Girl In The Mirror

Praise for the novels of

MARY ALICE MONROE

SKYWARD

“Monroe’s novel is a fascinating, emotion-filled narrative that’s not to be missed.”

—Booklist starred review

“A devoted naturalist and native of South Carolina’s Low County, Monroe is in her element when describing the wonders of nature and the ways people relate to it…. Hauntingly beautiful relationships between birds and people add texture to the story…. Monroe successfully combines elements of women’s fiction and romance in this lyrical tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Skyward is a soaring, passionate story of loneliness and pain and the simple ability of love to heal and transcend both. Mary Alice Monroe’s voice is as strong and true as the great birds of prey of whom she writes.”

—Anne Rivers Siddons

THE BEACH HOUSE

“With its evocative, often beautiful prose and keen insights into family relationships, Monroe’s latest is an exceptional and heartwarming work of fiction.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review

“Whether you are one of the hundreds of sea turtle volunteers in the southeast or just wish you were, this beautifully written story brings us a glimpse of their dedication and commitment to the conservation of the loggerhead sea turtle.”

—Sally Murphy, Sea Turtle Coordinator for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources

THE FOUR SEASONS

“Mary Alice Monroe writes from her heart to the hearts of her readers. It is a quality of emotional honesty together with lyrical, descriptive passages that draw her audience to books like The Four Seasons.”

—Charleston Post & Courier

“With novels like this one and The Book Club, Mary Alice Monroe continues to be one of the leaders of complex female relationship dramas that hit home to the audience.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Moving, touching and beautifully drawn, the characters in this wonderful novel are compelling and true. Ms. Monroe’s skills as a teller of women’s fiction are becoming quite exceptional.”

—Romantic Times

THE BOOK CLUB

“Monroe offers up believable characters in a well-crafted story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The Book Club skillfully weaves the individual story threads into a warm, unified whole that will appeal to readers who enjoy multifaceted relationship novels with strong women protagonists.”

—Library Journal

GIRL IN THE MIRROR

“A heart-wrenching, sensitive tale that will delight readers…”

—Painted Rock Reviews

Girl in the Mirror

Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to

Oscar Rogers Kruesi

A Man of Ideas

Dear Reader,

Girl in the Mirror was my first book with MIRA Books, published in 1998. I was very interested in the growing popularity of elective plastic surgery in the 1990s, but never could I have guessed that “extreme makeovers” would be so popular in magazines and on television in 2004. My heroine, Charlotte, had what can readily be called an extreme makeover in this novel, and though the story isn’t new, it asks the timely question: what is true beauty?

Also, in 1990 there were not as many treatments available for HIV, and most HIV-positive people were expected to die. Today there are more than twenty drugs on the market to treat the disease, and research is continuing. Today there is hope.

I’ve enjoyed editing this edition of the novel to bring it up to date, yet the story remains largely the same. I hope you will enjoy it.

Happy reading,

Mary Alice Monroe

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Four

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Part One

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

—Margaret Wolfe Hungerford

One

April 1996

If all the world was a stage, it was time once again to play her part.

Charlotte sat in the green room of the television studio while outside, strains of the talk show’s theme song intermingled with audience applause. She had promised Vicki Ray this interview, and there was no choice now but to endure the hour or suffer months of bad press. She’d had enough bad press lately. Now her plan was set. Freddy had seen to every detail in his usual compulsive manner. How had he put it? “Interview, marriage, surgery. Bim, Bam, Boom.”

The only booming she felt right now was in her temples, a rhythmic, tympanic beat. How hot the room was! Bringing a fevered hand to her forehead, she noticed with alarm that it was trembling. And her lips, so parched. Oh, please, she prayed, holding her fingers tight, steadying them. Don’t let the symptoms come back now. Maybe one more pill, she decided, quickly fumbling through her purse. Just in case.

Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.

“Charlotte?” Freddy Walen walked in without waiting for a response. Although not a big man, his dominating presence filled the room, causing Charlotte to shrink inside. His eyes, as hard as the diamond on his pinkie finger, assessed her with a proprietary air.

