Girl Before a Mirror (14 page)

“Exactly. We Marple them,” I repeat.

Sasha and I talk about the campaign and our morning meeting with Helen as we eat our lunch. The conversation is easy—drinking Cokes and shoving salsa-laden chips in our mouths midsentence.

“My grandma loved Agatha Christie. She used to watch the TV movie versions all the time,” Sasha says as the waitress brings us more chips.

“She did?” I ask, realizing I know absolutely nothing about Sasha outside of work.

“All the time. She got me into reading, too. She's the one who had the romance novels,” Sasha says.

“She sounds awesome,” I say.

“She had this terrible orange lipstick that she used to let me wear. She'd dot it on my lips like this.” Sasha pokes at her lips with her index finger and then smiles, letting the memory infuse its joy into the telling of it. I don't want to ask the inevitable question, as Sasha is speaking about her beloved grandmother in the past tense. “Of course, I'd always say how bored I was.”

“You were little.”

“Yeah, I just wish I could go back now and sit and listen to her talk, you know?” Sasha says.

“How long has it been?” I ask.

“A little over five years. I was at NYU when I got the call,” she says, her voice sliding into a more robotic tone as she tries to keep the emotion at bay. “My grandma raised me; my parents were . . .” Sasha trails off, searching for a tiny word that can explain a lifetime of hurt. “Not around.” A small smile to me and I can see her trying to control the swell of emotion.

“I'm so sorry,” I say.

“Yeah, me too,” she says, managing a small smile. “I think she's why I love romance novels. They remind me of her. I found this whole stack of them in her crafting room and I just dove in. It felt so naughty. The first one I ever read was about this gorgeous doctor with long blond hair who could only be herself at her country house where she kept all of her beloved horses.”

“Sure.”

“And I can't remember all of the details, but this serial killer
was trying to come after her and of course she was denying her feelings for the rough-and-tumble guy who was in charge of her horses.”

“As you would.”

“So when the serial killer came after her—at her country house, no less! It was her sanctuary!—well, the two of them finally admitted their feelings for each other and battled the serial killer together. That's the thing about romance novels.”

“That true love is your best weapon against serial killers?”

“No, ladyhawke.” I bark out a laugh, shooting chips everywhere, and Sasha crumples in laughter.

“Ladyhawke,” I repeat, still laughing.

“Well, the one and only Helen Brubaker lays into you just this morning and you still can't get over yourself,” Sasha says.

“Well, I can't help it; it just sounds so ridiculous. Gorgeous blond doctor! She loves horses! He's hot and ready to protect her! And feminism wept as he swooped in and saved her with his magic penis. I mean . . . come on!”

“Not enough shape-shifting wolves for you?”

“It was a curse and he was the captain of the—”

“This is your problem,” Sasha says, cutting in. She takes a giant sip of her Coke, as the salsa has choked her up again. She continues, “Yes, romance novels are extreme. The situations are turned up to eleven and everyone is beautiful without dieting or exercise and the sex is always amazing, but when I strip all that away what I get is that all of this”—Sasha motions to everything around us, and I'm assuming she means the world and our existence and not this particular Mexican restaurant—“that all of this is nothing without love.”

“I know you're right,” I say, my face flushing. Again.

“Thank you.”

“In theory.”

“In theory?”

“Whenever I think about what will remain of me after I'm gone? My legacy, I guess. It always hinges on what I did, not who I loved,” I say.

“Oh, I
know
that.”

“I can't ever seem to work the idea of having both in my life. I troll the music blogs for bands no one has ever heard of and listen to pop stars. Read
Jane Eyre
nightly and cuddle up with the newest cozy mystery series. Take over the world and love someone greatly.”

“Yeah, I have a hard time with that, too,” Sasha says.

“It's like once you start talking about love, people seem to write you off. Like you don't get—”

“What's really important. Yeah, I know.”

“So, when you talk about romance novels and great love, I immediately jump to I'm barefoot and pregnant and I've lost my edge and I'm telling people that
we
loved that movie and oh my God,
we
stayed at the cutest little B&B in Williamsburg and all of a sudden I've forgotten how to be just an I. And who's to say that gorgeous blond doctor couldn't have bested that serial killer on her own, you know?”

