“Are you ready?” said Bryson.
Charlotte unfolded her computer printout. The stage lights were hot on her skin. She flushed, confused and embarrassed. When she’d written these words, she’d felt as if she was typing up the story of her great love, a historic love, a love that celebrated her beauty and distinction. But something had changed in her since the night when she’d written in a fevered rush. Now the story seemed tawdry, a sad tale of a young girl seduced and abandoned. Her happiness had all derived from being chosen, being admired. The painter had used her, and she had let him.
Charlotte had once read a novel about the wife of a famous artist. The narrator wrote that she survived because she had never defined herself by the artist’s portraits of her. The women who completely identified with the images her husband had created were destroyed, she wrote, because as soon as he lost interest, they no longer existed. Now, Charlotte gathered her strength to speak, to live long after her famous painter was gone.
The silence in the Teatro Fabuloso was crushing. “I…” said Charlotte. She closed her eyes and saw Louise’s pinched face, heard her mother saying,Whata disappointment.
“I…” she said, opening her eyes. “I thought I was loved, once,” she began. She pursed her lips. “But love,” she continued, ignoring her crumpled printout, “love is not something you have to wait for. It’s not something someone can give you or not. It’s…”
There were rumblings of discontent in the audience. Charlotte’s shame curdled to anger, a clean flame. She suddenly tired of caring what everyone—whatanyone—thought of her. To hell with her mother and to hell with shame. She raised her chin. “I want to tell you about my first lover!” she cried.
That quieted things down. Even Bryson looked amazed.
“If you’ll just sit still and listen,” Charlotte continued, “I’ll tell you all about it.” The room grew silent. Charlotte began, “I was a beautiful girl when I first went to his castle. He was gnome-like, but in an attractive way. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try.” She had the audience in the palm of her hand as she read her entire story. Finally, she concluded with gravitas. “I am quite sure,” she said, “the nude on a couch is…in fact…moi.”
A booming wave of applause washed over her. Charlotte was beside herself. She imagined Minnie was proud. Charlotte nodded, accepting the audience’s adoration as it bathed her in happiness. She folded her essay.
Cheering from the audience was interrupted by a cry from the back of the theater. “Man overboard!” someone yelled.
“It’s a woman!” screamed someone else. “Oh my God!”
Bryson rushed onto the stage. “Calm down,” he said, pushing Charlotte aside. “We need to calm down.” Audience members, shrieking and jostling for position, filled the aisles and rushed the exits.
“The end,” said Charlotte into the microphone. Bryson led her off the stage, and she found it was easy to disappear into the crowd. But instead of heading to the lido deck to rubberneck at some tawdry disaster, Charlotte returned to her cabin, where she found a handwritten card:I will be finished with work at 10:30P.M., and would be honored if you would stroll around the deck with me. My cell number is enclosed. Yours, PAROS
Charlotte sat quietly for a time. She had no idea where her cellphone was—probably in her faux-Gucci purse or her evening clutch—so she lifted her cabin phone and dialed. She was done with waiting for pleasure to come her way. Tonight was her night, and she was ready to seduce a handsome man. She was more than ready.
AS MINNIE HAD ENCOURAGEDher to do, Charlotte greeted Paros in her nightgown. His eyes widened when she opened her cabin door. “Oh, Charlotte,” said Paros.
“Hello,” said Charlotte.
“You’re beautiful,” said Paros.
“Thank you,” said Charlotte. “Would you like to come in?”
“I would, yes,” said Paros.
Charlotte pulled the curtains shut, unplugged her phone, and found a soft-jazz station on her bedside radio. “I’d like you to make love to me,” she said, feeling emboldened. Who was this forward creature? It was Charlotte! It was!
“It would be an honor,” said Paros. He dimmed the lights. “Please lie down,” he said.
“Oh, my,” said Charlotte, happily following orders. “Do you think we’re moving too fast?”
“Your wishes are my desires,” said Paros.
“It’s been a long time,” said Charlotte, suddenly nervous.
“For me, too,” said Paros.
“Well, we don’t have forever to waste, now, do we?” said Charlotte.
“We do not,” said Paros.
“Then let’s get to the good part,” said Charlotte.
He climbed into bed beside her and kissed her face, her lips, her neck. “I love your fragrance,” said Paros. Charlotte felt as if she were dreaming. Herfragrance?
He trailed kisses down her rib cage to her worn-out stomach, her thighs. His lips were hot and each kiss felt like an electric shock.
