“She’s right,” Jack said, pulling the ottoman cube closer to him. “And not just the colors, but the words. There’s humor!”

“And there’s irony, too,” I said, skimming some of the text. “And depth. And double meanings.”

“And cliff-hangers!” Georgia exclaimed, dropping to her knees next to Penelope and zeroing in on a leaflet of junk mail. “It’s actually gripping! Listen to the suspense in this line: ‘Who dry cleans better than us?’ They don’t answer the question! They just leave it hanging like that, torturing us. It’s a great hook and extremely thought-provoking.”

Lily just watched us.

Since the music had ceased a minute ago, its effect was now wearing off. Our interest in the junk mail was starting to fade, but not before we reiterated that this had not been a good test because the pile of junk mail was better than average.

Lily sat at her piano and played the same piece over again, which caused us to fight over who would get to keep the junk mail, even though it was mine. We ended up Xeroxing it on the machine in my living room closet, so that everyone could get a copy, and I kept the originals. When I mentioned that I might bind mine, not only did they not think it weird, they decided they might bind theirs as well. That is, until Lily stopped playing, and the pile gradually appeared for what it was: junk.

This was five months ago. Things progressed quickly after that. Lily’s career took off and she now gets highly paid by stores like Barnes & Noble, Tiffany, Bloomingdale’s, Crate & Barrel, and others, to compose music that will beautify their merchandise. Her music is played while customers shop, and soon these customers get an urge to buy more books, more toothpaste, more jewelry, or more of whatever Lily was assigned to enhance musically. Recently Barnes & Noble told her, off the record, that its sales had almost doubled since it started playing her book music.

The critics have been impressive in their ability to look past her music’s commercial use (one pundit even called it “crass usage”), appreciating its genius. The reviews have been glowing.

Lily wanted Strad to find out about her achievement on his own, without her having to brag about it. Considering how many articles have been written on her in the last few months, it was a reasonable hope. She assumed he would contact her as soon as he heard she had accomplished what he said should be the ultimate goal of music: to beautify the world.

And yet she heard nothing from him.

“He probably doesn’t read, the idiot,” Georgia said.

“I don’t know about that,” Lily replied. “As I’ve already told you, when I gave him one of your novels, he not only read it and loved it, he immediately bought your other four books and read and loved those too. It’s funny you’re so down on him. He’s a huge fan of yours. He said one of his greatest joys in life would be to meet you.”

“Well, then, it will be one of my greatest joys never to meet him,” she said simply, and smiled.

Eventually, Lily sent Strad an invitation to last night’s concert, thinking that if he didn’t know about her success yet, he would now. The beautiful printed invite included a bio, which described the particular musical powers she’d recently developed. (The invitation also reassured any nervous guests that none of her “influential” music would be played that evening, and it wasn’t.)

During our dinner after the concert, Lily told us, “I’m worried I didn’t exactly achieve what Strad was talking about. He spoke of music that beautifies the world, not music that beautifies consumer products.”

“Consumer products are part of the world,” was Georgia’s response.

Lily shook her head. “Strad probably doesn’t see it that way. He’s an idealist.”

“You’ve achieved so much more than what he was talking about. You’ve achieved actual magic.”

“Magic is not necessarily more important than poetry. I think he was talking about poetry.”

Penelope finally stepped in with, “Lily, you’ve achieved something extraordinary, that’s never been done before. If Strad hasn’t contacted you, it’s because he doesn’t know about it yet, not because he’s not impressed. He probably didn’t bother reading your bio in the invite, nor did he see any of the articles about your music.”

We all hoped Penelope was right and we were disappointed today when the arrival of this postcard proved her wrong. Lily’s not getting what she wants out of her inspired musical accomplishments, not a speck of the affection she craves. In his message, Strad doesn’t suggest they see each other. There is no: “Stop by the store and say hi one of these days. I’ll give you a good price on a flute.

”

“Are you all right, Barb?” Jack asks me.

I’m suddenly aware of the grim expression on my face. “He’s not worthy of you,” I tell Lily. “Do you think you can forget about him now?”

“No,” she replies. “Actually, I’m going to call him tomorrow and suggest we have coffee.”

Soft sounds of concern and disapproval escape us.

She explains, “If I’ve failed to create the kind of music he was talking about—and I guess I have, judging from his postcard—I want to know how I can do better.”

Doing better is not the issue. Looking better is. That’s what she doesn’t understand. At least that’s my bleak take. I would love to be wrong.

As we’re chatting, we’re oblivious to the waitress who is refilling Penelope’s water glass. Before the water reaches the top, the glass falls apart and the water spills all over the table.

“Oh! Shit! I’m sorry!” Penelope exclaims, as the water slides onto her lap.

“What on earth?” the waitress says, staring at the broken pieces of glass.

“The glass was broken and I reassembled it, stupidly. I’m sorry,” Penelope says, mopping up the water with her napkin.

“You reassembled it? Why?”

“To see if it could look intact.”

“It’s very dangerous,” the waitress says.

“I know. I’m so sorry, I forgot about it, I didn’t intend to leave it that way.”

We call it a night.

I walk home. Adam the doorman greets me with: “I hope your evening was as dreadful as you are.”

“Not quite.”

“Wait a minute,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his forehead. “I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.” Opening his eyes and shaking his head slowly in bewilderment, he says, “No luck. If I throw a stick, will you go away?”

I say goodnight and oblige.

Upstairs, I receive a call from my mom saying that she researched support groups for fat people and found Overeaters Anonymous, Food Addicts Anonymous, and Eating Disorders Anonymous.

“The problem is,” I tell her, “I don’t overeat, I’m not addicted to food, and I don’t have an eating disorder of any kind.”

“Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can see there’s a slight discrepancy. But I couldn’t find a group called Fat People’s Support Group, otherwise I’d say go to that. You’ve got to make do with what’s out there, sweetie.”

After we say good night and hang up, I brush my teeth, take off my fat, and carefully hang it up. I love the sensual protectiveness of my disguise. It’s like being a turtle or a snail: you can go out and wander around, yet still have the benefits of staying at home. No one bugs you.

I haven’t had sex in two years. I haven’t even gone on a date since Gabriel died and I donned my padding. It’s not that I’m not open to it, as evidenced by my bar ritual. If some man were open-minded enough not to shut me out the second he sees me in my ugly disguise, I’d consider going out with him. But I haven’t found such a man. So I spend a lot of time with my friends, who happen to all be single at the moment as well.

Peter Marrick

Friday, 13 October