“Because she was in the bathtub trying to have a moment to herself and—”

“I don't know why anyone takes baths anymore. I really don't,” I say. “Oh, is there a serial killer after me? You know what I need? A nice long bath. I can't with these people.” I motion to our waitress for our check.

“You okay?”

“No!” I yell. Sasha is quiet. Maybe she's smiling. She's definitely smiling. I just keep shaking my head and I feel like I'm sitting on Michael and Allison's couch again as they go into that bathroom and change that stupid pooey lightbulb. The flush of vulnerability tingles throughout my body as I remember my night with Lincoln. The waitress brings our check and I hand her my credit card, trying to keep things moving and not dwell on not having heard from him so far today.

“You can be great and have great love, you know,” Sasha says.

“Can you?” I ask, my eyes flaring.

“God, I hope so,” Sasha says.

“And is that who you're constantly texting? Your great love?” I ask, eyeing her still buzzing phone. Sasha looks completely thrown and I feel terrible instantly.

“He's not my great love,” she says, unable to make eye contact with me.

“So why are you—”

“I . . . How do you . . . Helen's workshop the other day? I'm not doing any of that,” Sasha says, ripping her napkin into millions of tiny pieces.

“Sasha, I—”

“No, it's true. I've read her book cover to cover a thousand times, highlighting and putting little stickies everywhere. But every time . . . every time, I'm right back to my old tricks again,” she says. The waitress brings me back my card and the receipt. I sign it and tuck the card back into my wallet.

“Is this about Ryder?” I ask.

“No.”

An awkward long moment.

She spins her watch around on her tiny wrist and checks the time. “We'd better go.” She grabs her purse and stands.

“Sasha,” I say, standing. She turns around and her eyes are just beginning to well up. “You deserve someone amazing.”

“Do I, though?” Sasha continues walking out of the Mexican restaurant without another word. She is quiet as we drive to the Irish Cultural Center—which turns out to be a beautiful gray castle inexplicably in the middle of downtown Phoenix. She is angry and red-faced as we brave the thousand-degree heat, trying to find parking in the back lot. She becomes melancholy as we find the open bar in the stunning barnlike room where the registration table is. And she's downright wretched as she orders her first glass of wine from the open bar. Great. We're early.

I look out from the raftered barn and see a group of people actually braving the tables set up on the outside patio.

“Give Arizonans a mister and they're fine,” Ginny Barton says.

“It must be—”

“It's about 103 degrees. It was 112 degrees earlier today. I was getting worried,” Ginny says, sipping her lemonade. She winks. “Spiked.” And she toasts me with her now much more interesting lemonade. “Map of Ireland.” Ginny motions to the patio and sure enough, there's a map of Ireland in the cobblestones. “If you go up to one of the libraries, up there?” She motions to the larger building, spilling a bit of her lemonade in the process. “You can really get a good look at the map.”

“How does this place exist?” I ask.

“Isn't it something? You must take a look around; it's the genuine article,” Ginny says, in a full Irish brogue. “P.S.? I hear
they sell British candy and real Irish tea right over there.” Ginny points to a little gray cobbled cottage just across the patio.

“Real Irish tea, hm?” I ask. The live band positioned just next to the large black fireplace at the end of the barn begins playing gorgeous Irish music and the entire scene brightens. A line of alabaster-skinned girls with their arms tight to their sides begin dancing for the revelers, and we're all swept away to the Emerald Isle just like if we were in a romance novel.

I am pulled from my Irish dream as I see Sasha order another glass of wine right after downing the first one. I scan the room for Ryder Grant and find him “wooing” some poor woman over in a corner of the barn. I focus back on Ginny.

“Have you spoken with each of our cover models yet, Ms. Wyatt?” she asks.

“I've spoken with Josh at the Pirate Booty Ball and had my picture taken with Colt at the kick-off,” I say.

“Five more to go,” Ginny says, offering up an impossibly toned brown-haired gentleman whose black T-shirt looks like it's approximately five sizes too small.

