Picture Perfect

It's just one button away, I thought to myself. I'd been dreading this visit for two years now. Ralph, the elevator handler, pressed the button as he rolled the cart filled with my luggage away from me. Ralph was a quiet one; clearing his throat once or twice to fill up the silence between us as the elevator went all the way up to the last floor. My stomach churned. My heart beat rapidly. Elevator pressure couldn't do that, could it? The ding of the elevator rang in my ears like an alarm clock on a Monday morning. I took a deep breath as I stepped out of the elevator and looked around the empty penthouse. "Hello?" I shouted out. I had no idea how I found my voice. "Kiki?" It was Alma, the housekeeper and the only person I could tolerate in this place. She popped out of the dining room with a duster in her hand. "Hey Alma," I said as I bent over to her and gave her a hug. Her blond hair was in a bun as usual and her face carried the same creases that made her appear friendly. She never changed. "Your papa is upstairs. You taller," she told me, looking me up and down, and I laughed. "No, I stopped growing when I was eighteen Alma, like five years ago. I saw you just two years ago," I said. "No, you still grow taller," she said, still insistent. "Well, maybe you got shorter?" I said, teasing her. "Heh," she said, unamused as she left to my room to help with the luggage. "Miss Hillstrom, I left your luggage in your room as Alma directed," Ralph said. "That's perfect, thank you," I said. I knew I had to tip him or something but I had no money on me. This was embarrassing; I hoped my father tipped him enough often. I looked around the penthouse; same old same old. It looked like something out of Architectural Digest, however, it just didn't feel like home at all no matter how many summers I'd spent here with my father. The marble flooring was polished as usual, as it led to the sunken living room, which overlooked Central Park and a grand view of the Manhattan skyline. The skyline was now a display of skyscrapers poking through the bruise-colored sky; a million dollar view to say the least. White and gold columns framed the entryway to the living room as Monet paintings framed the walls of the penthouse. Weird, two years ago the artwork was Modigliani; I guessed my "home" was also some museum my father showed off to whatever woman visited him next. A couple of awards for "Best Movie"/"Best Director" were spread around the penthouse like vases. Funny thing was I've yet to see any of the movies my father had directed. The dining room was right next to the kitchen, and was also connected to the lobby, with a long clear table for a family of probably eight people when in reality there was no family at all. The small kitchen, made of fine stainless steel tables and kitchenware, was only used for when my father hired a private chef from some French culinary school to cook dinner for my father's new model girlfriend. Or whenever Alma felt like cooking (which was a very rare event). The library was on the other side of the living room on the ground floor with the main bedrooms on the floor above it, overlooking the other side of the city. The only thing that changed was probably the addition of some books (I was surprised my father had time to read), and the changing of the artwork. That was it. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Mama: How's New York? And your father? Are you liking it? Call me when you can! This was all a huge mistake. He was still upstairs; he still hadn't seen me in two whole summers, so why was he still in his room? Why wasn't he running to see me? Maybe he hadn't heard me. No, that was nonsense; Alma had knocked on his door to inform him that I'd arrived, and Alma was loud, I mean loud. I went to the kitchen and called my mother, making sure I sounded as calm as possible. I looked at my reflection against the stainless steel tabletop. My wavy hair fell against my olive skin. There were dark circles underneath my blue eyes, leeching them from their potential 'pop' of color. My lips, were dry and chapped, God I needed a shower and a long, long bath. "Chiara?" my mother replied upon second ring. "Hey Mama," I said, trying to sound as cheerful as I possible. "So how are you? How's New York? Is everything okay?" she asked me in her native Italian tongue. She sounded nervous. "Yeah, everything's fine!" I lied, replying in Italian. "Are you sure? You sound exhausted," she said. Great, so much for my effort at sounding cheerful. "Yeah I'm sure. I'm just a bit exhausted from the flight," I said. I peeked through the kitchen to the living room. He still wasn't out of his room. "Umm Papa says hi, he's taking me out for dinner right after I'm done freshening up," I lied again. "Oh that's so sweet of him, say hello back," she said. Oh poor Mama, he would never want to be with you again. I would never want you to be with him again. He's not who you think he is. "I will," I said as I bit my lip. "Well I guess I'll stop interrupting your time together. You two have fun, okay?" she said before saying her final goodbye as she hung up. Since my father probably wouldn't be coming out of his room anytime soon I went up to my room to freshen up. The duvet on the bed, the window seat, the clothes in the closet, and the lotions in the bathroom were exactly as I'd left them two years ago. Alma probably replaced the lotions with new ones, though. I looked at my reflection in the mirror; I still looked like I needed to sleep. I outlined my eyes with eyeliner to bring out some pop of color to my blue eyes and recolored my lips with a dark shade of red. Was my father nervous about seeing me, too? I mean, I wasn't sure how he was going to see me after his last words to me were "pathetic little drama w***e" when I'd told him I was dropping one semester of college. He never even bothered to ask why. Pathetic little drama w***e had to make up for that lost semester through summer courses, which meant no daddy-daughter visitations for two whole summers. Oops. I went to the living room where I was still alone and admired the skyline I had missed most. Sure LA was fun, it was my hometown, but sometimes I found myself longing for the city every now and then: the quaint little cafes, the eccentric people on subways, the hustle of people getting ready for work; it was an interesting little world of its own. The sound of a door opening sent waves racing down my spine, interrupting my moment of serenity with the city. My father stepped out in a black suit, white shirt and tie. His gray hair was cut short and pulled away from his face. We shared the same eyes, the deep Scandinavian blues I inherited from him that really tipped me as his kid. His nose was long and small, while mine was small but not so long, just like my mother's. He looked like he popped out of some old Marlboro commercial or maybe a Rolex one. He wasn't that old; somewhere in his mid-forties, but he did look like he was in some commercial especially with that woman on his arm, whom much to my my surprise, was still the same woman that he'd dated two years ago. What was her name again? Oh, Rachel. She didn't look a day older than thirty. She didn't look a day older than thirty two years ago either. She wore a long-sleeved black Herve Leger bandage dress that hugged her impressive figure, and a pair of black Kate Louboutins as she held my father for support. Her auburn hair, a color I would kill to pull off, was pulled to the side in luscious waves that cascaded down her shoulder. I had to admit she looked incredible. "Ah, Chiara," my father said, as if announcing to the whole penthouse that I had arrived. