Read The Good Life for Free Online Page A

look stumpy. She had worn that jumper, or one just like it, for years.
    â€œMeet the new Pat Weiler: Style Queen!” cried the host. Music surged, and from the far side of the stage Pat burst out, nearly running. Later people would ask Frederick whether he had recognized her, and he would be insulted. A haircut and a new dress couldn’t conceal the woman with whom he had built his life. Still, she tore at his heart. Her hair trailed in feathers over her ears and down her neck, and her face’s sweet softness was lost. She was wearing a sea-green evening gown whose sequins caught the light, and beneath it he glimpsed green sandals with heels so high that her ankles wobbled while the audience wolf-whistled. Frederick’s eyes flooded again and he stared at the floor to compose himself. When he looked up, he was the only person in the room still seated.
    â€œWhat do you think?” the host cried over the commotion. “Are these our biggest makeovers ever?”
    Pat had almost made her way to Frederick, her step light. As members of the audience shouted their approval, she twirled. The skirt flared up her calves, and he was jolted by her legs’ unnatural color—shaved, he realized. When she reached him, he finally stood and took her hand. Her smile was more than a smile; for the first time he understood what it meant for a person to look radiant. He could hardly keep his eyes on her. “You look like a princess,” he said. His voice was high and strained.
    â€œStyle Queen,” she said. “But you!”
    Before he could ask her what about him, the host was at their elbows, making both of them turn around again for the cacophonous audience. “Who knew?” he said. “Who could have foreseen these beautiful people?”
    He turned to Pat. “What are you going to do with that jumper when you get home?”
    â€œBurn it,” she said.
    â€œAnd your new hair and face? Do you think you can keep this up on your own?”
    â€œOr die trying.” She gestured at the huge “before” picture on the screen. “I think it’s time to retire her.”
    â€œYou’re talking about the woman I love,” Frederick said, and the host cuffed him on the shoulder. “What about this guy?” the host said to Pat. “Did you ever think you’d see him looking so fine?”
    â€œNever,” she said, setting off another roar from the audience. Frederick tried to exchange a glance with her—a promise, an affirmation—but her bright eyes slid away, she twirled again, and he was left trying to straighten his idiotic French cuffs.
    â€œWe have a present for you,” the host was saying to Pat, who said that she needed nothing more. “You already know that we’re sending you and Frederick out on the town tonight, to show off your new looks. But we want to send you home with a memento.” Frederick’s black-clad handler strode from the wings with a plastic bag for Pat, who pulled out something lank and grayish that looked like a dead cat.
    The audience howled, and the host cried, “We were going to give you his beard, too, but we didn’t think it would fit in your suitcase,” setting off another roar from the crowd. Pat, too, was shaking with laughter, dabbing at her green-lidded eyes and wagging the ponytail in the air. “Look,” she said to Frederick. “There’s twenty years.”
    Twenty-two. With a little cry, he bent over against his constricting vest, pressed his manicured hands to his smooth face, and burst into tears.
    Â 
    That night at the restaurant, where the network limousine had taken them from their hotel, Frederick’s emotions had dried up. Bathed in creamy light, he listened to the muted string quartet and the murmur of the French sommelier moving from table to table—wealthy sounds, paid for by the show. He hoped that the show would also pick up the tab for Pat’s