Free Away for the Weekend by Dyan Sheldon Page A

in her sleep – but they aren’t here. And then something bright pink and shiny catches her eye. It actually takes a few seconds before Beth realizes that the sizzling pink something is on the end of her hands. Impossibly long, perfectly shaped and polished nails. But that isn’t possible; it’s even less possible than silk pyjamas. And then she notices her hands themselves: long, slender, the colour of café au lait. She’s wearing rings. Beth’s hands are short, pudgy and pale – and she doesn’t wear rings; even gold or silver gives her a rash. She doesn’t look any further. Doesn’t peer down the front of her pyjamas or examine her feet; she’s seen enough. Indeed, Beth is so shocked by what she has seen that for once she acts without thinking – and falls out of bed. She looks over to see if the sound of her hitting the floor woke up Delila. But Delila isn’t there. In the bed where Delila should be, a girl who could be described as the anti-Delila (thin, blonde and wearing boxer shorts and a camisole, a sleep mask and earplugs) lies curled up on her side, smiling.
    Which makes one of them.
    Beth’s eyes move from the sleeping stranger to the room itself. From what she can see of the furniture (which isn’t a lot) it’s the same as in the room where she fell asleep; the door, closet and bathroom are all in the same place, too. But the room in which she fell asleep was orderly and neat – and was obviously a temporary lodging. This one looks as if it’s the permanent residence of at least half a dozen girls who are always in a hurry. There are things everywhere – more clothes than Beth owns, magazines, bags, shoes, tights, jewellery, scarves, hats and a veritable storeful of small appliances.
    Up until this moment, Beth believed that there were no calamities that could befall a person for which she wasn’t prepared: disease; accident; random but unkind acts of God and nature; that piano falling from a clear blue sky. But now here is a calamity she never thought of. She stares at the room, her mouth open and a peculiar feeling taking hold of her. Her nerves are numb. How could something like this happen? She has a very clear memory of coming back from dinner with Delila last night. She wasn’t feeling well when they got to the room, but she put that down to overexcitement and guilt about ignoring her mother. She was so tired suddenly that she felt as if she had cement in her arteries and veins instead of blood. She said goodnight to her mother, put on her night clothes and got into bed. Delila put on a movie for them to chill out to. Beth was asleep while the titles were still rolling.
    Beth goes over the evening again. They went down to dinner; they ate dinner; they came back upstairs; she ended her call to her mother; she got into bed; Delila put a movie on; Beth fell asleep. She must be leaving something out. But what? What is the missing part – the part that explains why she is now standing in a strange room redolent with artificial chemical aromas and not just in some other girl’s pyjamas, but, apparently, in someone else’s body?
    Maybe she’s still asleep. She pinches herself hard, but it changes nothing except to bruise her skin.
    And then she sees the three-sided, portable mirror on the desk.
    Very, very slowly, stepping carefully over the minefield of things strewn over the floor, Beth tiptoes across the room. Even in the grudging light she knows that although the face looking back at her is familiar, it isn’t as familiar as it should be. It’s the face of that girl in her English class. Gabriela Look-at-me Menz. It’s as if she’s in that Kafka story Metamorphosis . Only instead of being transformed from an unhappy clerk into a grotesque insect, she’s been transformed from an anxious overachiever into a prom queen.
    This is when Beth starts to cry.
    Remedios wakes up smiling. She knows exactly where she is – she is on the sofa of the El Dorado Suite of The Hotel Xanadu.