Hotel Belvedere was an old grande dame of a place, much like Gisele herself, and she had been a regular guest for the last forty years. But now it was past time to leave. Unless she wanted to face Brooke again.
Gisele sighed as the silk sheath she'd worn last night rippled from the hanger. She brought the dress to her nose, enjoying the smell of her own leftover perfume before folding it in tissue paper and placing it in her suitcase. She always wore the same perfume. Joy by Jean Patou. As she'd learned as an understudy on Broadway, it was good to have a signature in all you did.
There was a single rap on the door. Loud and effective. The hotel management impressed upon the staff the importance of efficiency, politeness, and discretion in each undertaking, even if it was just a knock.
Gisele wrenched the door open.
It must be bad. They had sent the manager himself.
"Madam." He bowed from the waist.
"Charles."
"Madam, I'm afraid to have to inform you that the pass has been closed due to the unprecedented amount of snow. I have taken the liberty of cancelling your car. I do apologize."
"But it can't be, Charles. It just can't be. I must leave." Gisele knew she sounded like a child and she wanted to. She even stamped her foot, to good effect. "Tonight. Tonight, Charles. I have a very important dinner engagement that I cannot miss. Extremely important. Am I making myself clear?"
"It is most unfortunate, I agree, but there is nothing to be done. The news has been verified by several sources, not least of which being the state highway department."
"But what am I supposed to do?" Gisele purposely stretched the word out like a rubber band.
"Might I suggest making a reservation for dinner?"
"But, Charles, you know as well as I that I can't do that. I have already worn every gown I brought with me. Every single one." Gisele scoffed. "I can't be seen in the same thing twice. What would people say?" A shudder ran through her.
"Leave it with me, Madam. We have a supply for just such occasions. In the meantime, would you permit me to send up a beverage? As a small token of our esteem."
"Yes, if that will ease your conscience about this appalling situation. It's only a little snow."
"Two feet, to be precise." Charles bowed again, this time adding a slight tap of his heels. His shoes were so shiny Gisele knew if she bent down she would be able to see her reflection, and his, in them. Since she didn't, she missed his slight smile. "And it would, Madam."
Once the door was closed, Gisele threw herself onto the bed, even though no one was there to witness it. For added effect, she also drew her arm across her forehead, soft underbelly exposed, and sighed. Loudly. The snow was threatening to best her. Again.
Hotel Belvedere had been built at the end of the last century in the heart of the Catskills, at a time when everyone who was anyone was convinced that the mountains, its air, its springs, were the source of eternal youth. In the beginning, the hotel was hidden to keep out undesirables. You could only make a reservation if you had a recommendation from someone who had stayed there before, and you would only receive the exact address, including directions, handwritten on heavy bond and sealed with wax, once your connection had been confirmed.
Now, though, it was just hidden, and relied on its former clientele to keep its doors open. Although the air was just as fresh and the water just as pure, the mountains weren't the draw they used to be. These days, everybody wanted wellness and spas and two-hour massages. Even if the hotel's management had been inclined to modernize, the board, which was composed solely of family members of its founder, Winston Belvedere, was dead set against it.
Gisele didn't care about any of that newfangled nonsense, as she called it. Yes, of course she liked mud packs and facials and reflexology and had availed herself of those offerings on occasion, but always at other hotels in other locations. What she loved about Hotel Belvedere was that it was old-fashioned. That they always gave her the same room without her needing to ask. That they would never, ever call her "Gisele," even though her name was almost a household word. Uncalled-for familiarity was, in fact, grounds for dismissal. That you had to dress for dinner in black-tie or gown. It began promptly at eight, one sitting only, and when all of the courses, each paired with the perfect wine, were taken into account, never ended before midnight.
The Catskills were, in the end, just an exquisite backdrop for the lost art of living. Of enjoying the day, beginning with breakfast in bed—one egg, poached, one piece of toast, dry, and two cups of coffee, black, with the morning paper—followed by a brisk walk with a pair of Zeiss binoculars—you never knew when a bald eagle might fly overhead—a long hot soak in a marble tub, and finally, a nap. No need for lunch, with all those courses the night before, but afternoon tea on the terrace under a real fur blanket—the board hadn't even given in on that point—and then back to Room 313 to dress for the next dinner.
Which Gisele knew how to do perfectly. Her first job was as the third understudy on Broadway, hired for the very remote possibility that the main actress and understudies one and two all took ill at once. Gisele used to pray for this unlikely occurrence, a small explosion in the subway, a hold-up at the bank where all three, out of some exceedingly strange coincidence, were depositing their paychecks. Gisele wished no harm on anyone, not really, just an opportunity to show what she could do. She not only learned all her lines by heart, but also learned how to do everything else—her own make-up, her own hair, her own costumes—so that, if she ever got her chance, nothing, absolutely nothing would stand in her way.
