At least a few of the Gingerbread Girls would’ve liked to hear about Tamar Kercheval’s beauty spot. It was on her nose, just over her left nostril, and it was so vivid it looked drawn on. In the very early days of Ari and Tamar’s relationship, Ari told himself the beauty spot was the reason he kept asking Tamar out. He was so irritated by it, so irritated by the affectation of it . . . he couldn’t end things without telling her how much it pissed him off, but the occasion for criticism had to arise somewhat naturally. One day she’d forget to draw on the beauty spot, or it would be a little higher up or a little lower down than before, or lighter in color, or it would just have changed in some way, and then he’d pounce. But Ari was never able to catch Tamar out. Somebody must have told this woman she had a cute nose once, and she’d made the beauty spot a crucial step of her makeup routine ever since. Ari didn’t see anything wrong with playing up one’s best features, but Tamar’s nose wasn’t that distinctive. There were several far more advantageous locations for a drawn-on beauty spot. Her chin was nicer, as were her cheeks, the corners of her eyes and mouth. What was her nose compared to these? By their seventh date, irritation had become abhorrence, and Ari reached across the dinner table and tried to remove that attention-seeking little dot. He tried with a napkin first, then with a finger and thumb. To no avail, since the beauty spot was a birthmark. After about five minutes, Tamar said: I think I’m having the crème br?lée. What about you? She’d been looking down at the menu throughout.
Something else: Harriet’s mother was uneasy about Tamar. This came up as a topic during one of Harriet and Margot’s late-late-late-night consultations as the two lay side by side in Margot’s bed, shuffling and reshuffling the English-vocabulary flashcards they rarely remembered to actually test each other with. Whisper-gossiping in English served roughly the same objective anyway.
Want to see a couple who’s madly in love in very different ways that might cause big trouble?
Where do we go to see that? Harriet asked.
Not far—just watch Ari and Tamar for a while. Tamar Kercheval . . . why did I have to meet this woman . . . ?
Mum, you don’t like Tamar?
I do, actually. It’s more that I don’t like meeting her after meeting Clio Kercheval. We three . . .
What about you three?
You still don’t see it? Why do you think I forbade you to like Clio more than me? She’s just your type, Margot said. And so’s Tamar. Tamar’s take on being in love, for instance. I’ve worked her out there. Her “I love you” doesn’t mean “If you seem cold toward me for one morning I sleep poorly two nights in a row,” nor does it mean “I can no longer imagine a situation in which I choose self-preservation over whatever you need,” or even “If you look at anyone else the way you look at me I will almost definitely want to kill you and the person you looked at that way”—those are more Ari’s version of being madly in love.
And with Tamar?
With Tamar it’s more having the same plans. He comes up with a scheme and she makes it as watertight as possible, and they go on like that. His plans are her plans. But when she comes up with something—well, her plans had better be his plans too, or he’ll be in a world of shit. And why? Because she sees him as her equal. If only she could be more arrogant and try to do all the loving deeds by herself, just love him without respect, on the assumption that he doesn’t have the ability or the depth of feeling to match her. Instead, whenever he does anything to damage the equality between them, she . . . well, hopefully we won’t be around to see it. Well, you look well and truly horrified, daughter. But that’s the story of Ari and Tamar.
Harriet wiped cold sweat from her forehead and muttered: Does it even make sense to describe any of that as love . . .
* * *
—
KENZILEA KERCHEVAL RANKED FIFTH. Kenzilea lived for work, at-home facials, and cinema dates with her son, who encouraged all onlookers to continue misidentifying her as his sister. Though Kenzilea didn’t live with the other Kerchevals, she often requested that Rémy bring Harriet along when he was visiting her. Harriet had been her patient too, and Kenzilea had decided to let the girl in on all the skincare secrets she would have passed on to her own daughter. Harriet spent whole Sunday afternoons receiving instruction on the best way to wash her face. In between treatments Rémy and Harriet were unofficial home clinic receptionists, greeting an irregular stream of girls and women who’d been given Kenzilea’s address. Some were Traveler girls, many were not, but all had heard this doctor was good for non-surgical procedures that didn’t come with pointless questions or attempts to contact your family. Somebody would come in with a scared look, a split lip, some uncertainty as to whether her arm was sprained or dislocated, and she’d find herself sat in an easy chair with a pair of cucumber slices over her eyes as she waited for Kenzilea’s next opening. Kenzilea’s son proved diverting too. He’d try to make small talk (Isn’t skin just a bit TOO absorbent, though? I mean, all that hand cream you just rubbed on three minutes ago . . . where has it gone?) and the oracular phrasing of his speech induced communal freak-outs.
The occasional lull between patients gave Kenzilea time to follow Ari’s directive and have Ambrose-related heart-to-hearts with Rémy: You shouldn’t talk to your dad the way you do; his whole life’s gone wrong.
When appealing to Rémy’s better nature, Kenzilea addressed her son by his middle name, which was Nearboy. This only gave Rémy a pretext to ask about the grandfather he’d never met, but one day Harriet jumped in before Kenzilea could begin retelling one of her father’s escapades and asked what had gone wrong with Ambrose.
I’ll tell you, Harriet. Rémy says it’s nonsense, but I’ll tell you. We weren’t allowed, him and me. He was just too brand-new as far as I was concerned, and vice versa. The way we felt about each other . . .
(Bye, Rémy said, walking out.)