Diary of an Ugly Duckling Read online

  didn’t matter. Stupid and awkward as she felt,

  there was a part of her that would have happily

  stayed rooted to this spot, staring at Bradshaw and

  dreaming that Fred-and-Ginger ballroom dream

  all over again.

  As if reading her thoughts, Bradshaw opened his

  mouth.

  “Do you like parties?” he blurted out in a rush of

  words.

  Yes! Audra’s soul jumped to her throat, dancing,

  and she had to struggle to keep her feet from joining

  it. A prayer of gratitude sprang to her lips and she

  imagined herself sauntering home just as fat, black

  and ugly as she’d left it, and dropping this piece of

  news on her mother’s dinner plate.

  “You really came through, Bradshaw, you know

  that?” she murmured, beaming at him. “I knew you

  were different. I just knew it—”

  Bradshaw blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

  “Forget it,” Audra said quickly. Calling upon the

  ghosts of dead divas, she cocked her head and met

  his gaze with an expression she hoped said some-

  thing sassy and seductive at the same time. “What

  did you have in mind?”

  He hesitated a little, a puzzled expression gleam-

  ing out of those honey-colored eyes. “Having a little

  get together. Saturday. For my daughter. Sweet six-

  teen.”

  Daughter?

  “Oh . . .” Audra said, feeling a little like she’d

  been doused in cold water. “I—I didn’t know you

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  43

  had a daughter that old. I guess you and your

  wife—”

  “Not married . . . and I was a father young. Too

  young.” They stared at each other again, each ap-

  parently waiting for the other, until he said, “You’ll

  come?” he asked sounding suddenly urgent. “I was

  hoping you’d . . . talk to her.”

  Talk to his daughter? Audra frowned. “You want

  me to talk to your daughter ? About what?”

  Art Bradshaw’s amber eyes gleamed down at her.

  “Girl stuff. The stuff girls have to deal with,” he fin-

  ished hurriedly, as if just naming the things girls

  had to deal with were too much for him.

  Audra shook her head. “This sounds like a job for

  her mother—”

  “No,” Bradshaw’s voice sharpened to dangerous.

  “No help there.”

  “Is it just the two of you?”

  “Just the two.” He hesitated a moment, then

  stepped closer to her, filling the space between them

  with warmth and heat. “So you’ll come? Saturday.

  Eight o’clock—”

  Audra was almost swept away by the despera-

  tion radiating in his handsome face, while movie

  titles flickered through a mental catalogue in her

  brain. There were dozens of mother-daughter

  films—but father-daughter? The only one that came

  to mind was Father of the Bride . . . and that hardly

  suited the circumstance Bradshaw was describing.

  Audra shook her head. This was sounding less like

  a date and more like a babysitting gig with every

  second . . .

  “She wanted a party,” Bradshaw said suddenly,

  44

  Karyn Langhorne

  sounding almost as though he were talking to him-

  self. “A fancy one. To help make friends.”

  “I seriously doubt your daughter wants me at her

  party—”

  “I want you there,” Bradshaw said and now those

  lovely golden eyes fixed on her, igniting a fire inside

  Audra that erased all of her questions and reserva-

  tions. “I need you there, Marks,” he repeated and

  Audra stared into those eyes, seeing herself re-

  flected in their amber pools, not as fat, black and

  ugly, but as a princess as lovely in the eye of the be-

  holder as the swan in Kiana’s fairy tale.

  “You . . . want me there?” she squeaked.

  “You’ll come? Please?”

  Audra nodded, transfixed by the image of herself

  reflected in the man’s shining eyes.

  “Sure,” she heard herself mumble. “Just name the

  place—”

  “Saturday night. Eight. Caverna—it’s a restaurant

  in Brooklyn. She picked it. It’s sort of . . .” he gri-

  maced like he tasted something sour, screwing his

  gorgeous face into a wrinkled mush of lips and

  nose. “Trendy,” he finished distastefully. “Hip.”

  Audra smiled. Trendy, hip. Handsome, strong,

  silent-type Art Bradshaw had just invited her to join

  him at a trendy, hip club in Brooklyn, Audra

  thought, skipping over the stuff about his daugh-

  ter’s party or that there was something she was sup-

  posed to talk to the girl about once there. The

  unpleasantness with Haines was forgotten, as were

  her own nagging feelings of doubt.

  See, Ma, she telegraphed her mother in her mind,

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  45

  as she lifted her chin toward Bradshaw, batting her

  eyes like a Hall of Famer. Life can be like a movie . . .

  “Hip, huh?” Audra put a hand on her upper thigh

  and curled her lips into a Mae West smirk of a smile.

  “I got plenty of hip, big boy. But what on Earth will I

  wear?”

