WEEKS PASSED, AND THE auction came and went. It was a complete success, but Lily accepted the congratulations wearily. When Ellis proposed another committee for her, she told him, “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t think I have the energy left for anything else right now.”
As time passed, Ellis became more concerned. Lily seemed strangely listless. She lacked her usual sparkle. “Are you feeling well, Lily?” he asked her one evening.
She shrugged. “Oh, I’m healthy enough.”
“Well, you look as though you could use a night out. How about dinner? Anywhere you’d like.”
“Thank you, Ellis, but I think I’ll just go home and try to get a good night’s sleep.”
Tonight more than ever, the silent phone mocked her, and when she finally turned the light out, she lay staring into the darkness.
In the morning, having slept only two or three hours, she dragged herself out of bed, slipped on her bathrobe, and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Mary was there, putting away the morning’s marketing. “My, my,” she said, greeting her employer, “you look tired this morning. Here, have some coffee and one of these cinnamon rolls.”
“I am a little tired, Mary—but I think I’ll just have coffee right now.”
She took her cup out to the terrace, letting the pale sunshine bathe her face. Sitting there sipping her coffee, she felt like an old lady at a sanatorium, wheeled out into the garden by the attendant for some fresh air.
Wearily, she went into her mirrored dressing room, intending to change. Instead, she pushed back the shutters, flooding the room with harsh daylight, and allowed her robe to slip onto the floor. Rarely did she spend a lot of time looking at herself in the mirror. Most of the time her toilette consisted of pulling on a dress or suit, brushing her hair, and perhaps dabbing on a little lipstick.
She was far from being a vain woman; in fact, the memory of her childhood, when she had heard her red hair so constantly disparaged, had left her with an inferiority complex about her looks.
Still, from the time in Paris when she had become an overnight social success, she had grown accustomed to thinking of herself as at least reasonably attractive. But now, looking at herself in the mirror, she thought: I’m past forty now, middle-aged.
Her auburn hair still showed no signs of graying, but it hung loosely about her shoulders in no particular style. She had never regained the weight she had lost after Jeremy’s death and her face looked drawn and tired, her complexion dull. The tiny crow’s-feet around her eyes suddenly looked like cavernous furrows, especially today. No wonder Harry was no longer interested in her. She was aging, plain, a hausfrau. She was, worst of all, ordinary. And, God only knew, her husband was no ordinary man. He was still virile and handsome, his few lines and the silver at his temples only serving to enhance his appeal.
In truth, she was fighting not another woman, but a much greater adversary: celebrity. It was a seduction in itself, beyond mere looks and wealth. She couldn’t dazzle the way the glowing, glittering sphere of fame could, and now she didn’t even have beauty to offer Harry.
In her despair, Lily had lost all perspective. She’d convinced herself that her looks were the source of the problem. Somehow it suddenly seemed that nothing else mattered except regaining her lost beauty.
But the solution came to her with unexpected swiftness, even though she had never thought of it before: Switzerland. Even in her convent-school youth, women had come to the spas for rejuvenation, and now there were the world’s best plastic surgeons.
She would have a face-lift, and then recuperate at one of the famous spas. Perhaps even put on a little weight. Then she would go to Paris and get herself a smashing new wardrobe. Harry was always telling her to spend money. Well, for once she would. The whole thing would take no more than a month and she could even be back before Harry returned from his lecture circuit.
When she called him that evening she told him, “Darling, since you’re away, I’ve decided to take a little vacation in Europe. I’ve been feeling a bit run-down, and I want to have a little rest in Switzerland, maybe get in touch with my old friend Colette in Paris. Just a few weeks—I’ll be back before you finish your tour.”
“Fine, Lily,” he said flatly. “I think you should. Sounds wonderful.”
When he hung up, he gave a short, cynical laugh. She couldn’t be bothered to travel with him, claiming that she felt superfluous, but now she was going off to Europe to see a girlfriend. That said it all, as far as he was concerned. Lily had her own life and was best off living it—without him.
A week later, Lily was operated on by the most eminent plastic surgeon at the Clinique Lassalle in Geneva. She had vaguely thought that the procedure entailed little more discomfort than a trip to the beauty salon, but soon she realized how naive she had been. For two weeks afterward, as she sat in her room and looked out through the pale, clear air at the Alps, her face was swathed in bandages. The pain was excruciating.
Even worse was the mental torture of knowing that she might have made a great mistake. There would be no improvement. Indeed, she would be lucky if she weren’t horribly scarred and unnatural-looking. Harry would hate it….
But after the bandages were removed and the swelling and bruising receded, she was the Lily of old once again. As soon as she realized that the operation had been a success, she found herself enjoying being in Switzerland again. She walked in Alpine meadows, sailed across Lake Geneva, ate glacés in tiny cafés, and was carried back to the long-ago days of boarding school.
