Fairytales Read Online Free Page B

first time any of the old biddies had done anything like that. With those thoughts, Mrs. Van Muir left, happy that her cognac had not lain too lightly on Mrs. Rossi’s delicate stomach. The moment she made her departure, Catherine left her bed, barely able to get out, and poured some tomato juice into a glass, unscrewed the top of the aspirin bottle, then popped two into her mouth and washed them down with the juice. Weakly, she sat in the large chair and drank some hot coffee, as her hand trembled slightly, then just sat breathing and sighing deeply. So far, this little escapade hadn’t been nearly as exciting as the ones Mata Hari had had. But it was only her second day … things would look up, but no more cognac … well, maybe, but not in that quantity.
    When she gathered enough strength, Catherine went to the bathroom, turned on the water taps, added a packet of blue fragrant crystals, and watched as they turned into thousands of tiny iridescent bubbles. How beautiful they were, how delicious. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life could only be like that. One great big beautiful bubble … oh, to hell with it. As she brushed her teeth and looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked … My God, she thought, I look like a witch this morning with all the eyeliner and mascara running under my eyes and how ludicrous, with one eyelash off. It must be in bed. Putting her hands up to her cheeks, she stretched up gently. What a difference when she let go. My God, the crevices were really deep. There was no more jaw line, it had all gone slack, just jowls that really sagged and bags that were really bulging and dark under the lower lids … and the uppers were all crisscrossed lines that fell into folds as did her throat. She winced painfully, observing herself with yesterday’s stale makeup. The lipstick was all smeared. That was something she hadn’t done in a long time … forgotten to remove her makeup; she looked like a clown. Catherine started to cry uncontrollably. Oh my, how much she had aged in the last few years and nothing could prevent that from happening, not man, not money and God certainly wasn’t going to intervene with mother nature (the bitch) to knock it off on behalf of poor little Catherine Rossi. Nothing could prevent the process of erosion, not even plastic surgery. That was only temporary. Good Lord, what was going to happen to her in a few years from now. She cringed when she looked at her hands. Suddenly, she became infuriated at the thought that this was Dominic’s fault, all his fault. She was young and beautiful until he had gotten into those goddamned politics and her anger became heightened when she thought that he looked so young for his age. He had a skin like a baby’s behind, not a wrinkle in sight. God damn it … he should’ve looked ten years older according to the pace and race he was in. But no, not him, why he didn’t even had a gray hair, son of a bitch, and here she’d been bleaching hers for fifteen years because graying prematurely was a family trait. She needed something to soothe her nerves. Going back to the bedroom, she poured a stiff belt of cognac into the tomato juice, sat down sobbing and sipped as the tears ran down her cheeks into her mouth, unaware she was swallowing them along with the drink. When the acute emotion had subsided, she picked herself up unsteadily and went back to the bathroom where the water had almost reached the rim of the tub and was ready to overflow.
    Catherine had one remarkable quality and that was to make emotional transitions rapidly. One moment she could be in utter despair and the next totally elated. In an effort to restore the self-esteem that had been so devastating to her a few moments ago, she threw back her shoulders, walked across the enormous bathroom and sat down at the mirrored dressing table. She deliberately looked at herself, almost as though defying the fates, and aloud she said to her image in the looking glass, “You