The View From Penthouse B - By Elinor Lipman Page 0,53

I’d been secretary-treasurer of the photography club and a soloist in my high school chorus, and I’d gone to the senior prom with a handsome tenor.

“Did your mother or your father or your sisters ever tell you that you were pretty, too? Because, believe me, that family stuff can do a job on you. We’re all given labels in the family—the pretty one, the smart one, the wild one—and it sticks!”

“I had a happy childhood. There were three of us, and my parents didn’t play favorites.”

“I’ll tell you why I’m saying this,” Serena continued. “Because I don’t think you’re aware, fully aware, that you’re a very pretty woman. Maybe you weren’t a pretty child so that’s how you still see yourself. If this seems outside my job description, I say ‘Screw that.’ I want people to leave my center feeling better about themselves. Sometimes it’s coming from another dimension. But sometimes it’s factual and in this world. Like the face in front of me.”

I tried to arrange my features into a tranquil, pleasant expression infused with a little sexual oomph that lived up to her characterization. She leaned closer and said, “So I’m giving you homework. I want you to carry yourself like the desirable and attractive woman that you are.”

I said, “Okay. I’ll try. Is our time up?”

“It is. But I hope you’ll come back. We still have work to do.”

“I know. I hear that every day.”

“Your sister loves you,” she said. “It’s so clear. I can feel it from here.” She gestured around the closet, then patted a breast. “And from here.”

I thanked her and offered my hand. She reminded me: the fee? Did I have cash? I said I did. I added a tip. Margot’s footsteps sounded outside our little compartment as if she’d been summoned, as if she’d heard every word.

“All good?” she called to us.

I wasn’t sure if I should sum up my hidden and future life so succinctly, but Serena did. Tucking my bills into the top of her sari, she answered, “Very all good.”

I knew her by now, my new shrink and life coach. Her reply hadn’t been a reflex or a nicety. It was an order.

23

The Way of the World

DUE TO THE BUST that was my print ad, and because every wedding anyone attended in this century celebrated the union of people who met in cyberspace, I was finally persuaded to sign up for a three-hour seminar titled Fine, I’ll Go Online.

Might I have paid better attention to the course description? It advised those of us who were “online-dating virgins” to hold off until our workshop, and those who were already “initiated” to bring copies of their profiles. Laptops mandatory. Digital photos encouraged, ready for uploading.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the course had been limited to twelve and that our leader, Franny Bagby, had been married for the first time at the age of forty-seven to a divorced man she’d met on Match.com. Also helpful: her southern accent, which promoted fraternization, and her memorizing our names within the first ten minutes. “I know y’all are slightly embarrassed to be here, right? I would’ve been, too, before this”—and up on her PowerPoint screen appeared the smiling face of her first example, presumably a no, a pot-bellied man whose bolo tie and handlebar moustache could not have been the lures he had hoped them to be.

“See?” she said. “Not much, am I right?” And then the arrow danced over to what she called the candidate’s “turnoffs.” There were more than I had noticed at first glance. The pine paneling behind him indicating an ugly rec room. The digital camera at his navel indicating this was a self-photo in a mirror. “Like he didn’t have a single friend he could call on to take a decent pitcha,” Franny said.

And still more red flags appeared in the parade of his photos: his arm around two young women in matching dresses. “Why?” Franny pleaded with this image. “Is this to signal that you got yourself a date? Captions, please!” Next photo: him nuzzling a large Persian cat. Next: him toasting the camera with a giant Teutonic beer stein. Next: him, sweaty, at a finish line, arms raised in a most unappetizing fashion. The last of his five photos: him wearing an Elvis T-shirt and fanny pack in front of what was surely Graceland.

Just as we’re feeling squeamish about exploiting this embarrassing profile, Franny squealed, “Ahm not as mean as y’all think! This is the doll-baby