by Ella Berman
The interview is trickier to navigate. Even though I have told Camila she needs to focus on my hiatus and return only, and to avoid the subject of Able, her questions are still probing, and they affect me more than I thought they would. I try not to let her see that she’s getting to me, becoming more creative with my diversionary tactics as the hours pass.
“Everyone makes out like I was literally plucked off the streets and rescued from this depressing existence, but I had a good life in England, too, you know? I’ve always had a family who love and support me,” I say at one point, smiling amiably. “I’m aware that I’ve been incredibly lucky in that respect.”
Camila nods, but I can tell from how she shifts in her seat that she is frustrated by the uninspiring answers I’ve been giving her since we started.
“And what about the drinking? There have been rumors that you’ve had a problem with alcohol for a number of years.”
I take a deep breath and stretch out my hands in front of me, palms up. The picture of openness, honesty, asking for forgiveness.
“Yes, I was absolutely overindulging at one point. I’m trying to understand how it happened, and I think that it was because I never had to learn who I was when I was alone. Being back home with my family this past year has really grounded me. I’ve been sober for over a year now,” I say, nodding graciously when Camila congratulates me, as I knew she’d have to do. I think of the bottle of pills in my bag, and hope I closed it before leaving it by the foot of the kitchen table. “I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, and I promise you that I’m hyperaware of my own privilege. I know that I’m not saving any lives. I’m just trying to be the best version of myself.”
I wonder if Camila is trying not to roll her eyes.
“And what about Emilia? Can you tell me about what this relationship means to you?” she asks then, watching me closely as she changes tack, and I understand that I have already backed myself into a corner by choosing Emilia’s house for the shoot. If I deflect in any way, I will be flagging up to Emilia that something is wrong.
“Emilia,” I call, and Emilia smiles from her position behind Camila. I pat the sofa next to me and she takes a seat.
“Camila was asking about you,” I say, before turning back to the reporter. “Emilia is my rock. I’m proud to call her my friend.”
Emilia smiles at me and takes my hand.
“We would do anything for this girl. Woman. She’s a member of our family.”
The photographer takes a photo of us, and just like that, our affection for each other is immortalized. Snap.
Camila nods and scribbles something down. I narrow my eyes and then smile when she looks up.
“And Dylan? What role does he play in the life of this new and improved Grace Turner?”
Hyde.
“Dylan will be in my life forever. Our souls have known each other for a really long time now.”
“Are you talking about past lives?” Camila asks, her pen hovering over her pad.
“Absolutely,” I say, widening my eyes slightly. “We have the strongest karmic connection.”
Emilia sneaks a look at me. I know it’s a good deflection even if I sound like a fantasist. Camila frowns and puts her pen down.
“And right now? Are you still together? And I’m talking physically as opposed to spiritually,” she stresses, smiling blandly at me.
“Dylan is my best friend,” I say carefully. “And he supports every step I’m taking to rediscover who I am, and what brings me peace.”
I check my watch and realize the interview should have been over twenty minutes ago. I feel vaguely irritated that nobody told me, and I stand up to stretch.
“Have you got what you need?” I ask brightly.
Camila shrugs and stands up too. She’s probably terrified that I’m going to tell her more about my past lives. I silently thank Margot for that one.
“For now, Grace. Like I said, I’m planning on turning this around quickly, but I’ll be in touch if I need you to clarify anything.”
I kiss Camila and the photographer on each cheek and lead them to the front door. At the last minute Camila turns back and hits record again on her device. She holds it out between us, and I stare down at it. Emilia is standing protectively next to me.
“One thing I forgot to ask. Have you got anything to say about Able’s influence on your life? What it’s like being known as his ‘muse’?”
I freeze and it takes everything in my power not to open the door and push her through it. I think of all the things I could say that would be a lie, and I hate Camila for being so casual with the secret that has forced its way so violently into my sense of self.
I paste a rigid smile on my face.
“What can I say about Able? He made me who I am today.”
Camila’s eyes burn into mine for a second before she nods once. As Camila and the photographer finally turn to leave, Emilia asks Camila to send her a copy of the candid shot of the two of us on the sofa. She wants to frame it and put it on her wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I sit on Emilia’s bed with a glass of iced tea and watch her pack for her trip. I have made her late and she is stressed, although she’s trying not to let me see it. I have also been in a strange mood since Camila left, as if there were two versions of my life dangling in front of me for a moment, and somehow I chose wrong all over again. I look at Emilia and wonder if, in the long run, I’m going to end up hurting her more than I am Able.
“Are you okay, darling?” Emilia asks at one point.
“I’m fine,” I say, nodding, but I must not be convincing enough because Emilia pauses, clutching a change of clothes for after the flight in her hand, including a modest black silk bra. The intimacy of it all, that I now know what Able will be touching, unclasping, later that night, makes me flinch.
Emilia notices my discomfort and sits down next to me on the bed.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked if you were okay earlier. Today was a big deal, wasn’t it? It was the first time you’ve spoken publicly about your . . . sobriety. I know we’ve never spoken about it before.”
