The day after they had dinner, she got to work on her mother’s closets in earnest. She had gone through all her clothes by that night, and put them in neat piles. In the end, there was very little she wanted to keep, just a few sentimental things, and some pretty coats that Véronique used to borrow, and now they were hers. She went through Marie-Helene’s jewelry and put it in the safe, since she knew she wouldn’t wear it, and then she went through her desk, put photographs in boxes, piled her appointment books in a box, went through files, and papers. By dinnertime, Marie-Helene’s desk was empty. Little by little, she was getting there. It felt disrespectful going through her things, but she wasn’t coming back. Véronique was beginning to face that seven months after she’d died.
She spent the next month moving things around, replacing some curtains, getting rid of some furniture she didn’t like. She was tired of her grandparents’ antiques. She sent some to auction, moved some paintings around, and by November, the apartment looked different, younger, more cheerful. She had created an eclectic mix of old and new pieces. She had begun combing vintage stores and auction houses, and was excited when she brought things home. She wished she could have shown it to her mother. She might have liked it. Doug had gone back to New York by then, so she had no one to show it to, and enjoyed it herself. More and more, she was going out without her surgical mask. People stared at her sometimes, but she was learning to ignore it, and knowing that soon she was having the surgery helped. The damage to her face felt more temporary, like the results of an accident that were healing, instead of something that would stay that way forever.
She still didn’t feel ready to see people she knew yet, and now she wanted to have the surgery in New York first, and maybe see some old friends after that.
* * *
—
Then finally, the inevitable happened. She had stopped worrying about it, and loved cruising around old shops in unfamiliar neighborhoods, looking for things for the apartment. It was early December. The Christmas decorations had gone up on the Champs élysées and the avenue Montaigne. She loved walking around there sometimes when the lights came on at night. The city was getting ready for Christmas. She stopped at a grocery store on the way home, to pick up something to eat that night. She wasn’t looking where she was going, and sometimes at night, her injured eye made it harder to judge distance and depth, and she collided with a woman leaving the store. She started to apologize and heard the woman gasp, and looked up and saw Stephanie, her agent. After months of avoiding everyone she knew, Véronique had run into, literally, the one person she wanted most to avoid. Stephanie was staring at her in shock. At first all she had seen were the scars, and then she realized who it was.
“Oh my God, Véronique, are you all right?” She sounded deeply concerned, and Véronique wanted to run away and hide, but it was too late. She couldn’t escape. She didn’t have the energy or even the desire to lie anymore.
“I’m fine,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I bumped into you.” She could see that Stephanie was staring at her face.
“Why didn’t you tell me how bad it was?”
“I didn’t know for a while myself or how long it would last. I still have some surgeries to get through.” She no longer felt as though she had committed a crime, even though she wasn’t beautiful anymore, and couldn’t model. At first she had felt as though she had failed in some way. “I’m better now, but this is why I retired.”
“I can see that now. But can’t they do something about it? You can’t just leave it like that,” as though she had a choice, “they do such wonderful things these days. Have you seen a plastic surgeon?” As though the idea hadn’t even occurred to her.
“Many times. I had twenty-six surgeries in six months.” She said it more easily now. “I’m having another one in a few weeks. But it won’t get much better than this. The scars will never completely go away. It’s not exactly the right look for the cover of Vogue.” There was a hint of irony in her voice. She didn’t wake up wanting to cry about it anymore. The scars were fading a little, even before the surgery.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. You should have told me.”
“Why? I retired, that’s all they need to know. Models come and go.”
“Not at your level. The big ones like you stay for a long time.”
“Not like this,” Véronique said simply. This was her reality, not evening gowns from Dior or Givenchy.