“That’s mine, by the way,” he says of the robe. “You were drenched.”
Now I see Mother’s red dress hanging over the mirror on the bureau by the open window. Oh god, did we—？
“We didn’t,” he says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Didn’t what?”
“I would never take advantage like that. I’m not a monster. Well, not that kind of monster, anyway. We’re all some kind of monster, aren’t we, Belle?”
I look at the mirror covered by Mother’s red dress, the only mirror in the room. The skirt obscures my reflection, the entire glass covered in a bell of red silk. There’s a vase full of red roses on the bureau. Some red jars and vials.
When I look back at the man, he’s smiling at me. “That was quite the swim you took.”
“I can’t swim.”
“If you can’t swim, why go in the water, Belle?”
“I forgot that I couldn’t.” It’s actually true, I did forget. Though how could I forget? Suddenly I want a cigarette. He gives me the one still burning in his mouth. Bringing it to my lips, I taste his rose lip balm. A whisper of a green tea essence or a cloud jelly he must wear on his face.
“Funny thing to forget,” he says, watching me puff on the cigarette, a little longingly. “Seems pretty important to keep that in mind, don’t you think?”
But there are roses in my mind, I want to tell him. Freshly cut in a tall black vase. A white, red-nailed hand arranging the stems to best advantage as we speak.
“Been a bit scrambled lately? Forgetting names, faces, places? Mixing past and present?”
How does he know that? “How did you know that?”
“Oh, a wild guess. But it’s worth it, right? For the Glow,” he whispers.
I feel myself flush now under his gaze. “Excuse me?”
“Quite the Glow,” he says. He raises his glass as if to toast my face.
“Who are you?”
He feigns looking hurt. “Oh Belle, am I really so forgettable?”
“I remember you walked me to the house last night. For my free treatment.”
“Wasn’t that nice of me?”
“You were also at the hotel bar the other night. Then I saw you at the house. You had a black beard then.” And you kissed me, didn’t you kiss me?
“I did.” He smiles. “And I still have the beard, by the way.” He points to his desk, where I see there are a number of mannequin heads lined up, each of them sporting different configurations of wig and eyewear. I see the black beard hanging on a white face. Those strange spectacles. I look back at him and he puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers. “It’s resting.”
I should be afraid, maybe. Ask him why he has all these heads. Also, why do you seem to be following me, Hud Hudson? Hud Hudson, that’s his improbable name. But by catching me he did save me, remember? Can’t forget that. Although maybe he saved me so he can kill me, that’s possible. Still, I’m not afraid. He’s very pretty, for one. Like an ad for some beguiling perfume, something with leather in it. Something with dark woods. He has a Glow himself, maybe marula oil is responsible or some sort of snail. It’s nice to watch, anyway. Also, I don’t seem able to speak accusing words just now. Something to do with Mother’s dress over the mirror. Feels like it’s muffling me in red silk. Without the mirror, I’m not quite oriented, not quite… myself, if that makes sense. The only mirror in the room is really Hud Hudson’s face. How it’s staring at me with such… what?
“I have to say that Glow is really something, Belle.”
“Is it?”
Sitting on the bed in his suit, he really looks like he belongs in Mother’s old movies, her fascist magazines. Fashion, I mean. The nefarious gentleman gloating after his nefarious night out. God knows what happened among the stylish shadows. Only Hud Hudson.
“Oh yes,” he says. “There’s a dewiness.”
“There is?”
“A luminosity. Some might even say a Lift. An eradication of free radicals. We should talk.”
“So talk,” I whisper.
“You first. How long are you going to keep me waiting?”
“Waiting?”
“The treatment, Belle. I’m slavering for details here.” He reaches out and I think he’s going to touch my face, but he just takes the cigarette from my lips. Slips it between his. Stares at me, transfixed, waiting. Some dark shame rises up in me like a wave, why shame? I look away from him at the red dress hanging over the mirror, at the roses gleaming redly on the bureau. Shhhh, they seem to whisper. Secret.