The Regulars Page 21

  “So?” exclaimed Evie.

  “In two minutes.” Rich met her gaze evenly. His T-shirt read T-Shirt Gag. “That’s pretty insane.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s insane.” Evie shot to her feet again. “Forced prostitution! Backyard abortions, date rape. Ten-year-old girls made to undergo female circumcision—”

  “Jesus!” Rich exclaimed, at the same time Kelly said, “Chloe—”

  “Okay, okay.” Jan raised a hand. “Let’s all take a breath.”

  Evie was panting. She’d been lied to. She’d been had. She had a sudden image of Kelly, sniggering under his breath as she did take after take, dismissing her as a gullible bimbo. “You were never going to run it. That’s why you let me say whatever I wanted, you were never even going to fucking run it.”

  Kelly jabbed a finger at her. “You can’t prove that—”

  “Kelly will recut the opening credits for the second episode,” Jan interrupted. “No further changes.”

  “What?” Evie gaped.

  Jan’s voice took on an edge. “Chloe, Kelly is the producer. Rich is the director. You are the host.”

  “Right,” Evie said. “I’m the host. I should have some say over what I’m hosting.”

  “Chloe, love,” Kelly said. “We’re all professionals here. Why don’t you let us do our jobs, and we’ll let you do yours.”

  “Which is to say whatever’s in front of me,” Evie said. “Even if it offends every moral fiber in my being.”

  “Huh.” Rich’s nasal voice sounded amused. “It’s like she’s just worked out what acting is.”

  Evie opened her mouth to retaliate, but before she could, Jan announced, “All right, everyone, that’s it.” Her eyes moved to her computer screen. “Thank you.”

  Their cue to leave. Rich and Kelly ambled for the door. Evie was fuming as she followed.

  “Oh, and Kelly?” Jan called. “I was wondering if you’d heard anything from Evie Selby.”

  Evie pulled up short, her own name ricocheting through her like a pinball.

  “Nah, mate. Radio silence,” Kelly replied. “Shame. We could use a researcher.”

  “I agree.” Jan looked directly at Evie, her words measured and steady. “Hopefully, Evie makes an appearance very soon.”

  42.

  Krista sat on a milk crate behind craft services, sucking on a cigarette, trying to temper her nerves. Ordinarily, Krista wasn’t an anxious person. Not like Evie could be. But right now, a nonspecific feeling of foreboding was eating away at her, dissolving rational thought like acid.

  Things didn’t feel right. And it wasn’t just her position as most hated on this stupid film set. It was the Pretty.

  She yanked out a pocket mirror and studied her eyes intently. It seemed like they were different: not as brilliantly green as they had been before. But maybe she was just getting used to them. She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell and it was starting to make her feel downright paranoid.

  Had Damian spoken to Eduardo about this morning? She could picture this conversation so clearly, the soft-spoken Eduardo insisting, swearing on his life, that he picked up Lenka Penka. What if they dug further into Lenka Penka’s nonexistent past? What then?

  She ground her cigarette into the grass, regretting lighting it to begin with. She couldn’t shake a lingering feeling of nausea from her transformation. It was definitely harder than the first time. What if the nausea never went away? What if the Pretty was poison? What if it was eating away at her insides, slowly cooking her like a rotisserie chicken?

  Evie was right to be suspicious. They didn’t know enough about the Pretty. Why did Penny give it to her? She replayed their encounter in McHale’s Ales, searching her memory of the beautiful blonde for a twitch of anxiety or a grimace of pain. But all she could remember was just how lovely Penny’s full pink mouth was, how svelte she looked in that black silk jumpsuit.

  Her phone chimed. An email. Hi Krista, This is Ella-Mae, Salty’s deputy editor. I have your details on file as Evie’s emergency contact. I know she’s been in Florida, but I’m unable to get in contact with her—she’s not replying to texts and her calls are going straight to voicemail. I just need to confirm when she’ll be back in. Blessings, Ella-Mae Morris. P.S. If you like, I can change her emergency contact to Chloe Fontaine: it might make more sense as she’s Evie’s roommate.

