Thin, Rich, Pretty

by Harbison, Beth

  “I didn’t tell you to become Actress Number Three or Girl at Bowling Alley. I said to just alter your snooter a little bit.”

  She didn’t want to hear any more of this. “It’s not up to you, Mike. It’s up to people way, way more powerful than you. Get me the auditions. Let me take it from there.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. Get me”—she took a breath—“the auditions. Get them. I won’t let you down.” Or myself, she added silently.

  Especially myself.

  “It’s not just anyone who can feel sorry for themselves because they’re attractive,” Holly said to Nicola on the phone a few days later. “If this were anyone but you, I’d have no patience for it at all.”

  “Come on, Hol, don’t miss the point: Whatever is attractive about me now isn’t any different from what anyone else with an extra ten grand could have.” Nicola meant it. She was very aware that the work she’d had done altered her into someone else, and she could no more take credit for her looks now than she could take credit for the workmanship that went into her Marc Jacobs boots.

  It was all someone else’s work. She was just reaping the benefits; that was all.

  “But why are you letting this make you feel bad?” Holly sounded impatient. “That is so stupid!”

  It wasn’t stupid.

  It was just sad in a way that no one could fully understand unless they’d been there.

  “He didn’t send it to me. He sent it to the woman sitting in the restaurant. If she’d had my real face, he wouldn’t have given her a second look.”

  “You were the woman sitting in the restaurant! That’s who you are now.”

  “Not really.” She had to make her point. “That’s the point. I look like her, but I’m not her. And I feel bad that all it takes is a nice face to get free champagne and good tables at restaurants and, hell, to be allowed to cut into traffic. What that says to women—like me—who aren’t born with classically beautiful features is that they’re not worthy.” Tears burned in Nicola’s eyes, and she was glad Holly couldn’t see her right now. “Even while I accepted that guy’s champagne, I felt bad for the woman I really am, a woman he might not have braked for in traffic, much less sent a two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne to.”

  “All right, I know this isn’t just about the champagne. And I get what you’re saying about how this isn’t fair in the greater scheme of things. Looks count. That sucks. Believe me—I know that sucks.”

  “Holly, you’re not—”

  “Don’t give me a pep talk. I’m in the middle of a point. And that point is that you need to own how you look. It really isn’t who you are. If some guy in a restaurant thinks it is, and you get a nice little buzz because of it, then be glad you’re the kind of person who is smart enough to enjoy that kind of thing even though you know his intentions are kind of sucky and you wouldn’t want to date him.”

  Nicola laughed. “I did drink it.”

  “All of it?”

  “Every drop.”

  “Lush.”

  “I know.”

  “But good for you. I wish you’d enjoyed it more instead of sitting there feeling bad about poor old you with the big nose.”

  Nicola sighed. It was exactly what she was doing. And she couldn’t stop. “I found out this morning that I didn’t get a role on a new sitcom because I’m too pretty.”

  “What?”

  “Mike, my agent, called this morning to tell me that this sitcom I’d gone out for—after they’d specifically asked for me—turned me down because they think I’m too pretty. They said they were looking for someone, quote, ‘more ordinary,’ because the character, quote, ‘married late’ and, quote, ‘was now trying to get pregnant.’ In other words, someone so ugly, no one would marry her until it was too late to get pregnant.”

  “But you wanted the role?”

  “Absolutely. It had some great stuff in it about trying to get pregnant. There’s a lot of funny stuff out there about that. I think it might be good in the right hands.”

  “Then I’m sorry you didn’t get it.”

  Nicola closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s not just that. I also lost a role on a new teen drama as a mom.”

  “A mom? To a teenager?” Holly scoffed. “Well, duh, obviously you weren’t old enough for that.”

  “Yeah? Kelly Rowan was thirty-seven when she was playing a mom to twenty-four-year-old Adam Brody on The O.C. You go from ingénue to mom in ten years in this business.”

