Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells (10 page)

Research Notes

June 14

Subject, Sophia Fenwick, is an eighty-five-year-old single (widowed, married unknown number of times) Caucasian female. Formerly a B actress, with claims to a bit part in South Pacific (subject insists she was up for Mitzi Gaynor’s role), she now resides in a mansion in Pebble Beach, California, and appears to be extremely wealthy. The source of her money is presumably from former husband(s). No children. Lives alone with staff members. Has a bad hip, but otherwise seems healthy, and has maintained an attractive appearance. Plastic surgery the most likely explanation for present eerie beauty
.

Sophia exhibits signs of inconsistent thinking. S. believes that sex appeal in the human female is determined by the female’s core beliefs about her sexiness, not by her physical appearance. While this theory holds a certain feminist appeal, vis-à-vis inner confidence determining one’s attractiveness, it is nonetheless in direct contradiction to S.’s own habits of dress and grooming (and plastic surgery?), and her frequent vitriolic judgments upon the physical appearance of other females. These judgments may be a defensive gesture. S. appears highly competitive and status conscious, and may be threatened by the presence of Author (me), who is young and may represent a past that S. cannot regain
.

Sophia is employing classic abusive manipulation techniques in an attempt to break Author down in order to rebuild Author in her own image, akin to a boot camp drill sergeant training “maggots” to be soldiers. S.’s abuses include telling Author that vegetarians are a pain in the ass, that feminists hate being women, that capri pants should never be worn by anyone more than one hundred pounds; and that Author’s (admittedly well-worn) undergarments are a particularly unsavory form of birth control, a sin against femininity, would frighten bears, and should be staked, burned, and buried, preferably in an unmarked grave
.

Sophia also directed her minion Darlene to steal and destroy orthopedic sandals prescribed by Author’s podiatrist. S. refused to compensate Author for cost of sandals, and is clearly unrepentant; S. seems unable to see her actions as excessively controlling. Sociopathic tendencies suspected
.

June 15

Lessons today consisted of screenings of several film noirs with femmes fatales: The Maltese Falcon; The Big Sleep; Gilda; and Niagara. Author was asked to meditate upon what made each femme fatale sexy. Author responded that the f.f.s seemed mentally unstable and emotionally immature, and that men who liked that type of woman deserved what they got
.

Author notes consumption of Scotch by Sophia in response to frustration with Author. Author’s suggestion of yoga as a stress-reduction alternative was met with unwarranted outpouring of inappropriate language
.

June 16

Day was devoted to Sophia’s extensive collection of art history books and discussion of beauty, charisma, and sex appeal of various naked subjects of varying weight, coloring, and facial features. S. contends that the artist painting each woman saw beauty where others might see none, and by virtue of putting the woman in a painting, both convinced her she was beautiful, and also convinced the viewer. S. uses this as proof that beauty is not based upon physical reality, but upon attitudes and expectations. If you behave as if you are beautiful, others will believe you
.

Author pointed out that many models were prostitutes in real life
.

Sophia’s arguments beginning to lack energy; responded to prostitute comment with weak sigh. Author feels Author may finally be getting through to S., and changing her mind
.

Or perhaps Sophia’s enthusiasm for bombshell lessons is waning
.

Either way, S.’s Scotch consumption notably on the rise
.

CHAPTER

7

“G
race, come in here. I have a surprise for you,” Sophia called from the Louis Quatorze living room.

Grace froze like a burglar in the night, in midstep across the checkerboard floor of the foyer, her hands full of purloined chocolate chocolate-chip banana cookies fresh from Renata’s oven. Sophia hadn’t put her on a diet, but Grace knew her aunt’s sharp eyes observed every crumb that passed her lips.

“Grace?”

In desperation Grace eyeballed a potted palm as a cookie stash, but rejected its stems and soil—cookie spoilage danger!—in favor of caching the goods under her T-shirt, in the small of her back. She stuffed the hem of her shirt into her jeans, making a neat little pouch above her waistband. As long as she didn’t turn her back, Sophia would never see the warm, soft lumps of sweet heaven.

With the cookies making gentle heating pads over her kidneys, Grace sidled nonchalantly into the living room. “What’s up?”

Sophia sat perched on the seat of an easy chair, dressed in a white silk blouse and navy, high-waisted pants that Katharine Hepburn would have loved, her hair neatly held back in a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her neck. A large cardboard box was open on the coffee table in front of her.

“I’ve decided you need something more lively and hands-on than books,” Sophia said, looking pleased with herself. “Something to distract you from thinking too much.”

Grace’s heart soared, one crazy, impossible thought suddenly filling her mind. What other “lively” thing could be in a big cardboard box other than: “A puppy? You got me a puppy!” she cried, overjoyed. Any moment now, a furry muzzle and black eyes would pop up over the edge of the box.

“Why in heaven’s name would I buy you a puppy?”

“No puppy?” Grace said, her smile dying. A small spark of hope flared back to life. “I don’t suppose it’s a kitten?”

Sophia’s lips thinned. “Women who want to marry should not be allowed to own cats.”

The comment surprised a laugh out of Grace. “You
can’t
have a logical argument for that.”

