Five Germaine
Five
Germaine
2007
Germaine stands before her closet in the Park Avenue apartment, which is roughly the size of a standard bedroom. Built-in oak shelves line its walls, holding clothes folded carefully on hangers and in drawers that light automatically when opened. There is a separate walk-in closet within the closet for shoes, her favorites of which are displayed on fabric plinths and others are kept in their tissue paper and original boxes. Some have never been opened.
There are three gilded floor-length mirrors, each of which are equipped with several light settings—natural daylight, standard indoor light, intimate low light—so Germaine can evaluate how her outfits perform in each. Because when you are a woman with as much money as Germaine, every outfit is, indeed, a performance of the highest caliber.
That may be well and good. But talking to Miranda drove home a point that Germaine has felt at many different times in her life: she is so goddamn lonely. She can have all of this—the entire world if she wants it, really—but it’s worth nothing if she just sits around cooped up in it all day.
All Germaine’s work feels fake. She kept thinking about how much fun she had with the two of them in Kidz Klub —and how she hasn’t had any fun since. No sense of fulfillment or purpose, just getting moved around by her parents like a piece on a chessboard.
Germaine goes to the athleisure section and rifles through the Lycra sweatshirts, the quarter zips, the long-sleeved shirts with the holes cut out for her thumbs. She chooses a light-blue three-quarter-length sleeve that comes down to her forearms and feels buttery soft but as breathable as though she’s wearing nothing at all. Germaine puts on skintight black leggings and Air Jordans, tucking Italian-leather jazz shoes into her Chanel bag before heading down to meet her driver.
She would walk the blocks to Studio Rochelle if she could, to warm up. But her parents would have even more of a fit about that than they’re already having about her decision to take dance classes again.
When Kidz Klub wrapped, Germaine had an offer to join Unlimited, the premier studio in Los Angeles, home to the most talented dancers who performed in hip-hop routines and for top artists all around the world. She’d already signed the contract when her parents found out and voided it, threatening to cut off her finances. Not wanting to get involved with the St. Germaine-Changs’ powerful legal team, the studio had backed off. Germaine had still been a minor, after all. Only just.
Germaine managed to stay in LA for the three years after that before her parents’ patience ran out and they dragged her back to New York. She never got offers from any other studios out west, and she wondered if Terence had gotten her blacklisted.
But they hadn’t thought about New York studios.
Céline, at least, doesn’t seem to mind.
“It would do your figure good to finally get some exercise,” she quipped when Germaine announced her plan at the family dinner. “As long as you don’t develop big muscles in your legs. You’ll look like a weight lifter. No one will want to marry a weight lifter.”
“I don’t care about looking like a weight lifter,” Germaine said. “And I don’t care about getting married.”
Her mother had sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her slender fingers as though Germaine was the most obstinate girl she’d ever met.
“Do you really think that’s a valuable use of your time?” Terence had asked, seeming baffled. “Wriggling around in skimpy clothes—for what? Surely you’re not thinking of performing.”
It was Germaine’s turn to sigh. Everything had to be a means to some end for her father. “It’s just for fun, Dad. I need something. Don’t you ever do anything just for fun?”
He frowned, did a little confused twitch of his head. “Are there even any reputable studios in this city?”
“I was thinking the YMCA,” she said, just to see him choke on his foie gras.
In the end, Germaine had managed to make her parents feel like they’d won something by agreeing to go to Studio Rochelle, a place with a reputation for working with Broadway stars, visiting Bolshevik ballerinas, and backup dancers for the likes of Beyoncé and Christina Aguilera. And Sicily, but Germaine conveniently left that part out.
She takes a deep breath and tightens her ponytail as the car pulls up to the curb. She has her water bottle; she has an extra scrunchie. It’s an advanced class, and she hasn’t really danced in years, but she’ll pick it back up, right?
After a short drive, Germaine hops out of the Audi and ascends to the studio in the elevator. A handful of dancers are already there, stretching and warming up—the class has already been running for three weeks, and she joined late.
A man with curly black hair in a black tank top and matching sweatpants greets her. “Germaine! Welcome,” he says. “I’m Sam; I believe I spoke to your people on the phone.”
“Yes,” Germaine says. “Hi.” She’s more nervous than she thought she’d be.
“So I know you have some experience. Feel free to stretch however you’d like; we’ll do a full class warm-up once everyone’s here, and then we’ll get into the routine. We have some folks here working on Rent , so we’ve decided to incorporate some of that for fun.”
