The Regulars Page 7

  But Willow? Why had she taken it? Didn’t she think she was attractive? Willow, who rarely bought new clothes or wore makeup. Willow, who preferred cameras to cocktails, who longed to be a better artist, who already had the perfect boyfriend. In a way, Willow did strike her as the most vulnerable of their trio—and the poor turnout at her opening on Monday probably hurt more than she let on—but she wasn’t insecure about her appearance. Was she?

  The whole thing was turning into a Sofia Coppola film: pretty to look at, but what did it really mean? Everything? Or nothing?

  The girls pouted, posing for a nonexistent photo shoot. Krista slinked toward Evie, stopped in front of her, finger to an open mouth, one hand jutted onto her hip. She looked once, twice around the room, before spinning unsteadily and stalking back to Willow, picking her feet off the floor with comic exaggeration. When she reached Willow, she slapped her hand, passing a baton. Evie expected Willow to giggle and shrink away. But to her surprise, Willow drew herself up and relaxed her face. Each foot swung effortlessly around the other, face as blank and beautiful as a Greek sculpture. She stopped in front of Evie and moved easily into two poses, only shifting her body slightly to find new contortions to show off her perfect proportions.

  That looked real, Evie thought. And then, drunkenly, this is real.

  “Evie!” the girls chorused. “Your turn!”

  “No!” Evie shook her head, but the girls rushed forward.

  “You have to!” Willow’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright as stars.

  “C’mon,” Krista insisted, hauling her up. “Cat the walk!”

  “Okay, okay!” Evie squared her shoulders and began catwalking toward the empty couch. She pulled a model pose, hands on hips, pouting. The mirror above the couch reflected Willow and Krista beaming behind her: a blond goddess who glowed, and a bewitching brunette who simpered. By comparison, Evie looked almost sickly. Pudgy. And her model pose wasn’t funny, like Krista’s. Or classy, like Willow’s.

  It was tragic.

  It was embarrassing.

  Someone pounded on the front door. The girls all jumped. Ben, thought Evie, darting to turn off the music that had no doubt pissed off their downstairs neighbor. She rushed to the door, ready to apologize, hoping she wouldn’t sound too drunk. But it wasn’t Ben. It was a man. Late forties, tough-looking, wearing a bright orange vest that said Con Ed. He barely glanced at Evie before asking, “Krista Kumar?”

  Evie pushed her glasses up her nose. “That’s my roommate.”

  The man handed her a piece of paper, glancing past her into the apartment. “I’m here to shut your electricity off.”

  “What?” Evie peered at the paper in her hand. The words unpaid account and New York State law swam in front of her. As did the figure $612.34 in bold, red, underlined type.

  “Your account’s been unpaid for seven months,” the man said, stepping inside. His speech sounded rehearsed. “Multiple attempts to contact you by mail and telephone have been unsuccessful.”

  “Multiple attempts?” Evie repeated. “No, this is a mistake. Krista’s been paying Con Ed.” Evie had been giving her roommate money every month.

  “Are you Krista?” the man asked Krista.

  “Um—” Krista’s gaze switched frantically between Evie and the Con Ed guy.

  “Are you Krista Kumar?” he repeated testily.

  “Y-yes.”

  He handed her the same form he’d given Evie. “Where’s your fuse box?”

  Krista stared at the paper in her hand, eyes round. “Fucking fuck fuck fuck.”

  “Krista.” Evie stepped toward the pair. “Tell him there’s been a mistake.”

  “There hasn’t been a mistake.” Krista’s brilliant green eyes began filling with tears. “I’m sorry, I just . . . At first it was one bill. I needed to make rent. And then it was another, and I guess another, and I just lost track of how long I hadn’t been paying.”

  “Seven months,” the man said. “Where’s your fuse box?”

  Evie gaped at Krista, jaw loose. Evie didn’t have any savings; she was living paycheck to paycheck. She couldn’t pay the electricity even if she wanted to. Which she definitely did not fucking want to.

