Life and Other Inconveniences(42)

There was an abrupt static in my brain, like a poorly tuned radio station. I was standing in front of my mirror. I was dressed. Should I put on my nightgown? Why was I standing here? Was everyone else already asleep?

I started to unbutton my blouse, but my fingers were clumsy. They didn’t seem to be mine, even. Was that my ring? Were these my hands? They looked so old!

There was a noise in the hall. “Who’s there?” I called, abruptly terrified. My voice sounded loud.

“It’s me, Gigi. How do I look?”

A girl stood in my doorway. Her eyes were . . . they were so blue. Like someone else’s eyes. Someone I’d loved.

Someone I’d loved very much. A boy. A little boy with blond hair. Sh . . . Sheh . . . Sheppard. My mind grabbed onto the name like a lifeline, and it was as if I were swimming up toward the light. Sheppard was my son. He’d gone away. A long time ago.

This girl was his child. No. His . . . niece? That was almost right. I had another son, not as good as the first. Clark. This was Clark’s child. Grandchild.

She had a last name for a first name. She had red hair like someone else, someone who had died.

Then I was back. Riley stood before me. Red hair like Emma’s mother. Emma, my granddaughter.

All the pieces fell into place, and I knew where I was. It was morning. We were going to New York so I could show my great-granddaughter my empire.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I was thinking of something else. What did you say, dear?”

She smiled. “How do I look? Is this okay for the trip?”

“Well. Hm.” She wore the same cheap black dress she’d had on the first night here. (See? I could remember everything now, brain tumor or not.) Over that, a denim jacket. Brown leather sandals. Her hair was in a ponytail. “You definitely have a sense of style,” I said generously, “but why don’t we take a look in my closet? Do you mind?”

“Are you kidding? I’d love that!”

My granddaughter—great-granddaughter, rather—was tall and slim (thankfully, she took after me in that regard, and not her mother, who wasn’t exactly slender and was four inches shorter than I).

Though my earlier fog was gone, my heart still pounded. I took a deep breath, trying not to let Riley hear. We walked through my bedroom and into the hall that led to the bathroom and dressing room.

“Now this is a closet,” she said as we went in.

“Dressing room, dear.” It was, complete with an ivory couch, jewelry cabinet (with safe), ten racks and twenty drawers.

“Dressing room. So cool.”

“Clothes are important. The way we dress is an invitation for how we want others to view us,” I said, which Vogue had used as a headline when they interviewed me ten or twelve years ago. Or fifteen years. A long time ago, back when I was still at the top of my game.

Riley fondled the sleeve of a silk dress. “People must view you as, I don’t know, Khaleesi or something.”

I didn’t know who that was, but I knew it was a compliment. I perused the racks, which I organized by color. Riley sat on the couch and watched.

I chose a black sleeveless sweater, which, though a decade old, had never been worn, since I was of the opinion that women should dress appropriately for their age. Despite my very respectably toned arms, I was still eighty-five. A black-and-white-polka-dotted circle skirt, strappy kitten-heeled shoes of my own design in cheery red, and a cropped silk Chanel jacket, patterned in black, white, blue and red and edged with a metallic silver material.

“What do you think of this, dear?”

“I love it!” Much to my surprise, she pulled off her jacket and dress right in front of me. She wore a blue bra and cotton panties—not a thong, thank heaven.

Her skin was as white as milk. So smooth and perfect. She was perhaps a bit too thin. I would speak to Emma about it.

She pulled on the clothes and spun around in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”

“Marvelous!” The clothes made Riley look both elegant and youthful. She’d look darling if she cut her hair.

“Wow,” she said, staring at her reflection. “You have the best taste, Gigi. Can I take a picture?”

“Of course, dear,” I said. “Send it to your friends and give them my best regards.”

Her face fell a little. “I just meant for when I’m home. I’ll try to imitate this look.”

“My dear, the clothes are yours. Don’t be silly. Can you picture me in this outfit?”

“Actually, yes,” she said. “You’d rock this look, and you know it.” Then, quite unexpectedly, she hugged me. “Let me go show Mom, okay?”

“Of course.” She left the dressing room, and I picked up her cheap dress. I’d burn it, perhaps.

Beverly Jane. Of course. That was it. The CEO of Genevieve London Designs.

By the time I got to the foyer, Charles was waiting in the hall, and Emma was talking to Riley in a low voice, no doubt warning her about my shark-like teeth, detachable jaw and cannibalistic habits. She hugged Riley, told her to have fun and then said, “A word before you go, Genevieve.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you outside, dear,” I said to Riley, and Charles and she went out. “Yes, Emma?”

“Don’t spend too much money on her.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”