“You . . . want me there?” she squeaked.
“You’ll come? Please?”
Audra nodded, transfixed by the image of herself
reflected in the man’s shining eyes.
“Sure,” she heard herself mumble. “Just name the
place—”
“Saturday night. Eight. Caverna—it’s a restaurant
in Brooklyn. She picked it. It’s sort of . . .” he gri-
maced like he tasted something sour, screwing his
gorgeous face into a wrinkled mush of lips and
nose. “Trendy,” he finished distastefully. “Hip.”
Audra smiled. Trendy, hip. Handsome, strong,
silent-type Art Bradshaw had just invited her to join
him at a trendy, hip club in Brooklyn, Audra
thought, skipping over the stuff about his daugh-
ter’s party or that there was something she was sup-
posed to talk to the girl about once there. The
unpleasantness with Haines was forgotten, as were
her own nagging feelings of doubt.
See, Ma, she telegraphed her mother in her mind,
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
45
as she lifted her chin toward Bradshaw, batting her
eyes like a Hall of Famer. Life can be like a movie . . .
“Hip, huh?” Audra put a hand on her upper thigh
and curled her lips into a Mae West smirk of a smile.
“I got plenty of hip, big boy. But what on Earth will I
wear?”
Chapter 4
“Something fancy and hip. Fancy and hip,” Au-
dra sang the words over and over like a
mantra, as she boarded the subway and squeezed
into the little space between a chunky, sour-faced sis-
ter who grimaced as though Audra had attacked her
and a white man who snapped his newspaper
around him like a shield. Audra ignored them both,
pushed Princeton Haines and the brutality charge to
the back corner of her mind, and whispered, “Some-
thing fancy, something hip,” softly to herself, hop-
ing for a vision.
Fancy.
Hip.
She had to keep saying the words to keep up her
courage to do what she had to do. It would take
courage to do this kind of shopping: the kind that
would require branching out of the safe world of
elastic-waist pants and loose sweatshirts in drab
solid colors. Because everyone knew “hip” meant
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
47
come-hither, form-fitting, and “fancy” meant color-
ful or sparkly or something more elaborate than the
everyday blacks, navy blues and grays. It meant—
for one evening—the chance to be a days-gone-by
diva, dressed to the nines, surrounded by gaiety and
laughter. It meant swishing about in too much costly
fabric, with glittering jewels in ears and on neck and
in hair while sipping highballs and making witty
repartee with Art Bradshaw, her captivated host. Au-
dra closed her eyes, letting the rocking train lull her
deeper into her dream until the hard subway bench
around her transformed into an elegant forties-style
divan, the clattering roll of the car’s wheels into the
tinkling of piano keys and clinking martini glasses,
and the aroma of sweaty bodies into the smell of cig-
arette smoke dense in the air. Audra imagined her-
self an Audrey Hepburn or a Grace Kelly, laughing a
throaty, worldly laugh as she tossed her head like a
princess and rearranged her gown like a woman
who had a closet full of party clothes at home and a
dozen places to wear them—
“Do you mind? You’re crushing me!” the sister
beside her hissed with some serious New York atti-
tude. “Can’t you”—she jabbed Audra in the side
with a pointy elbow—“move over”—another jab—
“a little?”
Audra opened her eyes to find herself in reality’s
living color once again. The woman beside her was
staring at her with an annoyed expression on her
face, and Audra saddled up her own ’tude, ready to
give back as good as she was getting. She took an-
other quick look at her adversary to make sure the
sister wasn’t packing something worse than a nasty
48
Karyn Langhorne
mouth and wicked set of elbows. But instead of see-
ing potential weapons, she found herself drawn to
what the woman had on her back.
The sister was a far cry from model skinny, but
she was beautifully dressed in a pair of chocolate
brown suede slacks and a pink cashmere sweater
that suited her body shape perfectly. Audra had to
stop herself from reaching out to caress the soft
fabrics.
She scooted a little closer to the newspaper-
reading man who scrunched a little deeper behind
his paper.
“Where do you shop?” Audra asked the sour-
faced sister.
“What?” The woman frowned up at her like she’d
asked her what color her underwear was.
“It’s just . . . you look very nice,” Audra told her,
smiling as if a smile proved she wasn’t a psycho
killer. “It looks like I’m going to a party tomorrow
night and I’ve got to find something trendy. Some-
thing hip,” she leaned toward the woman. “See, if it
were up to me, I’d go to some vintage store and try
to look like Ingrid Bergman in Indiscreet”—she
chuckled a little, like she and the stranger were shar-
ing an inside joke, but the woman just stared at her
blankly. “Well, anyway,” Audra continued, realizing
how ridiculous she sounded. “I thought I’d better
model myself after someone still alive”—the woman
blinked at her in alarm—“I mean, someone who’s
not in an old movie,” Audra corrected. “Someone
who looks good. And when you poked me just now, I
noticed your sweater, so I thought I would ask—”
“Marciella’s,” the woman replied, her face finally
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
49
relaxing out of its city-wise, don’t-mess-with-me
game face into a kindness that softened her features
and made her much prettier than Audra had origi-
nally thought. “It’s a little boutique on Madison, be-
tween Thirty-fifth and Thirty-sixth.”
“Marciella’s,” Audra repeated, wondering if she
should write it down. “Madison and Thirty-fifth.”
The woman nodded, a pleased smile spreading
over her face. She wasn’t really so sour-faced after
all, Audra decided. “Great stuff. Pricey,” she warned,
wagging a manicured finger at Audra. “Very pricey.
But it’s really classy stuff. You won’t meet yourself
coming and going.”
“Pricey, huh?” The word resonated in Audra’s
mind. Combined with the words Madison Avenue
and boutique, Audra couldn’t help but feel this
woman’s shopping budget went way beyond her
own. She wanted to follow up with “How pricey?”
but bit back the question. If I have to, I’ll spend it, she
told herself firmly. But I’ll try the cheaper stores first.
After all, Art Bradshaw had invited her to a
party . . . and all was right with the world.
“The
