The Duchess holds her breath, waiting for Richard to answer the phone.
…four rings…five…
How long since they’ve talked? Two months? Three? Not that it matters. They’ll continue right where they left off. They’ve always been like that.
…six rings…seven…
When she’s about to asphyxiate, he finally picks up. She heaves out his name. “Richard!”
“Celia?” His voice echoes over background noise; chairs slide across hard floors, glasses clink. And there’s another sound among the commotion. The laughter of a young woman.
“Sorry about the racket,” Richard says. “Setting up for tonight’s gala.”
Even with the distortion, his voice is so warm she wants to cry. He must have seen videos of her vomiting. Everyone has since the clip went viral. But it doesn’t matter. She and Richard share an unbreakable bond. He’s that little black dress you can count on. The one that always flatters you (not like Jean-Archer – another name on her list of fleeting love affairs). As her business partner in the fashion world – and the only person she’s ever truly counted on – the Duchess expects Richard to look after her interests.
“The signal’s terrible, but I’d really love to talk to you. Will you come?” he asks.
Of course she will. It’s the only place she wants to go. Running to Richard. Like always.
As she meticulously dresses, she almost feels better. With spirits slightly lifted, she glides into the limo and sinks into buttery seats. For a moment, a translucent ghost haunts the window, city lights adding platinum sparkles to her hair. The phantom image submerges her in the depths of its ichor.
Nineteen years old, she wears a chiton-style dress on her date with Richard. The resulting photos of her with the scion propel her into the spotlight. Dubbed the Duchess by the media, she’s suddenly an object of scrutiny. Their relationship intensifies – fame, fortune, a thriving business…then marriage.
On the night of their wedding, she shares a memory…
When she was fifteen, a friend signed her up for an art class. It was supposed to be fun. On her canvas, she attempted to paint a flower-filled vase. While her friend showed promise, the Duchess got the proportions all wrong. Frustrated, she gave up. The open window let in a city breeze, rust and sausage, and air currents tickled the white roses and foxgloves. She noticed where the light was harsh, the petals looked severe. Where the light diffused, the bouquet looked beautiful. Anything can look beautiful in the right light.
The instructor approached. His fingertips brushed hers. Like this. Confident, masterful sweeps: his lines were gorgeous.
Class after class she tried. He stayed close, leaned over, pressed his chest against her back. I can’t do it, she said. He showed her again. The brush began to flow. When he took his hand away, she made clumsy marks. He offered comfort. Maybe you won’t make beautiful paintings, but you are beautiful. Flawless. Surely that’s enough.
Once she realized she’d never be an artist, it took little to convince her to model. You have to be my masterpiece. Sit for me.
In his private studio, a darkened bedroom in his apartment, no bigger than a closet, he told her to hold still as he went about his work. It will take many months to complete. We must go slowly, meticulously. I have a perfectionist streak.
Unopened tubes of paint lined the easel’s ledge, waiting to serve their purpose. In that room, where a satin robe hung on the back of the door, she didn’t like his strokes, different than those from class: stretching, reaching. She had a lingering sense to bolt. The way a wrong smell hovers and warns you off. The way she was back to smelling city rust and sausage.
As the portrait took shape, she studied the light, shifted this way and that, finding the perfect position to catch the lamp’s glow. Like the flowers in his studio, certain angles made her look flawless. That feeling, the euphoria of immortal beauty, lodged deep.
And then the tubes of paint knocked to the floor, red and ochre, honey and grey, stroke, stroke. Eventually, he said it was a mistake.
I’ve done everything you asked for nothing? she shouted over ripping seams, the satin robe stretched between them. I can’t carry on, he said. Go home! So, she let it go, knowing she wouldn’t get what she wanted. She let it all go; the canvas, the masterpiece, the immortality. All but the words he shouted as she left. Can life imitate art?
She tells Richard maybe it meant she was too beautiful to paint. That the painting instructor hoped she’d stay untouched by the ephemeral. It was all very profound.
Now, the limo pulls up to the hotel. When the driver opens the door, the reflection distorts, and the looking glass evaporates. The Duchess steps out; well-toned legs between slits of a rippling dress. She moves through the faux marble lobby, then down the hall, until she emerges between the ballroom’s post-modern columns. Busy floral carpet matches cheap crown-moulding. The stage curtains are heavy velvet.
