2

When it was finally over, Jess simply couldn’t believe her eyes. The door opened, and she stepped into a familiar old art deco-styled hotel, with dark, hand-carved mahogany, gold-lined banisters, and a geometrical sunburst ceiling that offset the streamlined, modernist shapes. It was crowded, and everyone looked like movie stars and royalty, laughing at the absurdity of life and it all, jewelry as expensive as cars and houses, but there were no employees or luggage in sight and there was a line of press lighting the place up with a million flashes per second and suddenly Jess couldn’t exactly remember how she got to the hotel in the first place. She spotted a row of elevators which gave her an uneasy feeling—her head was still foggy, but she was clean and well dressed and no longer emaciated. Maybe something a little weird happened, but—
  “Jess? Is that you?” A young woman similarly dressed in early twentieth century attire grabbed her arm. Her dark hair was cropped, and she wore smoky merlot lipstick highlighting her bittersweet essence. “Imogen Coldwell?” she sounded slightly incredulous. “We met at Professor Schlomes’ seminar on Shakespearian drama—of course you remember me. I must say, darling, your monologue engulfed me, it was truly a work of wonder.” Her voice was low, sultry velvet, and with practiced disinterest, daintily annunciated her words with the tips of her fingers, demanding the attention of her company.
  “Did you manage to book a room for the weekend?” before Jess could answer, “I managed to get one of the last rooms, can you believe my luck? Grand Prix weekend, too,” she smiled. “But I suppose luck has nothing to do with it when Uncle Foster’s in town.” The upbeat swing music was louder now, like the band was on just the other side of the forward-facing hall. “He is doing well you know, although finance has never been my forte—I always despised that sort of thing . . . Remind me of your major again, my love.”
  Jess was caught off guard, and found she couldn’t exactly remember much of anything, much less her major, then she shrugged, “I am still exploring, undeclared at this moment.”
  “That’s very well, my darling, the world is meant to be explored, have you done Rome?” They linked arms, and Imogen led her towards the reception hall.
  “Rome? No.”
  “The Santa Maria della Vittoria this time of year will rekindle your spirit, last spring when I passed through on my little global pilgrimage, my soul was ignited, you do not understand, it was singing.”
  “Maybe I will,” Jess said, and tried to rack her brain while keeping up, wondering who this strange, eccentric woman, was.
  “You must. Rome is changing, you know. Last time I went it was nothing but public transportation strikes. It was nearly unrecognizable with all the rioters and dissenters and what have you. We barely had any time to see our Migueal over at La Campana, which was a tragedy in itself: The prix fixe was missing several courses, there was not one amuse-bouche—so obviously my palette was aching—and no dessert as half the staff were running late with all the rioters and traffic. It is a shame really, people should be grateful for what they have—don’t you agree? Tell me you will go, before its too late.”
  Jess nodded then asked, “Are you still in school?”
  “Of course, my love, Art History at Kingston.”
  “Kingston? How did you manage that?”
  “Let’s just say my Auntie sits as treasury on the board: I thought you knew this. You must visit, she does have a lot of pull around there, you know.”
  “Maybe I will . . . What will you do when you graduate?”
  Imogen pulled a rolled cigarette out of her purse. A hint of distress crossed her face, and Jess hated herself for asking.
  “My brother is a curator, did you not hear? He is seeking someone to manage sales and operations at the new gallery in Prague. I don’t think I’m suited for a typical nine-to-five, you see, as a child I knew it would kill me, so really I had no choice.”
  “Good move.”
  “I suppose it was, but sometimes I just don’t know. Mother threatened to write me out of Father’s will when she found out I wasn’t pursuing law—as a child she had implored me to study hard and take an internship at Father’s firm, but if we’re being honest, I am much too fabulous to be caged up in an office, even Father agrees.”
  Jess studied Imogen with narrowed eyes. “I could see it.”
  Imogen gave a shrug. “You should see my older sister, now she is something to behold. A perfect 11 or 12. Mother insisted she had all the best ballet instructors, while it was judo and math camp for me. It wasn’t until after I injured my shoulder in a tournament was Father able to convince Mother to let me begin ballet, but I was already seven and years behind. I have alas come to terms with the fact that I will simply never be as elegant as princess Belladonna—my boobs are too big, my hair’s too kinky, my eye is still a little lazy despite the surgery, and I’m nearsighted and anemic.”
  Jess laughed. “But you look great in glasses, I’m sure, and besides, you should never dissect a rainbow.”
  “Yeah, but it’s not so easy with a Mother such as mine.”
  “The most loving parents will commit murder with a smile on their face.”
  “C'est la vie.”
  “So what did you do?”
  “I painted, read books, teased the neighborhood boys, I never really had the urge to partake in the rat race, why should I? Plus I had no talent for maths or applied sciences, and I made friends too easily to have any time to fully devote myself to an art.”
  “You were a stubborn one, weren’t you?”
  “Possibly so,” Imogen said. “After I graduated high school I had a hard time finding work, Mother insisted that I attend University right away, but I was doing nothing of the sort, instead: I cut off all my hair but an inch and trimmed my nails down to the cuticles, then for several years ran the circuits: boxing, folk wrestling, fencing, and whatever else I could find.”
  “Wait, what? I wouldn’t take you for a fighter.”
  “Neither did my opponents, mostly men, and besides, the money was too good to pass up, and if I’m being completely honest, I still find myself drawn to the memories.”
  “So what’s stopping you from returning?”
  “Oh please, with these hands?" she revealed a gloved hand. "And besides, you would not believe the medical costs, the pain I could live with, it was nothing compared to growing up with Mother, but even as Father detested her decision, I was cut-off financially; all of my accounts were closed. Ever since I was a child I was performing at a competitive level, I’ll give that to my Mother, I inherited her drive, and at the time, I had a fantastic time, but I was tough, not invincible, and the medical bills racked up. Once I was in the red more often than not I had to return to civilization,” she looked pitifully forlorn, and paradoxically, vulnerable, but only for a brief moment. “Now I have this urge to compete and no outlet, well almost no outlets . . .”

Chapter 3

Submitted November 26, 2019 at 05:32AM by noodles666666 https://ift.tt/2DhuPdz