“Good…good,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache, observing every detail. Her swanlike neck was unadorned, her golden hair spilled loosely around her shoulders, and her eyes, her large, luminous blue eyes, shone with an icy, mesmerizing luster. It was a look that Freddy referred to as “the brilliance of a star.” He’d taught her that her public expected Charlotte Godfrey to be dressed in understated elegance, and she never disappointed them.

“What’s that you’re taking?” he demanded.

“A painkiller. I’ll need it to get through the interview.” She stared at the white pill in her hand, then raised her eyes, worry shining clearly. “Freddy, cancel the interview. I’m not well enough. The symptoms are returning, my hands are shaking, and taking another pill is not the answer.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said in a gruff manner, patting her shoulder. “Buck up. We can’t cancel now. Besides, we need this interview to settle a few rumors. Then the press will be off our backs so we can hustle to South America and get you well. Zip up this show and we’ll be out of here. I promise. Now, take that pill.”

Charlotte poured herself a tumbler of water. “I don’t trust Vicki Ray. She’s tough. Crafty. What if she suspects?”

“Forget it. Vicki doesn’t have a clue. If she did, I’d know about it.”

“Miss Godfrey?” From outside her door came the high, strained voice of an usher. “Are you ready yet? It’s really time.”

She understood his panic and took pity. Besides, she couldn’t stall any longer. “Yes,” she called, quickly swallowing the medicine. “Of course. Right away.”

“Remember,” Freddy said, grabbing hold of her shoulders. “It’s just another part. Follow the script, babe, and you’ll be great.”

Charlotte shook off his hands. “Don’t be a fool, Freddy. There’s no script with Vicki Ray.”

Opening the door, she met a panic-eyed young man who guided her down the hall with the speed of a police escort, past a series of attendants who smiled at her with starry eyes. She’d become immune to that rapt expression during the past few years, knowing better than to be flattered. They knew nothing about her, the woman behind the face. She walked quickly by with only a nod of acknowledgment.

They reached the stage just as Vicki Ray launched into her introduction. She mentioned several of Charlotte’s film roles and the meteoric rise of her career. Charlotte listened keenly, compelling herself to become on camera the woman being described: a woman of legendary beauty. An on-screen phenomenon and an off-screen recluse. The new Garbo.

There was a minute’s silence, one brief moment to raise a hand to her brow and collect her wits. Charlotte took a deep breath, willed her hands to appear relaxed at her sides, then dug deep to deliver the mysterious, sultry smile that was her trademark.

The Applause sign lit. With a jarring flash, the lights bore down on Charlotte as she stepped out on the stage. To her, they were like prison searchlights blocking any avenue of escape. She walked with studied grace across the shining floor, then settled herself in the isolation of a single white chair in the center of Vicki Ray’s stage.

Under the glare of lights, she felt like a laboratory specimen being scrutinized. She looked out at the sea of faces and saw in the eyes of women the familiar flash of envy, and in the men’s, desire. It was always this way, she thought, feeling again a twinge of loneliness.

Then, decisively discarding the last remnants of her identity, Charlotte Godowski transformed herself into the role she’d painstakingly created and played so well: Charlotte Godfrey. It was a useful device, yet she felt a little more of herself die each time she employed it. Still, it was necessary to create an armor that was impenetrable. She allowed no one to pierce it. Not even Freddy. Especially not Freddy. Only Michael…At the thought of him she felt a chink in the armor.

The interview began easily enough. During the first half of the show, Vicki screened a number of film clips. Charlotte peppered the clips with anecdotes, especially about her handsome co-stars. The audience lapped it up, never for a moment suspecting the struggle within the actress. She appeared relaxed, loosening her knotted fingers, uncrossing her legs, even venturing to laugh at the occasional silly question posed by the audience, usually about her well publicized love life.

