“Don’t start. We’re talking about my job, not fashion.”
“Wearing something decent won’t turn you back into the Glitter Baby.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“You think looking good will somehow ruin everything you’re building for yourself.” She adjusted her red plastic barrettes, which were shaped like lips. “You hardly ever look in a mirror. A few seconds to slick on lipstick, another couple of seconds to run a comb through your hair. You are a world-class champion at avoiding your reflection.”
“You look at yours enough for both of us.”
But Kissy was on a roll, and Fleur couldn’t distract her. “You’re fighting a losing battle, Fleurinda. The old Fleur Savagar can’t hold a candle to the new one. You’re going to be twenty-four next month, and your face has something it didn’t have when you were nineteen. Even those disgusting clothes can’t hide the fact that you have a better body now than when you were modeling. I hate to be the bearer of tragic news, but you’ve turned from boringly gorgeous into a classic beauty.”
“You Southerners do love your drama.”
“Okay, no more nagging.” Kissy circled the double-decker mound of raspberry ripple with her tongue. “I’m glad you love your job. You even seem to love the ugly parts, like having Parker for a boss and dealing with Barry Noy.”
Fleur caught a dab of mint chocolate chip before it dropped on her shorts. “It almost scares me how much. I love the wheeling and dealing and the fact that something is always happening. Every time I head off another crisis, I feel like one of the nuns just pasted a gold star next to my name.”
“You’re turning into one of those awful overachievers.”
“It feels good.” She gazed across the square. “When I was a kid, I thought my father would let me go home if I could be the best at everything. After it all fell apart, I lost faith in myself.” She hesitated. “I think…maybe I’m starting to get that back.” Her self-confidence was too frail to hold up for examination, even from her best friend, and she wished she hadn’t been so open. Fortunately Kissy’s thoughts took a different path.
“I don’t understand how you can’t miss acting.”
“You saw Eclipse. I was never going to win any Academy Awards.” Unlike Jake and his screenplay.
“You were great in that part,” Kissy insisted.
Fleur made a face. “I had a couple of good scenes. The rest were barely adequate. I never felt comfortable.” In deference to Kissy’s feelings, she didn’t mention that she also found the whole process of filmmaking, with all the standing around, boring beyond belief.
“You put your heart into modeling, Fleurinda.”
“I put my determination into it, not my heart.”
“Either way, you were the best.”
“Thanks to a lucky combination of chromosomes. Modeling never had anything to do with who I was.” She drew in her legs to save them from amputation by a skateboard. One of the drug dealers stopped talking to stare. She gazed off into space. “The night Alexi and I played out our smutty little scene, he said I was nothing more than a pretty, oversized decoration. He said I couldn’t really do anything.”
“Alexi Savagar is a whacko prick.”
Fleur smiled at hearing Kissy dismiss Alexi so inelegantly. “But he was also right. I didn’t know who I was. I guess I still don’t, not entirely, but at least I’m on the right path. I spent three and a half years running from myself. Granted, I acquired a world-class university education along the way, but I’m not running anymore.” And she wasn’t. Something had changed inside her. Something that finally made her want to fight for herself.
Kissy pitched the end of her cone into the trash. “I wish I had your drive.”
“What are you talking about? You’re always juggling your schedule at the gallery so you can get your hours in and still hit the auditions. You go to class in the evenings. The parts will come, Magnolia. I’ve talked to a lot of people about you.”
“I know you have, and I appreciate it, but I think it’s time I face the fact that it’s not going to happen.” Kissy wiped her fingers on her very short pink shorts. “Directors won’t let me read for anything other than comic sexpots, and I’m terrible in that kind of part. I’m a serious actress, Fleur.”
“I know you are, honey.” Fleur put all the conviction she could muster behind her words, but it wasn’t easy. Kissy-with her pouty mouth, pillowy breasts, and smudge of raspberry ripple on her chin-was a perfect comic sexpot.
“I got a raise at the gallery.” She made it sound as thought she’d gotten a terminal disease. “Maybe if I had a more disagreeable job, I’d push myself harder. I should never have gotten my minor in art history. It’s turned into my security blanket.” Her eyes automatically slid over a good-looking college student walking past, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I can only take so much rejection, and I’ve just about had my fill. I do a good job at the gallery, and I get recognized for it. Maybe that should be enough.”
Fleur squeezed her hand. “Hey, what happened to Miss Positive Thinking?”
“I think I’m thunked out.”
Fleur hated the idea of Kissy giving up, but with her own history, she wasn’t in a position to criticize. She rose from the bench. “Let’s go. If we play our cards right, we can catch the beginning of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on television before we have to get dressed for our dates.” She dropped the remainder of her cone and napkin in the trash.
“Good idea. How many times will this make?”
“Five or six. I lost count.”
“You haven’t told anybody about this, have you?”
“Are you nuts? Do you think I want the whole world to know we’re perverts?”
They left the park walking side by side, a dozen pairs of male eyes following them.
Fleur’s daily runs had firmed her muscles, and as the extra pounds melted away, her sexuality emerged from its long hibernation. The flow of water over her body in the shower, the slide of a soft sweater on her skin-everyday acts became sensual experiences. She wanted to be held by someone who shaved, someone with biceps and a hairy chest, someone who cussed and drank beer. Her body was starved for male contact, and as part of her self-improvement campaign, she began dating a personable young actor named Max Shaw, who was appearing off-off-Broadway in a Tom Stoppard play. He was Hollywood handsome, a rangy blond whose only drawback was a tendency to use phrases like “practicing my craft.” They had fun together, and she wanted him.
She donned jeans and the black tank top she’d bought on the clearance table at Ohrbach’s for their date the night of her twenty-fourth birthday. They’d planned to go to a party, but she said she’d had a tough week and suggested they skip it. Max wasn’t stupid, and half an hour later, they found themselves in his apartment.
He poured her a glass of wine and settled next to her on the foam slab that served as both couch and bed in his studio apartment. The smell of his cologne bothered her. Men should smell of soap and a clean shirt. Like Jake.
But her memories of her treacherous first lover were shackles made of dusty cobwebs, easy to break free of, and they drifted away as she kissed Max. Before long, they were naked.
He pushed all the right buttons, and she had the release she’d been craving, but she felt empty afterward. She told him she had an early meeting and couldn’t stay. After she left his apartment, she began to tremble. Instead of feeling energized like Kissy after one of her casual encounters, Fleur felt as though she’d given up something important.
She saw Max a few more times, but each encounter left her more depressed, and she eventually ended it. Someday she’d meet a man she could give herself to with all her heart. Until then, she’d keep things casual and direct her energy into her job.