Germaine nods. “Great. Yeah.”
“You’re welcome to just jump in and pick up whatever you can. We’ll work together after class to get you caught up, if that sounds good.”
“Sure.” Germaine nods again. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Germaine’s parents make a point of never saying Thank you , but she really appreciates how Sam is treating her like she’s a regular person. Most people are intimidated by Germaine and keep so much distance that she can never have a normal conversation with any of them.
Germaine sets her purse on a shelf at one end of the room and hangs her jacket on a hook. When she turns, she catches a few of the other dancers looking quickly away.
Germaine sucks her teeth, trying to ignore them. She begins the stretching routine she used to do so long ago. It’s as bad as she feared—her body is stiff and unyielding to the contortions she used to fall into easily as a teenager. She used to love being able to show off how she could drop into the splits without even warming up.
More than anything, though, she loved just hanging out and goofing off with Miranda and Sicily on set. The dancing and music are the only other thing she misses from Kidz Klub , and she’s hoping that this class will unlock some muscle memory of what all that feels like, being young and happy.
She sits and brings the bottoms of her feet together, dropping her head as low to the ground as she can get. Germaine is still young.
But happy? No. More like numb.
When the room is more full and Germaine finally straightens up, she sees that there’s an eight-foot circle around her. The others are giving her a wide berth, being careful to avoid looking at her.
Germaine purses her lips. People fall into two camps: the ones who fear her and the ones who have contempt for her. Actually, she’s pretty sure that Venn diagram is a circle. The family staff acts the same way toward her as these dancers do, ever since she got the housekeeper fired for tripping over Milano.
Whatever. Germaine’s parents have created a monster—an unhappy, raging, bored monster.
Miranda may be a mess, but at least she’s back making movies. Soon she’ll be acting in even better films with better costars, and later on she’ll probably write some pedantic Don’t drink, kids book that she’ll be interviewed by Oprah about.
And Sicily will keep on recording and singing, appearing on every TV set and radio around the world, performing sold-out shows and writhing and strutting onstage to disguise her—let’s face it—pretty average dancing.
Two-thirds of the 3AM Girls are going to be huge stars. And what’s Germaine? Some eye candy that shows up at galas, charity dinners, and launches for new magazines and fashion lines, there to be photographed and sign big checks. Serving no greater purpose than some confetti or a decorative tablecloth.
That’s her mother’s life, and Germaine doesn’t want it.
So what does she want?
The studio assistant turns on the soundtrack, and Germaine feels the music vibrate into her bones. Studio Rochelle uses a built-in surround-sound system, better than the tinny CD players Germaine is sure are typical for lesser dance classes. The bass is electric and warm and makes Germaine want to move.
Sam and the dancers take positions and begin their routine. It is advanced, and it involves more than a little athleticism and strenuous training.
But after watching a few times and moving through the motions, she starts to pick it up. It feels good to move her body again, to hit the right positions on the same beat as the music and see the artistic, almost sculptural angles her body creates in the mirror.
With it floods back a long-lost self-assurance. Dancing had been her thing. Miranda could light up the stage with her acting, Sicily could turn heads with her singing. Neither of those had been Germaine’s strong suits. She didn’t like the feeling of overperforming, and her voice was on the weaker side. But even so, the urge to dance to the music was like a natural reflex. She could still be her serious self that way, smiling when the occasion called for it but devoting more attention to what the music was doing than engaging with costars or the audience. She found the choreography more easily than anyone, so much so that the Blast Off! studio coach always put her at the front so she could lead the others.
Germaine has spent too many years listening to her parents tell her this doesn’t matter; it doesn’t constitute any sort of valuable skill. But Germaine forgot how much it had mattered to her .
She watches herself in the mirror, a few steps behind the others but by no means an amateur. Beneath the rush of endorphins and relief that she hasn’t lost the muscle memory, there’s a little curdle of resentment that starts in Germaine’s stomach. What if she had been allowed to stay in Los Angeles, building a post-show career like Miranda and Sicily had?
Germaine would never begrudge Miranda and Sicily their success. Much. But she could have had it, too.
She could have, if her parents had given her the chance. People danced for a living—did plenty of things with music that didn’t involve singing—and with the connections that Kidz Klub had allowed the girls to build, Germaine is sure in this moment that she would have found a path to a career she loved.
Is it too late? Could she buy her way back? But she’s done no relevant industry work since Kidz Klub ; now she’s just like the other schmucks who went back to their regular lives and now have no claim to Hollywood fame except to say that they used to be on the show. And Germaine has a feeling that if she were to try to break back into a show business career, it would mean a break with her family. And her entire way of life.