  “So why didn’t they want you for that role, then?”

  Nicola smiled. “They said I was too young.”

  “Too young, too pretty, too old, too ugly”—Holly made an exasperated noise—“I don’t know how you can take being in that business. I really don’t.”

  “It’s not very different from real life, if you think about it. Maybe a little more concentrated, a little harsher, but we women get judged and either accepted or rejected every moment that we’re out in the real world.”

  “Then you should be happy that the judgment is now in your favor!”

  “I’m pissed off that it exists at all! I’m pissed that people—men, in particular—think they are free to treat women however they want, according to their perception of them.”

  “You’ve been in L.A. for too long,” Holly said. “You’ve lost track of the real world. It’s not nearly as bad as you think.”

  Nicola disagreed. “There was this time”—she hated this memory—“when I was nineteen and I was driving in Arlington. To my mother’s, actually. I remember it distinctly because I had just been dumped by Todd Kampros and I felt like total shit. Anyway, I went to a four-way stop and arrived like a split second before this guy in a pickup truck. We both stopped, then I started to go because, like I said, I’d gotten there first, and he started to go at the same time. I guess I didn’t notice right away, so he slammed on his brakes, and when I looked at him, he threw his hands in the air and yelled, ‘You’re so ugly!’ ”

  Her chest ached just thinking about it. That so had tipped it over the edge. So ugly. Not merely ugly. Not unattractive. So ugly was about as bad as it got. It had been the absolute worst thing he could have said at the worst time for her to hear it, and even though the guy was not worth the breath she’d wasted relating the story, she’d thought about him so many times in the past thirteen years that he could have had a memorial brain cell in her head.

  “Just ‘you’re so ugly,’ like it was a completely reasonable judgment and like he was the guy to deliver it.”

  “That’s awful.” Holly’s voice broke. “Obviously the guy was just a jerk with a tiny dick.”

  This was what she loved about Holly. The woman was a fierce defender of Nicola but could always make her laugh in the process.

  “I know. That’s why it’s so ridiculous that I’ve let him occupy my memory at all, because obviously there’s a lot wrong with a guy who would act that way toward a stranger at an intersection. Even though I was totally clear on who the asshole was at the time, it still hurt. That crap about not feeling hurt by someone unless you respect them is bullshit.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Well, yeah. I wish you weren’t, but you’re right. But you’re actually kind of making my point. It would be ideal if you weren’t given special treatment now just because you look good, but if you’re going to accept the shit for being supposedly ugly—and you did accept the shit, and you’ve carried it for years—why the hell shouldn’t you accept the perks for being attractive?”

  Interesting. “You may have a point.”

  “I do have a point. Neither of those things should affect the real you.”

  And that was true, too. She didn’t take the flattery to heart. Why was she so ready to take the insults to heart? Diving into that part of her psyche was more work than she had time for right now.

  “Aw, you’re just saying that because
I’m gorgeous,” she joked.

  “Obviously. You don’t think I’d be wasting all this wisdom on some ugly old cow, do you?”

  “Of course not.” Nicola smiled. Holly did have a way of making her feel better. “So tell me, oh wise one, what’s going on in your life? Is all this good advice the product of a happy pre-engagement?” Or was it the by-product of contemplating marrying a man who wanted his girlfriend to lose weight before he’d let her call herself his fiancée?

  “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t even been able to think about the engagement.”

  “Really?” That was interesting, but Nicola knew she had to tread carefully. “Gallery business is good, huh?”

  “Weirdly good. Usually we don’t get this kind of business unless it’s Christmas or the Cherry Blossom Festival, but we have exclusive licensing on an artist who was just on Oprah, so the place has been hopping.”

  “Oh my God, are you talking about the woman who uses her own hair as a paintbrush?”

  “Rapunzel herself.”

  “Way to go!” Nicola’s call waiting beeped. She glanced at it and saw it was Mike. She’d asked him to call her this afternoon with three potential auditions for her or she was going to fire him. At this point, there was no telling which it would be. “I’ve got to run,” she said. “Let me call you back later, okay?”