  Krista was surprised: it wasn’t like Evie to drop the ball. She forwarded it to Evie, adding a message of her own. hey dude, looks like u need to run recon on salty. how are u? what’s happening with velma? when will u be home? i miss u. have u heard from willow? she’s always out or passed out when i get home. assuming they’re her vino bottles piling up in the kitchen: very Lilo, ha ha. are u having fun? IDK if I am anymore—

  But her Olympic-speed typing was interrupted. From around the corner of the craft services tent, she heard her name, spoken in a whisper.

  “—Jen walked in on Lenka Penka throwing up this morning.”

  “No!”

  “Yep. In the toilet block by the entrance.”

  “No shit. That explains a lot.”

  “Seriously. I never see her without a cupcake in hand.”

  “Ugh, that makes me sick.”

  “I bet she wanted to get caught doing it. Like, why wasn’t she doing it in her trailer?”

  “Totally.”

  That’d be fucking right. Now the Pretty had the crew assuming she was bulimic. Screw them. She strode around the corner of the tent. Two PAs stood stock-still in horror. They were both cool-looking dark-skinned girls—one was black, the other looked Indian—and with a jolt of surprise Krista realized that under normal circumstances, she’d probably be bitching with them, part of their crew. Krista towered over the girls, anger mixing with hurt. “If you have something to say to me, say it to my face.”

  The PAs looked terrified. Neither moved an inch.

  “Firstly, I’m not bulimic,” Krista said. “I was just having a regular vomit, like a regular person. Secondly, what if I was bulimic? What if the pressure to be thin and perfect had gotten to me so much that I felt the need to make myself sick? This is your solution? To gossip about it? Not very cool, guys. In fact, it feels like weird jealous backstabbing of someone who might need your fucking help, if I was bulimic, which I’m not.”

  One of them finally found her voice. “We’re really sorry, Ms. Penka.”

  “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get here?” Krista continued. “How much I’ve sacrificed? Don’t judge a book by its cover, okay? Just because I look like a very diverse Playmate doesn’t mean I don’t have problems. I do. I have a lot. I have a lot of problems.” This line of argument was beginning to make it sound like she had mental problems, so Krista changed tack. “Don’t punish me for your own insecurities.”

  “We’re sorry,” the other girl piped up. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Okay.” Krista huffed. “Cool.”

  The trio stood in awkward silence.

  “So, like, what are you guys doing right now?” Krista asked.

  The girls exchanged an odd glance. “We have to get back to set,” the black girl said.

  “Me too.” Krista about-faced, tossing a lock of shiny dark hair over one shoulder. She made a show of stomping off, when all she really wanted to do was tell the two girls the truth about absolutely everything.

  Krista was examining the contours of her face (Had it changed? Why did she still feel sick?) when someone rapped on her trailer door. “Hello? Lenka?”

  She pocketed the mirror. “Yeah?”

  A woman climbed into her trailer. Smart black blazer, neat pencil skirt, and rich brown hair slicked back into a perfect ponytail. She looked like the kind of person who would refer to a pop of color as “fun.”

  “Hi, darling. Do you mind if I come in?” The woman was already advancing toward her with an outstretched hand. “I’m Gillian.”

  “Hey.” Krista shook Gillian’s hand warily. Her palm was baby soft. He
r manicure was perfect. “Do they need me on set?”

  “No, not right now.” Gillian pulled a chair out to sit across from Krista. Even though she had a pretentious way of speaking, like she had a mouth full of caramels, her voice oozed sympathy. “How are you?”

  “Hungry.”

  “Oh. We could get you something . . .” Gillian twisted in her chair as if the act itself might summon a cheeseburger.

  “No, that’s okay.” Krista sighed. “Sorry, who are you? What do you want?”

  Gillian leaned forward, brow crumpling in concern. “You’ve been having a bit of a rough time here, haven’t you?”

  She reminded Krista of a psychiatrist. Maybe Greg had sent one to see her. “Yeah, I have. No one’s speaking to me. Everything’s . . . well, everything’s kind of fucked.”

  “Why?” Gillian asked. “What happened?”

  Krista hesitated.

