Girl In The Mirror. Mary Monroe Alice

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      Charlotte knew where this was coming from and couldn’t blame Vicki for the insinuation. Freddy had carefully orchestrated her public image, hiding her natural shyness as a star’s reclusiveness and arranging numerous dates with her co-stars, then leaking to the press that she was having affairs. It was nothing new, an age-old publicity ploy, but the press and the public bought it, again and again.

      “Now there’s only Freddy,” she replied without guile, and the audience responded with heartfelt applause. She imagined Freddy backstage, his chest expanding. He loved the spotlight, especially when it hinted at his virility.

      “Your kind of beauty is the stuff that legends are made of. But some consider it to be a curse. There’s Helen of Troy and, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”

      Charlotte paused. Beauty again…Is that all they see when they see me? Doesn’t anyone see anything else of value?

      “I don’t think Marilyn’s beauty itself was a curse,” she answered with care. “The curse was that no one could look past her beauty to take her seriously.”

      “You’re referring to the old ‘She’s beautiful so she must be stupid’ myth.”

      “It’s hard when only your beauty is prized.”

      “Couldn’t the same be said then of an ugly woman?”

      Charlotte felt a dart of anguish and looked at her hands clasped white in her lap. “I’m sure,” she began with hesitation, “that it is the secret dream of every ugly woman that someone will discover the beauty within her. Redemption through love, isn’t that at the heart of fairy tales?”

      “But life isn’t a fairy tale.”

      “Unfortunately, both legend and reality bear out that men want women who are physically beautiful, as proof of their power and worth. The dream dies in an ugly woman. It withers, as any fruit withers on the neglected vine.”

      “But…doesn’t beauty wither, too, in time? What happens then?”

      Charlotte’s smile was hard. “Desperation.”

      “So beauty is a curse?”

      “I…” She thought again of Michael and sighed in resignation. “Yes. Perhaps it is. As is ugliness.”

      “I don’t know if I buy this. I mean, aren’t women changing now? We talk about a woman’s worth, intelligence and goodness. Don’t these attributes constitute a woman’s beauty?”

      Charlotte wanted to agree, oh God, how much. She thought of those days, in the garden, when she’d believed such a thing was possible. When, like a blossoming flower that reveals the delicate core, she’d been ready to give everything up for a single dewdrop of that ideal. But Michael had crushed that belief with the heel of his conceit. She’d learned that no one would love her for her intelligence or for her goodness. Without the beauty, no man was willing to even give those qualities a chance.

      “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

      “Are you endorsing this attitude?” Vicki Ray interjected. Her tone was sharp, angry. Nearing fifty, she exuded the confidence of success. Yet Charlotte saw in her eyes the quiet panic of a woman who could not stave off the inevitable decline of her looks, and as a talk show host, possibly her career as well. “Do you believe women today should do everything they can, anything they can, to be as attractive as they can?”

      Charlotte’s lids fluttered imperceptibly as she dredged up her personal history to answer this question. Everything…anything…for beauty?

      “I do,” she replied firmly, each syllable sounding in her ear as a death knell. “Yes, absolutely.”

      She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

      “So what did you do to look so great?”

      Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

      “I didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

      “Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

      Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

      “Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

      Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

      “I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

      “Were you a pretty little girl?”

      The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

      “Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.

      Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?

      “What do you remember?” Vicki pressed.

      Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.

      “The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”

      “I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”

      “Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”

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