  “Whenever you’ve got time,” Holly said. “Bye!”

  “Bye.” Nicola switched over. “Mike.”

  “Man, I hate caller ID.”

  “Makes you wonder about all those girls who ‘aren’t home’ when you call, doesn’t it?”

  “Funny. So listen, I’ve lined up some auditions. You give me an ultimatum, you do them on my time, so I’ll be e-mailing the details to you. But something interesting came up. Ed Macziulkas called my office and left word that he wanted to audition you for a Nicola Kestle role—how do you like that?”

  “Are you kidding? He said that?” It crossed her mind, briefly, that she didn’t look exactly the way she used to, but that would be true even if she hadn’t gotten her nose fixed. She was older now. Hopefully he’d think she looked better.

  “Those were his words exactly. Seems that’s what the screenwriter had in mind when he wrote the part. Anyway, you’re up for that.”

  Her heart was pounding. This was the best news she had gotten in years. “My odds of getting that seem pretty good.”

  “Hell, baby, you never know. But, yeah, I’d say if he’s got a Nicola Kestle role, you’d seem to have an edge there. So check your e-mail, and we’ll talk later in the week.”

  “Okay.” She couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice. She didn’t even want to try. For the first time in she really didn’t know how long, she felt optimistic. “And, Mike.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  11

  The weeks passed quickly for Lexi. Too quickly.

  First, she’d muddled through the shock. The initial shock, anyway. She had a feeling she was going to feel shocked for a long time to come, because that’s how a person feels when her childhood home, and every feeling of safety she’s ever had, is ripped out from under her like a tablecloth in a clumsy magic trick.

  Then she’d been pissed. Seriously pissed. For one solid week, despite an initial vow to move on and forget the idea of contesting the will, she had contacted lawyer after lawyer, eventually trying even the ambulance chasers who advertised on weekday-morning TV, trying to find one who would work on spec for a percentage of the settlement Lexi was certain Michelle would owe her.

  But everyone’s answer was the same: Unless there was fraud, she couldn’t take legal issue with her late father’s decision over what to do with his money.

  It was only then, when it was getting down to the wire, to where she would have to get the hell out of the house and start her own life, that she realized she was really going to have to get a job right away. And the truth was, she did it then only because every Realtor and apartment manager she spoke with told her she needed a verifiable income.

  “Why don’t you just tell them I’m your boss?” her friend Maribeth asked. “They can call me, and I can say, yes, she’s my personal assistant, I pay her X, and there you go.”

  Lexi looked at Maribeth. They were sitting at café tables, having coffee outside Nordstrom. Five weeks ago, having Maribeth pretend to be her boss might have struck Lexi as the solution, too.

  Now it just sounded pitifully out of touch.

  “Because you’re not paying me X.”

  “So?” Maribeth pulled a face. “God, Lex, since when are you so high and mighty about lying?”

  “I’m not worried about the lying. I’m worried about the paying after I’ve gotten into a place I lied to get into.”

  “Don’t they take credit cards?” Maribeth pursed her lips. She’d just gotten Clinique’s Angel Red lipstick after reading that Nicole Kidman wore it in Moulin Rouge, and it looked great on her, particularly since she’d just cut her hair into a flapper-style bob and colored it a glossy deep black. “And don’t tell me that’s a dumb question. Even my doctor takes credit cards these days. They have that Visa/MasterCard sign right on the check-in desk.”

  Lexi had, in fact, been ready to make a Marie Antoinette “let them eat cake” joke, but Maribeth would have thought she was calling her stupid. “You don’t understand—you need to pay credit cards every month. You can’t just use them and use them and never pay.” Even though this hadn’t been an issue in her life until recently, Lexi learned it fast and well, and she resented the hell out of the fact that she’d had to.