“Billy,” he says with a cool head tilt. Do I . . . do I head-tilt back?

“I'll leave you two to it,” Ginny says.

“Anna,” I say, extending my hand. He takes it and then . . . holds it? Are we . . . He takes my hand in both of his and . . . smolders at me for what feels like hours.

“
A
for Anna,
B
for Billy.
C
for . . .” He trails off, unable to come up with a
C
word. I've got a few. I pull my hand away. Quiet. He's just nodding. Pursing his lips, narrowing his eyes, and nodding.

“So, have you always wanted to model—”

“It's more of a calling, you know,” Billy says.

“Well, it's great that you're fulfilling—”

“Yeah, I was hot and modeling called me,” Billy finishes, laughing.

“Your passion,” I finish, trying to wipe off the confused and annoyed look I'm sure I have on my face right now. “So, which covers would I know you from?”

“Romance novel covers,” he says.

“Yep. I . . .” Deep breath. “Would I know any of the books?” I ask, scanning the room. Help. Hellllllllp.

“Probably,” he says.

“Good. Very cool,” I say, noticing gratefully that there are books scattered on tables throughout the meet and greet. “Are you on the cover of one of the books here?”

“Oh. Yeah. Here.” Billy spins around and plucks a bluish book from among the many stacked on a nearby table. He hands me the book and I can hardly believe it's the same guy. “Cool, right?”

“Yeah, you look great,” I say. And he does. Without the inconvenience of him opening his mouth, Billy is, of course, stunning in photographs. He looks like an all-American boy I would have definitely looked twice at in some catalog or magazine.

“That chick was super hot,” he says, pointing at the lovely woman he's ravishing on the cover of the book. “That dress of hers just wouldn't stay up, if you know what I mean.” He winks at me. I couldn't be less turned on. But.
But
. This is casting. This Billy guy would appeal to a large cross section of women, especially in the Midwest, and would look great in the Lumineux ad campaign, but
oh my God
, he's an idiot.

“Well, I won't keep you all to myself,” I say, looking at the
crowd of people at the meet and greet, none of whom are clamoring to speak to Billy. I have genuine Irish tea to buy and a drunken associate to monitor.

“Oh, well, hey. You're welcome,” he says, and again he takes my hand in both of his. “You know, I'm just going to throw this out there. You're a nice-looking lady, so . . . I want to let you know that I am very open to making an impression on you and your vote, if you know what I'm saying.” He pulls my hand closer.

“You've made quite the impression on me, I assure you,” I say, trying to pull my hand back.

“No, I mean . . . an
impression
impression,” he says, giving me a look that makes me want to take a shower right now.

“That won't be necessary,” I say, finally freeing my hand.

“You know I'm talking about sex, right?”

“Yep.”

“I have sex with you and—”

“Yep. Loud and clear.”

“You vote for me.”

“I am trying to save you a shred of dignity, Mr.—”

“Billy.”

I heave a long, weary sigh. “Mr. Billy.” He steps closer. “I'm not interested and now you're being officially creepy.” He stops and begins to speak, but I stop him. “Nope. Thank you for your time and I wish you all the best of luck. Billy.” I find Sasha in the crowd and am making a beeline for her when Ginny stops me once again. She presents me with Jake, the cocoa-skinned, once–shirtless fireman. I spend several delightful minutes talking with him, and the conversation couldn't be better. After making idle chatter about juicing, I'm happy to find out that Jake and his
partner, Richard, are planning on getting married back in Manhattan on Valentine's Day, and he's mad with wedding planning. We talk about
An Affair to Remember
and florists and centerpieces some more, and I joyfully wish him well as he is pulled into a group of giggling publishing ladies who'd like a picture.

As I'm learning the ins and outs of carpentry from Lantz, which is actually quite fascinating, I see Preeti and Audrey walk into the meet and greet. I look past Lantz's broad shoulders and find Sasha in the crowd. She's kept her distance from me all afternoon, but with Preeti and Audrey's entrance she immediately walks over to me. I introduce her to Lantz and then politely extricate us from
This Old House
so we can get our bearings.