In the center of the room, Richard’s encircled by charity benefactors from their favourite charity, the Jonas Institute. Research pioneers, exploring the foundations of life, cutting-edge cures in neuroscience, genetics, and immunology, the non-profit helps find new treatments for cancer, Alzheimer’s, childhood diabetes, and ridding animal organs of harmful viruses, practically eliminating the need for organ donors. Nothing looks better than supporting life-saving science. Richard’s new fascination, a recent branch of the Jonas Institute, makes bionic assistive technology and robotic prostheses.
As she enters, the buzz of conversation quiets. She’s warm from her brisk walk; skin luminescent with moisture, figure slim, smile bright. She takes another step. Richard breaks into a grin. And then, the Duchess is enveloped with applause and adoration. She savours it. Why not? She’s earned it.
It’s not long before a socialite she knows, Hugh Mayer, takes her arm. “You’re here!” His tone encourages. “Have some Champagne.”
“I don’t see any servers.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll be along shortly. I hope they haven’t run out.” Hugh glances at his watch. “I’m glad you’re not hiding,” he adds. “So much talk. Best to face it head on.”
Then she’s pulled away by someone else, then someone else, and they discuss wealth, privilege, giving back.
Eventually, she spots a blonde at the bar. One she hasn’t seen before. And maybe Richard’s youngest yet. The Duchess can pass for thirty. A great thirty. But it’s no match for youth; for a blushed nineteen-year-old face.
They’re always young, blonde, stunning, well mannered. They only speak when spoken to. So, the Duchess doesn’t speak to them. She has more important people to impress. Other donors come up and squeeze her, and talk, talk.
A spokeswoman from the Jonas Institute takes the stage, steps up to the microphone. The Duchess loses sight of the blonde as everyone shuffles for a better view. The spokeswoman is saying, “…the innovations you’re about to see wouldn’t be possible without the generous contributions of our donors. A special thanks to our top supporter, the wonderful Richard, for hosting…”
Everyone applauds, and Richard gives a dignified nod, practiced humble acceptance of others’ admiration.
“To express their deep gratitude,” the spokeswoman calls over the clapping, “please welcome those whose lives have changed because of your benevolence.”
The parade starts. The cured limp and roll across the stage on motor-powered arms and legs, exoskeletons with clunky Velcro straps; a grotesque display of crude anatomy. The miracles wear broad grins, some lopsided. She maintains a serene smile, but her eyes feel too wide, and she can’t do anything about it, can’t look away.
And then, Richard and the chief engineer, Jack, are next to her.
“What wonderful work,” the Duchess says.
“Maybe they could model in our shows,” Richard says. “A new definition of beauty. Cutting edge. Never done before.”
“Splendid idea.” She uses a cadence of genuine interest. Then, as Jack turns to receive congratulations, she leans in close to Richard and whispers, “Don’t be gross.”
He laughs.
“Can you imagine what the media would say? They’d think we’re mad.”
“Same old Celia. As you get older, your perceptions change.”
“But standards of beauty don’t.”
“I know it’s hard to grow old.” Sympathy seeps into his voice. “How are you managing?”
“Better now that I’m here. I needed to escape for a while.”
He takes her hand. “Is Jean-Archer on his way out?”
She shrugs. “I don’t love him.”
“I know.” He releases her, then gives a raw smile.
She wonders if he pictures her as she was when they first met, whether he superimposes her teenage self over what his eyes see. Smitten. The real thing. He sees her in the best possible light.
“I still love you,” he says. “Always have. Always will.”
“I love you, too.”
“It doesn’t matter though, does it?”
And then he’s off, slipping through the crowd. The Duchess accepts Champagne from a server and takes a long drink. Engaged in pleasantries and small talk, she feels worn out. As the sparkling beverage imparts warmth, her attention drifts into the fluted glass. Light curves and she tumbles into its distortions.
The Duchess wants to be remembered by the iconic, black and white photograph that appears in the media nearly every time she’s mentioned: she’s leaning against a balcony’s wrought-iron railing overlooking Paris. Tailored jacket. Wingtip Mary Janes. A below-the-knee-dress belted at the waist. The light hits her perfectly.
A man bumps her arm, shifting her attention from the Champagne flute. She quickly smooths her irritation away. The last thing she needs is more bad press. The fashion industry has many expectations. Stay fit. Don’t look your age. Her thoughts turn to the vomit video. People are fascinated by images that produce a visceral reaction. Vomit. Sneezing. Rage. Visions of ugliness are the ones that inhabit memory. She drains the glass, but refuses to look into its depths. The Champagne tickles her insides until she nearly laughs at her foolishness. Public drunkenness is a terrible idea. Maybe she’s starting a new trend, adding more items to her list of latest concepts. Before she knows it, she’s at the bar. She’d only meant to find a seat until the tipsy feeling passes. But here’s the blonde right beside her. Hauntingly beautiful, the girl looks the way the Duchess would have if her features were perfectly symmetrical; a lovelier version of her.