Gisele sighed again. Her dinner engagement was, in fact, tomorrow evening, but it was important—with a director who wanted to launch her stage comeback. He felt that she had done far too many films and needed to return to live performances. Gisele agreed, but for a different reason. Despite all the airbrushing and concealer, she felt that she was starting to look old on celluloid. Yes, the same could be said of the theatre, but at least her image there wasn't preserved for posterity.
"Oh, son of a monkey. What do I do now?"
"I should think it's time for a cigarette, don't you?"
Gisele shot up, her hands crossed over her throat, her mouth an O of surprise.
There was another voice in the room.
Gisele's gesture was one of her favorites and she tried to work it into each film at least once, if she could. A good film was when she managed it twice or even three times. For Goodnight, My Sweet, the film that clinched her first Oscar, it was a whopping six. Of course, the last one was during the outtakes as the credits rolled, but it still counted in her book.
"Who said that? Who's there?"
"Oh Gisele, don't play that. You know perfectly well who."
"Oh, no," Gisele said, feeling queasy.
"Oh, yes."
"I thought I'd made it."
"It was the snow. The snow did you in, Gigi."
Again.
Gisele bridled. "Must you always drag your nails across that blackboard? You know how much I hate being called Gigi."
And she did, vehemently. Gisele hated all forms of abbreviation, but her own nickname made her scalp crawl.
"Gigi, Gigi, Gigi."
"You really are a child."
Gisele flounced back on the bed. She pulled her pink satin sleeping mask over her eyes, even though she knew it would muss up her hair, carefully washed and dried that morning, and sighed. Although she really felt like crying, which, other than on the screen, she hadn't done in forty years. But that would ruin her makeup, presenting her with too many things to repair for one afternoon, especially since she still didn't have anything to wear to dinner. When was Charles going to return?
"I'm still here, you know."
"I know, but at least I can't see you."
This, Gisele knew, was not strictly true. In the right light, she could. In the right light, she could see a shadow, an outline, a hint of something.
Gisele never, ever swore, unless it was required for a film, but as she became more successful, she was able to push through certain changes to the script. Hell to heck, shit to shoot, fuck to fudge. It was, she believed, the mark of an uncouth woman to swear. Out loud, that is. Right now, in her mind, she was saying one four-letter word over and over.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
The fucking snow. Because of it, she had overstayed her welcome, stayed longer than the ninety-six hours she had planned, even if only by a ghost's breath. It had seemed so long, and now suddenly it wasn't.
There was a rap on the door. Gisele opened it to find, not Charles with the dress, but an underling in a white coat carrying a large tray. With the other hand, he snapped open a white tablecloth, which he expertly laid over the coffee table in the seating area. Gisele knew that discretely tucked around the corner in the hallway was a cart, also covered with a white tablecloth. Hotel Belvedere felt it was an impudence to their guests to roll anything superfluous into their rooms, so most of the men who worked room service had admirable muscles. The waiter did not set his tray down on the table, but after adjusting the tablecloth so that the edges lined up perfectly on all four sides, placed several items carefully on the table, the tray still balanced on his hand.
Before he left, he singlehandedly brought the gas fire to life.
"Madam," he said, bowed, and closed the door.
"The hotel's outdone itself this time. It's only a touch of snow."
While the waiter was working, Gisele had returned to her bed. It never hurt for a potential movie- or theatre-goer to see her in one of her signature poses.
"Are you already over there? That was your problem. You never could control your appetites," Gisele said without raising her arm.
"My goodness. Must you always be so contentious? Just come over and have a look, old girl."
Gisele's scalp crawled again. "Must you?" Her voice sounded pathetic even to her own ears, the mewl of a sad, blind kitten. Yes, she was old, getting older by the second. Did everyone and their brother have to remind her of that fact?
"That bad, darling? Certainly nothing a glass of champagne won't cure."
That roused Gisele. "They gave us champagne?"
"A whole bottle."
There was, indeed. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot in a bucket of ice, the gorgeous orange label of that old widow blue with cold. Next to it, a dozen oysters on the half shell, a glistening wedge of lemon sitting in wait on the lip of each. And to round it off, three delicate French macaroons: one deep purple, another green, and the third dusky brown. Her favorite flavors: raspberry, pistachio, and chocolate. Gisele sighed as she sank into the feathers of her sofa. Oh, Charles did know her well. Now he just had to return with that dress.
"There's only one flute."
Gisele laughed as the champagne frothed into the tall, cut-crystal glass. "In your dreams, my darling."
"Yes. I do dream about it. How did you know? The delicious, prickling coldness exploding in my throat. The delightful, ensuing giddiness. Aaah."
