Cleopatra and Frankenstein(55)

“I can see that.”

Cleo smiles at me. I try to take in her face. She is both prettier and less pretty than I expected. She is the palest shade of cream, with minty green eyes. Her eyebrows are invisibly blond above a narrow nose and elfin, pointed chin. Her lips are two thin streaks of pink. There is something barely there, washed out, about her, like a bright piece of fabric bleached by the sun.

“They’re lucky to have you,” she says.

The British accent—I’d forgotten. She is charm personified.

“Thank you,” I say. “Goodbye!”

*

Could have gone better but definitely could have gone worse, is my honest appraisal of that meeting as I throw up in the bathroom stall.

*

I leave the bathroom to find that one of the junior graphic designers has wobbled onto a chair and is attempting to make a speech.

“You guys are, like … you’re like family to me,” she manages to choke out before her face crumples into tears.

There is an uncomfortable moment while we all watch her being helped off the chair by her friend and ushered, still sniffling, away. Frank stands up and claps his hands.

“Okay thanks for that heart-warming message, Courtney,” he says.

“Her name’s Corey!” her friend yells over her shoulder as they shuffle out.

“Well, I agree with her,” says Frank. “We are like a family.” He looks around the room. People nod vaguely. “And I don’t know about you.” He raises his glass over his head. “But I need to drink heavily to be around my family. So mazel tov!”

Everyone is laughing. Everyone except Cleo.

*

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” one intern asks the other.

“Get off my antidepressants for good,” the second intern says. “I’m tired of feeling numb to life’s joys. Yours?”

The first intern reaches down to pull up the hem of his pants.

“Fashion socks,” he says.

*

I am standing by the snacks table downing water and Fig Newtons to sober up when Cleo approaches me. I look around. No Frank.

“I just love your hair,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, brushing crumbs off the front of my dress. “Thank you. Yours is nice too.”

“Mine’s all flat and blah,” Cleo says. “Yours is much more exciting.”

I know this dance.

“No way,” I say gamely. “I always wished I had straight hair growing up. Yours is exactly what I wanted.”

“And I always wanted curls.” Cleo laughs lightly. “If only we could swap.”

“If only,” I say.

We look at each other. Those two words, so full of longing, hang in the air between us.

“What’s he like to work with?” she asks.

“Frank? He’s very smart. And, um, funny. And just an all-around decent chap.”

This last part I inexplicably say in a cockney accent. I wonder if I will ever be able to look myself in the eye again. Cleo smiles generously at me.

“I’m glad,” she says. “That he’s nice.” She leans toward me conspiratorially and holds my gaze. I have the insane idea that she may be about to kiss me on the mouth when she says, “Lee, can I ask you something? It’s a little delicate—”

Her friend in the fuzzy sweater interrupts us. “Cley, do you know if we’re allowed to smoke in here?” He gives us a quick appraising glance. “Are you two about to make out or something?”

Cleo colors. She is so pale you can literally watch the blood rise to the surface of her skin.

“This is my friend Quentin,” she says.

“Best friend,” says Quentin.

I haven’t heard anyone referred to as that since high school. That was it, I realized. Cleo, her life, her friends, were still that of a girl’s. I looked older than her when I was eighteen. I probably was older than her when I was eighteen.

“You’ll have to ask Frank if you can smoke,” says Cleo.

As if conjured by his name, Frank appears with Anders in tow. I can’t be sure, but I think I see a flicker of panic in his eyes.

“I see you’re meeting Cleo’s real husband,” he says, patting Quentin on the back.

Quentin looks at Cleo with territorial pride.

“I’m Eleanor, by the way,” I say.

“Frank, I’m smoking in here, okay?” says Quentin.

“Your name’s Eleanor?” asks Cleo.

“You girls look great,” says Anders. “Love the dresses.”

“Cleo’s is a jumpsuit,” says Quentin.

“You’re Eleanor?” Cleo says again.

“Love the jumpsuit then,” says Anders.

“You can smoke out the window over there,” says Frank.

Quentin rolls his eyes and removes the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “Coming, Cleo?” he asks, though it is more of a demand.

“One second,” says Cleo, turning back to me.

“Do you … Did you think I was someone else?” I ask her.

“Cleo,” whines Quentin.

“I said give me a second,” says Cleo with the slightest edge in her voice.

She turns back to me. Watching Cleo compose her face is like watching a vase shatter backward. All the pieces suddenly zoom back together.