Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

supposed to be your therapy.”
    “Don’t even bring it up.”
    “Why? What happened?”
    “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
    “That’s right. Repress it. Keep all that prom queen neurosis locked up inside, so …”
    “I was never a prom queen, Mona.”
    “It doesn’t matter. You were the type.”
    “How do you know? How the hell do you know what type …?”
    “Ladies, ladies …” It was Michael, standing in the doorway. His furry Pan legs were matted and wine-stained. “Mouse … you’re back.”
    “You think it’s easy getting picked up dressed like this?” Suppressing a smile, Mona moved next to him and touched the mock chinchilla. “Yuck!”
    “O.K., O.K. So Nair doesn’t work for everybody.”

At the Fat Farm
    S AGEBRUSH AND AVOCADO TREES SHIMMERED IN THE afternoon heat as the huge gold limousine sped north through the hills of Escondido.
    DeDe settled back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was bound for The Golden Door!
    The Golden Door! America’s most sumptuous and blue-blooded fat farm! A jeweled oasis of sauna baths and facials, pedicures and manicures, dancing lessons, herbal wraps and gourmet cuisine!
    And not a moment too soon.
    DeDe was sick of the city, sick of Beauchamp and his deception, sick of the guilt she had suffered over Lionel. Furthermore, she had had it with the puffy-cheeked wretch who stared at her morosely from mirrors and shopwindows.
    She wanted the old DeDe back, the DeDe of Aspen and Tahoe, the golden-maned temptress who had teased the Phi Delts, tantalized The Bachelors and devastated Splinter Riley not that many years ago.
    She had done it before.
    She could do it again.
    The driver peered over his shoulder at her. “Your first time, madam?”
    DeDe laughed nervously. “I look that far gone, do I?”
    “Oh, no, madam. It’s just that your face is a new one.”
    “I guess you see some pretty famous faces.”
    He nodded, apparently pleased she had brought up the subject. “Just last week, Miss Esther Williams.”
    “Really?”
    “The Gabors were here last month. Three of them, in fact. I’ve also driven Rhonda Fleming, Jeanne Crain, Dyan Cannon, Barbara Howar …” He paused, though presumably only for effect; DeDe was sure he had memorized the list. “Also, Mrs. Mellon and Mrs. Gimbel, Roberta Flack, Liz Carpenter … I could go on and on, Mrs. Day.”
    The sound of her own name jolted her, but she tried not to show it.
    The Gabors would never have shown it.
    A stately row of Monterey pines lined the highway on either side of the security gates. The driver mumbled something into an intercom and the gates swung open.
    The driveway beyond was a sinuous downhill sweep, flanked on one side by the spa’s private orange grove and on the other by thickets of pine and oak.
    Then The Door appeared, gleaming in the sunshine like the gates of Xanadu.
    DeDe felt like Sally Kellerman on the brink of Shangri-la!
    Her Calvin Klein T-shirt was already two shades darker under the arms.
    The driver parked at a gatehouse next to The Door, collected her luggage, and led the way through the mythical gates. On the other side, DeDe crossed a pussy-willowed stream by means of a delicate Japanese bridge, then passed through shoji screens and finally a massive wooden door.
    The reception area was an elegantly sparse chamber of bamboo furniture and Japanese silk paintings. After a short but pleasant interchange with a fortyish directress, DeDe Halcyon Day signed her name to one of the world’s most rarefied registers.
    Her $2,500 transformation had begun!
    Her room, as arranged, opened onto the Camellia Court. (“Don’t let them stick you in the Bell Court or the Azalea Court,” Binky had warned. “They’re O.K., but very Piedmont, if you know what I mean.”) DeDe wandered amid her private Oriental splendor, checking out her tokonoma (a niche housing a bronze Buddha) and her “moon-watching deck” overlooking the garden. On her night table lay a copy of Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving, which she perused idly, totally transported from the agonies of San Francisco.
    Then the phone rang.
    Would she kindly report to the weigh-in room at her convenience?
    The weigh-in room!
    She grabbed a handful of fanny flab, said a small prayer, and braced herself for the cold, steel reality of the Toledo.

Michael’s Shocker
    L UNCH FOR MONA AND MICHAEL CONSISTED OF TWO cheesedogs and an order of fries at The Noble Frankfurter on Polk Street.
    “I should have changed my nail