“I recognize you.” The girl’s voice is timid.
“Undoubtedly. And who might you be?”
“Alice,” the girl says politely, but her stare says she’s not fooled by the Duchess’ feigned ignorance. Hands folded in her lap, she lowers her eyes. “Although Richard says I’m still young and figuring out who I am.”
“And who do you want to be?” the Duchess asks with practiced interest.
“I hardly know,” Alice says.
Briefly, there are muted sounds of a band warming up. The prosthesis recipients have changed into formal wear. Floor-length gowns. Tuxedos. They crowd the dance floor. She tracks their movements, noting the fake limbs, the real. No amount of fabric can cover that up.
“Ahem.” Alice clears her throat.
The Duchess doesn’t know why she’s still sitting here. More stable now, she could get up, move on. But conversing with this girl makes her feel like she’s mentoring herself. Or maybe it’s the reverse. Maybe Alice reminds her what it’s like to be a lost girl finding her place in the world.
Alice says, “By the way, don’t eat the oysters, they’re spoiled …oh, how silly of me. I’m very sorry I mentioned shellfish. I’m sure you wouldn’t have touched them, anyway.”
“Do you think sitting next to each other makes us friends?”
The girl blinks innocently. “I didn’t mean to overstep. You’re so well known to me that I feel I’ve made your acquaintance before.”
And then Richard appears. “Let’s get some coffee.” He takes her arm and helps her up. He doesn’t say a word to the girl and, as they leave, she doesn’t follow. The girl must have read about their relationship, seen their passionate wedding day photographs. She wonders how the girl sees her, whether it’s much the same way Richard does; an ageless face from a magazine. How can the girl compete?
Richard seats her at a quiet table, and puts coffee in front of her. “I’m glad you came.”
“You don’t have to placate me.” The Duchess wears a wisp of a smile because she’s used to holding her face that way. Everyone else is far enough away, she’s not afraid to speak candidly. No one pays them much attention, except Alice. She watches from across the room.
“Really, I am. I’ve wanted to see you.”
“Don’t start down that path again.”
“Let’s talk later. When I’m done wrapping things up.”
It’s almost eleven o’clock. It will be hours until the last guest stumbles out.
“Shall I sit here quietly until then?”
“You’ll keep occupied.”
“I usually do.” The Duchess considers taking his hand. Instead, she takes a small sip of coffee.
Hugh Mayer plops down next to her. “I hope you don’t mind, darling, I need to rest my feet.”
The Duchess smiles her prettiest smile. “Looks like I’m planning to stay awhile. Always a pleasure to have your company. Perhaps we can discuss recent dining experiences. The hottest chefs. The trendiest restaurants.”
Hugh leans forward. “That might keep me awake.”
“Maybe we should try the oysters. I mean, what could go wrong?”
“I’d rather hear what’s going on with you and Richard.” There’s a wild glint in his eye; anticipating insider information.
The Duchess looks for Richard’s reaction, but he’s gone. And someone else has joined them. Alice. Of course. She sits across from them. Quietly. Politely.
“Nothing’s going on. Richard and I are old news.”
Hugh pats her hand with rounded fingers. “Then what’s keeping you apart?”
Another glass of Champagne finds its way to her. She says, “The same thing that’s kept a thousand other couples apart. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Girl gets pregnant, delivers early, the baby dies.” Hugh’s attention wanes, but what can she do? The juicy bits are something she can’t tell. Something only she and Richard know. “We drifted away until there was too much distance to cross.”
Hugh rubs tired eyes. “How sad.”
Alice says, “I don’t think you’ve said it right, I’m afraid. Not quite right at all.”
It’s hours later when Richard escorts the last guest out. He finds her in the mirrored lounge off the lobby waiting in a faux-leather chair. He sits on the other side of the small table.
“We need to talk,” the Duchess says.
“What’s wrong?” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away.
“I need to know. How much have you told about the reason we split?”
“I—” He rubs his ring finger; a guilty habit. “I needed to talk to someone.”
Cold panic floods her. “You know what trouble this could bring me,” she says.
Alice’s face floats above Richard’s shoulder, smirking. There’s a tickle at the back of the Duchess’ throat. A dry cough.