  “I’m trying to fix it!” Krista pleaded, twitching her gaze at Con Ed. “That’s why I took the . . . stuff, to make money—”

  “Jesus Christ, Krista!” Evie exploded. “You’ve basically been stealing from me!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “What about the other bills?”

  “Huh?” Krista licked her lips, panicky.

  “The other bills. The ones in your name. I’m on the lease, you handle the bills?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Evie could hear what a monumentally stupid decision that had been.

  “Um . . . I needed money for rent.”

  “Oh my god.” How long would it be before they lost water? Gas? The internet? Oh god, not the internet. Evie stared at Krista with open incredulity. How was it possible that this girl, the captain of the debate team, the one who could calculate the tip without using her phone, could be so staggeringly irresponsible? “How much debt are you in?”

  “Including student loans?”

  Evie’s voice was ice. “Including everything.”

  “A hundred and thirty grand.” Krista wiped a tear away. “Give or take.”

  “A hundred and thirty grand?” Evie gasped. “A hundred and thirty fucking grand, Jesus, Krista—”

  “I said I’m sorry—”

  “Ladies.” Con Ed raised both hands. “Look, I like a reality show as much as the next guy, but you are legally obligated to show me to your fuse box or else I’ll be forced to contact your local authorities.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Willow trained her gaze on Con Ed, eyes smoldering, lips parted. Evie could almost see licks of spitfire leaping off her skin.

  When Con Ed spoke, his voice was a little higher than usual. “Yes?”

  “I know you’re just doing your job, but maybe you can cut my friends some slack.” Willow came even closer to the man. Evie instinctively took a step back, away from the strange, seductive Willow.

  “No,” he said. “That’s not possible.”

  “Oh, sure it is.” Willow floated one hand to the man’s arm. It looked like a butterfly landing on a log. “Maybe there was no one home. Maybe you’ll have to come back next week to cut off the power.”

  “And maybe by then the bill’ll be paid.” Krista snatched his other arm, offering a please please please? expression.

  The man switched his gaze between the two girls flanking him like selkies. He cleared his throat uneasily. “Maybe I could.”

  “Thank you.” Krista sagged with relief. “Dude, for real, thanks a million.”

  Evie stared at Willow. Where had that come from? She couldn’t have been more surprised than if Willow had declared herself an Egyptian goddess. But Willow wasn’t looking at Evie. Her gaze had turned inward, pale green eyes flashing with victory. Her exquisite features had curled into an unfamiliar look: oddly determined. Almost grim.

  Krista was right behind Evie when she pulled the front door closed. “Evie, I am so sorry about all this, but I swear to god, I am going to fix it.”

  “You don’t believe in God.” Evie sank into the couch and reached for her mug of champagne.

  Krista dropped next to Evie, eyes locked on her best friend’s. “Then I swear to Amy and to J. Law and Michelle freakin’ Obama that first thing tomorrow I am going to march into CPU, land a superhot agent, book a commercial, and bank. I’m going to use this”—she swished her hands to indicate her face and body—“to pay you back. Every penny. I swear. On all that is good. Including you. Especially you.”

  “Sure thing.” Evie drained the last of the champagne. Anger and disappointment—at herself, at Krista, at Salty, at everything—flattened her out, making her feel worthless. All she wanted to do was go to bed and never wake up.

  “No, seriously, Eve. Eve, listen to me.” Krista
plucked the mug out of her hands, forcing her roommate to look at her. “I need you to believe me. I need you to believe in me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the only one who does.”

  Evie looked up at the girl who used to be Krista, surprised. Krista stared back at her, eyes steady and serious and heartbreakingly hopeful. She wanted to believe her, Evie realized. And then, more astonishingly, she did believe her. Whether it was the booze or her perfect face or the five years of friendship, she did.

  “Of course I believe you, dummy. You’re my best friend.”

  10.

  “Are you sure you won’t come?” Krista wheedled with the persistence of a toddler who just wanted to be picked up. “It’s my first night as a Pretty. We have to celebrate!”

  Evie shook her head. “I have work to do.”

  While she had brought the day’s pages home, this wasn’t the whole truth. The thought that was buried in her Shame Cave was this: she was worried about how it’d look.

  Two Pretties and a Regular.