  Chapter 4

  “Something fancy and hip. Fancy and hip,” Au-

  dra sang the words over and over like a

  mantra, as she boarded the subway and squeezed

  into the little space between a chunky, sour-faced sis-

  ter who grimaced as though Audra had attacked her

  and a white man who snapped his newspaper

  around him like a shield. Audra ignored them both,

  pushed Princeton Haines and the brutality charge to

  the back corner of her mind, and whispered, “Some-

  thing fancy, something hip,” softly to herself, hop-

  ing for a vision.

  Fancy.

  Hip.

  She had to keep saying the words to keep up her

  courage to do what she had to do. It would take

  courage to do this kind of shopping: the kind that

  would require branching out of the safe world of

  elastic-waist pants and loose sweatshirts in drab

  solid colors. Because everyone knew “hip” meant

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  47

  come-hither, form-fitting, and “fancy” meant color-

  ful or sparkly or something more elaborate than the

  everyday blacks, navy blues and grays. It meant—

  for one evening—the chance to be a days-gone-by

  diva, dressed to the nines, surrounded by gaiety and

  laughter. It meant swishing about in too much costly

  fabric, with glittering jewels in ears and on neck and

  in hair while sipping highballs and making witty

  repartee with Art Bradshaw, her captivated host. Au-

  dra closed her eyes, letting the rocking train lull her

  deeper into her dream until the hard subway bench

  around her transformed into an elegant forties-style

  divan, the clattering roll of the car’s wheels into the

  tinkling of piano keys and clinking martini gl
asses,

  and the aroma of sweaty bodies into the smell of cig-

  arette smoke dense in the air. Audra imagined her-

  self an Audrey Hepburn or a Grace Kelly, laughing a

  throaty, worldly laugh as she tossed her head like a

  princess and rearranged her gown like a woman

  who had a closet full of party clothes at home and a

  dozen places to wear them—

  “Do you mind? You’re crushing me!” the sister

  beside her hissed with some serious New York atti-

  tude. “Can’t you”—she jabbed Audra in the side

  with a pointy elbow—“move over”—another jab—

  “a little?”

  Audra opened her eyes to find herself in reality’s

  living color once again. The woman beside her was

  staring at her with an annoyed expression on her

  face, and Audra saddled up her own ’tude, ready to

  give back as good as she was getting. She took an-

  other quick look at her adversary to make sure the

  sister wasn’t packing something worse than a nasty

  48

  Karyn Langhorne

  mouth and wicked set of elbows. But instead of see-

  ing potential weapons, she found herself drawn to

  what the woman had on her back.

  The sister was a far cry from model skinny, but

  she was beautifully dressed in a pair of chocolate

  brown suede slacks and a pink cashmere sweater

  that suited her body shape perfectly. Audra had to

  stop herself from reaching out to caress the soft

  fabrics.

  She scooted a little closer to the newspaper-

  reading man who scrunched a little deeper behind

  his paper.

  “Where do you shop?” Audra asked the sour-

  faced sister.

  “What?” The woman frowned up at her like she’d

  asked her what color her underwear was.

  “It’s just . . . you look very nice,” Audra told her,

  smiling as if a smile proved she wasn’t a psycho

  killer. “It looks like I’m going to a party tomorrow

  night and I’ve got to find something trendy. Some-

  thing hip,” she leaned toward the woman. “See, if it

  were up to me, I’d go to some vintage store and try

  to look like Ingrid Bergman in Indiscreet”—she

  chuckled a little, like she and the stranger were shar-

  ing an inside joke, but the woman just stared at her

  blankly. “Well, anyway,” Audra continued, realizing

  how ridiculous she sounded. “I thought I’d better

  model myself after someone still alive”—the woman

  blinked at her in alarm—“I mean, someone who’s

  not in an old movie,” Audra corrected. “Someone

  who looks good. And when you poked me just now, I

  noticed your sweater, so I thought I would ask—”

  “Marciella’s,” the woman replied, her face finally

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  49

  relaxing out of its city-wise, don’t-mess-with-me

  game face into a kindness that softened her features

  and made her much prettier than Audra had origi-

  nally thought. “It’s a little boutique on Madison, be-

  tween Thirty-fifth and Thirty-sixth.”

  “Marciella’s,” Audra repeated, wondering if she

  should write it down. “Madison and Thirty-fifth.”

  The woman nodded, a pleased smile spreading

  over her face. She wasn’t really so sour-faced after

  all, Audra decided. “Great stuff. Pricey,” she warned,

  wagging a manicured finger at Audra. “Very pricey.

  But it’s really classy stuff. You won’t meet yourself

  coming and going.”

  “Pricey, huh?” The word resonated in Audra’s

  mind. Combined with the words Madison Avenue

  and boutique, Audra couldn’t help but feel this

  woman’s shopping budget went way beyond her

  own. She wanted to follow up with “How pricey?”

  but bit back the question. If I have to, I’ll spend it, she

  told herself firmly. But I’ll try the cheaper stores first.

  After all, Art Bradshaw had invited her to a

  party . . . and all was right with the world.

