Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

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 glasses,

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