All that energy she’d had as a child, as Odeal—she remembered running just to feel the wind blow through her hair; she recalled rolling down a hill, miraculously not getting grass stains on her dress, and she was so thankful for that, she never did it again, but oh, the dizziness! The delicious head rush, the scratching of twigs against her cheek, the feeling that the sky was on the bottom and the earth was on top but she remained where she was, by some mysterious force called gravity—all that energy, she learned to channel into the one thing she could count on, as her mother drilled her over and over. Her face, her appearance, her decorative quality. Her mother never stinted on praise when it came to how Babe looked, if her clothes were neat and pressed, if her skin was clear and her cheeks flushed and her hair glossy. If she attracted the stares of the rich young men she met at her sisters’ parties and dances.
Even now, now that she was forty and Gogs was dead, she felt the heavy weight of her mother’s admonitions, her quick disapproval, her religious appreciation of beauty and grace and manners. The pulse-racing terror that if she didn’t live up to everyone’s expectations, she would be shunned, abandoned. So Babe had to rise early, long before Bill, to put on her makeup and take out her hairpins, so he would see her at her absolute best when he awoke. As he always had, and always would. And to tell the truth, she was dependent on her cosmetics as others might be dependent on alcohol, in a tactile, pleasurable way. She loved the faint, flowery smell of her favorite blush; she delighted in the heavy silver of the brushes, the silkiness of the bristles against her skin. She enjoyed applying foundation, personally mixed for her by Elizabeth Arden herself, taking the sponge and dabbing it on her skin, each dab like a scale of armor, of power. She never grew tired of seeing her cheekbones come into sculpted glory with each swipe of the brush; she stared into the mirror as she blended and stroked and dabbed, and little by little, like pointillism, her face, the face she knew and depended on, emerged into a complete portrait. Perfection.
No one had ever seen her without makeup. Not even Bill on their wedding night. Just the thought of showing a bare face to the world—Babe squirmed again, turning away from Bill as if he could read her thoughts and might wake up, despite the fact that he was still snoring steadily. This was one reason why she didn’t like the tiny apartment at the St. Regis; she and Bill had to share a bed, as there were only three rooms. At least at Kiluna, and the summer house up in New Hampshire, and in Round Hill, their place in Jamaica, they had separate bedrooms. So there was never a chance he might awaken in the middle of the night and see her naked, exposed: imperfect.
Had she ever loved Bill enough to show him her true self? Had she ever loved anyone? Or was this another of her defects, something else to hide from the world beneath the latest Chanel jacket? She didn’t know if she loved her husband, although she appreciated him, and enjoyed his company, and ached to be touched by him, noticed, wanted for something other than being a very glamorous concierge.
Which was what Babe was, really.
And so, every morning, her makeup and hair immaculate, clad in a fresh negligee and fabulous quilted housecoat, she sat at her desk and compiled her lists. First, she planned all the day’s meals, resigning herself to hours of scavenging in the most obscure markets for some new, exotic vegetable or fruit to tempt him. Bill loved food, had a voracious appetite, ate several meals a day. She had to make sure they were memorable, each and every one. Seated at the dinner table, she took notes in her custom-made palm-sized notebook from Tiffany’s, jotting down Bill’s comments about the food, what he liked, what he didn’t. So that next time, she would not repeat any mistakes.
She had lists pertaining to clothes—Bill’s blue suit needed its buttons tightened. His shoes needed polishing. Her coats needed storing. The lace on her negligees needed repairing.
Her mind, even knowing how early she had to rise, was a list now, as she rolled back on her side, gingerly, so as not to disturb her husband. Tomorrow night was dinner at Quo Vadis with the Guinnesses. Bill wanted her to pick him up at the office before. She must send the chauffeur out to buy supplies to take back to Kiluna this weekend: mundane, necessary supplies such as toilet paper and cleaning sprays and new hand towels for all the guest bathrooms—supplies Bill would never imagine needed to be procured. His hand reached—for a bar of soap, a paper clip, a length of toilet paper to wipe his ass. And it was there. Because of her, Babe, concierge extraordinaire. And he never, ever thanked her for it.