She was wearing gray trousers and a pale pink short-sleeved sweater. She had a childlike, girl-next-door kind of face. Big, round, pale blue eyes, long lashes, Cupid’s bow lips, long strawberry-red hair. She was simplicity perfected.
I was the sort of beautiful that women knew they could never truly emulate. Men knew they would never even get close to a woman like me.
; Ruby was the elegant, aloof sort of beauty. Ruby was cool. Ruby was chic.
But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.
Ruby and I both were aware of what kind of power that is, accessibility.
Celia toasted a piece of bread at the craft services table and slathered it with peanut butter and then bit into it.
“What on earth are you scared of?” Ruby said.
“I have no idea what I’m doing!” Celia said.
“Celia, you can’t really expect us to fall for this ‘aw shucks’ routine,” I said.
She looked at me. And the way she did it made me feel as if no one had ever really looked at me before. Not even Don. “That hurts my feelings,” she said.
I felt a little bit bad. But I certainly wasn’t going to let on. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said.
“Yes, you absolutely did,” Celia said. “I think you’re a bit of a cynic.”
Ruby, that fair-weather friend, pretended to hear the AD calling for her and took off.
“I just have a hard time believing a woman the entire town is saying will be nominated next year is doubting her ability to play Beth March. It’s the chewiest, most likable role in the whole thing.”
“If it’s such a sure thing, then why didn’t you take it?” she asked me.
“I’m too old, Celia. But thank you for that.”
Celia smiled, and I realized I’d played right into her hands.
That’s when I started to take a liking to Celia St. James.
LET’S PICK UP HERE TOMORROW,” Evelyn says. The sun set long ago. As I look around, I notice the remains of breakfast, lunch, and dinner scattered across the room.
“OK,” I say.
“By the way,” she adds as I start to pack up. “My publicist got an e-mail today from your editor. Inquiring about a photo shoot for the June cover.”
“Oh,” I say. Frankie has checked in on me a few times now. I know I need to call her back, update her on this situation. I’m just . . . not sure of my next move.
“I take it you haven’t told them the plan,” Evelyn says.
I place my computer in my bag. “Not yet.” I hate the slight tint of sheepishness that comes out when I say it.
“That’s fine,” Evelyn says. “I’m not judging you, if that’s what you’re worried about. God knows I’m no defender of the truth.”
I laugh.
“You’ll do what you need to do,” she says.
“I will,” I say.
I just don’t know what, exactly, that is yet.
