Beautiful You by Chuck Palahniuk

played at being gentlemen by opening car doors for her. They’d brought icy orchid corsages and had pinned them to her dress with nervous fingers. In her experience every man thought he was a natural dancer, and every one thought he was good in bed. The truth was that most men only knew one dance step—usually the pogo—and between the sheets they were like a monkey in a nature film poking at an anthill with a stick.
    She’d had intercourse, but she’d never had an orgasm. Not an
orgasm-
orgasm, not the kind of earth-moving orgasm that made your teeth go numb, the kind she’d always read about in
Cosmopolitan
.
    No, when Penny graduated from law school she wasn’t a virgin, but neither was she looking to settle down.
    In Paris, at an exclusive dinner party on the top deck of the Eiffel Tower, Penny had her chance to meet Alouette D’Ambrosia in person. With a private supersonic jet at their constant disposal, Paris seemed no farther away than midtown Manhattan. Maxwell could zip her almost anywhere in the world for a quiet supper, then return her to her squalid apartment in Jackson Heights by midnight. Seeing the same troop of resentful and lustful faces of the international jet set night after night, at parties and movie premieres, made the world seem even smaller. Even at the top of the Eiffel Tower, with glittering Paris at her feet, Penny sipped a glass of champagne, too timid to engage with other movers and shakers. The night air was warm, but Penny felt a chill down her spine, exposed by the plunging back of her Vera Wang gown. Maxwell, usually so attentive, had been called away, and she sensed hostile eyes upon her. Looking around, she wasn’t wrong. Like twin lasers, they flashed from across the tower’s open terrace. It was the movie star, the winner of four Academy Awards. She’d been nominated this year, and she was the front-runner to win a fifth Oscar in a few weeks. Here was the woman Penny had seen fractured in the tiny screens of countless cell phones. Now there was only one of her, and she loomed huge.
    A confrontation was imminent and every guest was gleefully watching as Alouette strode closer. Circling, she was clearly stalking her prey. The actress moved like a panther in a curve-hugging black leather catsuit. Her lovely nostrils flared. Teeth bared, she was seething.
    The Bonwit Teller saleslady had done as she promised and introduced Penny to haute couture designers who dressed her to look fabulous, but compared to this approaching man-eating predator she felt like a bag lady. As always, she fought the urge to flee the battlefield. If only Maxwell would return. Moniquewould know how to fight off a furious Amazon. Jennifer Lopez or Penelope Cruz would be ready to kick some French ass. All Penny could think to do was turn her back and brace herself for the impending impact.
    “Little mouse,” a voice said. The heavily accented voice, recognizable from so many films.
    The sharp points of long fingernails clutched Penny’s shoulder and slowly pulled, turning her to face the speaker. Those impossibly soigné features were now distorted with hatred.
    “Are you frightened, little mouse?” Alouette D’Ambrosia thrust her chin forward. “You should be very frightened. You are in grave danger.”
    Penny tightened her grip on her glass of champagne. If push came to shove, she’d throw the sweet, sparkling wine in the actress’s eyes. Then run like heck.
    “Whatever you do…,” Alouette said. As she wagged a long manicured finger in Penny’s face, she warned, “Do not sleep with Max. You must
never
have sex with Maxwell.”
    The crowd was visibly disappointed as the film star turned away. As she slinked across the room people stepped aside. Before anyone spoke, she’d stridden into an elevator and disappeared.
    It was clear to Penny that Alouette was wildly jealous. This French goddess was still very much in love. Penny laughed to herself. She, plain Penny Harrigan, was the envy of the