Mary Alice Monroe - Girl In The Mirror

“Your face it was my punishment for my sin. Sin of having child out of sacrament of marriage.”

Charlotte’s mind whirled. She felt like she was riding a carousel, going round and round with macabre music playing in the background and the barker crying out, “Bastard. Bastard.”

“That is why I say no to surgery,” Helena moaned.

“May God’s will be done.”

“God’s will? What about your will? And mine?” Charlotte pushed away from the Formica. All further words tumbled and spilled unspoken from her mouth in a soft whimper. She turned to leave, stumbling away.

“If you go to California,” Helena called at her back, “you will never be welcomed here again. If you leave, you are not a Godowski!”

Charlotte stopped, tilted her head, then slowly met her mother’s unyielding gaze. She felt as squeezed dry as the sponge in her hand. “Apparently, I’m not a Godowski, anyway,” she replied in a low voice. “I don’t know who I am. But I assure you, Mother, I intend to find out.”

Charlotte arrived in Los Angeles two days later. As she stepped from the cab, bag in hand, she hoped no one passing her on the street could hear the pounding of her heart or see the trepidation blazing across her face. She quickly glanced at the dog-eared business card in her hand. Yes, this was the right address. The office of Freddy Walen, Talent Agent.

The ghost of the little girl she once was materialized in her mind, tugging at her thoughts, telling her this was much too much a dream for her to go after. Who do you think you are, anyway?

Charlotte chewed her lip as she craned her head far back to stare up the tall granite building. Well, wasn’t that the very question she had to answer? she asked herself. Scooting the little girl from her mind, she entered the building with long strides, marched through the plush marbled lobby and rode the elevator to the top floor where a shiny brass plate indicated the offices of Freddy Walen. A young woman with enormous breasts and lips gave her the once-over when she walked in.

“I’m here to see Mr. Walen. He’s expecting me.”

“Your name?”

Charlotte braced herself for a laugh or a rolled eye as she said her new name.

“Charlotte Godfrey.”

“You may go in now,” drawled the secretary without raising her eyes. “He’s expecting you.”

Be calm, Charlotte told herself, determined to gain control. You’re prepared. You can do this. She tucked down her jacket, lifted her chin, then passed the secretary, entering Walen’s office after a brisk three knocks on the door.

The room was determinedly masculine with its brown leather chairs and sofas and heavy, square-cornered dark wood desks and tables. A spectacular marlin arched over the sofa and golf clubs slouched beside it. Golf trophies were placed at prominent positions throughout the room. Freddy Walen was a man with an ego.

Charlotte scanned the black-framed photographs that filled the opposite wall. Some of the stars in the frames she knew. Some big names—mostly long forgotten names, either dead or has-beens. Had she not been an old movie buff, she’d never have recognized a few of them. There were a number of character actors with familiar faces but names she couldn’t remember. Nowhere was there a face of a young, hot actor.

Charlotte pursed her lips and, shifting her gaze, noticed other telling details: the worn leather, the dust bunnies in the corner, the dying dieffenbachia by the window. This looked more like an office of someone on the way down, not up. After all, it was hard to kill a dieffenbachia.

“Welcome to California, Miss Godfrey” came a voice from the corner.

Turning her head, she saw a barrel-chested man nearing fifty years of age, leaning casually against the wall studying her. He was handsome, in a polished, older sort of way, she thought. The kind of man who wore slip-on shoes, flowing, tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters that showed off his muscular chest and arms.

“Sit down.”

Charlotte startled at the brusque command. Play the part, she ordered herself, then strolled to the sofas with a practiced elegance that Grace Kelly would have envied. In her mind’s eye she could see what he saw: the too-wide lapels on her suit jacket and her out-of-date heels. She’d considered purchasing new shoes, but thought it best to eat instead. She walked, however, as if she were wearing couture. It’s not what you wear, but how you wear it, she remembered reading in a magazine one day.

The sofa sighed as she sat on the leather and carefully tucked her skirt beneath her thighs. Mustn’t perspire and stick to it.

A smile curved his lips, raising his black mustache, making her suspect that he’d guessed all this was an act and was playing along. He had dark blond hair interspersed with gray and wore it slicked back. It was his facial hair, however, that gave him such an intimidating appearance. His thick dark brows and mustache contrasted with his blond hair and accentuated the paleness of his blue eyes like bold punctuation marks. When he looked over his dominant nose to stare at her, Charlotte felt pinned.

“You’re tall, have a beautiful face and you’ve got nice teeth,” he said as an opener, striding across the room. He sat on the sofa directly opposite her, leaning far back into the cushions, spreading his arms out across the cushions in a position of command. “But your feet are big, and you walk like a man.” He flipped his palms up. “All in all, I’d say Harmon was right. You have potential.”

Charlotte’s mouth slipped open and her mind went blank except for the vision of her big feet.

“You’re from Chicago, right? Good theater there. Says in the letter that you did quite a bit of off-Broadway kind of stuff.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Sort of, she thought to herself, tightening her hands in her lap.

“Lessons, studio work?”

“Of course. I have my portfolio with me.” Charlotte bent at the waist to shuffle through her bag.

“Just set it on the table. I’ll get to that later.” He brought his hand to his face, stroking his jaw while he studied her. Then he asked her a few basic questions about roles she’d played, her range, her methods. Questions she’d prepared for on the long flight from Chicago to L.A. She answered carefully. Dr. Harmon and she had agreed that her plastic surgery would remain private. She didn’t want to be just another Hollywood makeover, or worse, a freak. Dr. Harmon had warned her that if the gossipmongers found out, they’d never take her seriously as an actress, they’d be so occupied searching for scars.

“Come, come, this isn’t the time for nervousness,” Freddy said, mistaking her hesitation for shyness. The corners of a smile emerged from under his mustache and his eyes sparked. “Your voice is good, too. Very sexy.”

She shifted, a slight movement that created distance. Was he trying to pick her up? Most men did when they met her these days. Young and old alike, they lit up like Christmas trees. Freddy Walen wasn’t looking at her breasts, however, or moving into her personal space. He looked at her the way Dr. Harmon had—clinically, professionally. He looked directly into her eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” she replied coolly.

“I’ll just bet you have. And a lot more.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But it doesn’t matter if the guy who bags your groceries, or your hometown boyfriend, or even your parish priest thinks you’re the greatest thing since white bread. In this town what matters is that the right person—a connected person—thinks you’re special and introduces you to other right people. It’s all who you know. And—” he leaned back in the cushions and crossed his legs; his eyes delivered a challenge “—it helps if you have talent.”