Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,105

to catch her breath.

“Oh. I have a meeting. Can you email me to set up an appointment for office hours?”

“It can’t wait,” she said. “Please—just let me get this out before I start doubting myself. I think I’m on to something. I’ve got a new thesis topic.”

After Dr. Moore’s prompt the week before, she found herself paging through Lace, Chances, and Scruples. She read through them all side by side, noting parallels between them: strong women finding their way in life, in love, in business. But beyond that, in a lightning-bolt moment of clarity, she recognized a connection to the writings of Susan Sontag.

Halfway through Scruples, she opened her copy of “Notes on ‘Camp.’” She read it from beginning to end, doubting herself. But then it was clear—thrillingly clear—that the style of the novels, the merit of these books, could be explained by something Sontag wrote in “Notes on ‘Camp’”: “And one cheats oneself, as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture, whatever else one may do or feel on the sly.”

All summer long, she had told herself she couldn’t take these novels seriously, of course she couldn’t. The very idea was absurd. But then, Sontag had written, “The whole point of Camp is to dethrone the serious.” Oh, yes.

“It’s still on Sontag. Still ‘Notes on Camp, ’” Sadie said. “But instead of writing about distance as methodology, I’m looking at three works by other authors filtered through Sontag’s lens: it’s my thesis that the novels of Jackie Collins, Shirley Conran, and Judith Krantz are the ultimate examples of literary Camp.”

Dr. Moore smiled. “Now, that’s the girl I met at Young Arts.”

* * *

Vivian heard the bedroom door click open. The curtains had been closed against the sunlight for hours, and now she didn’t know if it was light or dark outside. Leonard sat on the edge of the bed. Her back was to him, and she didn’t turn around.

“Vivian,” Leonard said. “Are you unwell?”

She felt his hand on her hair, stroking it away from her forehead.

“No,” she whispered.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.”

She blinked in the near darkness. When she didn’t respond, Leonard got up and opened the curtains. Sunlight poured in. How could it still be the same day? It was like time had paused, waiting for her to make her confession, ready or not.

“Vivian!” he said, squinting at her.

“What?” She sat up.

“Your face . . .”

She pulled a hand mirror from her nightstand. Her cheeks were lined with streaks of mascara, the area around her mouth stained red from smeared lipstick. Only her hair was still in place, sprayed and bobby-pinned into submission.

“I just need to wash off my makeup,” she said, walking to the bathroom. Her legs felt like lead. She dispensed the foaming cleanser into her hands, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. She preferred to look her best for difficult conversations, but her skin was too blotchy, her eyes too swollen, to think about reapplying makeup. She would face her husband without armor, her skin as raw and vulnerable on the outside as she felt on the inside.

When she returned to the bedroom, Leonard was pacing.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Did something happen with Leah? What’s she doing back here?”

“It’s not Leah,” she said, not knowing whether to sit or stand. She decided to sit, but not on the bed. She chose one of the Georgian armchairs near the window. She and Leonard had bought the set while on vacation around the time they were renovating the house, both enthralled with the carved legs and pale green cotton jacquard upholstery. She ran her hand over it now, wishing she could go back to that time and tell her husband what had happened in the moment.

“You’re being dramatic, Vivian,” he said. “Out with it.”

“Remember the day in your office when I asked you not to sell to the baron, if there was any way we could borrow or—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, not this again.”

“Please, Leonard. This is difficult for me, so just listen. I don’t want to sell—you know that. But I especially don’t want to sell to the baron.”

Leonard sat in the chair next to hers.

“He was spiteful back in the day, and yes, pulling out of the deal like that hurt us. But it was a long time ago. And he’s offering us good money now. You’ve got to let go of this, Vivian. All of it.”

She nodded. “I want to. But first, there’s