Gisele took a sip. Held the divine chill in her mouth for a moment before she swallowed. Yes. That's how it was. And how many Veuve-fueled evenings had turned out to be some of her best? Head thrown back in laughter, a feather boa cascading down her back.
She prepared an oyster, using the small silver fork to get just the right amount of lemon on it. She held the mottled shell to her lips before she tipped its contents onto her tongue. Her eyes closed of their own accord as she savored the salt and the sea and that tiny grain of sand from a beach in St. Tropez.
And now, another sip of champagne. Gisele smacked her lips, something she never, ever did in company, but you could hardly call this company. "Champagne and oysters were made for each other."
"Just like the two of us."
Gisele almost coughed up her champagne. Thankfully, she didn't. It would never do to waste a drop of that transcendent elixir.
"Hardly. Only when I've overstayed my welcome."
The silence was charged. Gisele could almost feel the molecules collecting where she thought the voice was coming from, across from her, on the opposite sofa, although she had remarked, over the years, that her old, dead friend seemed to be something of a ventriloquist, able to throw her voice to places she wasn't. Gisele suspected she did this on purpose, to annoy her.
Gisele used the pause to prepare another oyster. And again, she was back in St. Tropez, in one of the many cafés that lined the harbor. She used to visit every August. Why had she stopped when it brought her such joy? She couldn't remember.
"I've been meaning to ask you about that, Gigi, but it's been so long since I last saw you. Why do you stay away? It pains me."
"You know why."
The room erupted in laughter. She wasn't where Gisele thought she was. The point of explosion was over by the window. In fact, the curtain even moved. Either she had changed places, or she was projecting again.
"Oh Gigi, darling. You think I'm still mad about that old business? After all these years? I have better things to do with my time."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because I love you. I always have."
Gisele swallowed.
There was a time when they were inseparable. There was a time when they came up to Hotel Belvedere together. Gisele wasn't sure she would have called it love on her part. Not in the beginning at least. More like professional jealousy, the next upstart ingenue to monitor. In all her years of understudying, Gisele had learned this: keep the competition close. But through that closeness, their relationship had become something else.
Gisele had just gotten her first lead on Broadway, playing Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brooke was her first understudy. A Midwest girl born and bred—from an actual dairy farm, for God's sake—Brooke brought a freshness to Gisele's life that she hadn't known she was missing. In those late nights after the show, while Gisele wiped the makeup from her face, she and Brooke sat in her dressing room, smoking Lucky Strikes, drinking Wild Turkey, and talking. At first their conversations revolved around Brooke asking questions—she was eager to learn anything Gisele could teach her, which, admittedly at that point in her career, wasn't much. Later, though, in the windowless, smoke-filled room, Gisele told Brooke things she'd never told another living soul. About being so poor growing up that she and her mother often scavenged their dinner from the garbage cans behind their apartment building. About her appendix bursting when she was eight. The surgeon, inept and possibly drunk, pulled the two flaps of skin together with large, careless stitches. The resulting scar bumped down Gisele's stomach with all the grace of a railroad track.
"You're the only person I've ever shown this to," she said as she raised her blouse.
Brooke brought her index finger and thumb to her lips and whistled. "That is one ugly-looking scar, Gisele. Does it hurt?"
Gisele stared at the line, so red and angry and interminable. "Only my pride."
During the January theatre slump, Brooke booked a long weekend for them at Hotel Belvedere. She missed the Wisconsin winter, its arctic temperatures, its never-ending fields of virgin snow to criss and to cross. She was certain that, after a weekend in the mountains, Gisele would love the outdoors as much as she did. Gisele herself was sceptical, but she agreed to go. Because Brooke wanted to.
It was a day much like today when it happened. They had each put on their Fair Isle sweaters, their knickers, laced up their boots, stepped into their skis. Brooke had taught Gisele how to do this.
That day, the snow was fresh, unmarked powder. Gisele took the lead. Once she'd learned the basics of cross-country skiing, she always took the lead. As Brooke had predicted, she fell in love with the outdoors. She loved cutting a trail through the newly fallen snow. It was exhilaratingly vigorous, in the bracing air, to feel that the whole white world was hers, to size up the conditions in a split second, to choose whether to go left or right. The power, responsibility, challenge thrilled her, filled her with pride—that she, a city girl, could successfully navigate a mountain.
Off they went, on and after. They had waxed their skis well and glided through the powder as though on air. The snow on the pine trees was one of the most exquisite things Gisele had ever seen, the white so light on top of the green it looked like it had been sprayed.
They were working hard, and Gisele knew her cheeks were held captive by misshapen patches of scarlet. They were the reason why she had always declined energetic roles. Her audience liked her pallor, as did she. Those red patches were unsightly.
But outside, out on the mountain, with only Brooke there to witness them, Gisele could laugh at the way she looked.