“I was very careful. You know I’ll always protect you.”
Her heart beats too fast. She looks around, but no one is watching. Except that disembodied girl.
“I needed to let go of some guilt,” Richard says. “Doesn’t it crush you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I didn’t share, you know, everything.”
“How could you do this to me?”
“Because not everything is about you!”
A sob slips up her throat that she forces down.
“Look. I didn’t mean to get cross with you.”
“There’s something I’ve been thinking about.”
Dark circles sag beneath Richard’s eyes. He covers a yawn. “What?”
“Do you remember that night after the gala? The one when we did all those shrooms?”
“To be honest, not really.”
“In the room with the brass door. And there were all those insects.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“The shrooms! The bugs! Remember?”
“Shhh. So, I don’t remember a party. Why are you so upset?”
“Because I think that’s the night I conceived!”
Richard is quiet for a long time, then says, “It doesn’t make any difference.”
The sob expands into her mouth until it’s all she can do to keep it inside. She can’t swallow.
“Why don’t you go home? You don’t look well.”
“Good idea,” she manages.
“I’ll send someone over to check on you, soon. Okay?” As he rises, his fingertips brush hers.
“What do you mean, someone?” she croaks, but already he’s walking away.
Alice’s face fades until only her wicked smile’s reflected in the warped mirror that sucks the Duchess in.
On the night that changes everything, their life couldn’t be any better. The public adores her designs. And they praise her good works, her charity. Every event she and Richard host is a huge success. She doesn’t remember much about the party, except they end up in their hotel room, the one with the brass door. They get very high on shrooms. They’re enthralled with each other, caught up in the rapture of each other’s body. She kisses his hair, his skin. He presses his mouth against hers and hoists her up against the balcony door. Sweat suctions her to the glass. She shifts to let him slide inside of her, feels him writhe and twist. She wonders what it’s like for him to be cocooned in her wet warmth. At some point he shudders, and then she shudders, and then she feels them on her skin. She feels them under her skin. She says, “Something is wriggling. Oh God, they’re really squirming. My skin is rippling. They’re everywhere. Get them off.” So, Richard brushes her. “No, really get them off! I want you to get them off. Please, get them off!” Suddenly she and Richard are staring at each other. And the Duchess is crying, asking him to do something he can’t, because he can’t see the bugs. And she starts scratching. It’s a horrible trip. Everything had been going so beautifully. She scratches until her skin is raw, but the bugs keep crawling. Richard opens a window. Gets some water. Nothing helps. She claws at her skin. Blood runs down her arms. He grabs her hands, holds them at her sides, but he can’t contain her very long. Finally, he gives her sleeping pills. When they wake up, they don’t talk about any of it. Looking back on it now, the Duchess is sure she felt something wriggling inside of her, too. Ugly and wrinkled.
“Too much pepper in the soup?” Jean-Archer shouts. “Not this rant again!”
“I’m still pissed!” The Duchess started the fight as soon as she got home. Anger is good. If she’s raging, busy throwing things, smashing pepper shakers and teacups, she can’t think about Richard’s betrayal; how he told some young blonde their secret.
“It’s not my fault you’re too self-absorbed to read a menu. It’s my best dish! I told you I was making it.”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Tabernac! You don’t hear anything that makes the slightest bit of difficulty for you.”
“I don’t hear anything? You’re the selfish bastard that poisoned me at my gala, you idiotic, filthy, no good…” the Duchess keeps yelling at him until he stops yelling back.
He turns and walks out the front door. She sends a Wedgwood dinner plate flying after him. As he steps off the porch, the spinning china misses him, but…it grazes Alice’s hair as she walks up the stone pathway. With a great crash, the plate shatters against one of the trees behind her. As she slips inside, the girl seems unconcerned about soaring crockery.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming in without asking,” the girl says. “Oh my. There’s so much pepper in the air, I think I might—” The girl sneezes.
“Why are you here at all?” The Duchess doesn’t feel bad about her rudeness. At home, she can say whatever she wants and it doesn’t matter. The public will always love her. “Richard sent you to check on me, didn’t he? I wish you hadn’t bothered. If everybody minded their own business the world would go around a good deal faster.”
“Which is not to your advantage,” Alice says. “Just think how much quicker you’d age.”
Oh, but the girl has a knowing smile. The Duchess narrows her eyes. “Since he’s already told you, I suppose my business is your business now, isn’t it?”
The Duchess walks slowly, deliberately, to the last room at the end of the hallway. From her pocket she withdraws a small golden key and unlocks the door. She thinks the girl hasn’t followed, but then hears soft footsteps on the hardwood, hardly there at all.