“All a cat is is a surrogate lover. Instead of fawning over an animal that cares more about a can of Fancy Feast than about her, a woman should be out looking for a real man to take care of her.”

Too caught between disbelief and horror to speak for several seconds, Grace put her hand to her forehead and shook her head, gaping at her aunt. “Where do I even
begin
?” she finally said.

Sophia flicked negligent fingers at her. “Let’s skip your part. It’s too predictable. ‘Women can take care of themselves, blah blah,’ yes, we’ve heard it all before. The part of the equation your kind never wants to see is that women need men just as much as they need us. Owning a pet diverts attention from seeking and securing that primary human relationship. A lot of men dislike cats, and I’m certain it’s because men sense the competition for a woman’s affection.”

“For God’s sake, who’d even
want
a man who felt threatened by a cat?”

Ignoring her, Sophia went on philosophically, “Of course, it
never helps the cat’s case when it craps in a man’s shoes while he takes the mistress to bed.” She shrugged. “But that’s neither here nor there, and nothing to do with what I’ve ordered for you. Come see.”

Wary, Grace inched forward. With trepidation she peered over the edge of the box and was confused to see a colorful array of tissue paper, lace, and silk. “PJs and underwear?” she asked. No one had chosen her underwear for her since she was fourteen.

“Darling, please. Children wear PJs and underwear. Women wear
lingerie
.”

Grace picked a peach silk tank top out of its tissue paper wrapping, and her confusion turned to delight. She had always secretly yearned for silk pajamas. She went through the box, eager to find the other half of the set. “Did they forget to send the bottoms?”

Sophia reached in and hooked a scrap of silk by her finger, raising it up for Grace. “Here.”

Grace blinked at the G-string, with its tiny triangle of fabric and its strip of satin elastic butt floss, and felt her delight fade. She should have known Sophia wouldn’t buy her anything she’d want to wear. “I can’t wear that.”

“It’s in your size.”

“You know what I mean. I’d look ridiculous.”

“You’ll only look ridiculous if that’s how you feel.”

Grace poked a finger into her thigh. “How I
feel
won’t change the shape of these, or the size of my butt.” She went back to the box, her skepticism increasing with every item she pulled out of its tissue paper.

Garter belt. Black and red push-up bra. White lace negligée that would conceal nothing bigger than a freckle. More G-strings, and panties made of stretch lace.

The lavender satin item in the bottom of the box pushed her over the edge. It was a corset. A goddamned
corset
, with black lace
trim. Grace lifted the offending item and its matching panties out of the box and glared at her aunt. “Exactly how far back in time do you intend to push women’s liberation?”

Sophia beamed. “Isn’t it beautiful? The Victorians understood a thing or two about female sexual power. They say that men would faint at the sight of a woman’s ankle.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Only you could see sexual power in the oppression of Victorian women.”

“Why else do you think the men were so obsessed with oppressing them? They were terrified of the strength of their own desires. Give a woman an hourglass figure and then put a ‘do not touch’ sign on her, and a man can think of doing nothing else.”

“While the poor woman struggles to breathe, and has her organs displaced by a medieval torture device.”

“There’s an elastic panel in the back of this one, so you’ll be quite comfortable wearing it under your clothes.”

Grace laughed in disbelief. “Do you have a hoop skirt for me, too?”

“I’m not putting you in costume, darling. I’m simply asking you to wear lingerie that says something other than ‘abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ You must dress as if you believe yourself a woman of sexual substance, who invites the admiration of men.”

“And a corset and G-string are supposed to do that for me?”

“You cannot achieve a sex-vixen mind-set while wearing granny panties.”

Grace groaned and sank down onto the sofa. The lingerie spread over the coffee table represented everything she had spent her life trying not to be. To dress in such froth would be to say her value was determined solely by the sexual desire of men.

“No,” she murmured.

“What was that, darling?” Sophia said, examining a transparent pink chiffon robe with marabou trim.

Grace held her hand palm out at the lingerie, as if to stop it from existing. “I don’t want it.”

Danger glinted in Sophia’s green eyes. She set down the robe. “And why not?”

“It’s not who I am.”

“We have already established that for this summer, you will be other than you have always been. God knows we have a lot of work ahead of us; do not tell me you balk at a mere upgrade to your lingerie.”

“It’s not
mere
to me. You keep talking about sexiness coming from within, and all bodies being beautiful, yet you try to dress me in a corset that changes my shape.”

“It’s not your shape I’m trying to change, but your perception of it.”

Grace jumped off the couch and grabbed at the lavender G-string panties. “And these are supposed to make me feel better about my body
how
? Can you imagine what these will look like on me, with my big butt exposed like a full moon?”

Sophia’s eyes widened and then she sighed with resignation. “Good afternoon, Andrew.”

Horror slowly frosted Grace’s skin, and for one chilled moment she felt she might faint.

Behind her, Andrew cleared his throat. “H-hello, Sophia. Er—Grace.”

Grace squeaked and tried to throw the panties into the box. They tangled in her fingers and fell to the floor at her feet, where they lay sprawled and tawdry.