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips. I could feel my heart thumping loudly against my chest. "Hello Papa, how are you?" I said, as I got up from the couch. I kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him in a quick hug, feeling a wave of relief once the hug was over. "And Rachel, you look so pretty. How are you doing?" I turned to the woman who seemed to forget I was still alive. "I'm fine, I'm fine, although I've got to say, Chiara, have you considered modeling? You have quite the looks for it." Rachel said as she scrutinized me once more. I never knew I changed that much in two years. "Thank you," I replied. "But I just graduated from college, three days ago actually." I shot my father a look. You didn't show up to my graduation ceremony. Oh, and don't you dare play that "I didn't want the attention to be on me" card. "Finally, huh?" he scoffed. And here we go. He couldn't talk about That Damned Semester in front of Rachel. "What was your major again? Sociology?" he asked me in a tone that sounded like he was mocking me. "Microbiology," I replied, balling my fist in annoyance. He knew what my major was, alright. "Brandy, my love? James sent it just from France, only the best," he said to Rachel as she took a seat on the couch. His Swedish accent was barely noticeable after all these years he spent here. "Sure, but we have to be quick; the dinner party starts soon," Rachel said as she took out her phone. I poured a glass for myself and my father c****d his brow. "I'm twenty-three now," I reminded him. "Well I'm certainly getting old. Has it been that long since I'd met your mother? It doesn't seem that long. How's her salon doing by the way?" he asked me as he took a sip of his brandy, watching my reaction carefully. Don't go there. He wasn't going to talk about my mother in front of Rachel either. "It's pretty good," I replied between gritted teeth. It wasn't. We were so close to being bankrupt, but at least it would be by the time I found a job. I couldn't ask him for money; no way in hell. "I hope it is. I heard Sasha Gilmore replaced her with some new younger hairstylist from London," Papa said with a smile. I knew what that smile meant; he wanted me to beg him to refer my mother to someone else. He was the reason my mother, who'd immigrated from Italy a year before I was born, made it big in the entertainment industry as a hairstylist. Not because she was with him, hell they were only "together" for a damn week and it wasn't even public, but because my mother was good at her job and his word actually meant something. I wasn't taking the bait. "Speaking of London," Rachel interrupted. As if she knew I desperately needed someone to change the subject. "Are you coming with us for the screening of your father's movie over there next week?" she asked me. I looked at her, then at my father, who seemed to be glaring at Rachel while I was glaring at my father. "Uhh-" Rachel said, she knew she made a mistake as she locked eyes with my father. She added a chuckle that I knew meant she regretted her question. "No, Rachel. She won't be coming. It's just for three days, Chiara," he explained. "You could've told me about it," I said. "I'm curious, Papa, as to why you've never brought me along with you to any of your premiers or events," I said, weaving my brows together and crossing my legs as I sat on the arm of the designer couch. I took a sip of the brandy in my hand; it was just what I needed. "I'll wait downstairs in the lobby," Rachel excused herself, her face was bright red now. She also struggled to get up from the couch; it was the cherry on top. "So what?" I said, just as Rachel got into the elevator. "I'm not special enough to fit in with your crowd, is that it? A degree in microbiology, with honors if I might add, isn't good enough for you?" I hadn't realized I was that pissed at him until now. He licked his lips and swished his brandy around. "Oh, it's great, really, it's wonderful. I'm very proud of you," he said, coolly. His tone didn't sound so sure of that. "It's just that I have a certain image to protect; which is why I take rather harsh decisions to maintain that image, including not bringing you to any of the premiers or events I go to as you're very unpredictable. Let's not remember why you took that semester off," he said, taking another sip of brandy. A lump formed in my throat. He knew about it? "You know what happened?" I asked him. "Of course I do," he said. I was sure it wasn't out of fatherly concerns but rather an attempt to "protect his image". I was not one to jump into conclusions but this was so obvious that I didn't need to do so much as lift a foot to figure it out. "Who else knows?" I asked him. "No one. I took great lengths to make sure what had happened was all confidential," he said. "Does Rachel know?" "No, as I told you, I have a certain image to protect," he replied. Even with Rachel? Wow. His phone went off. I saw Rachel's name on his screen. "I really have to go, I'm sorry. Rachel's waiting," he said, as he stood up. "You're ashamed of me, aren't you?" I said, warm tears slid down my cheek. "No, I'm not ashamed," he replied softly, stuffing his hands in his pockets I pressed my tongue against my cheek. "Disappointed?" He didn't say anything. I shook my head in disbelief as I wiped my tears with the back of my hand; my eyeliner was definitely ruined. "You should go. It was a great talk," I said. "I didn't mean to make you sad, but you wanted the truth, didn't you?" he asked me. I picked up the bottle of brandy from the table as I turned to leave the living room. I took a swig from the bottle. "Well, Papa, I've changed," I said, as I walked up the steps of the living room. "Enjoy your dinner.