How unhappy she had been as a child, how utterly friendless. A shadow of that unhappiness had always hovered over her. She had never really stopped being that miserable, lonely little girl who knew herself to be unloved.
Whether she realized it or not, this sense of being unloved was the root of why she had come here for this operation. Harry’s strange aloofness had conjured up all the old feelings of low self-worth.
As the days passed, the clear air and mineral baths and exercise brought fresh color to her complexion, sparkle to her eyes, and a spring to her step. By the time she left, she felt like a new woman.
Yet the second phase of her transformation awaited. It seemed exactly like the first time Colette had taken her to Paris. She was massaged and pampered; her nails were manicured and her hair was cut and curled.
Then she went to the Rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré, the heart of Paris couture, and ordered an entire new wardrobe from Lanvin. They assured her that all would be complete within ten days, and they proved as good as their word.
As Lily stood in front of the mirror for her last fitting, she thought, I may look like a new woman, but all I want is to be the woman Harry fell in love with over twenty years ago.
Filled with renewed confidence, she found herself impatient to go home. Upon her arrival back in Manhattan, she was startled to hear that Harry would be flying in at six o’clock that evening, earlier than expected.
“Oh, Mary, I’ve got so much to do!” she cried. “I want dinner at home tonight.”
“I’ll take care of the marketing, Mrs. Kohle. Just make a list of what you want.”
“Fine—fine,” she said distractedly. “I have to call Elizabeth Arden.”
At the salon, the attendants secretly thought that seldom had anyone needed beauty treatments less. Lily’s skin glowed, her hair shone—she was the picture of youth and loveliness.
Hurrying home, oblivious to the admiring stares, she checked with Mary to make sure that preparations for dinner were well under way, then she flipped through her mail. Invitations, thank-you notes, committee business, nothing that couldn’t wait.
She called Ellis. “I’m back—and I feel like a million. This trip was simply marvelous.”
“I’m glad. I was a little worried about you before you left.”
“No need to worry about me,” she laughed. “Everything’s just fine now. I’ll see you soon.”
After hanging up, she glanced at the clock. Good heavens, it was five-thirty. Harry would be home in less than an hour. Thank God he had told Mary that he would get a lift home with the people from Renaud’s.
Dashing into the bedroom, she surveyed the closet where Mary had already carefully hung up her lovely new Paris clothes. There were so many stunning dresses from which to choose. Which would Harry like best?
Finally she chose a gown of the softest flowing chiffon. Its clear spring shades were reminiscent of a Monet garden.
Donning her luxurious new silk lingerie and a cloud of French scent, she stepped into the dress, drew on a pearl-and-diamond necklace and matching earrings, then went to the living room to add the finishing touches to the huge bouquet on the mantel.
A minute later, she stood back and surveyed the scene. Satisfied, she was about to turn away when she caught a glimpse of herself in the huge Venetian mirror. Even to her own critical eyes, she looked beautiful, her skin flawless. In the subdued light, she could have been twenty years old again.
And then, suddenly, came the sound of a key in the front door. Harry was early.
Lily took a deep breath and went into the front hall. He was just hanging his coat in the closet and putting his hat on the shelf.
“Harry?” she said softly. “Welcome back.”
Turning, he saw her and stopped short. A flash of shock registered on his face. “What have you done to yourself, Lily?”
She was so stunned, she couldn’t speak. How she had dreamed of this moment, of how he would look at her, incredulous delight in his eyes, and then, overcome by her beauty, sweep her up in his arms. Instead, his words pierced her to the core.
“What do you mean?” she finally managed through stiff lips.
“You’ve had a face-lift, haven’t you?”
Tears formed in her eyes. “Does it look artificial? Is it that dreadful?”
“No, but there was nothing wrong with your face the way it was.” He shrugged. “I hope you didn’t do this for me.”
It was all Lily could do to keep from bursting into tears. Instead, she managed to hold herself together with her usual poise. “I know you must be tired after your flight. Perhaps you’d like to change before we have dinner?”
But when he had left the room, she sank onto the sofa and cried. All the hopes and dreams that had buoyed her up for the long weeks she and Harry had been apart had been laid waste in these few moments.
Dinner was a silent affair, the conversation stilted. Lily made no protest when Harry finally said, “I’m really not hungry, Lily. I’m totally beat. Would you mind if I just went to bed?”
As he walked into the bedroom, he yanked off his tie, a bitter expression crossing his face. He had barely been able to restrain his anger. Instead of touring with him, she had dashed off to Switzerland and had her face done. It was the biggest insult she had ever offered him, as well as the most unnecessary. But he would not utter one word of reproach. The thought of more fruitless discussions, more failures of communication, daunted him.
God only knew, Lily was a beautiful woman and always would be; their problems had nothing whatsoever to do with her looks.