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herself.
    She wondered what her ugly-duckling counterpart thought of it all.

 
    Chapter 4
    If truth were known, Anton Suffron didn’t think much about anything.
    It was not that Anton lacked intelligence, but that he had learned long ago to take each day as it came, to accept things, and, when things got rough, to hold out until tomorrow. It was not a profound philosophy, but it worked. Growing up poor in Bucharest had hardened him, made him ride with the slow periods, the early days of constant struggle, until he found himself with a successful career and a prestigious reputation as one of the foremost concert pianists in America. A weekend away from the piano wouldn’t kill him, but he’d miss it just the same.
    Had the other door to the bathroom been opened and closed a moment ago? He should close his door—that Betty person might have wanted to use the toilet. He sensed that she was shy and retiring: his favorite kind of person, one he could lord it over, feel comfortable in the same room with. Because of his lack of good looks he had almost instinctively developed a charismatic, flamboyant personality that some would call obnoxious. Now, after so many years playing the role of underdog only too well, he found he couldn’t resist having fun with the quiet, unassuming types who reminded him of himself during his younger, less assertive days. Yes, Betty would make a good pawn.
    He placed the rest of his toiletries in the medicine cabinet: toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant. He was scrupulous about his personal hygiene, and quite resentful of the way much handsomer men could attract women regardless of ”b.o.” and “halitosis” by virtue of their appearance. He had always figured he should hedge his bets. He turned the faucet on and splashed cold water on his face, ran his fingers through his hair. The thick black mane was his most impressive feature. It was his pride. It curled up at the back and was longish on the sides, and high and dark and lustrous on the top. Ah, if only he had the right kind of face to go with it. His was very long and very narrow; homely. His eyebrows sat atop protruding wedges of bone that stuck out over his eyes, the bushy, almost satanic tufts of hair blending together above the nape of the nose. His cheeks were hollow, and his lips, thick flaps of skin that puckered out in a permanent downwards sneer, the lower lip protruding below the upper. He had small eyes, but they were bright blue, and penetrating: his second most arresting feature. His teeth were crooked and yellow, his chin a tiny bump. He had once grown a beard and mustache, but it had only made it worse. His skin was pale and mottled, and very quick to burn in the sun.
    When had he stopped caring about his appearance? If he ever had. When had he no longer worried about sweeping triumphantly into a room after a particularly magnificent performance, and sensing, almost seeing, the disappointment in the women’s eyes, how they lost some of that special glow once they’d seen him up close? People often told him that they fell in love with the way he played, but he knew what they were saying behind his back. “He plays so beautifully. It’s a shame he’s so homely.” People expected a maestro, a genius like him, to look as good as he sounded. But he simply couldn’t measure up. So he settled on being striking and arrogant and strong. This helped him cover up the disappointment he invariably felt when he noticed the fading promise in women’s eyes, and the almost relieved expression on their menfolk’s faces when they saw that, despite his enormous gifts, Anton Suffron would certainly be no competition.
    Anton had also learned to dress to perfection.
    Had he been crazy to come here? he asked himself, changing into a suit he had bought the other week in Paris. As far as Lynn was concerned, he and she were now good friends who had once been lovers; an odd story, that. Lynn was not beautiful, but she was attractive