The Savage Girl - Alex Shakar [57]
“Hey,” Sonja Niellsen says. She stands with her bare legs pressed together and her arm crooked into a frozen wave. Although her face is recessed in the oversize hood of a black crepe shrug, it’s unmistakable nonetheless. She wears that same trademark expression that she and the more famous models she emulates all wear in magazine ads now: half sulky, half afraid, and a little vacant; they call it the kidnapped look. Ursula is surprised to realize that it occurs naturally on her, surprised it isn’t something that has to be coaxed out by a team of photographers.
Ursula opens her mouth to speak, but Couch beats her to it.
“James T. Couch,” he says, proffering a hand. “I’m a big fan of your work.” In one motion he hops up and grabs an ottoman out from under a middle-aged couple in tight jeans about to squat down around a neighboring coffee table.
“You know,” Couch says to Sonja, sliding the seat snugly up against his own. “I couldn’t help noticing that choker you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”
The accessory in question sports a constricting-looking phalanx of smoke-colored stones.
“Oh. A friend of mine made it.” Absently she pulls down her hood. Her stylist has done her hair in a new way, a short bob that scythes around her cheekbones. Her eyes reflect twinkles of ruddy lantern light but are otherwise dark.
Couch sits down, and Sonja continues to stand there obediently while he questions her about each element of her attire, from her crepe shrug down to her bubble-toe lace-ups and back up to her strapless, knotted sackcloth minidress, the satin-trimmed hem of which he bends to scrutinize at eye level. He adjusts his glasses, nodding at the names of stores and designers tripping off Sonja’s lips. To stretch out this sublime moment still further he asks her about her underwear, guessing various brand names. Sonja begins to hesitate, and in his usual emphatic tone, he lets her know he will be using the information for a book he’s cowriting, his smile implying that he’s joking, whereas of course he’s not joking.
“Let me ask you something,” Couch says. “How do you feel about fur? Would you ever wear it?”
“Um, real fur, or synthetic?” she asks.
Couch aims a triumphant smile at Ursula. “You see? You see? Am I right or am I right or am I right, come on, hey, am I not right?”
“Do you think you’re right?”
Couch smiles, happy to have her play along with his routine. How can she make fun of him when he’s already making fun of himself? The man is the Antaeus of Irony. When you try to knock him down, it only makes him stronger. If there’s a way to lift him off his surfaces, Ursula has yet to find it.
Javier shows up just in time to place his order with a young cocktail waitress who has appeared out of nowhere to stare at Sonja with awe and resentment. He pulls up a small table, probably mistaking it for a stool, and sits down on it next to Ursula, examining her face.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine,” she says, startled by his tone of concern.
“Javier,” Couch says, “aren’t you surprised to find Ursula here?”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s . . . surprising.”
“And I’m sure this other beauty needs no introduction.”
Javier looks at Sonja without a trace of recognition, and they stare at each other blankly for a moment before he opts to stick out his hand and repeat his own name.
“I’m Sonja,” Sonja says. “I know Ivy.”
“Oh, oh, sure.”
“Javier and James are people I work with,” Ursula tells Sonja.
“Trendspotters,” Sonja says.
Ursula laughs, confused. “How did you know that?”
“Ivy told me you’re working for Chas,” she says, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
“She . . . ,” Ursula begins. “She told you that?”
Sonja nods.
But Ivy can’t possibly know that; Ursula has