  “The next station stop is . . . Thirty-fourth Street,”

  the automated conductor announced in its soul-less

  voice. Audra thanked her new friend and rose to

  leave the train, freeing up a considerable amount of

  seating space in the process.

  “Fancy and hip, fancy and hip,” Audra sang aloud,

  moving through the pedestrian traffic on Sixth Av-

  enue, pushing herself through the doors of Macy’s

  and heading determinedly for the women’s section,

  pushing aside her dread of the fitting room and

  50

  Karyn Langhorne

  wishing for the thousandth time she’d stuck to her

  New Year’s Resolution diet.

  Only there was nothing that said “fancy and hip”

  in the way Audra defined them. Sure, there were

  hip, casual clothes galore in the larger sizes (boot-

  cut jeans and bohemian tops, big, fringed poncho

  shawls, rhinestone-studded denim jackets) and a se-

  lection of fancy ones (dresses as wide as muumuus,

  mostly in dark colors, of a cut and style guaranteed

  to make any woman look like the mother of the

  bride) but nothing that spoke of youthful fanciness.

  Nothing in the entire store . . . and Audra traipsed

  across it repeatedly, searching rack after rack with

  uncharacteristic diligence.

  She abandoned Macy’s for Bloomingdale’s and

  then Lord & Taylor, and then gave up the depart-

  ment stores for the large-sized boutiques, meeting

  with disappointment after disappointment. About

  the only thing that came close was a partly sheer,

  yellow chiffon shawl of a top that, with its fringe

  and assymetrical cut, had a light, party feel . . . but it

  showed a hefty chunk of chubby shoulder, too.

  “Pork loin in a yellow blanket.” Audra grimaced

  at herself, shrugging it off and vowing to search on.

  As the sun sank into afternoon, Audra headed

  across town to where the fancy boutiques were

  clustered in row after row on Madison Avenue, still

  hoping to find the outfit that would capture Art

  Bradshaw’s imagination, the look that would kick

  fat, black and ugly to the curb, if not forever, at least

  for a night.

  And sure enough, in the window of Marciella’s

  Audra found it: the perfect top, draped over the

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  51

  shoulders of a mannequin. It was a sleeveless, sil-

  very, glittering thing with a deep V-neckline that

  scooped just enough to show a little cleavage, but

  not enough to scare anybody. Like the yellow shawl,

  it graced the mannequin’s hips in a diagonal line.

  Audra imagined it thrown almost casually over a

  nice pair of black pants and coupled with a pair of

  strappy sandals.

  “Hello, hip and trendy,” she murmured, her nose

  nearly pressed against the window. Only . . .

  Audra could tell just by looking at it that it was

  expensive—probably as much as she made in a

  m
onth. She hesitated, intimidated by the top, the

  store, and the idea of spending thousands of dol-

  lars on a single garment—but then she thought of

  the divas of old with their gorgeous costumes and

  changed her mind. Hell, even fickle old Scarlett

  O’Hara had known that sometimes a woman had to

  have a new dress to send the right signal.

  “Thank God for MasterCard,” she muttered, fold-

  ing her lips determinedly and yanking the handle

  on the boutique’s heavy glass door.

  A series of chimes sounded as she stepped inside,

  her feet landing soundlessly on a spotless white car-

  pet. The air smelled of some gentle perfume, and

  soft romantic music played at a volume just above

  noticeable. And the place was completely empty.

  “May I help you?”

  A skinny white girl not much older than twenty

  or twenty-one appeared at Audra’s side like a man-

  nequin coming to life. She wore a tiny pair of black

  pants and a little top with a pair of slim spaghetti

  straps not quite appropriate for the cool of the

  52

  Karyn Langhorne

  March day, balancing herself atop a pair of ridicu-

  lously high heels. She looked cool and chic and com-

  pletely sophisticated.

  A deep feeling of inadequacy and an awareness of

  her own imperfection swept over Audra as she

  stared at the girl. The sudden irrational urge to run

  out the door seized her heart and she had to remind

  herself that any woman tough enough to stare down

  a bunch of convicts day after day could probably

  handle buying a top from a high-end Manhattan

  boutique.

  Probably.

  “May I help you?” the girl repeated, since Audra

  hadn’t said a word yet, just stood there staring at her

  with her mouth open like some oki hick come to the

  Big City. “Do you need directions—”

  “I’m looking for something for a party,” Audra

  said, donning a crisp, arch, cosmopolitan voice that

  sounded suspiciously like Bette Davis in her ears.

  “And that top”—she jerked her head toward the

  display behind them—“looks perfect. Very trendy.

  Very hip.”

  “Yes . . . yes it is . . .” the girl murmured, eyeing

  Audra from head to toe. “Uh . . .” She licked her lips a

  couple of times, then stuttered, “We—we might be

  able to help you, b—but . . .” she looked around ner-

  vously and lowered her voice, even though they were

  the only two people in the store. “Well, if you don’t