  “You can tell me, sweetie.” Gillian patted Krista’s hand. “Just between us girls.”

  Krista drew in a breath and began telling the probable psychiatrist everything that’d happened in the last week. Not about taking the Pretty, of course—she didn’t want to get locked up in a nuthouse or, worse, for anyone to take the little glass bottle off her. But she told her about sleeping with Ravi, a video of her losing her shit at him going viral and turning into Cupcake Girl, needing twenty-five takes for her first scene, fucking Tristan’s trophy, and being accused of bulimia. “And now, Greg’s totally cut me from the day’s filming, which he can’t do because he promised I’d have a part, and no one’s talking to me, and I just think doing the movie in the first place was a massive mistake in the series of massive mistakes that are my life.”

  Gillian sat perfectly still in her chair. Her expression reflected something between disbelief and horror.

  “Ah, Gillian.” Krista snapped her fingers. “Hello?”

  Gillian’s face reanimated. “Sorry, darling. I just don’t know what to say.”

  “You could prescribe me some Valium?”

  “What?”

  “Psychiatrists can do that, right? Or maybe some Perkie Cs? Xannies? Bennies—”

  “Lenka!” Gillian laughed airily. “I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m from the studio. And you’re fired.”

  Krista felt like she’d just been shaken awake. “What?”

  “You’re fired. Effective immediately.”

  The air around her warped. She struggled to focus. “You can’t fire me! On what grounds? That’s—that’s unfair dismissal!”

  Gillian stood up and smoothed her skirt down. “Lenka. You’re a disaster. Don’t make me say it again.”

  “What about procedural fairness? I’m being denied natural justice! This is a, a breach of contract—”

  “Lenka, please—”

  “I went to law school, bitch!” Krista leaped to her feet. “You can’t fire me, you don’t have the grounds!”

  “Firstly, yes I can, I’m the head of production.” Gillian’s voice was black ice. “I can fire Greg. I can fire you. Secondly, I won’t stand for being called a bitch, by anyone, least of all you. You’re. Fired.”

  Krista wilted. Her words became a plea. “But . . . I need the money. I mean, I seriously really need this. Can’t we just . . . work something out?”

  “No,” Gillian said. “And if you breathe one more word to the press, and that includes social media, we’ll have to sue you.” She regarded Krista with a look of pity. “Thanks for being so honest, sweetie. And good luck.” The look on her face said, You’re going to need it.

  43.

  Willow stood alone on a street corner and watched men watching women.

  She watched their eyes linger, uninvited, unwanted, on women’s bare shoulders, on their necks, on their asses. She watched them circle women’s stomachs, skate over their thighs, plunge into their cleavage. She watched the way they’d look at each other after setting their gazes loose on a passing female: congratulatory, bombastic.

  Men watch, and women watch themselves being watched.

  She’d read that somewhere, or maybe Evie had told her. Men walked around like they were checking on their own factory floor. Women seemed to want to slip by, undetected. In a hurry to escape.

  Escape.

  The word sounded sweet and alluring in her brain. She rolled around with it, letting it wash over her, pushing it under her skin.

  Escape.

  With no destination in mind, she began heading downtown. The streets were tight with jostling people. The midafternoon heat made everyone tired and irritated. Willow let herself get bumped and pushed around; flotsam in the city’s current. She passed two girls consoling a crying third, their faces bent into twin expressions of concern. “He doesn’t deserve you,” they implored. “You can do so much better.”

  “But I’m in love with him,” the crying girl wailed. Her eyes were liquid with tears. “I fucking love him.”

  Street vendors hocked cheap bronze jewelry, laid out on folding tables. They fanned themselves, sweating and squinting in the sun. She passed artists selling spray-painted subway maps to tourists and stopped at a vendor hocking movie scripts to people who’d buy them with pipe dreams of writing their own. Her fingers said hello to old friends: The Shining, Being John Malkovich, Stranger Than Paradise, Only the Sparrows Know. By Matteo Hendriksen.

  Her fingers stopped.

  Her father.

  Even here, alone on a crowded street, he found her.

