D.W. holds up his martini glass. “To you, my dear. We’re going to turn you into . . . into America’s very own Princess Di. What do you think?”
“I think,” I say, not even sarcastically, “Princess Di is dead.”
“That’s irrelevant,” he says. “Her spirit lives on.”
“And so is Princess Ava. Dead.”
“So is Marilyn Monroe. And Frank Sinatra. Who cares? They’re all dead. You’ve got to stop being so negative. Don’t you wake up some mornings and think, ‘By God, we did it.’ We accomplished our goal. You’re a princess. A real princess.”
“No,” I say glumly. “I always knew it would happen.”
Along with a lot of other things, I suppose.
“You’re never to say that. Ever again. To anyone,” D.W. says. “Good God, Cecelia. That’s why you’re so bad at this. You’ve got to stop telling the truth. When someone asks—and they are going to ask, you’ve managed to avoid doing interviews so far, but you’re going to have to start very soon—you’re to say that you had no idea who he was when you just happened to sell him that painting in a gallery—”
“But I did sell him that painting in a gallery.”
“That’s not the point. Destiny only works in Arab countries. In America, destiny makes you sound . . . calculating. Which,” he says, finishing his martini, “we know you are. But nobody else has to know that. Now about those S. sisters . . .”
“No,” I say. “They freak me out.”
“Why? They’re young, beautiful, rich, and married. Everyone wants to be their friend.”
I glare at him. I want to put my head in my hands, but I’m too tired. I can’t explain anything. What it was like sitting there in that big empty room—it had two Regency couches and a coffee table and a fireplace with a marble mantle—with that S. sister. The one who was married off at eighteen.
“Cecelia,” she had said. “Have you had a lot of lovers? You look like someone who has.”
“What’s a lot?” I said cautiously. I didn’t understand. What did she want from me? I hadn’t gone to private school in Europe.
“I’m one of those women who must be in love to have sex. If I’m in love with a man, I can have an orgasm from him touching my toe.”
I didn’t know what to say.
A baby started crying from somewhere in that vast, cavernous Tribeca loft she shared with her husband, an aspiring American politician, and four in help.
“I’m going to let him cry,” she said, not ashamed.
I got out of there as fast as I could. “I have childbearing hips. What can I do?” she asked and I felt soiled.
She’d told me a dirty little secret I didn’t want to hear.
The waitress comes over with two plates. She puts one of them down in front of me. On it is chicken with green beans and mashed potatoes.
“You need to eat,” D.W. says.
I pick up one of the green beans with my fingers. I put it into my mouth. Chew. I manage to swallow it.
I immediately feel full.
“The chicken,” D.W. says, “is delicious.”
It has some kind of brownish glaze on it. It’s shiny.
It’s a dead piece of meat.
I cut into it. It’s a little pink inside. Like a pink little baby.
“Oh GOD,” I say. I put down my utensils, pick up my napkin, and throw up into it.