I nod slowly.
“You’re doing so beautifully, Grace. I want you to know that I see you.”
I want to ask Emilia why people are always lying to me like this, what purpose it serves when they make special concessions for me. Not having a drink in my hand or an opioid in my blood isn’t doing beautifully, it’s just doing what other people do every day without ever having to think about it.
Emilia puts her arm around my shoulders, and we sit together like that for a while, my body eventually softening into hers. And then, with a clarity that makes my chest feel tight, I realize why I don’t want Emilia to go to Salt Lake City. I don’t want her to go because Able doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve to feel safe or loved, to be told that everything will be okay whatever happens. I want Emilia to stay here with me instead, and I want her to choose me over Able, time and time again, until he feels as alone as I do.
“I guess it feels like there are just more people to let down this way,” I say after a moment, an idea slowly unfurling in my mind.
“You won’t let anybody down,” Emilia says firmly. “Remember that you aren’t accountable to anyone except for yourself. You need to keep your head down and focus on your own recovery. Fuck everyone else.”
“Can I be honest with you, Emilia?” I ask, and my whole body is trembling now. Emilia reaches over and takes my hand.
“Of course.”
“I’ve never wanted a drink more than earlier, when I was saying those words out loud.”
Emilia makes an anguished sound as she turns toward me.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry to hear that. I wish I could stay and look after you.”
I shrug, waving my hand at her, realizing as I do that it’s the
exact way that she does it.
“I’ll be okay. I’ve been through worse than this.”
“Is there someone we can call? Do you still have a sponsor?” Emilia murmurs.
I shake my head, and then I feel a rush of disappointment as Emilia stands up anyway, dropping the clothes from her hand into her overnight bag and zipping it up.
“Well, you know both Able and I will be home tomorrow night if you need us,” she says gently.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, forcing a smile. Emilia is watching me now with a sad look on her face, and I can see that she’s teetering on the edge of making the right decision; she just needs a little nudge.
“I should go,” I say as I stand up. Then, as I lean in to hug her good-bye, I dip my hand into the pocket of my bag and flick the bottle of Percocet out onto the bedroom floor. We both watch as the bright orange bottle rolls along the rug, stopping underneath Able’s bedside table. Emilia looks at the bottle and then back at me. I can’t tell whether she knows I did it deliberately or not, but either way it serves the same purpose.
“Excuse me, Grace. Give me a minute.”
I pick the bottle up and hold it in my clammy hand as I wait on the bed. I wonder what I’ve done, if I’ve gone too far this time. I take my phone out of my bag to distract myself, and find a message from Esme asking when we can meet again. I ignore it and put my phone away. After a long while, maybe twenty minutes, Emilia walks back in and stands in front of me. She looks flushed, unhappy, but she forces a bright smile.
“What do you say to a night of Katharine Hepburn movies and hot chocolate?”
“What about the screening?”
“I’ve spoken to Able, and he agrees that I should be with you tonight,” Emilia says, not looking at me anymore. “This is more important than his ego. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
“He doesn’t need you there?” I ask as Emilia wheels her suitcase back into her walk-in closet.
“You need me here,” she says, and I feel a stab of guilt that I’ve manipulated her like this, but mostly I am relieved that she chose me over him, even though I forced her to. I comfort myself with the notion that I’m actually protecting her, because if she knew what he was really like, she would never choose him again.
We sit together on the sofa with a mug each of creamy hot chocolate and a bowl of buttery popcorn to share, and we don’t speak another word about the interview, or Able, or my sobriety for the rest of the night. Instead we watch Stage Door and The Philadelphia Story, and just after midnight Emilia hands me a pair of brand-new silk pajamas before showing me to the guest room. I climb into the giant oak bed and, for once, fall asleep almost as soon as I close my eyes.
* * *
• • •
In the morning Emilia cooks me a heap of scrambled eggs with a smiley face made out of pine nuts, and, with her back turned to me, she tells me that she heard from Able overnight.
“He’s canceled his flight home,” she says, and I can’t quite read her tone. “He said he needs more time to work on the edit, whatever happens at the screening today.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I understand that he’s punishing her like he used to punish me.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, but there is an edge to her voice that I haven’t heard before. Emilia puts her own plate of eggs on the table and sits down opposite me, but she doesn’t eat. Instead she rests her chin in her hand, studying me.
“He won’t be back until the twenty-third,” she says after a moment, and the hardness is already dissipating. “Breezing back home just in time for Christmas with the kids.”
I feel a jolt of energy at Emilia’s words, but I try to keep my face neutral as I swallow my mouthful of food and place my hand over hers on the table. Emilia’s engagement ring is sharp against my palm as I smile at her comfortingly.
“Well, you know I’m always here if you need me,” I say, and I can almost feel her gratitude for my presence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Wren walks down the stairs of the glass house in a short black dress and snakeskin Louboutin shoes, with her glossy hair tumbling perfectly down her tanned back, her skin glowing with youth or goodness or Glossier highlighter or something, but Dylan still hasn’t looked at her once.