  Evie Selby: the ugly friend.

  There’s no such thing as ugly, she scolded herself crossly. She was annoyed at the fact she was annoyed. It was a mini meta meltdown, and it made her brain hurt.

  “It’s like driving a Lamborghini.” Krista gave her boobs a squeeze. “You should see me naked, dude. I turn me on. I can’t wait to have sex in this thing.”

  “That thing is your body, and—” began Evie, but she couldn’t finish, remembering Krista’s comment about sounding like a mom. A pang of regret, or remorse, or maybe just sadness swelled through her, and she had to look back down at her pages. “Have fun.”

  It was only after the two girls left in a swirl of clicking heels and honeyed perfume that Evie remembered the Extra Salt audition she’d nabbed for Krista. Her thumbs hovered over her phone’s keyboard, about to text her the details. But then she put her phone down. The prospect of rewarding Krista after finding out she’d been lying to her for the past seven months made her feel like a chump. I need, Evie thought, to start looking out for number one.

  The top story on her pile of work was called “Five Friends to Ditch ASAP.” The story began: Number one: The boring friend. While your boring friend can always be counted on to help clean up after parties, let’s face it: you didn’t want her at that party to start with—

  Evie tossed the pages aside and flopped onto her bed, emitting a stage groan of unhappiness. Always such a hard worker. Always so reliable. Was she the boring one? She couldn’t remember the last time Willow and Krista went out without her. Maybe that was dangerous—letting them see how much fun they’d have when she wasn’t around . . .

  No. She banished the wicked thought before it could land.

  She stalked into the living room, found a half-empty bottle of warm white wine, and defiantly filled her I ❤ NY mug. She yanked the freezer open to knock out a few ice cubes. The tray was empty. Never, in all the time they’d lived together, had Krista ever refilled the ice cube tray. It was deeply and intensely annoying. One time, Evie had actually caught her placing an empty one back in the freezer. “Oh,” she’d said, looking at it as if it had magically appeared in her hand. “I didn’t notice.”

  With gritted teeth, Evie diligently refilled the tray, slammed the freezer door shut, then took her warm wine back to her bedroom.

  Searching for distraction, she scrolled through Twitter. A few of her Twitter friends were retweeting a quote from Velma Wolff’s new book, Milk Teeth.

  “If you want to be the king of the jungle, wear the skin of a lion.”

  Her brain helpfully played back her mortifying encounter with the writer earlier that day. “I get it. I do, I really just . . . I get it.”

  The way Velma casually, even politely, dismissed her entire existence.

  She shuddered and took another slug of wine. Then she Googled Velma Wolff girlfriend and clicked to Images.

  The top three sections listed “Velma Wolff and Emiko Aki,” “Velma Wolff and Drew Barrymore,” and “Velma Wolff New Girlfriend.”

  Emiko Aki, the Japanese-American model-slash-actress, had been Velma’s live-in girlfriend for almost four years. The relationship had ended six months ago, bookended by passionless statements from both their publicists stating they still cared for each deeply, yadda yadda yadda. They made a striking pair: Velma with her tumble of dark blond hair, Emiko with her scythe of glossy black. The pictures were combinations of paparazzi shots and photos taken at red-carpet events. The paparazzi shots captured oddly compelling domesticity: the pair walking down the street, eating lunch, simply having conversations. A few blurry shots of Emiko yelling, face stormy, hands flung in the air. Velma was purportedly a womanizer, but Evie figured this could easily be the fantasy of a hyperactive, hysterical media. Mostly, though, they were celebrity event photos. Evie liked these the best. Emiko was grinning like a jungle cat, one hand curled possessively around Velma’s arm. Velma looked somewhere between smug and bored. She was mostly dressed in her trademark Dior pantsuits, looking like Marlene Dietrich, sometimes so cocky as to have a thin cigarette hanging from her lips. With her heavy-lidded eyes, gap-toothed smile, and hair twisted back and messy, Velma was undeniably stunning: a replica of nothing.

