Mary Alice Monroe - Girl In The Mirror

She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

“So what did you do to look so great?”

Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

“I didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

“Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

“I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

“Were you a pretty little girl?”

The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

“Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.

Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?

“What do you remember?” Vicki pressed.

Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.

“The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”

“I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”

“Is it? I just prefer to keep to myself. What do they think they’ll find that’s so interesting? When I’m not working, I’m pulling weeds in my garden.”

“Well, for starters—” Vicki flashed a smile “—isn’t it true that you were released from your last film? Rumors circulated on the set that you were loaded with drugs. Perhaps even had a breakdown of sorts?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, knowing without looking that Freddy’s smile was gone and he was leaning forward, waiting for her answer, deliberating on damage control. She decided to face the truth head-on.

“I was sick,” she admitted. She saw Vicki’s brow rise in anticipation of a coup. “I had a terrible case of the flu that I ignored.” Vicki’s smile fell and Charlotte knew she wasn’t buying the story. “The role meant a great deal to me. My mother taught me that illness is a weakness to be worked through. Unfortunately, the flu progressed to pneumonia.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m told I had a serious case, and I have to admit I was frightened.”

“You disappeared.” Vicki’s eyes were hard.

“Yes.” The image of Michael again flashed in her mind. His touch, his eyes, his love—they were for her like the sun, soil and air were to the garden. Her smile cracked.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, but a warning glare from Freddy caught her before she betrayed herself. With a clever tilt of her palm, she gracefully settled her long fingers along the exquisite curve of her jaw.

Vicki waited with the patience of a pro.

“I didn’t really disappear,” Charlotte continued. “That sounds so glamorous. All I did was spend some time in the country, alone, to regain my health.”

“Like in Camille? You won an Oscar for that role.”

Charlotte laughed lightly, determined to regain control of the interview. “Yes, I suppose so. Life imitates art…or vice versa.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “My health,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was the reason I requested a release from my last film. The pills I was seen taking were prescription. And it is common knowledge that I adhere to a strict regime of vitamins and herbs.” She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers lightly. “I swear, one can’t take a vitamin anymore without being tagged a drug addict.”

Vicki smirked, and Charlotte realized the host was removing her gloves. All bets were off. Charlotte felt betrayed, trapped. As her headache pounded in her temples, she felt the beginnings of a wave of chills. Her hands formed fists in her lap, digging moon-shaped dents into her palms as she fought for composure. She wasn’t up to this. She had warned Freddy. Oh, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let me get sick now, on national TV.

“Can you respond to the rumors of a breakdown?”

Charlotte offered a steely smile. “I thought I just had.”

“Oh, surely you can’t pretend not to have been upset by your breakup with Brad Sommers?”

This time Charlotte genuinely laughed out loud. Freddy’s press releases had done their job. “Vicki, really. Give me a little credit. Brad and I are friends,” she lied.

“If not Brad, then—” Vicki quickly checked her note cards “—what about Michael Mondragon?” she asked, raising her eyes with a gleam of triumph. “Some say that behind your tall, ivy-covered walls you were in fact hiding a torrid love affair with your gardener.”

Charlotte sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. How did Vicki know about Michael? How dare she call him a gardener? Nausea rose up to choke her, forcing her to swallow hard, appearing to the camera, she knew, overwhelmed by the question. Her gaze flew to Freddy standing just offstage, a mute appeal in her eyes.

Her pal the cameraman obliged and shifted the camera focus to catch a glimpse of Freddy, arms now clasped tightly across his chest. He bore a hard grin, but his eyes were flashing. Freddy remained resolutely silent, only waving the camera away. Vicki made a discreet gesture and immediately the camera returned to her.

“Michael who?” Charlotte finally blurted. She sat straighter in her chair, angry at Vicki for digging into her personal life, angry at Freddy for leaking the information, angry at herself for not having enough courage to walk off the stage. “Me and my gardener? Really. This is too much.”

She couldn’t help herself; her hand rose to cover her eyes. The tremors were returning. She felt weaker, dizzy. Poor Michael. If he heard what she’d just said it would hurt him deeply. But what choice did she have? What choice had he left her?