When Marlowe’s acting career ended, she earned a bachelor’s degree and then a Ph.D. She wrote a book called Fuckability Theory, which took concepts from Hollywood and applied them to the rest of society. After Verena read the book she invited Marlowe to Calliope House for lunch. That was four years ago. Since then, Verena had been funding Marlowe’s projects, which included touring university campuses to give talks and workshops about fuckability, and also writing another book. Marlowe’s office was on the third floor of Calliope House.
As we walked there, Marlowe holding her baby, me holding the bag with my dress in it, I realized I hadn’t been registering the electric shocks and other unpleasant symptoms. Of all the women in Verena’s orbit, I liked Marlowe the best so far, even though I knew she was part of the New Baptist Plan, the purpose of which was to change my mind about what I wanted so badly.
“What exactly is Calliope House?” I asked.
“If you want to be old school about it, you could call it a feminist collective. Verena has this massive house and more money than God, and she provides living space or office space for women who interest her for the work they do or the potential they have. Women come and go, as they need her. She’s a good egg.”
A collector of women.
I explained to Marlowe about the surgery. I wasn’t sure what she knew already, but I explained about the thin woman living inside me. It seemed ridiculous when I said it out loud, but Marlowe had shared her story with me. She was fat too, though not as fat as I was. Maybe she would understand. “Verena wants me to practice being Alicia. She wants me to have this makeover and go on dates, since that’s what Alicia would do.”
“Let’s not call it a makeover,” said Marlowe. “We’re going to up your fuckability quotient.”
That didn’t sound pleasant. A simple manicure and haircut was likely not what Marlowe had in mind.
We arrived at Calliope House, and as I walked through the door I felt a stab of electricity in my head. Even with my eyes closed I could sense that people were staring at me, but I needed to wait for the sensations to pass. When I opened my eyes, Julia was standing before me in the entryway, seemingly on her way out. She was wearing the beige trench coat, this time with the collar up.
“I dropped by to say hello. I trust that you are well,” she said, nibbling the arm of her sunglasses.
“I’ve been better. How are you? How’s Leeta?”
“Leeta doesn’t work for me anymore. Don’t ask about her.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. By the way, thank you for sending Kitty’s list of upcoming articles. It’s the usual sewage, but keep feeding me information. I like to know what’s going on.”
“I’m the last person on Kitty’s staff to know what’s going on,” I said, not adding that I wasn’t even doing my job anymore.
“Yes, but you’re the only one I can trust, so I’ll have to make do.” She smiled primly and moved toward me, aiming for a kiss on the cheek but landing in the spot behind my ear, near my hairline. She lingered for a moment, her arm wrapped around my waist, her breath on my neck. She seemed to be inhaling me. When her head resurfaced, she said, “It was lovely bumping into you, as always,” and walked out the door.
Marlowe, who had observed our interaction, said, “No comment.” I was left to wonder what had happened to Leeta. Julia wanted information from me but rarely shared any herself.
I followed Marlowe into the living room. It was redder and brighter than I had remembered, like the inside of a cherry lozenge. She set a dozing Huck on the sofa, where he curled into a ball. In the middle of the room was an overturned plastic crate, and she asked me to stand on it.
“Let’s see what you brought,” she said, picking up the bag and pulling out the white poplin shirtdress. “This should be no problem. Do you mind if we measure you?”
A woman with a tape measure and a pad of paper appeared. “This is Rubí Ramirez,” said Marlowe. I recalled the name Rubí from one of my conversations with Verena. She was the one who’d gone to Paris to get the diet drug she called Dabsitaf.
“Hello,” Rubí said, and I returned the greeting. She began to wrap the tape around me, making me feel like a prize pig. She and I probably weighed the same, but she was short. Her black hair was nearly shaved on one side, shoulder length on the other, the tips of her spiky bangs bright blue. She wore shorts and a tank top, her olive limbs ringed with rolls of fat—an image of the Michelin Man came to mind. I would have never worn an outfit like that.