The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [68]
Isolde began eating her lunch. She felt suddenly uncomfortable in the presence of someone so sly whom she’d never imagined was sly at all.
There was a silence.
“The problem with you is that you trust too much,” Claudia ventured.
Now Isolde really felt put out and she made it clear. “How do you know? Who do you know that I’ve ever trusted?”
Claudia shrugged, mumbled something.
Isolde went on eating. She felt furious on the one hand at Claudia’s impudence, on the other, curious. What else did she know?
Claudia finished washing the dishes and started mopping the floor. Isolde eyed her.
“How did you know your husband was a victim?”
Claudia looked up. “You could see it in his face. Just look carefully. You can always tell.”
Again Isolde bristled that Claudia would presume she needed this advice.
After lunch, Isolde went into the living room to do some calculations. She had to make her money last. How should she spend it? She counted the money she had along with the bills she’d just picked up. Her heart sank. Together it was so little.
Okay, calm down, she told herself. First things first. Beauty treatments were at the top of the list. The big art fair in Buenos Aires was opening that night. She had imagined going with Alicia. Now that wasn’t possible, but she still had to go. She needed a wax and to do her nails. She stepped into the bathroom to review what she had, everything to do her nails, but she needed a new waxing kit.
She went down to the pharmacy on the corner. As she perused the aisles, hovering just below her—she tried not to lower her eyes—was a round dark pool of undulating water. She had been imagining that with this job her money woes were over. But how was she going to make money now? A thought occurred to her. She could even—she felt a sickening leap in her throat—get work in a beauty parlor, if all else failed. At least these were things she knew how to do. The undulating pool caught the light, widened. No, no, look away. She looked up, looked around. Was there no one? No one to help her, save her?
She returned to the apartment and went straight to work. Activity. Always the best thing in these moments. She had four things to do: her fingernails and toenails, the waxing of her legs and bikini line. Did she really need to wax her bikini line? Her legs, yes, of course. They would be bare. She was wearing the green-and-white-patterned skirt and the gold-and-silver sandals. Her feet were therefore crucial too. But was the bikini line necessary? Was someone really going to see her naked tonight? She sat back to think. What if she met one of those financial types who collected art? They had drinks and he wanted to take her home. She should say no, of course, hold on to her mystery. That’s what the French girl would do. Maybe if Isolde simply didn’t wax, that would force her to do what she knew she should do, not go home with anyone. But she couldn’t trust herself. She knew what would end up happening. She would go home with the guy and, just to make it worse, would be all bristly. No, no matter what, she had to wax.
She tackled her toenails, removing the old polish, cutting back the cuticles. It was true. The activity did her good. She began to feel more hopeful. If she played it right, she might even find a new job tonight by schmoozing with the right people. She pictured herself entering the cocktail party—it was being held in La Rurale where, in the winter months, the big farm show was. The past year, in this very same space now filled with contemporary art, she’d walked through with Melody gazing at heifers, giant pigs. She pictured herself, smooth, seductive, exotic to her audience—she was aware of her charms. But everything had to look just right.
She stood up abruptly and looked in the mirror at her hair. Was it still okay? The roots were showing. They’d been showing slightly for a while, but now, in the warp of the mirror, they suddenly seemed to be showing much more. Or else her hair had had a growth spurt overnight. Her heart beat faster. She couldn’t go to the party with her roots grown