In the center of the room, a dim light glows inside a fluid-filled tank where a pink form floats, long catheters supplying it with blood. Cramped and huddled, the figure fills the whole space, the container forcing it to tuck into a ball.
“Well, there it is,” the Duchess says. “The big secret. Jonas Industries is the science behind why I look so young.” The next words catch in her throat, but she forces them out. “I had them put my cells into a pig fetus and sustained it in that artificial womb. An unending supply of stem cells ready for injection.”
“How curious,” Alice says. “Do you ever wonder what you’re doing? Or whether you should?”
“I’m always a top five philanthropist, you know. It’s hard to sell fashion and throw charity galas with the face of a shrivelled fig. The greatest public good is produced by the greatest private selfishness. I only wish this happened long before I turned thirty. Then I could have kept your nineteen-year-old face forever.”
Alice steps up to the artificial womb and peers inside. Then she turns and looks at the Duchess and the Duchess looks at Alice. The girl reaches into the tank and scoops the huddled form into her arms.
“Why,” Alice says, “it’s not a pig at all.” She holds up the wet pink thing, the artificial womb’s glow casting warped shadows upon it. Alice, eyes wide, whispers, “It’s a baby.” The Duchess puts a hand to the glass, hoping it will steady her. She’s tugged inward by the force.
Pain. Childbirth is prolonged pain that’s supposed to end. Not for the Duchess. When she made the final push, and the baby wriggled free, the pain grew. Its body was segmented rolls of skin; its head a truncated cone with sightless eyes. She thought she was prepared for the birth, knew what was coming. But, as she looked at the scrunched-up face of her…her newborn son, nothing could fix this. An expert from Jonas Industries took the quiet baby and put him in the artificial womb. Through the glass, the infant looked like a deflated balloon, a caterpillar, a pig, a fig; its proportions kept distorting.
It’s early morning when Jean-Archer returns. He finds the Duchess outside, lying in the rose garden. She’s covered in dirt, her hands blistered from all her digging with the garden spade. He calls to her. No response. She stares deep into the woods behind the house. He calls an ambulance, then notices a room at the end of the hall with the door wide open. It’s always been locked before.
By the time the paramedics arrive, Richard is there, too. Jean-Archer reports nothing but a disoriented Duchess and an empty tank. Richard explains the delicate situation, relies on the paramedics’ ethics not to disclose how their son was born missing parts of the brain needed for self-awareness. That the tank was a remnant, something the Duchess couldn’t let go. But rumours have a way of starting. They begin with how the Duchess rambled over and over to the paramedics, about the first time she saw the baby. That after, she couldn’t look at Richard the same way again, couldn’t look at them the same, couldn’t accept she’d birthed something so hideous: that the designer who made her created something so revolting and used the same fabric. She’d at least found a way to put something so awful to good use, hadn’t she? Wasn’t her work worth a few occasional stem cells from a creature that didn’t know the difference between life and death? Repurposing a failed design. Using remnants to revive an already beautiful piece, keeping ephemeral, timeless. But the recounting of her words is dismissed as tabloid gossip. The Jonas Institute declines to comment. No solid evidence is ever dug up.
“Why did you tell her?” the Duchess asks Richard much later.
“Who?” Richard says.
“The girl. Alice.”
Richard says he has no idea who that is.
“The blonde with you at the Jonas Institute gala.”
“There was no one with me. I went alone.”
“Alice! The blonde. Looks like a younger me, like every blonde you’ve dated since our divorce.”
“I haven’t dated anyone since our divorce.” His voice is so quiet.
“The blonde, the blonde,” she says until her voice goes quiet, too. “The one you told about the baby. The one you sent to check on me.”
He insists he sent no one. And the person he told about their split was his therapist, bound by confidentiality, that he hadn’t revealed anything damaging. He suggests that, perhaps, the Duchess should see his therapist, too. But, he doesn’t push it. He can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. He never could act against her wishes. Not in that vulnerable moment long ago when she asked him something on the promise he wouldn’t tell.
Now, she asks for sleeping pills. He gets them.
As the years go by, the Duchess continues her charity support, but leaves the house less and less. Without stem cell injections, the wrinkles start; tiny fissures that later crack wide open. She can’t bear to show an aging face to the public. They wouldn’t look at her the same. When she dies, she hopes they print the Paris photograph, not the one with her face contorted from heaving and rage. The one that shows her in the right light.