Away for the Weekend

jingles (earrings, bracelets, the chotskys hanging off her shoes and bag and pinned into her hair). Lucinda walks as if she’s crossing a carpet of rose petals being thrown by smiling admirers; Beth walks as if she’s in a typhoon and she’s crossing a carpet of JELL-O. Right foot, left foot … right foot, left foot … She doesn’t actually hold on to the wall, but she stays close to it – just in case. She gives a silent prayer of thanks when they finally get into the elevator.

Lucinda loses her signal. Finding herself in a phone-free zone, she says, “I meant that, Gab. I am just so glad you’re my roomie. I really would feel like I was from another planet if it wasn’t for you.”

You may not think that for much longer, thinks Beth. And takes a deep breath as the doors open and they step from the elevator.

There are four girls across the lobby – a blonde, a redhead, a brunette and one with champagne-pink hair – all pretty, all dressed from the kind of magazine that Beth never reads. Indeed, they are so perfectly turned out that they might be mannequins lined up by the front window like palm trees on an oasis. They have obviously been waiting for them, because Beth has barely tottered out of the elevator when they suddenly come to life, smiling and waving. “Gabriela! Lucinda! Over here!”

Lucinda waves back. Beth can’t risk a wave – she’ll fall over.

The girls are carrying on as if she and Lucinda are their new best friends, but Beth sees the look in their eyes as they cross the room: they’re being scored.

“Lucinda!” shrieks the redhead. “What an awesome outfit! Nobody’d ever think you come from the backwoods of Maine!”

So at least that’s one mystery solved; her room-mate’s name is Lucinda.

Lucinda tightens her smile and returns the gush. “And what about you, Isla? You look fantabulous!” But under her breath mutters, “For someone who comes from a major urban area teeming with vice and violence.”

For the first time this morning, Beth feels like laughing, but it’s a feeling that passes quickly as the blonde’s eyes clamp on her like handcuffs. “Good Lord, Gabriela!” Her voice is sweet enough to cause toothache. “What absolutely amazing pants.” And her smile could freeze rock. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were wearing pyjamas.”

“They’re trousers.” Beth avoids even a glance at Lucinda, though she knows that Lucinda is glancing at her. Lucinda tried to talk her out of wearing the spare pyjama bottoms – the only article of clothing Gabriela owns that comes below the knees (no one will ever accuse her of looking like a Pilgrim) – but Beth wouldn’t be talked. The shoes are bad enough; she can’t stagger around on them and spend the day worrying that every time she climbs a staircase some guy is looking up her skirt as well.

“Well, they sure look like pyjamas,” says the blonde. “My Mom had a pair like that in pearl grey.”

“They’re silk,” chimes in Lucinda. “Pure silk.”

“So were my Mom’s.”

“I suppose it’s not a bad look, even if people might think you just got out of bed and didn’t have time to dress,” muses the brunette, her eyes on Beth’s legs. “Were they inspired by an old movie, too?”

“At least you’re not inspired by the sixties,” says Isla, “or you’d be wearing bell-bottoms.”

Lucinda’s laugh flops between them like a dying fish.

“And … oh my God!” The girl with the champagne-pink hair and the nose ring leans towards Beth. “Can I believe my wondering eyes? You’re not wearing any make-up! Not a drop!”

Amazingly enough, considering that she’s almost paralyzed with tension, Beth can hear Lucinda’s words to her friend on the phone. I’d be more nervous than a moose in hunting season if I didn’t have her… Man, they are sooo scary… Now she understands what Lucinda meant. She’s only known these girls a few minutes and already they’re annoying her. She smiles so they can’t possibly know just how much. “It’s this really subtle, natural look,” says Beth. “It’s all the rage in Europe. Heavy make-up’s considered so passé.”

Hattie pretends to yawn. “And no make-up’s considered so primitive here.”

“Practically Neanderthal,” murmurs Isla.

“Oh, you are so funny, Gab!” Lucinda laughs again, turning to the others. “Don’t you think she’s just hilarious?”

“That’s a joke?” says Nicki. “That make-up’s passé?”