That’s a hard sell.
By the time the class is over, Germaine is nearly able to keep up with the rest of the dancers. She’s caught more than a few surprised glances her way, and even Sam seems impressed.
“Looks like we might not have to catch you up too much, after all!” he says.
All day, Germaine feels better than she has in months. Years, maybe. She fills the rest of it with the various pointless tasks she always does: getting brunch with the daughter of one of her father’s business associates who’s supposed to be her friend, tipping off paparazzi to their location. But humming in the back of her mind is the music, the movement. She brushes Milano and Shibuya and Tivoli and Monaco, trying to corral them so she can dress them in new outfits she ordered special from Paris. She watches Desperate Housewives on the big screen in the home theater.
And when her mother finally gets home for dinner from a women’s benefit, Germaine is excited enough about the class to tell her about it.
“Hello, Maman,” Germaine says, kissing her mother on the cheek and taking a seat at the dinner table.
Céline looks at Germaine as though she’s been slapped.
“Are you drunk?” her mother asks.
Germaine frowns. “No. I’m in a good mood.”
“What on earth about?”
“I had my first dance class this morning.”
“Your what?”
Germaine shakes her head. “The dance class? At Studio Rochelle?”
“Oh.” Her mother blinks a few times. “Right. Well, the benefit was a success. But I heard from your father today, and—”
“You’re not even going to ask how it went?” She feels her good mood begin to deflate in the stale air of the dining room. The curdle of resentment rises to a low burn.
Céline looks at her like she’s an idiot. “Apparently it went well. I thought we covered that. Anyway, there are more important things we need to go over. Gregoire’s on his way back; you two need to go to Aspen this weekend. Your father’s friend Asgerdur—do you remember Asgerdur?—he has a table at the Silver Ball benefit and wants to fill it with ‘beautiful people.’ You know how he is.”
Asgerdur was a hotel investor friend of Terence’s who placed high importance on public appearance. The two of them often traded favors.
“What if I don’t want to?” Germaine says. “I hate Aspen.”
Céline waves her hand. “It’s already settled. The stylist is coming tonight so we can select wardrobe.”
Germaine decides on the cold shoulder. She says nothing for the rest of dinner, but her mother doesn’t seem to notice. She says nothing as they relocate to her mother’s bedroom with the stylist, Marie, or as she tries on a large selection of dresses—Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Armani, and the even higher-end nameless brands of each of those houses—parading them around the carpeted suite.
“C’est très jolie, non?” Marie says of each outfit.
But every time, Céline shakes her head. “Non.”
Finally, Céline gets up, casts a beleaguered glance at the poor stylist, and disappears into her closet.
“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” she says, reemerging with a large dress box. From the tissue paper, she pulls out a midnight-blue vintage Yves Saint Laurent evening gown.
“You need something slimming,” she says.
“Mama, this isn’t going to be slimming,” Germaine says. She recognizes the gown. It’s a hammered silk piece with a slight cowl neck, creating a wraithlike silhouette and cut on a bias to drape at the bottom. “It’s going to be tight.”
“It was my favorite back in the day. Try it on.”
Germaine does as she is told, but she’s right. Germaine is not large by any means, but her shoulders are broader than her mother’s, and she’s taller than Céline was when she originally wore this dress. The garment is tight at the arms and hips, falling slightly above where it’s supposed to on her body.
But Céline thinks it’s perfect. “That’s the one,” she says. “Just stunning.”
“No, it’s not,” Germaine says, emboldened, perhaps, by the way she felt this morning and the way her mother ruined her mood. “It looks ugly on me. In fact, it’s just an ugly dress.”
Céline doesn’t say anything, so Germaine keeps going. “I have an entire room full of clothes. Why don’t you ever let me wear something of mine ? What are those clothes even for ? I haven’t worn half of them. I don’t want to look like you. I want to look like me , wear things that fit my body and my personal style.” She’s yelling now, but she can’t stop. “I’m a human being, do you realize that? I’m not some doll you can dress up! I’m not your property!”
Céline stares at her levelly, but Germaine sees a muscle in her jaw jump and knows her mother is clenching her teeth. In some ways Germaine hates how calm Céline is when she’s angry. She wishes she would scream, throw things at her, anything. She wants them to fight. She wants them to break through this cool veneer and tell each other everything the other has done that’s hurt them, everything they’ve hated about each other, get down to the real shit, the grit. Céline never says how she feels. She never seems to have real emotion. If only there was something she could do to provoke her mother enough to break her out of this inhuman, unfeeling exterior.