“Water,” she almost begged when the break came. With miraculous speed, the usher delivered Perrier and lime, which she sipped gratefully. Her lips felt cracked, and she sweltered in the glowing heat of her fever.

As the signal flashed that the show was continuing, Charlotte discreetly dabbed at her brow with a Swiss embroidered handkerchief and marshaled her wits. At the last second, she remembered to catch the eye of a cameraman and wink. He returned a crimson grin. Freddy had taught her tricks on how to get flattering camera angles.

“Welcome back,” began Vicki. “We were talking about your upcoming marriage.” Turning to the camera, she continued, “Freddy Walen, for those of you who don’t know, is not only Miss Godfrey’s fiancé, but her agent as well.”

“What can I say?” Charlotte replied, offering a slight gesture with her hand. “He’s wonderful. Supportive. He’s always there for me.” She glanced offstage. Freddy was standing with his feet wide apart and his hands clasped before him, the captain of a ship in unsteady waters.

He gave her a smile. Freddy looked formidable in the dark gray double-breasted suit that complemented his salt-and-pepper hair. She knew he was listening intently to every word she uttered because his pale blue eyes glowed with approval of her answer. He didn’t seem to mind that she refrained from saying she loved him.

“Walen discovered you, didn’t he? Some say he built your career.”

Charlotte shifted in her seat. “He believed in my talent, and any good agent advises his client. Isn’t that his job?”

Vicki smiled. “But in your case, it’s been said that Walen has a Svengali-like obsession with your career. And you.”

Charlotte had the presence of mind to laugh. “Is that what they say?”

“I suppose it’s natural for any man to be obsessed with you,” Vicki added magnanimously. The audience chuckled and mumbled in agreement. Charlotte shrugged her slim shoulders with seeming humor.

“So many men…” Vicki added with a devilish glint. The cameraman winked at her.

Charlotte knew where this was coming from and couldn’t blame Vicki for the insinuation. Freddy had carefully orchestrated her public image, hiding her natural shyness as a star’s reclusiveness and arranging numerous dates with her co-stars, then leaking to the press that she was having affairs. It was nothing new, an age-old publicity ploy, but the press and the public bought it, again and again.

“Now there’s only Freddy,” she replied without guile, and the audience responded with heartfelt applause. She imagined Freddy backstage, his chest expanding. He loved the spotlight, especially when it hinted at his virility.

“Your kind of beauty is the stuff that legends are made of. But some consider it to be a curse. There’s Helen of Troy and, of course, Marilyn Monroe.”

Charlotte paused. Beauty again…Is that all they see when they see me? Doesn’t anyone see anything else of value?

“I don’t think Marilyn’s beauty itself was a curse,” she answered with care. “The curse was that no one could look past her beauty to take her seriously.”

“You’re referring to the old ‘She’s beautiful so she must be stupid’ myth.”

“It’s hard when only your beauty is prized.”

“Couldn’t the same be said then of an ugly woman?”

Charlotte felt a dart of anguish and looked at her hands clasped white in her lap. “I’m sure,” she began with hesitation, “that it is the secret dream of every ugly woman that someone will discover the beauty within her. Redemption through love, isn’t that at the heart of fairy tales?”

“But life isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Unfortunately, both legend and reality bear out that men want women who are physically beautiful, as proof of their power and worth. The dream dies in an ugly woman. It withers, as any fruit withers on the neglected vine.”

“But…doesn’t beauty wither, too, in time? What happens then?”

Charlotte’s smile was hard. “Desperation.”

“So beauty is a curse?”

“I…” She thought again of Michael and sighed in resignation. “Yes. Perhaps it is. As is ugliness.”

“I don’t know if I buy this. I mean, aren’t women changing now? We talk about a woman’s worth, intelligence and goodness. Don’t these attributes constitute a woman’s beauty?”

Charlotte wanted to agree, oh God, how much. She thought of those days, in the garden, when she’d believed such a thing was possible. When, like a blossoming flower that reveals the delicate core, she’d been ready to give everything up for a single dewdrop of that ideal. But Michael had crushed that belief with the heel of his conceit. She’d learned that no one would love her for her intelligence or for her goodness. Without the beauty, no man was willing to even give those qualities a chance.