“Well, I don’t know about hilarious, but you’re pretty brave – or insane,” says Isla. “I mean, it is daylight.”

“The only person who sees me without make-up is my mother,” says Hattie.

Paulette smiles like a movie star who just became the face of a billion-dollar ad campaign. “I wonder what Taffeta’s going to think,” she croons. “I mean, you saw how she does her face. No one’s told her make-up’s passé.”

“Oh my God, Taffeta!” gasps Lucinda. “Isn’t she just awesome? She was even more impressive than I expected.”

This, at last, is something they can all agree on. Taffeta is definitely awesome. Remember her winter collection? Remember what she wore to the Academy Awards? Remember when she was invited to the White House? Remember the dress she made for that royal wedding? Taffeta proves to be the doorway to other conversations – conversations that have nothing to do with Beth, her naked face or her pyjamas. It gives Beth the small comfort of something for which she can be grateful.

She has no idea what they’re talking about. Clothes. Fashion. Names she’s never heard of. Things she’s never heard of, either. Colour cues … princess seams … basque waist … placket … back yoke … ringspun fabric … trend boards… But she acts as though she does know. She owes loyal Lucinda that much. When she hears a word she recognizes – “shoe” or “hemline” – she perks up like a dog who’s heard her name. When they laugh, Beth laughs. When they fizz with agreement, she fizzes. When they roll their eyes and groan and sigh because they’ve spotted someone wearing some outrage against fashion or good dress sense, she rolls and groans and sighs too. But, of course, she has nothing to say, so she says nothing and smiles like a doll.

Everybody looks at them. The men and boys look twice. And not (as you might think) because they can’t believe that these girls can stand there, their heels holding them six inches off the ground and their spines pitched forward, wearing so little that it’s a miracle they’re all not blue and shivering from the air conditioning. They smile at them; they wink. Yesterday, when Beth walked through this lobby she was virtually invisible – bumped into and shoved; hit with someone’s golf clubs; trodden on by someone else. But today she is one of the fashionistas, under a spotlight; attracting appreciative smiles, good mornings and hellos. When Lucinda accidentally whacks someone with her bag, the other person apologizes. When Nicki drops her phone, two guys stop to pick it up. The manager passes them with a nod, “You young ladies have a nice day.” Beth fidgets and tries not to notice. It’s like being under constant surveillance. No wonder they spend so much time getting dressed.

Losing the thread of the conversation again, Beth glances towards the entrance to the restaurant. Is Gabriela in there right now? Even if she could get away from her group and hobble all the way to the other side of the lobby before the car comes, she wouldn’t. How could she ever stop herself from bursting into tears in front of Professor Gryck and everyone else? But still she keeps glancing over towards the room where she should be. And that’s when she finally notices the guy standing just outside the restaurant entrance. There’s something peculiar about him. Besides the fact that he looks as if he’s just stepped out of a Graham Greene novel. Something not right. It’s undoubtedly because of her state of agitation that she thinks so, but he looks faintly luminous. She squints. He really does, as if he’s lit from behind. And even though he’s wearing sunglasses, Beth suddenly realizes that he’s standing there because he’s watching her. She couldn’t feel his gaze more surely if it had weight and force. Why is he watching her? He could be some Hollywood type, of course. A director. Or an agent. Or a talent scout. It could be that. He’s thinking of discovering Gabriela. But he hasn’t moved a muscle in minutes; he just stands there like a pillar of light. Maybe he’s not a Hollywood type. Maybe he’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill pervert. Maybe that’s why he’s watching her. Can he see her underwear through the silk? She moves her bag to her outside hip.

Nicki says something that makes the others laugh, and although she actually has no idea what it is Nicki said, Beth laughs, too.

Or is it her breasts? Beth’s not used to having breasts. Not like these. And if she were, she’d cover them up more than is possible with any of the clothes Gabriela’s brought with her. There isn’t even a sweater or a jacket in case it gets cold. All Beth could find was a sparkly, tissuey scarf that she’s wrapped round her neck, but it doesn’t