Beautiful(27)

The chief military surgeon had already assured her that very little additional improvement was possible. The shrapnel had done too much damage, and the impact of the explosion too great. They were planning to fine-tune and smooth down some of the tissue around the scars, but they had warned her not to expect any major improvement on her face. Knowing that made her less inclined to consult another doctor. But she had brought the name of the doctor Doug had recommended just in case she wanted to see him anyway. There didn’t seem to be much point.



* * *



—

The flight from Paris to New York was long and boring. She watched a movie and slept for a while. She didn’t eat because she didn’t want to take off the mask, and just took small sips of water, carefully lifting the mask toward her nose. She sat next to an American businessman who didn’t attempt to engage her in conversation. He worked on his computer for the entire flight. When she was awake, she thought about her father, and what she had read about him. He seemed to be greatly respected as a family man and an honest politician. She wondered how different it would have been if the public had known about him and her mother. Her mother had freed him so he could maintain his immaculately clean image, which wasn’t true. She wondered how many other politicians were like him, with well-kept secrets that would have destroyed their careers if they came to light.

She went through customs without a problem. The officer asked her to remove her mask if medically possible. She removed the loop on her right ear and looked him straight in the eye as he saw her scars, and he quickly told her that she could replace it and muttered, “I’m sorry.” And then he glanced at her sympathetically. “Car accident?” he said softly. She was so beautiful that the contrast of the right side of her face had shocked him. He hadn’t expected that, and assumed she was just another germophobe. A lot of people were, with flus rampant, especially during air travel.

“Brussels,” she said in a clear voice. “Zaventem. The airport attack,” was all she said, and he winced.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and she went through and picked up her bag, and found a cab at the curb.

She was staying at a hotel downtown she knew from when she was modeling. Some big stars stayed there, Hollywood people, Europeans. It was trendy and fun, and all the best shops were nearby. She hadn’t been shopping since she’d gotten back to Paris and didn’t really want to. She didn’t feel pretty anymore, and she wasn’t going out. She’d been spoiled for four years, wearing fabulous clothes that designers loaned her for any occasion, or gave her after a shoot. She didn’t need them anymore. She couldn’t imagine going to a big fashion event again, and if she stayed out of sight for long enough, no one would invite her. She had been invited to two big parties during Fashion Week. She had declined. They had invited her because her name was on the guest list, but events like that were fickle, and she knew she wouldn’t stay on their lists for long.

She checked in to the hotel, and took the mask off when she got to the room. She reached for the phone, out of habit, to tell her mother she had arrived safely. She always did that, so Marie-Helene wouldn’t worry about her, or she texted her if she was too busy and went straight to a shoot or a party after she landed. She stopped with the phone in her hand, and realized that there was no one to call now. She was alone in the world, with only a father she hadn’t met yet. But there was no one to care if she had arrived safely. It was a strange, empty feeling. She hung up the phone.

She ordered room service, and ate while she watched TV. She thought about meeting her father the next day. They had made an appointment by email. She wondered what he would think of her, if they would have anything in common to talk about. He had three children who he had given his time to for forty years. She was the unknown, the child no one knew about and never would. When she thought about it sometimes, she wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. If she hated him, there would be too many others to hate, and she couldn’t afford that. She didn’t want to hate the people who had destroyed her career and her face, and killed her mother. She walked a tightrope every day, to keep her balance, to stay on track, to look ahead and not back. Senator William Hayes was just another man she didn’t know. She had survived without him for twenty-two years, and she would be fine without him again after she met him. She just wanted to see him once, to better understand the man her mother had loved, and why she had loved him.





Chapter 8


Véronique wore the surgical mask in the cab uptown to meet her father. Wearing it made her feel like an invisible person, as though people would look right through her because they couldn’t see her face.

She wore a simple black Dior wool pantsuit, with a very chic jacket, and a simple white sweater. She wore high heels, which made her seem even taller, and she had her long chestnut hair loose in waves on her shoulders. She was able to wear eye makeup now, which made her eyes stand out above the mask. Her mother had always said that she looked like her father, and she knew it was somewhat true from the photographs, but he was an old man now, and maybe he looked very different.

He had an apartment on Fifth Avenue. It took them half an hour to get there in heavy traffic. A liveried doorman let her into the building, and announced her on a house phone, and an elevator man in uniform took her to the top floor. She had announced herself only as Miss Vincent. Her French accent was slight but detectable. Her mother had seen to it that her English was fluent. She had a distinctly French style about her. Four years as a top model had polished her appearance, and she looked very fashionable, as a butler answered the door, and led her into a small, handsomely decorated sitting room, with a view of Central Park. It was easy to note that her father lived well, and her mother had commented that he came from a wealthy family. She knew that he had gone to Harvard and little else about him, except what she had recently learned in her mother’s letter and on the Internet. He had been a successful attorney and gone into politics, and the Internet informed her that he had had a distinguished career, so her mother’s sacrifices hadn’t been for nothing.