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

“Are you endorsing this attitude?” Vicki Ray interjected. Her tone was sharp, angry. Nearing fifty, she exuded the confidence of success. Yet Charlotte saw in her eyes the quiet panic of a woman who could not stave off the inevitable decline of her looks, and as a talk show host, possibly her career as well. “Do you believe women today should do everything they can, anything they can, to be as attractive as they can?”

Charlotte’s lids fluttered imperceptibly as she dredged up her personal history to answer this question. Everything…anything…for beauty?

“I do,” she replied firmly, each syllable sounding in her ear as a death knell. “Yes, absolutely.”

She heard the disapproving rumbling in the audience. Several women were now wildly waving their hands. Vicki, delighted, hurried to deliver the microphone.

“So what did you do to look so great?”

Charlotte exhaled a stream of air, then smiled. She wanted to say she’d sold her soul to the devil, but no, she couldn’t do that.

“I didn’t do a thing,” she lied with feigned nonchalance. Then, hinting at the truth, she added, “Don’t forget, legions of experts labor hours to make me look this good.” The woman chuckled and seemed to forgive Charlotte for her beauty.

“Have you always been this beautiful?” Vicki asked through narrowed eyes. Her microphone swung in her hand from left to right, like a club. “Confession time!”

Charlotte gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Well…”

“Don’t you ever wake up with bags under your eyes or a pimple on the tip of your nose?” The audience laughed.

Charlotte put her hands together and looked at the ceiling. She felt like she’d just dodged a bullet. Should she tell them that she woke up every morning in raw pain? And with the knowledge that this marvelous facade was crumbling under the surface?

“I’m no different from anyone else,” she replied, wishing it were true.

“Were you a pretty little girl?”

The question pricked Charlotte, deflating her balloon of confidence. Her head felt woozy, and, slipping back in time, she saw the face of the little girl she had been. The sad eyes, the thin, gawky figure, and always, that face. A leaden weight was pulling her down, deeper into the memory, till she experienced again the stark loneliness of her childhood. She remembered how she used to stroll through the wealthy neighborhoods, the kind with the big houses and the manicured lawns, waiting for her mother to finish cleaning. It was so far and foreign from the noisy, close-set apartment buildings on Chicago’s far west side, where she lived. She didn’t mind waiting. She liked to peek through the windows at the people inside sitting on the pretty furniture. She’d thought they were so lucky to live where everything was so pretty, so content.

“Miss Godfrey?” Vicki’s voice was strident.

Charlotte blinked heavily. “What? Oh, yes, I was trying to recollect,” she said, struggling for composure. Lord, that extra medication was really kicking in. It felt like her brain was mush. “I…I don’t remember much of my childhood. At least not how I looked.” The lies were pounding in her head now. How much longer did she have to go on?

“What do you remember?” Vicki pressed.

Charlotte sighed heavily. “I can remember trivial things. Let’s see—” she rubbed her temple “—I was a bookworm, especially for Charles Dickens. I always wanted a garden and, of course, I remember the games.” She swallowed again, her throat dry, recalling how often she’d been the target of cruel games.

“The gossip that always surrounds a celebrity is difficult to live with,” Vicki continued, changing topics. “But you seem to attract so much gossip. You’ve been on the cover of almost every magazine and seem to be a favorite of the tabloids.”

“I can’t imagine why. I live a rather boring life.”

“Maybe it’s because they’re attracted to the unknown. Your quest for privacy is as legendary as your beauty.”

“Is it? I just prefer to keep to myself. What do they think they’ll find that’s so interesting? When I’m not working, I’m pulling weeds in my garden.”

“Well, for starters—” Vicki flashed a smile “—isn’t it true that you were released from your last film? Rumors circulated on the set that you were loaded with drugs. Perhaps even had a breakdown of sorts?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, knowing without looking that Freddy’s smile was gone and he was leaning forward, waiting for her answer, deliberating on damage control. She decided to face the truth head-on.

