Page 40 of Jane Deyre
She calledmebeautiful? I want to tell her I’m not, but something keeps me from going there. My new garments gathered in my arms, I follow her back to the bedroom.
She eyes me again. Her expression wry. “So, my dear, I suppose you’re not wearing any undergarments.”
I feel my cheeks flare. She’s right. I am completely bare beneath the cashmere robe. Embarrassment cascades over me.
“Um, uh, my underwear got drenched too. Grace is going to wash and dry them.” I cringe at the thought of her seeing how worn they are. Fingers crossed I wasn’t wearing the ones with holes.
“A lady can’t be a lady without fine lingerie... unless it’s pried off by her lover.”
My eyes stay on her as she pads over to the bureau. She opens the top drawer, and with a small box in tow, she pads back to me.
“Voici.”With hesitance, I take the box from her. I lower my eyes and read the inscription on the lid.
CADOLLE
4 rue Cambon
Paris
“What are you waiting for? Open the box, my dear.” Her voice is laced with some of the bossiness and impatience that colors Ward’s. The thought of him sends a rush of tingles to my core.
Wordlessly, I lift off the lid and carefully unfold the delicate layer of tissue paper that lines the interior. I gape. Inside: a low-cut push-up bra and matching briefs. Exquisite confections of black lace and silk. The likes of which I’ve only seen in magazines. Poor girls like me and expensive French lingerie don’t belong in the same room.
“Do you like them?” asks Edwina.
“Oh my goodness! Yes! They’re exquisite!” I gently run my fingertips over the garments. Their feel is at once so alien and natural to my touch.
Another wistful look falls over Edwina. “I bought them in Paris before Charlotte was born. I planned to give them to her when she turned twenty-one. Along with a trip to the City of Light.” She sighs. “But that may never happen. So, I want you to have them,ma chérie.”
“Are you sure?” Somehow, I manage not to stutter.
“Yes. Now please use my dressing room and get dressed. Chop-chop.”
I get dressed. Everything fits me perfectly, like I was born to wear the French lingerie, the shirtwaist dress, and ballet flats. I’ve never known what exquisite lingerie can do for your self-confidence, your figure, and your sexuality. My small tits are lifted, my nipples peeking through the delicate lace, like rosebuds. The skimpy briefs reveal curves I never knew I had and draw attention to my thin, toned legs. They’re not the chicken legs I thought I had. Impulsively, I put on a little of Edwina’s rouge to give my cheeks some color, hoping she won’t mind. I also clip on a pair of her sparkling earrings, but snap them off quickly, fearing I may lose them.
In a trance, I can’t stop staring at my reflection. I want to pinch myself. No, I don’t. If I do, I’ll turn back into a pauper girl like Cinderella. I feel like I’m on some reality show.Princess for a Day. I swirl around and watch myself in the mirror. The full skirt of the dress spinning, the colorful roses doing a dance of their own. Unbeknownst to me, Pilote followed me into the dressing room. He rubs his body against my ankles and lets out a loud meow. I’m the cat’s meow! I can’t believe this is me! Plain-as-day Jane Deyre.
Fully dressed, I return to Edwina’s bedroom, giddy with happiness, my feet barely touching the ground. On such a high, I’m not prepared for the shock that awaits me. Standing before her dresser mirror, Edwina pulls off her turban. I can’t help but gasp. She’s totally bald. She sees me behind her in the glass. The wide-eyed shock on my face.
“Don’t worry, my dear. It’s not what you think.”
Cancer?Has she lost her hair from chemo treatments? I’m still too in shock to say a word.
“You see, after Charlotte’s abduction, I lost all my hair. It came out in clumps. Over the span of a month. The scientific name is alopecia areata totalis. It’s an autoimmune disease that develops after major physical and/or emotional trauma. You’re probably too young to remember, but Princess Caroline of Monaco similarly lost all her hair after the death of her second husband in a tragic boating accident. With most people who suffer from it—like Caroline—their hair grows back. Along with their eyebrows and eyelashes. Mine never did.”
My jumpy pulse calms. That explains her tattooed brows and false eyelashes. At first, it was a shock to see her bald, but now I can better see her raw beauty. Her smooth, beautifully sculpted oval head. Her strong facial features. Especially her pronounced cheekbones above which sit her famous violet eyes. With hair or without it, she’s a rare beauty. Bald, bold, and beautiful. A woman in her own league.
“Dear, I’ve kept it a secret. No one outside this household knows about my condition. I trust you will use discretion.”
“Of course. I won’t tell a soul.” And truth is, reader, there’s no one in my life to tell.
“I appreciate that.” She adjusts another bejeweled turban, similar to the one she wore yesterday, over her head. “Especially since I’ll be revealing my illness in my memoir.”
“Is that why you retired from acting? The alopecia?”
To my surprise, she chortles. Her laugh throaty. “Hardly. I could have worn wigs. False eyelashes. Pasted-on eyebrows. Or had them all CGI’d. The studios begged for me to come back.” Sadness falls over her face. “The real reason is I feared I’d win another Oscar and wouldn’t be able to say goodnight to my beloved Charlotte and tell her to go to sleep.”
As I digest her words, tears prick my eyes. I fight them back while she continues.