From then on, every billboard, every commercial, the pages of every glossy magazine declared to me in no uncertain terms that I didn’t look how I should. There were no images of voluptuous women back then, hardly any of women of color. Everyone was blonde, thin, perfect. Homogeneous. If you were a European supermodel, then you were allowed to be brunette, but you couldn’t look too “ethnic,” or forget it.
Making matters worse, I lived at the beach in Southern California. Blonde, thin, perfect women are manufactured in that area of the world like widgets. If you didn’t have straight teeth, you got braces. If you weren’t slender, you starved yourself. If you weren’t blonde, you bleached your hair. If you weren’t tan, you laid in a machine shaped like a coffin that blasted cancer-causing UV rays at your skin until it complied and turned an acceptable shade of golden brown.
Or burned and freckled, like mine did.
No one ever told me it was okay to be me. All my friends were on diets throughout our teenage years. All of us were drowning in self-loathing.
I wish I was as fat now as I thought I was back then. It makes me sad to think of how long and how hard I tried to be something I wasn’t.
The ghost of my reflection gazes back at me from the window. She’s pale, unsmiling, her hair a dark cloud around her head. She looks like she’s seen things she wishes she hadn’t.
Suddenly I’m filled with anger. “You know what? A wise woman once said, ‘Fuck this shit’ and lived happily ever after.”
Ghost me looks impressed. And a little frightened.
With renewed determination, I head into the bathroom to get ready for the party.
Two hours later, my determination has wilted, and I’m wringing my hands in panic inside the closed bedroom door.
“Any day now, lassie. We could be dead by the time you come out!”
Cam and Mrs. Dinwiddle have gathered in the living room for my big reveal. They must’ve made arrangements between themselves, because I never invited them, but here they are. I’m regretting giving Mrs. Dinwiddle that spare key.
I take one last deep breath, smooth my hands down my waist, and open the door. When I step into the living room, Mrs. Dinwiddle leaps to her feet with a theatrical gasp.
“Heavens, Ducky! You’re beautiful!”
I know I should be flattered, but she doesn’t have to sound so dang shocked. “How’s the hair?” I pat it nervously. “I used your hot oil treatment.”
Mrs. Dinwiddle floats over to me, little sounds of astonishment falling from her lips as she ogles me up and down. “Oh, my dear, it’s simply perfect. Perfect! How did you get it up like that? What a lovely, chic twist!”
“YouTube,” I admit sheepishly. “They have really good tutorials.”
Sitting on the sofa with a beer, Cam isn’t saying anything. He’s just looking at me. Really looking at me.
While Mrs. Dinwiddle hovers over me, plucking at nonexistent bits of lint on my dress and sighing in rapture like some hysterical fairy godmother, I let Cam stare until I can’t take it anymore. “Well?”
His voice low and husky, he says, “Let’s just say I’m glad I’m already sittin’ down.”
Pleased, I look down at myself. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Aye. It’s a compliment. But if you knew what I was really thinkin’, lass, you’d run back into that bedroom and bolt the door behind you.”
When I glance back up at him, he isn’t smiling. He lifts his beer in a salute, then guzzles the whole thing in one go. My face flushes with heat.
“But we need to take it in a bit, Ducky. It’s a little loose here!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle is frowning at my waist, pinching an inch of fabric between her fingers.
“You’re right. I’ve lost weight since I bought this. Shoot.”
“No worries, my dear, just take it off for a minute, and I’ll fix it up for you! I’m an expert seamstress, of course. All those years on the stage, I accumulated more than just men, let me tell you. My skills with a needle and thread are legendary. Tut, tut, in you go, take it off, put on a robe, and I’ll bring it right back!”
She waves me off into the bedroom like she’s shooing a flock of pigeons away from her lunch. I remove the dress, careful not to mess my hair or makeup, put on my fluffy white bathrobe, and reemerge into the living room with the dress in my arms.
“Back in a jiff!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle sweeps out of the apartment, leaving me and Cam alone.
“You’re not wearin’ your glasses.”
It sounds like an accusation, so instantly I’m on the defense. “I’ve got my contacts in. I decided to go whole hog with the transformation thing. I want everyone to not recognize me when I walk into the party. I want to slay.”
“Oh, you’ll slay, lass. No doubt about that. But it’s really because pretty boy wanted to see you without them, isn’t it?”
My heartbeat ticks up a notch. I swallow, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, unsure of why I’d feel either. “Is that bad?”
He draws a breath through his nose, a long one, like he’s biting his tongue or trying to cool his temper. Then he stands, leaving his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. He crosses to me and takes my face in his hands.
“No,” he says softly, looking into my eyes. “It’s not bad. You want to please your man—I get it. Just don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget what you are, Joellen. Not for anyone.”
My heartbeat is now the wild, thundering gallop of a pack of stallions flying over the open plains. “What am I?” I whisper, terrified of the answer.
“Perfect.”
He bends his head and kisses me, the softest, sweetest brush of his lips against mine. Then he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
I sink weak-kneed to the sofa and spend the next fifteen minutes hyperventilating, until Mrs. Dinwiddle reappears with my dress.
In the cab on the way to the party, I don’t see the snowy streets passing by. I don’t see the traffic or the lights or hear the Christmas jingle playing on the stereo.
All I see is Cam’s face. All I hear is his voice telling me I’m perfect.
Well, I also hear the critical voice that’s always with me telling me that Cam has obviously ingested a lot of drugs if he thinks I’m anywhere close to perfect, but I force that voice to a dark corner of my mind and allow myself to accept that maybe I don’t have to be perfect. Maybe having one person who thinks I am is enough.
Maybe his belief in me can be the seed that takes root in the stubborn, self-loathing dirt of my mind and grows into a garden of self-acceptance.
Or maybe I’m nuts.
“God, I really need a drink,” I say aloud.
In the driver’s seat, the cabbie holds up a silver flask. “You like bourbon?”
I have to smile. Damn, I love New York. “Not even a little bit.”
Maddox Publishing’s annual holiday party is being held at the Broad Street Ballroom, a former Bank of America headquarters converted into a luxury event space. This year, the theme of the party is Winter Wonderland, because apparently no one on the event committee possesses a kernel of originality.
I step out of the cab into bitter wind and hurry up the stone steps toward the door, pulling my coat up around my ears and hoping my hair doesn’t get too badly damaged. It’s still snowing, and there’s frost on the ground.