Lily is not disfigured. Her face is not deformed or medically abnormal. It is simply extremely ugly—the kind of ugliness that is inoperable. Any attempt at improvement would be fatal. Changing the distance between one’s eyes is not surgically possible. In fact, it is one of the few facial characteristics that cannot be altered. But Lily’s eyes being far, far too close together is only one of her multitude of flaws. She does have one attractive feature, though. Ironically: her eyes. But only when looked at one at a time, in isolation.

As for her body, it’s fine but irrelevant because people always focus on her face.

Despite the fact that Lily takes some getting used to visually, in every other way she is pure loveliness.

When I get back to our seats, Jack and Georgia are chatting quietly. Our friend Penelope, looking sumptuous and beautifully dressed as usual, is pacing the aisle at the other end of the theater, keeping an eye out for Strad.

He never shows. Lily plays magnificently, but through the whole concert all I can think about is how upsetting it is that someone as talented as she is suffering so much over someone like him.

AT THE END of this strange, upsetting day, when I return to my building, the doorman mutters to me, “You fucking bitch.”

His insults are nothing new. They began gradually, about three months ago. I accept his claim that I haven’t done anything to provoke him because I can’t think of anything I did. I’m concerned that he must be suffering from some sort of mental illness. Tourette’s syndrome, perhaps. That makes me feel protective of him.

I don’t think his insults could be related to my disguise, mostly because I was wearing it long before I moved to this building a year ago. None of the doormen has ever seen my true appearance. They have no clue this is not it.

I’m not in the mood to acknowledge his insult tonight. One day, though, I should encourage him to seek professional help for his possible disorder. Which reminds me of a phone call I need to make.

Chapter Two

As soon as I step into my apartment I call my mother. “Your ridiculously early dying wish has been fulfilled.”

She gasps. “Thank you. How did it go?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Do you think you’ll get rid of the padding?”

“It’s not that easy to lose weight.”

“But it’s not attached!” She always harps back on this point.

“Just because it’s not attached to me doesn’t mean I’m not attached to it. It’s attached to my soul.”

“Do you think you’ll try another session?” my mom asks, full of hope.

Since I’m not sure, and I don’t want my mom badgering me about it, I will nip this nagging in the bud by claiming I will never go back. Even though the therapist seemed fine, she did say one ridiculous thing, and that is the thing I relay to my mom so that she will leave me in peace on the topic forever.

“No, I’m not going back,” I state. “She’s stupid.”

Pause. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“She told me I should go to a support group for fat people.”

Another pause. “That seems reasonable to me,” my mom says, and adds, “You’re fat.”

“No, I’m not. And you know it and she knows it. I stripped for her.”

“In the eyes of the world you’re fat.”

“Whatever.”

“Please promise me you’ll go to a support group for fat people. At least once.”

“That’s crazy.”

“No. Wearing fake fat is crazy.”

Whenever my mom dwells on her favorite topic—my fake fat—I try to change the subject with her second favorite topic: her upcoming trip to Australia in March.

“Hey, by the way, have you figured out what hotels you’ll be staying at in Australia?” I ask.

“No, not yet,” she says. “I can’t concentrate on that and I won’t feel at peace until you promise me you’ll meet with a group of fat people.”

“You said I didn’t have to go to more than one meeting with a therapist.”

“And you don’t. This is different. It’s a support group. Give it a chance, please. I don’t often ask things of you, do I?”

I don’t answer.

“Barb, I beg you, do it for me.”

“Okay, fine,” I answer.

We say good night and hang up. I take a deep breath. I wish my mom could be patient. I will take off my disguise, in time, when the disguise of old age takes hold of me.

I adore my mother. We get along very well. Our only point of tension is my appearance. I inherited her looks. She used to be a top model, appeared on dozens of Vogue covers, as well as all the other major fashion magazines. Despite her disapproval of my appearance, she is not a shallow person. Unlike many ex-models, she is not obsessed with beauty. She’s not particularly interested in clothes or fashion. But even she has her limits. And I surpass them.

She grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, and moved to New York to become a model. The first year she was here, she met my father, a professor, at the New York Public Library when she wanted to escape the unbearable summer heat and spend a relaxing hour in one of the beautiful, cool, quiet rooms. They immediately fell in love and married soon after. She continued to work as a model until she had me.

Eventually, my dad started having affairs with younger, beautiful women, often his former students. My mother was devastated. She tried leaving him a few times, but he always persuaded her to stay, promised her that things would be different. But they never really were. Even when they were for a short while, he resented her for it, and then things went back to being the same. His affairs were making her life too miserable, so she finally did leave him, after having been with him for thirty-five years.

She bought a house in Connecticut, an hour and a half away, in the woods.

Far from being devastated by the split, I was relieved. I’d seen her so unhappy, and now she would start a new life. She was fifty-six and still looked great.

A few months after the separation, she tried dating a man, briefly. But her heart wasn’t in it. After him, I heard of no one else. She would come to the city sometimes, and we’d have lunch or dinner.

It was Georgia who noticed that my increasing lack of interest in my appearance coincided with my mother’s suddenly finding herself alone. Without really realizing it, I guess, I started dressing more casually and stopped wearing makeup. I took things even further, of course, after my close friend Gabriel died, almost two years ago.

A year after Gabriel’s death, I moved into this beautiful apartment which I love and which I thought would distract me. It has a ballet bar anchored to the floor, because the woman who owned the apartment before me was a dancer with American Ballet Theatre. I’m not a dancer, but I still find the ballet bar beautiful and handy. I’m a costume designer. All around the edges of the room are mannequins wearing some of my most extravagant, historical, fairy tale-like creations. These mannequins—many of which are fur-covered animals with upright human bodies—are all wearing fanciful masks I designed. Atmospheric stage lighting adds to the effect, making the room look like some kind of enchanted forest.

But my beautiful living room can’t distract me from thoughts of Gabriel, and neither can my ugly disguise shield me from them.

Gabriel, who was my best friend, made it perfectly clear in his suicide note that he was killing himself because he was in love with me. Until that note, I had no idea he had romantic feelings for me (or perhaps I chose not to know it). He never told me. He knew I didn’t feel the same way and never would, and he was right.

Why didn’t I fall in love with Gabriel? He was quite handsome, had an amazing voice—deep and smooth—and had so many other qualities. I don’t exactly know why I didn’t develop those kinds of feelings for him. I suspect the reason was something intangible.