.’

  I couldn’t blame her. Though it was another sterile-looking Holder Enterprises envelope, the flourishing penmanship and one-word inscription – Lily – made it clear that whatever the contents were, they were for my eyes only. And he knew damn well that not being able to look at it all afternoon would be torture.

  Dorian Holder loves torture.

  ‘When did you get this?’ I was bewildered.

  ‘Dor had his toady Joey drop it off while you were getting dolled up. I can’t believe he actually took the time to write something himself,’ Beatrice said, but could not keep an affectionate tone out of her voice. ‘Can you imagine?’

  Trust me, my imagination was running wild. Would I be happy with what he had to say, or was it something just godawful? Ugh, ugh and ugh.

  ‘Cool,’ I mumbled, and slipped the letters into the red and black paper bag from the Twilight salon, which was half-full of products with which to maintain my ‘new’ hair.

  Beatrice shoved the Globe towards me, and said, ‘Check out the Arts section. Maybe tonight you’ll choose Sleeping Beauty instead of shacking up with Tenacious D. Apparently, Boston Ballet are living up to their reputation.’

  ‘Horoscopes first,’ I said, choosing not to rise to the bait.

  ‘Fair enough.’ She looked out of the window. ‘If you ask me, Lily, it’s a fine day to be an Aries.’

  I didn’t bother asking how she knew my sign.

  Clearly, my so-called life had become an open book.

  One that I was growing curious to read.

  * * *

  Frau Marla Gheiszler was about 80 years old, and she greeted Beatrice and me as though we had come to rob her. The studio was on some side street off the square, old and bricky, kind of like her. Once it had been established that we had no ill intentions, she led us to her office to tell us that she wasn’t taking on any new pupils, even ones who ‘had any business’ coming to her. Apparently she used to run the dance programme at Harvard, but now only turned up there for dinner functions, and directed independent studies programmes with the brightest and best in all the States.

  So I couldn’t blame the old gal for being suspicious when Holder Enterprises LLC send in some random intern for private lessons. God knows what Frau Gheiszler charged per hour, but it wasn’t enough when dealing with what appeared to be a hopeless case. ‘Hopeless case’ being yours truly.

  ‘While it’s very nice to meet you, Ms Collins and Dewitt, I am not taking additional students at this time, let alone ones with no background in dance to speak of. No matter what my assistant said to you, there was a complete miscommunication. I would never have agreed to such a thing. I wouldn’t even agree to have one of my students work with … this.’ She looked me up and down. ‘Still less would I teach her myself. Am I being punked?’

  Though having an 80-year-old woman ask if she was being punked should have been hilarious, I was mortified.

  ‘Frau Gheiszler,’ Beatrice began. ‘What we would –’

  ‘No one calls me that.’ The Grande Dame of demi-pliés stubbed out a More menthol in a crystal ashtray on the coffee table. Her office was a mini-parlour with furniture that looked as though it belonged behind velvet barriers in a museum. Wonder if she stole them from somebody’s sidewalk at some point? After all, she hasn’t always been Frau Marla Gheiszler, right? A teeny white dog lay beside her on the sofa, looking somewhere between asleep and dead.

  ‘Ms Gheiszler?’ said poor Beatrice, trying to hide her annoyance. ‘Madame Gheiszler?’

  ‘Dr Gheiszler?’ I piped in.

  ‘It’s Marly.’ She stretched out her elegant limbs. Marly still looked slammin’ hot in her old-school black tights and long-sleeved leotard, though some part of me wanted to suggest she put on some trousers. I kept gawking at her legs. I want legs like that when I’m 80.

  ‘Take a pic
ture, kid,’ she said. ‘It’ll last longer.’

  ‘Quit staring,’ hissed Beatrice. ‘Misunderstandings happen, of course. But Lily would only be seeing you four days a week. If your assistant gave you the wrong message, perhaps she misinformed you about what Holder Enterprises are willing to pay for lessons.’

  ‘Ms Collins, my time is precious, and ultimately priceless.’ Marly gestured around the room, which had several framed posters of ballet performances starting in 1952 and ending twenty years ago. ‘I am a legend, Ms Collins, and sending me some social-climbing brat who’s screwing the CEO would not be adding to it. God knows I don’t need any more money, and just teaching this girl to walk will take days. Weeks, even.’

  ‘Hello?’ I said, waving a well-manicured hand. ‘Social-climbing brat is still in the room.’

  ‘Then stand up straight, girl, so I can see you.’ Marly eased herself off the settee and approached me, arms extended. I had a flashback to some movie about sexy zombies I watched someplace as she grabbed me by the waist, gave me what I can only describe as a body chop to my lower back and an upward smack on the ass, and finally cupped my face to lift my head.

  ‘Harvard will be sorry to lose the million-dollar grant for a new wing to Farkas Hall which was going to be in your name. Sorry to have wasted your time, Madame. Frau. Professor.’ Beatrice, bless her heart, looked ready to punch the old ballerina right in the schnozz.

  ‘Church,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Beatrice hissed. ‘She just gave you perfect posture in about three seconds. We need her.’

  ‘I can hear you,’ Marly said, tapping her hearing aid. ‘This thing works, you know.’

  ‘So you don’t want to build upon your legacy and have an entire wing at the most prestigious university in the States honouring your generosity. I see.’

  ‘My legacy looms as large as it needs to be.’ Frau Marly Gheiszler patted her grey bun with pride.