by Ella Berman
* * *
• • •
On the car journey home, I feel weightless, like I did in the swimming pool my first morning back at the glass house. Silver and Ophelia are staying with friends, so it’s just the two of us, and when Emilia turns the radio up loud for a Beach Boys song it feels as if I’m hearing music for the very first time, the harmonies crisp and clear, suspended in the air around us.
I sneak a peek at Emilia, stupidly grateful for something I can’t name. My mood isn’t even dampened when Esme rings and I have to fumble to send the call to voicemail before Emilia sees. I tell myself that I’m protecting my sister, but I know I’m just being selfish because I would never be able to answer a single question about Esme without revealing too much of myself.
“I actually need to talk to you about something,” Emilia says when we’re nearly back at Coyote Sumac. She looks sheepish, and a flurry of apprehension steals a piece of my high.
“I hope you don’t think I’ve been meddling, but you seemed so excited the other day about the John Hamilton project, and I couldn’t resist having a little word with him about it. I don’t know if you know, but he’s a dear friend of the family. He’s actually Silver’s godfather,” Emilia says, grinning like a fool. “And he said that he wants to meet with you. Soon. Do you hate me?”
“No,” I say, surprised that I somehow forgot that everyone is a dear friend of anyone in LA. “But I heard they’d already cast the role he wanted me for.”
Emilia frowns slightly. “Oh, you know this kind of thing is always changing.”
“He figured I was a liability and pulled out,” I say, and Emilia flinches before smiling ruefully.
“I think he was just worried, but I’ve spoken to him and he’s excited to meet you. He’s going to call Nathan to arrange it all.”
“Thanks, Emilia,” I say, and Emilia waves her hand dismissively, causing the car to swerve slightly.
“I did next to nothing, trust me,” Emilia says. “Although once it’s announced, we should get you on a late-night talk show, or maybe Ellen? We need to truly mark your return somehow.”
“Why are you doing all this?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Emilia pulls up outside my house and turns the engine off, before turning to study me.
“If it’s because you still feel guilty about not looking after me when I was younger, then it’s fine. You had the twins, you were busy, the last thing you needed was another charge. I get it.”
Emilia shakes her head.
“I’m doing this because we’re friends, Grace, like you told Camila the other day,” she says. “And friends help each other out.”
I pause, my hand on the car door handle.
“Thank you,” I say, turning away before Emilia can notice the stricken look on my face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
You look like a deranged elderly runaway,” Esme observes, frowning at me in the mirror, and I’m already regretting her presence.
“Or an extra from Les Misérables,” Blake offers from behind her impossibly small sunglasses. I glare at them both as I pull off the dress, even though they’re not wrong—the dress is the color of wet sand with elbow-length sleeves and a ragged hem. I’m not sure it’s exactly what Laurel had in mind when she scheduled the fitting for me.
“I didn’t ask you here for your styling advice. I’m already paying someone way too much for that,” I say at the exact moment my stylist, Xtina, walks back in from the bathroom. Esme snorts and I glare at her.
“Actually, I didn’t even ask you here. Why are you two here again?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“Therapy was canceled,” Blake says. “Some sort of celebrity hypno-birthing emergency.”
“How much longer do you have to be in therapy for?” I ask, turning around to look at her.
“I guess until I’m cured!” Blake says, doing jazz hands for a second before dropping them back down to her lap. “Or at least until I leave for college.”
Esme shakes her head sympathetically. “You have to meet Blake’s mother to understand. Talk about deranged.”
“Have you met ours?” I mutter. “I’m not even sure she’s aware that therapy exists.”
“Why do you think we’re such good friends?” Blake asks, and Esme shoots her a look in the mirror, but I think it’s half-hearted and only because she would be betraying our mother if she didn’t.
“Are you coming home next week?” Esme asks me, and I turn to face her, confused. “For Christmas, Grace.”