  There were no posed couple photos of her with Drew Barrymore. Their relationship had never been confirmed. The only digital evidence was a cover they did for Out magazine, a series of them watching a Sleater-Kinney concert, and photos from feministy-type charity events. There were even a few of them kissing, closemouthed, deliberately provocative. As much as Evie wanted to believe they’d had an affair, they probably were just friends.

  The photos of “Velma Wolff New Girlfriend” were the newest and most diverse. The witchy, tattooed Chess Hudsen, who’d won the prestigious Kaikou F. Lozzi Prize a year before Velma had with her second novel, fghwncbuwo. Jemima Westley, the Victoria’s Secret model with a face like a kitten and body like a fifties pinup. And a series of young actresses and famous daughters and professional party girls who were bi or gay or experimenting or fame-hungry. Even though Velma had been photographed (and thus Googleable) for the past ten years, her expression remained the same. There was something unreachable about her. A distance. Velma didn’t seem to care what people thought of her. It was almost as if the whole world was waiting for her cue. She acted like she was hot shit and it didn’t come off as arrogant, at least not to Evie, because, well, she was. Velma was just being honest.

  Evie swallowed a mouthful of wine and traced the line of Velma’s cheek with the back of her fingernail.

  Velma endeared herself to book snobs by railing against literary trends. For years, her favorite target was vampire novels. Then she wrote one. Milk Teeth was about bloodsuckers, succubi, the undead. Velma seemed to get off on being adored for one point of view, then completely reversing her position. Milk Teeth was Evie’s favorite Wolff so far.

  A tickle of desire wiggled between her thighs.

  Evie opened her online dating account. Three new messages. All from guys. Nothing from Quinn. Disappointing. The first, from curry_ heaven: UR pretty. Can I take you on date lol? The second, from WineNot: If I told you u had a beautiful body, would u hold it against me? What about if I told u I came looking at your butt in those jeans? And the third, from Fun2BeAround: You look like a man in this picture.

  Evie deleted all three methodically, trying hard not to give in to the acidic disappointment that threatened to suck her under.

  It wasn’t as if Evie wanted to be with someone who was particularly good-looking. She’d always told herself that looks didn’t matter. But deep down, she knew she thought that because they couldn’t matter.

  Because she wasn’t good-looking.

  One of the fears buried in her Shame Cave was this: her looks were holding her back. From being powerful; being someone people listened to, someone people responded to automatically. From finding a spectacular partner who lit up a room, from having sex with tens. Fr
om getting ahead in her career. Because of course, of course, she had the friggin’ personality to audition for Extra Salt. And although she’d shoved it out of her mind, it fucking hurt for Jan not to consider it, not even for a second.

  But Evie hated these thoughts.

  She rolled off her bed, telling herself she was getting a snack. She could almost fool herself into thinking picking up the Pretty from the living room table was not premeditated. The lavender liquid rested in her open palm: Shakespearian folly in a bottle.

  Intellectually, she knew how flawed a society was that made beauty a value, the value, for women.

  But could the Pretty make her life better?

  11.

  Willow was expecting Krista to take them somewhere loud and shiny, the sort of place that had a dance floor and twenty-dollar cocktails. She was wrong. Signed black-and-white photos of old men Willow didn’t recognize crowded the bar’s smoke-stained walls. Guys in jeans nursed damp glasses of beer. It smelled like sweat and french fries. Krista informed her it was a big comedian hangout, and that she used to come here after improv class. The ratio of men to women was five to one, and the girls were just wearing T-shirts and jeans. Willow prickled, feeling out of place in Krista’s barely-there dress. Krista ordered two glasses of white wine and a cheeseburger, bloody as hell, with a side of tater tots. When the wine appeared, Krista took a sip, darted her eyes around the room, then started playing with her hair. She’s always moving, Willow thought. Like a child or someone on speed. But then Krista froze. “Holy shit, check it out.”

  Three guys had just entered the bar. The one in the middle was vaguely familiar, with a nice face and dark skin. Willow guessed he was an actor. They always had fancier watches and shoes than everyone else in the room. This guy had a Rolex and leather wing tips poking out from the bottom of his jeans. “That’s Ravi fucking Harlow,” hissed Krista.