But Céline speaks softly. “These little outbursts are getting very boring.”
She stands and heads for the door, signaling that the conversation is over. Germaine would throw something at her mother if she could, but she has nothing.
“There’s nothing worse than an ungrateful child,” Céline says, and then she is gone.
It’s 3:00 p.m. and Gregoire has already been drinking. His voice is loud in the limo as they head from their mountain-view hotel to the Silver Ball banquet, talking about some girl he was hitting on in the Maldives.
Germaine has not been drinking, but she already has a headache. She isn’t listening to anything Greg—or Gross, as she likes to call him—is saying. She’s staring at the bleak gray sky over the mountains, the insufferable Colorado streets, and trying not to breathe too hard for fear that the delicate structure of her mother’s YSL won’t take well to it. She’s promising herself that she’ll get through this weekend, she’ll do the stupid events, she’ll do whatever they want if she can just keep going to dance classes each week and figure out how to build a hobby or secret side gig around that enveloping music. Maybe that could get her through the rest of her life. Maybe she could even teach alongside Sam someday, if she worked hard at it. And didn’t tell her parents.
“... and then when I told her my last name, you should’ve seen the way her eyes popped out of her head, G.” Greg laughs way too loudly. “I thought she was going to drop her panties right there in the middle of Oishii!”
“Greg!” Germaine snaps. The limo pulls into the drive. She speaks to him as though she’s talking to a misbehaving kindergartner. “Why. Would you think. I would care. About any of this?”
He looks at her, seeming genuinely confused. “I thought you’d want to hear what you missed out on in Malé,” he says.
Germaine gives as exasperated a sigh as she can possibly muster and steps gingerly out of the car as the driver opens the door. A flurry of photographers rush to the edge of the velvet ropes, and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear that’s fallen loose from her french twist, smiling as widely as she can. She knows her mother will be reviewing the press from the event.
Greg catches up with her.
“Joke,” he says, and they laugh merrily at each other, positively sparkling with ease and sophistication. It’s the shorthand they use for public appearances, placeholders for actual conversation to keep up their image of a close-knit but intimidatingly intellectual and wealthy family.
She leans into him and speaks low into his ear. “Serious.”
He raises his eyebrows thoughtfully at her, as though he’s mildly surprised but intrigued by her comment, and she lifts her chin in response, displaying another, more formal, side of themselves to the paparazzi.
Then they’re inside and can drop the act, just marginally.
Asgerdur would be pleased, because the event is, indeed, filled with beautiful people. The collective net worth gathered in the grand banquet hall is far, far more than the Silver Ball could ever hope to raise. It’s primarily older men in sharply pressed suits who haven’t bothered to do much else with their appearance, and very young women who have likely had entire teams of staff working for hours to make their impossible goddess-like beauty look effortless.
Germaine and Gregoire mingle, detached but never far from each other, Greg talking about sports and acquisitions and mergers with men who all look the same, and Germaine mostly laughing along at their jokes—bland at best and offensive at worst—and smiling wide. There are photographers inside as well. She allows herself a glass of champagne, then another, to take the edge off, and sips slowly, although she’d like to down them both in one gulp.
Then the lights dim in the hall and come up on the stage, prompting everyone to take their seats. They find Asgerdur’s table, filled with other titans of industry and A-list celebrities.
Gregoire sits. As Germaine lowers herself, a little too quickly, into the chair next to him, the strain at last proves to be too much for the vintage YSL.
A seam at her rib cage splits just as an event photographer snaps their picture.
Germaine freezes. Many things become apparent to her all at once. The photographers here are hired professionals, but selling a photo of Germaine St. Germaine-Chang’s dress splitting open with a minuscule glimpse of her lacy black bra would be a temptation too great and a product too priceless for even the most scrupulous photog.
She could demand he delete the photo in front of her, but then she would be drawing even more attention to what just happened.
She could find the event organizers and make them deal with it, but by then he’d have backed up the photo. And anyway, he’s already moved to another table; all the photographers are dressed in black, and now she’s not even sure which one it was.
And maybe, just maybe, if she tries not to move her arm too much, no one will even notice.
Except for the fact that Greg is pointing at her and laughing.
“Excuse my sister,” he snorts, getting the rest of the table in on it. “She’s taking dance classes to lose weight.”