  “You like that one?” A red-faced man at the stall gave her a friendly smile. “Real romantic stuff, huh?”

  Willow drew her hand back.

  “Tell you what, pretty girl like you, I’ll do you a deal. Ten dollars. They’re usually fifteen, but—”

  “No,” Willow said. “I’m not a fan.”

  She pushed her way out of the street, joining the crowds on Broadway. If she kept her eyes averted, she saw nothing. But if she looked at people, if she looked at men, they stared back at her. Openly. Without shame.

  Men were always hungry. And they expected to be fed.

  She crossed a busy intersection, stopped to check her phone. Messages from Mark, Evie, Krista, and Meredith. Anxiety clenched her chest. For a second she considered dropping her phone into the grate at her feet, fantasizing about seeing it disappear, like krill sucked into a whale.

  She looked up, wondering where she was. Leering down at her was a billboard.

  In it, a woman wearing nothing but a pair of unbuttoned jeans was splayed out on a carpeted floor. A man stood over her, but only the top of his jeans, a glimpse of his back, and one arm was visible. The woman held her breasts loosely. Half a nipple was visible through her fingers. Her lips were parted. Her eyes, only half open. As if she was drunk. As if she was drugged. As if she wanted nothing more than to be fucked.

  Out of nowhere a scorching darkness tore up Willow’s throat and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. She wanted to set that billboard on fire, to destroy it and its photographer and the company that made it and people who pasted it up and men who went home and jerked their pathetic penises thinking about that woman up there, sprawled and naked and helpless. She wanted to destroy everyone involved in putting up a billboard in New York City that said, that basically goddamn begged: FUCK ME.

  But my photographs will be different, Willow thought, turning her head away, wanting to unsee it all. Because I have already been fucked.

  44.

  When Evie got home, she was disappointed to find the apartment was dark and empty. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water. When she went to get an ice cube, the tray was empty. Krista hadn’t refilled it. Again. Evie stared at it, nostalgic rather than annoyed. She needed her best friend now more than ever. She briefly considered calling her mom, but she’d want to know how yesterday’s date went. Her date with Velma.

  Velma.

  Velma hadn’t texted. Their message thread was depressingly stunted: her first text accepting the offer for
dinner, then Velma’s simple response. Nothingness stretched out beneath it. Of course, Evie shouldn’t text her. Tomorrow she would be plain old Evie Selby again, and Velma would be relegated to the stuff of midnight masturbation and aimless Google stalking. But Velma didn’t know that. Why hadn’t she texted?

  Evie tossed her phone aside and whimpered. The reality was, she’d failed miserably on both fronts. Velma wasn’t interested and Extra Salt was a shitshow.

  She stood in front of the living room mirror. She stuck her hand on her hip, mimicking the model pose she’d made the night Krista turned, chin lowered, eyes blank. The girl in the mirror glowered back at her: as mysteriously moody as a perfume ad.

  Chloe Fontaine could have whomever she wanted. And she’d only be around for a few more hours.

  Fuck it.

  She picked up her phone and typed a text to Velma. Feeling like Dorothy, over the rainbow: you make me see in Technicolor.

  She waited for a reply.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing.

  She tried to distract herself, with Taylor Swift’s Instagram, with Hangrid Tumblrs, with her readers’ comments on Something Snarky demanding their weekly post. But the more she tried to run from her feelings, the more speed they gained.

  Square one, they chanted. Square one.

  Tomorrow she’d be back to square one.

  To awkward first dates of two disappointed people trying hard to be cheerful. To surreptitiously scanning the room at parties, as if meeting someone was a job she never signed up for but couldn’t quit. To the thoughts she had buried ocean-floor deep in her Shame Cave.

  You are ugly.

  You are unlovable.

  If someone wasn’t texting Chloe Fontaine back, what possible hope did she ever have of them texting regular old Evie Selby?

  The front door opened. “Hey,” Krista croaked.

  Evie leaped to her feet, beyond grateful for the distraction. Her words came in a manic babble. “Hey! Oh god, I’m so glad you’re home!”

  Krista held up the Pretty bottle. “I’ll put it back. Sorry again about that.”