Elegance and Innocence: 2-Book Collection. Kathleen Tessaro

Louise,’ she has a voice of surprising power and depth, ‘tell me how you’re doing. I want to hear everything!’

      ‘Well …’ My mind races, desperately flicking through the facts of my life for some worthy gem. The other women look up at me expectantly. ‘Things are good, Mona … really good.’

      ‘And your parents? How’s the weather in Pittsburgh? Louise is from Pittsburgh,’ she mouths, sotto voce.

      ‘They’re well, thank you.’

      She nods. I feel like a contestant being introduced on an afternoon quiz show and like any good quiz show host, she helps to jog me along when I dry up.

      ‘And are you working right now?’

      She says the word ‘working’ with the kind of subtle significance that all showbiz people do; there is, after all, a world of difference between ‘working’ and having a job when you’re in ‘the profession’.

      I know all this but refuse to play along.

      ‘Well, yes. I’m still with the Phoenix Theatre Company.’

      ‘Is it an acting job? Our Louise fancies herself as a bit of an actress,’ she offers, by way of an explanation.

      ‘Well, I was an actress,’ I blunder. No matter how hard I try, she always catches me out. ‘I mean, I haven’t really worked in a while. And no, this isn’t an acting job, it’s working front of house, in the box office.’

      ‘I see,’ she smiles, as if she can discern a deeper meaning I’m not aware of. And then Dorian asks the most dreaded question of all.

      ‘Have we seen you in anything?’

      ‘Well, of course I’ve done the odd commercial.’ I try to sound casual, shrugging my shoulders as if to imply ‘who hasn’t?’

      ‘Really?’ She arches an eyebrow in a perfect impersonation of a woman impressed. ‘What commercials?’

      Damn.

      ‘Well …’ I try to think. ‘There was the Reader’s Digest Sweepstakes Campaign. You may have caught me in that one.’

      She stares at me blankly.

      ‘You know, the one where they’re all flying around in a hot air balloon over England, drinking champagne and searching for the winners. I was the one on the left holding a map and pointing to Luton.’

      ‘Ah ha.’ She’s being polite. ‘Well, that sounds fun.’

      ‘And now you’re working in the box office.’ Mona wraps the whole thing up in a clean, little package.

      ‘Yes, well, I’ve got a couple of things in the pipeline, so to speak … but right now that’s what I’m doing.’ I want my arm back quite badly now.

      She gives it another little squeeze. ‘It is a difficult profession, darling. Best to know your limitations. I always advise young women to avoid it like the plague. The simple truth is, it takes more discipline and sacrifice than most modern girls are willing to put up with. Have you seen my picture?’

      Keep smiling, I tell myself. If you keep smiling, she’ll never know that you want her to die. ‘No, I haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet; we’ve only just got here.’

      ‘Here, allow me.’ And she pulls me over to a large photograph of her from the 1950s.

      She’s incredibly young, almost unrecognizable, except for the distinctive, almond shape of the eyes and the famous cheekbones, which remain untouched by time. She’s leaning with her back pressed against a classical pillar, her face turned slightly to the camera, half in shadow, half in light. Her pale hair falls in artfully styled curls over her shoulders and she’s wearing a strapless gown of closely fitted layers of flowing silk chiffon. It’s labelled, ‘Vogue, 1956.’

      ‘What do you think?’ she asks, eyeing me carefully.

      ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I say, truthfully.

      ‘You have taste.’ She smiles.

      A press photographer recognizes her and asks if he can take her picture.

      ‘Story of my life!’ she laughs and I make my escape while she poses.

      I look around the crowded room for my husband. Finally I spot him, laughing with a group of people in the corner. He has two glasses of champagne in his hands and as I make my way over, he looks up and catches my eye.

      I smile and he says something, turns and walks towards me before I can join them.

      ‘Who are they?’ I ask, as he hands me a glass.

      ‘No one, just some people from one of these theatre clubs. They recognized me from the play.’ He guides me back towards the photographs. ‘How are you getting on with Mums?’

      ‘Oh, fine,’ I lie. ‘Just fine.’ I turn back and look but they’re gone, swallowed by the ever shifting crowd. ‘Didn’t you want to introduce me?’

      He laughs and pats my bottom, which I hate and which he only ever seems to do in public. ‘No, not at all! Don’t be so paranoid. To be frank, they’re a bit, shall we say, over-enthusiastic. I don’t want them boring my charming wife, now do I?’

      ‘And who might that be?’ I sound much more acerbic than I’d intended.

      He pats my bottom again and ignores me.

      We pause in front of a photograph of a woman smoking a cigarette, her eyes hidden by the brim of her hat. She leans, waiting in a doorway on a dark, abandoned street. It must’ve been taken just after the Second World War. There’s something unsettling in the contrast of the shattered surroundings and the pristine perfection of her crisp, tailored suit.

      ‘Now that’s style,’ my husband sighs.

      Suddenly it’s too hot. I feel overwhelmed by the crush of people, the smoke, and the sound of too many over-animated conversations. Mona’s waving to us again but I allow my husband to walk over to her and make my way into a smaller, less crowded room off the main gallery instead. There’s a flat, wooden bench in the centre. I sit down and close my eyes.

      It’s foolish to get so tense. In another hour, it will all be over. Mona will have had her moment of glory and we’ll be safely on our way back home. The thing to do is relax. Enjoy myself. I open my eyes and take a deep breath.

      The walls are lined with portraits – Picasso, Coco Chanel, Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant – rows and rows of meticulous, glamorous faces. The eyes are darker, more penetrating than normal eyes, the noses straighter, more refined. I allow myself to slip into a sort of meditative state, a spell brought on by witnessing such an excess of beauty.

      And then I spot a portrait I don’t recognize, a woman with gleaming dark hair, parted in the middle and arranged in a mass of black curls around her face. Her features are distinctive; high cheekbones, a Cupid’s-bow mouth and very black, intelligent eyes. Leaning forward, with her cheek lightly resting against her hand, she looks as if we’ve happened to catch her in the middle of the most engaging conversation of her life. Her dress, a simple bias-cut sheath, is made from a light satin that shimmers against the dull material of the settee and her only jewellery is a single strand of perfectly matched pearls. She’s not the most famous face or even the most attractive, but for some reason she’s undoubtedly the most compelling. I get up and cross the room. The name reads: Genevieve Dariaux, Paris, 1934.

      However, my solitude is brief.

      ‘There you are! Mona’s sent us to find you.’ Penny comes strolling in on the arm of my reluctant husband.

      Stay calm, I remind myself, taking a much-needed gulp of my champagne. ‘Hello, Penny, just enjoying the exhibition.’

      She leans forward and waggles a finger in my face.

      ‘You know,