I’m wearing a silk Saint Laurent dress I bought in Paris, and I want to believe that I only remember I wore it on the first night of our honeymoon when I see Dylan’s face, but maybe I knew all along. Dylan stands for a few minutes staring at me on the doorstep, forgetting to invite me in, and I have to slip past him into the foyer of the house so that Wren doesn’t notice how strange the atmosphere is.
“What do you think?” Wren asks Dylan eventually, doing a self-conscious shake. She turns to me and explains, “I’m hardly ever out of my work clothes, so this is a big deal.”
Dylan nods and then glances at me again quickly before turning back to answer his girlfriend.
“Beautiful. You both look beautiful.”
Wren’s face crumples for one tiny second before her smile slides right back, and I already wish I were anywhere but here.
* * *
• • •
The taxi drops us at the top of an alley, right in the dirty heart of Hollywood. Wren and I walk past a snaking line of beautiful people of fluid gender and indeterminate age, and she takes me right to the front, where a man stands flanked on either side by two strikingly beautiful women in leather jackets and tight neon dresses. The bouncer frowns at me for half a second before waving us in, lifting the rope so that we can shuffle past him.
“I don’t want to eat anything tonight. We’re not eating, right?” Wren says, and I recognize her steely determination already, remembering how many times I’ve begged someone not to go home just because I need a warm body next to me while I self-destruct. She threads her arm around my waist and rests her head on my shoulder for a second as we walk, and the small gesture makes me want to try harder to make her happy.
The club is small and almost empty, despite the massive line outside. It is decorated like an old circus with neon lights and distorted mirrors lining the walls, and a bar at the back. Wren heads straight to the bar to order two dirty vodka martinis, her pale hand holding the back of the bartender’s head gently as she speaks.
“Filthy. I’m talking super, super dirty. Like how dirty you’re thinking right now, times a thousand,” she says loudly, and I wonder if she’s already drunk.
When the drinks arrive, Wren holds up her glass to cheers me before she downs half of her drink in one sip. I look down at my glass and imagine the vodka slipping down my throat easily, familiarly. I touch my glass to my lips and then take it away again when I remember Emilia telling me how beautifully I was doing. I’m finding it harder to remember whether I’m lying when I say I’ve never had a drinking problem, or when I say I have one.
“We should get another order in now. That felt like it took ages,” Wren says, taking another long sip of her drink.
“Wren, you know that’s just straight vodka and vermouth.”
“You’re right, not nearly enough olive brine. Can we get two more of these, please? Extra brine,” Wren shouts to the barman, and he nods. We stand, moving slightly to the music as the venue fills up around us. The music is louder now, and I’m grateful that neither of us has to make conversation because we really only have one thing in common.
“You look good,” Wren shouts at one point, studying me.
“I feel okay,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I’m scared that I’m leaving myself open for it all to be snatched away. It turns out that Wren wasn’t talking about my emotional well-being, though, as she reaches out to touch the ends of my hair softly before we’re interrupted by a beautiful boy dressed as a leopard asking Wren to take a picture of the two of us. Wren smiles and obliges, snapping a few photographs of us on his phone. Be
fore he leaves, the leopard boy asks me to say the line from Lights of Berlin, but I pretend not to hear him and pat him gently on his furry shoulder instead.
After he’s gone, Wren stares at me as if she’s still seeing me through a lens, frowning slightly and studying me.
“Who is the friend you were with last night?” Wren asks, and before I can change the subject from Emilia, the lights dim and a strange, frenetic drumming starts to thrum from the speakers. I subtly place my drink down onto a table next to us as we all move toward the purple spotlight in the center of the room, beaming down on a circular drum stage. A woman climbs onto it, holding a chainsaw in midair, inches away from the crotch of her lace thong. Her pale, teardrop breasts are covered only by small sequined nipple tassels that glitter in the purple stage lights. I watch with the rest of the crowd, both horrified and mesmerized until I can’t watch anymore, but when I turn to Wren, she is no longer next to me.
I find her back at the bar, whispering in the barman’s ear. By the time I make it through to her, I’ve already watched her do a shot of tequila with the barman, sucking on the lime like she’s eighteen and in Cabo for spring break. Before I can stop her she orders two picklebacks.
“Can we get some coke?” Wren asks, her eyes glassy and blank. It looks like the numbness has finally set in, and it’s miserable to watch.
“Have you ever done coke?” I ask her, aware that I’m being everything that someone who wants to self-destruct would hate most in the world.
“Never,” she says, just as the barman places two shots of whiskey in front of us, and a shot each of pickle juice to chase them. He grins when I glare at him over the size of the whiskey shots. They’re practically in tumblers. I grab Wren’s arm but she’s already downed the whiskey and is retching into her hand. I stick my middle finger up at the barman and lead Wren through the crowd, ignoring our distorted reflections in the mirrors as we pass.