Venus is XXIX, y’all! Sweet, sweet twenty-nine (installments, that is). But Danae is XXXIX. Thirty-nine. About to be forty. And, that, as far as she’s concerned, is a problem. And it’s not like we weren’t warned.
Let’s put this another way. When the vainest, most frivolous person you stops wearing perfume, it’s a cry for help. When that person is your sister, who’s pushed away every single one of the (few) female friends she’s ever managed to make, that help is going to come from you. Or it’s not going to come at all.
Do join us, Bad, Bad Lovers, do join us, please. And if you can think of some way to distract Danae from her problems, which are now Livia’s problems, by all means, pitch right in.
And if you need catching up, no worries; you can take yourself all the way back to the Beginning Of It All by clicking right here.
~
“Livia! Great to see you!”
Bretton’s voice boomed; it was rich, full. But it was a stage voice; it lacked warmth. Livia, fifteen years earlier, had spent a not-insignificant amount of time dissecting the qualities of that voice on the evening of Danae’s rehearsal dinner. She had conceded, that night, that her sister was right, that Bretton was handsome, even extremely handsome. After conversing with him for some minutes, she had also conceded that he knew his Shakespeare. Extremely well. But there was something about Bretton, she had cautioned Danae—yes, at the rehearsal dinner; no, the timing had not been ideal—that didn’t agree with her.
Bretton was tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of very blond hair, straight and thick (Bretton was of Swedish descent). His eyes were an icy blue, not tempered by gray or green or any of the tints that can give a certain wistful undertone to blue eyes, and his skin was smooth, with the polished, healthy sheen that often accompanies Nordic genes, easily tanned when exposed to the sun. Bretton’s lips were full, his teeth carnivorous, and there were dimples on either side of the heavy, sensual mouth.
Bretton’s demeanor, in sum, was an undeservedly young one; he smoked a great deal and hit his scotch heavy. He had retained most of the blond hair; he wore it longish in front, short over the ears, just grazing his collar in the back. His clothing was what one would expect from a professor of drama (a dramaturge, Bretton would have corrected her)–black turtleneck, dark jeans, some sort of boots. The only flaw was the belly, protruding unmistakably over the black belt laced through the loops at the waist of his jeans. That belly, bigger even than Livia remembered; he must have put on weight. He really should reconsider his position on sit-ups.
It was the voice, though, that disturbed her, the voice that she’d never trusted. Neither, now that she considered it, had she trusted the gestures. Both were too large, too round. Livia had difficulty imagining Bretton whispering, performing small movements like tying a shoelace or giving a gentle caress.
Danae looked up. Her face, Livia noted with disquiet, was absolutely without expression. Bretton had paused at the threshold of the front parlor; it was clear that he had no plans to enter. His large hand rested easily against the doorjamb, an acquaintance who had just stuck his head in to say hello. Beside Bretton and just to the rear of his herculean body stood a young woman, short and full-figured, blonde. She was dressed in a short denim skirt, sandals, and a very tight tee shirt.
Her large breasts stretched the synthetic fabric of the shirt that. The young woman’s face was round, innocent. She looked at Bretton as though hypnotized. Livia felt sorry for her; by the time she realized breasts eventually sagged and were not the ticket to anywhere good, she’d have slammed all the other doors shut. The south, the south–what kind of a mother did she have?
“Danae.” Bretton’s voice boomed again, as though he were addressing a full theatre on the opening night of Hamlet. “I’m driving Crystalle into town. Some stuff to take care of at the office, I’ll be late…” Danae gave half a cold nod. Bretton turned to Livia now. “Sure looking forward to dinner tomorrow! Mmmm-mmmmmmmm!” Bretton—Livia could think of no less disturbing way to describe what Bretton did–licked his chops. “Okay, Crys, let’s go.”
Bretton started toward the front door, footsteps echoing as though across a stage. Once his bulk had vacated the doorway, Crystalle’s stood alone, framed as though on the front page of a calendar. Sad, clueless little Miss April.
“Bye, Mrs. Kaplan. See you next week.” Bretton’s lover’s words received no acknowledgment from Danae. Crystalle remained for a beat in the doorway. “Have a good weekend…happy birthday!”
Seconds later, the aggressive grumble of Bretton’s sporty jeep starting, a sharp crackle as the overlarge tires ground over the gravel. The motor sounds soon swallowed by the quiet, genteel suburb–a quick fade into silence.
Livia could think of nothing to say to her sister. One question, though, had been answered without, she was certain, any undue prejudice on her part. She would place the black package of herbs in Bretton’s drawer.
“Let’s go out to dinner, Liv…I haven’t got anything here.” Danae’s voice was still, resigned; she was past caring. Livia would have preferred a tantrum. “I know this Spanish-Portuguese place, in the old part of town, but it’s on a quiet street. No tourists. I think you’ll like it.”
When Danae rose from the sofa, Livia couldn’t escape the certainty that something else was missing, something even more disturbing than her sister’s indignation. The smell, Danae’s smell. For as long as Livia could remember, her sister’s slightest movement had filled the air around her with the smell of lilacs.
Tonight she smelled of nothing. Nothing at all.
~
Earlier, in her room, which was no longer her husband’s, Danae had chosen the black cocktail dress. She’d been wearing black a lot lately. She liked its dramatic effect against her olive skin, amplified by dark tones of the lipstick she had chosen the last time she’d gone shopping in the city. After she applied the lipstick, she practiced two or three mouth-smiles in the mirror; she still had trouble remembering not to crinkle up her eyes.
Until recently, Danae’s closet had been so full she had trouble extracting a garment once she had chosen it. There was another closet, beside the door to her bathroom, full as the first. Two months earlier, Danae had systematically removed every colored garment or accessory from her closets. Only the black ones remained. She had burned the clothes–the flames were violet, blue, chartreuse, soft pink, lilac, emerald green–in the incinerator in the basement.
She could have given them to Goodwill, she supposed, but she shuddered at the thought of some other woman wearing them, of some other woman experiencing pleasure, or even happiness, while those fabrics touched her body.
Danae, after burning the dresses, had stopped using perfume.
~
More to come, Bad, Bad Lovers, more to come.
Right here, IN TWO WEEKS’ TIME, same bad channel, same bad, bad place…
Till then, y’all be good. Or if you can’t be good, then please, please, please be very, very bad.
~