“I was sick,” she admitted. She saw Vicki’s brow rise in anticipation of a coup. “I had a terrible case of the flu that I ignored.” Vicki’s smile fell and Charlotte knew she wasn’t buying the story. “The role meant a great deal to me. My mother taught me that illness is a weakness to be worked through. Unfortunately, the flu progressed to pneumonia.” She shrugged slightly. “I’m told I had a serious case, and I have to admit I was frightened.”

“You disappeared.” Vicki’s eyes were hard.

“Yes.” The image of Michael again flashed in her mind. His touch, his eyes, his love—they were for her like the sun, soil and air were to the garden. Her smile cracked.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, but a warning glare from Freddy caught her before she betrayed herself. With a clever tilt of her palm, she gracefully settled her long fingers along the exquisite curve of her jaw.

Vicki waited with the patience of a pro.

“I didn’t really disappear,” Charlotte continued. “That sounds so glamorous. All I did was spend some time in the country, alone, to regain my health.”

“Like in Camille? You won an Oscar for that role.”

Charlotte laughed lightly, determined to regain control of the interview. “Yes, I suppose so. Life imitates art…or vice versa.” She kept her smile firmly in place. “My health,” she said, emphasizing the word, “was the reason I requested a release from my last film. The pills I was seen taking were prescription. And it is common knowledge that I adhere to a strict regime of vitamins and herbs.” She lifted one hand and flicked her fingers lightly. “I swear, one can’t take a vitamin anymore without being tagged a drug addict.”

Vicki smirked, and Charlotte realized the host was removing her gloves. All bets were off. Charlotte felt betrayed, trapped. As her headache pounded in her temples, she felt the beginnings of a wave of chills. Her hands formed fists in her lap, digging moon-shaped dents into her palms as she fought for composure. She wasn’t up to this. She had warned Freddy. Oh, God, she prayed fervently, don’t let me get sick now, on national TV.

“Can you respond to the rumors of a breakdown?”

Charlotte offered a steely smile. “I thought I just had.”

“Oh, surely you can’t pretend not to have been upset by your breakup with Brad Sommers?”

This time Charlotte genuinely laughed out loud. Freddy’s press releases had done their job. “Vicki, really. Give me a little credit. Brad and I are friends,” she lied.

“If not Brad, then—” Vicki quickly checked her note cards “—what about Michael Mondragon?” she asked, raising her eyes with a gleam of triumph. “Some say that behind your tall, ivy-covered walls you were in fact hiding a torrid love affair with your gardener.”

Charlotte sat back in her chair, dumbstruck. How did Vicki know about Michael? How dare she call him a gardener? Nausea rose up to choke her, forcing her to swallow hard, appearing to the camera, she knew, overwhelmed by the question. Her gaze flew to Freddy standing just offstage, a mute appeal in her eyes.

Her pal the cameraman obliged and shifted the camera focus to catch a glimpse of Freddy, arms now clasped tightly across his chest. He bore a hard grin, but his eyes were flashing. Freddy remained resolutely silent, only waving the camera away. Vicki made a discreet gesture and immediately the camera returned to her.

“Michael who?” Charlotte finally blurted. She sat straighter in her chair, angry at Vicki for digging into her personal life, angry at Freddy for leaking the information, angry at herself for not having enough courage to walk off the stage. “Me and my gardener? Really. This is too much.”

She couldn’t help herself; her hand rose to cover her eyes. The tremors were returning. She felt weaker, dizzy. Poor Michael. If he heard what she’d just said it would hurt him deeply. But what choice did she have? What choice had he left her?

“These kinds of rumors are why I choose to keep my private life private,” she added, raising her eyes. She didn’t realize her hands clutched the arms of her chair. “When Freddy and I are married we’re going to take a long trip, away from public view, so I can regain my health. When I come back I’ll be as good as new and ready to face whatever.”