There’s a wraithlike young woman to Germaine’s right, someone who’s been in a few movies but whose name Germaine can’t remember. She leans in conspiratorially, and Germaine feels dizzy by the amount of perfume she’s wearing.
“I have a good lipo surgeon, if you’re looking for someone,” she says.
Germaine could spit. She could reenact her tantrum with the tablecloth, not caring about the reactions of any of these people she doesn’t know or like.
But she will be good.
“I guess I won’t be having dessert,” she says, to the great mirth of the rest of the table, laughing lightly along with them.
The banquet goes on, and Germaine picks at her food. All the women are picking at their food.
But her reluctance to eat is because she feels sick, dreading what she’ll say to her mother when they get home.
She hates Aspen.
But the apartment is empty when Germaine returns on Sunday night—alone, because Greg decided to stay out in Aspen a few more days to schmooze with Asgerdur’s friends.
A new housekeeper is there.
“Is my mother here?” Germaine asks, afraid to go into the parlor and find out for herself.
“No, Miss St. Germaine-Chang,” the woman says, looking as terrified of her as every other staff member. Germaine is starting to get a little tired of it. “Your mother has gone to East Hampton for a long weekend, and your father was meeting her there.”
Germaine lets out a long breath, relieved. Maybe her mother hasn’t seen the photo. Maybe she can get the dress repaired before they get back, and Céline will never have to know.
“Good,” Germaine says. “I’m going to bed, then.”
“Miss St. Germaine-Chang,” the housekeeper says quickly, a tremor in her voice.
Germaine waves her hand. “Listen, you don’t have to be afraid of me, okay? I’m not my mother.”
The housekeeper looks like she wants to say something else, but she shuts her mouth and nods very quickly.
Germaine sighs and heads for her room. She’s more than ready to put on something comfortable and sink into bed. Maybe by morning she’ll have dreamed up a plan to destroy that photo of the split dress and do some damage control.
But then she flicks on the light to her suite and nearly screams.
It’s empty.
Her bed is still there, its flurry of throw pillows and fluffy quilts replaced with plain cotton sheets. Her antique boudoir has been cleared of all her jewelry boxes and hair accessories and scarves; a plastic hairbrush and an unopened package of Goody hair bands from Walgreens have been placed next to the mirror.
Germaine runs to her closet and turns on the recessed lights. On the ottoman in the center of the room, there is a folded pair of leggings, a sweatshirt, some socks, and a pair of underwear. The racks of clothes are gone; the shelves are empty. Her shoes, her dresses, everything—vanished.
She whirls around to find the housekeeper peeking through the door, visibly terrified.
“Miss St. Germaine-Chang,” she says again.
“What is this?” Germaine barks.
“I’m very sorry. Miss, your mother—she asked me to tell you that she’s stopped your credit cards. Your accounts have been frozen. She says that the situation will be reviewed next week.”
Germaine opens her mouth, closes it again. “Did she say anything else?”
“Just—she asked me to take the dress from you, miss. And send it out for repair.”
Germaine stands still, stunned. Then she says, “It’s in my luggage. They’re bringing it up now.”
“Yes, miss.” The housekeeper gives a curt bow and hurries out of the room.
Germaine slumps to the floor. Something like this happened once before, during the last season of Kidz Klub . She earned more than a decent income on the show—by normal-person standards, at least—but since she was a minor when she started, her parents were cosigners on all her accounts. That fact never changed. Germaine’s never had a reason to understand any of her own finances. She doesn’t have the slightest idea how to set up her own accounts, and there’s no one she can trust to help her. In fact, to this day, she hasn’t ever set foot in a bank or met with her parents’ financial adviser. Why would she? Money flows as freely as air or water for the St. Germaine-Changs, a seemingly inexhaustible resource.
Except for the time Germaine’s parents thought she was getting too arrogant, too cocky. She was, probably. She was high on the freedom of LA, the independence she had there, and the friends who made her feel like anything was possible.
When she arrived back in New York for the holiday break, home from filming, all her childhood things were gone. Her dolls and picture books, her Legos and stuffed animals, even the raggedy bunny that her first and most favorite nanny, who was later replaced and then replaced again, had given her as a tearful goodbye gift. Germaine had slept with it every night and would have continued to, even into adulthood, if they hadn’t thrown it away.
“If you don’t respect us,” her mother had said, “then we will take away the things we’ve given you. You depend on us for all of this. You would have nothing without your father’s hard work. You would be nothing.”
The message is the same tonight.
So here Germaine is: nothing, once again.