  “I know that.” Maribeth rolled her eyes. “But you don’t have to pay the whole thing. Jesus, Lex, you don’t have to give me so much shit for trying to help you.”

  “It doesn’t help to tell me to lie about having a job then charge my rent on a credit card.” Lexi sipped her latte. It was cold. And fattening. And way more expensive than it should have been. In old movies, people paid a dime for a cup of coffee. This explosion of ash-flavored cream had been almost five bucks.

  “Then what do you want me to do? Lend you money?”

  Lexi felt like she’d been slapped. “No! Why would you even say that?”

  “Because all you’ve done for weeks now is complain about how broke you are and how supposedly expensive every little thing is and how you can’t go out and do the things we’ve always gone out and done.” Maribeth ran a manicured finger across the lid of her cup, then flicked the foam off her finger and looked evenly at Lexi. “Frankly, it’s hard for us not to conclude that you’re asking for money.”

  “Us? Who is us?”

  Maribeth shrugged, as only someone who had no sensitivity to anyone but herself could at a moment like this. “Well . . . everyone. When we went out the other night and you made us all divide up the check by what we had instead of dividing it evenly? You might as well have asked us to cover you.”

  Lexi’s face felt hot, remembering how foolishly good she’d felt that night, surrounding herself with people she thought were her friends. But it had been a hard week. She’d had a salad and a glass of white wine. Why should she have kicked in an even amount for people who’d ordered the prime rib and three bottles of Montepulciano?

  Particularly since everyone knew what had just happened to her. There was no keeping a secret in that crowd. Whispering and maybe pity were to be expected. A hundred and twenty bucks for a salad and an eight-dollar glass of chardonnay? It wasn’t fair.

  And Lexi was sure that if misfortune had fallen on any of them, she would have been a lot more sensitive to it.

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” Lexi said.

  “Frankly, I can’t believe I have to. But I suppose it was coming. We all thought someone might have to talk to you about it.”

  There it was again—a bold statement that the people Lexi had thought were her friends were not. They were catty, bitchy monsters who were dropping her like she was the weakest in a pack o
f jackals.

  Maybe she didn’t slow them down, but she cramped their style.

  It was so awkward to associate with someone of more modest means.

  Lexi gathered her purse and the bags of clothes she’d foolishly bought at Nordstrom. She was only trying to look normal, she realized now, putting on a show for Maribeth when she was the last person in the world who deserved the time or effort.

  “I’m really glad we had this chat,” she said to Maribeth.

  Maribeth looked at her, her eyes softening and looking as warm as they could behind the vivid ice blue of her contacts. “Me, too.” She nodded. “It’s not that I don’t want to give you money or anything else. It’s just that I don’t think it would be good for you.” She gave a wan smile. “The best thing I can do for you is shoot straight from the hip, just like I always have, and stop you before you make a fool of yourself.”

  She’d shot straight from the hip, all right. Straight into Lexi’s heart. “It’s good of you.” Lexi gave a short nod. She couldn’t believe Maribeth actually thought she was being helpful.

  “What are friends for?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering.” Lexi turned on her heel and walked away.

  “Hey! Wait up!”

  “No thanks.” Lexi didn’t even look back.

  “Aren’t we going to Ormond’s?”

  “Not interested.” She quickened her pace, knowing that right about now Maribeth was feeling pretty embarrassed about being publicly dissed. It wasn’t a quarter of what she’d made Lexi feel, but it was a start.

  “Lexi!” This time Maribeth’s voice was sharp. No more fake Mrs. Nice Girl.

  Lexi ignored her and kept walking.

  She didn’t stop until she got to the customer service and returns desk at Nordstrom.

  She drove home, blinded by tears of anger. There was a pretty good portion of self-pity in there, too, but she didn’t give a damn. She did feel sorry for herself.

  She had a right to feel sorry for herself.

  “Fuck you, Maribeth!” she shouted at a traffic light, so loud that people looked at her from the cars to either side.