They stopped under a pine tree to catch their breath. Brooke pulled a flask out from the pocket of her knickers. She had a sip, then handed it to Gisele. Bourbon. While Gisele was preoccupied with wiping the lid with her handkerchief before she drank—she had an important role coming up, her first on film and she didn't want to risk germs—Brooke hit the branch of the tree above them, causing a clump of cold snow to land on Gisele's head.
"Must you be such a child?"
"But we are children!" Brooke laughed.
And with that, she placed her open, laughing mouth over Gisele's. Gisele felt her tongue, felt the heat rise between them. Her hands rose, too, as if of their own accord, to caress the swath of skin on the back of Brooke's neck, the soft vulnerable spot concealed by the rope of her braid. But then, she didn't. She couldn't. Instead, with her hands still limp in the air, Gisele turned away, leaving her friend looking like she'd just been slapped.
After an awkward moment, the two women picked up their poles again and shoved off.
Gisele was in the lead.
Gisele was always in the lead.
Until she wasn't.
There was the sound of skis accelerating on snow and a sense of concentrated effort behind her, and suddenly Brooke flew by, sticking her tongue out at Gisele over her shoulder. "Gotcha!" she said and raced all the way back to the hotel, arriving a full ten minutes before Gisele.
The two women never spoke of the incident. They sipped their champagne, donned their dresses for dinner, took the elevator down to the first floor. They returned to New York, to their lives and the respective roles they played. A few months later, Brooke got a small part in a movie and moved to Hollywood. "This is it," she said in Gisele's dressing room after the show, her eyes full of Wisconsin excitement. "I know it is."
A few months after that, Gisele read in the newspaper one morning that Brooke had died in a freak accident on set. She had insisted on doing her own stunts and had misjudged the height of a jump her horse needed to spring over. Of course she would do her own stunts, Gisele thought, Brooke's strong, solid back suddenly vivid in front of her eyes as she raced away, her long blonde braid begging to be caught and held.
Gisele's new understudy played Maggie that evening while Gisele lay in her darkened bedroom, a slice of cold cucumber soothing each swollen eye.
Gisele watched the bubbles of the Veuve push themselves off the bottom of her glass, float to the surface, explode. It was so peaceful. One after the other. Poof. Gone.
Her shoulder sagged. It was not something she allowed herself to do often. People often commented on her royal bearing and she had, in fact, modelled her posture after Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Who ever saw Audrey Hepburn sag?
No one.
And no one would ever see her.
Ever.
Gisele rose and began to get changed.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"In those clothes? Honestly, knickers? They look like what we used to wear."
"They are."
The laughter trilled. "You still have them? You can still fit into them?"
"I bring them whenever I come. Just in case I feel like skiing."
"You? Why you haven't skied in years. Since that day, in fact."
"It's time, Brooke."
The silence stretched out between them.
"You know that's the first time you've said my name. In all this time."
"I know," Gisele said. "And I'm sorry. I've behaved appallingly." She took a step towards the door.
"Aren't you even going to wait and see what dress Charles finds?"
Gisele shrugged. There was despair in those shrugging shoulders, but also a hint of relief, like spring in the air, like looking forward. For the first time in her life, it wouldn't matter what she wore, what she looked like. It truly did not matter what dress he brought. She wouldn't be wearing it.
"At least finish the champagne first. It would be such a shame to waste it."
Gisele sat on the sofa, poured herself another glass. Okay, if she was honest, the knickers still fit, but they pinched a bit at the waist and the bottom. Time changed things. Body. Appearance. Desire. Will.
The bubbles rose again. Their tiny explosion at the top tickled the underside of Gisele's nose. The gas fire hissed, instead of cracking and popping, as a real fire would have.
Her relief unfurled like a newborn crocus. It really didn't matter what that dress looked like.
Outside the snow continued its descent, one flake at a time. The light had changed, bringing a grayness, soft and powdery, into the room.
"That darned snow," Gisele said.
Brooke giggled. "It's only me here, Gisele."
"You're right," Gisele said. "Only you."
Gisele traced the intricately cut crystal of her flute. Yes, only Brooke, the first and last person she ever confided in. The first and last person she ever loved. If only she had known it at the time.
Gisele started to giggle, as well. "Only you, Brooke, and that fucking snow!"
Eventually Gisele finished her glass, and the bottle. The glass she set on the coffee table. The bottle, head down in the silver cooler.
"Shall we?" Brooke said.
"Can you?"
"I believe the rules extend to the surrounding environs. I've never tested them, but from others I've met, that seems to be the case."
Gisele nodded her consent.
The door opened and Gisele stepped through it. There was a twist and a shimmer in front of her, a brief glimpse of a long braid and the rainbow of a Fair Isle sweater. This time, Gisele was happy to follow where Brooke led.