Shit. I turn back around and pretend to assess my reflection in the mirror again. It’s always been easier to lie to myself than to my sister, and I still feel guilty about blowing her off on the weekend.
“I’m figuring it out.”
Xtina hands me a black dress, and I unenthusiastically put it on, even though I can already see that it will wash me out. Xtina is a stylist based in New York, and every year leading up to awards season she takes over a suite in the Four Seasons to clothe her clients in beautiful, overpriced dresses and jewelry loaned to her by different designers. The IFA dress code is different from the Oscars in that you don’t officially have to wear black tie, but I’ve been warned that I need to play it safe, as the fashion blogs will already be gearing up to put me on their worst-dressed lists.
“That interview you did was pretty sick,” Blake says, shifting positions in her chair.
“Did you really like it?” I ask, ever the needy actress. I even turn around to study her face to see if she’s telling the truth. The Vanity Fair interview was published online yesterday morning, and it appears that I hit the perfect note of contriteness, spiritualism and strength to satisfy the baying masses. Laurel told me she had already fielded dozens of requests for more interviews or TV appearances off the back of it. “The tide is turning!” she’d added, just before we hung up. After we spoke, I reread the interview alone in my house with a growing sense of dread: Camila had included everything except for my quote on Able, and the omission felt ominous rather than generous—as if she could be saving it for a different story.
“Yeah. I also heard my mom and her friends talking about it. They kept saying how brave you were to talk about your issues like that. They’re also really hoping you get back with Dylan.”
I nod slowly, turning to Esme. “Did our mom read it?”
“If she did, she didn’t mention it to me.”
“Cool,” I say, not wanting to ask outright what Esme thought of it, even though I’m sure she would have read it. I unzip the ugly black dress and pull it over my head, instinctively assessing my half-naked body in the mirror as I wait to be handed something else to try. When I look up, Esme is watching me over her phone.
“Hey, Grace. Do you think maybe I was the vain sister in a past life?” Esme asks then, grinning smugly at me. I roll my eyes at her. Of course she thought my interview was idiotic.
The next dress Xtina hands me is yellow with long sleeves and a cream silk bow at the neck. I raise my eyebrows at Esme in the mirror, and she shakes her head slightly back at me. It’s too fussy, too prim.
“What about that one,” I say, pointing to a slithery gunmetal dress hanging at the end of a rail Xtina hasn’t touched since I’ve been here. The rail has been pushed into the corner of the room behind another rail filled with fake fur coats and brightly colored stoles.
Xtina shakes her head, playing with the end of her braid. “I’m sorry, that one doesn’t work.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain, but only certain designers are available for certain clients and events.”
I wonder if someone else is wearing it, and that makes me want to wear it even more. Esme smirks at me in the mirror.
“I think she means that whoever designed it doesn’t want you to wear their clothes,” she says, trying not to laugh.
> “Look at all this other stuff though!” Blake says loudly, pointing to the pile of dresses I’ve already tried on.
I walk over and touch the gunmetal dress, the heavy material surprisingly soft in my hand. It is made up of thousands of tiny sequins that give the overall impression of an impenetrable suit of armor.
“Can I try it on at least?” I ask, and Xtina nods at me, because even though my value is currently somewhere around basement level, she still works for me. I slip into the dress, and the fabric settles onto my skin, cool and slithery. The dress is skintight around my breasts and waist before skimming off my hips and around the softness of my belly, ending exactly at my toes. It is the first dress I’ve tried on today that hasn’t been chosen solely to mask my new “fuller” figure; dresses with sleeves that cover my upper arms, or capes cascading over my shoulders and down to the hem of the dress. As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, Xtina smiles reluctantly.
“It does look cute.” She holds her phone up and takes a photo of me. “I’ll send it to their PR and we’ll see what we can do, okay? No promises though.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I think they’ll let me wear it once they read the Vanity Fair interview.
Esme and Blake are watching me in the mirror.
“I’m loath to admit it,” I start, smiling at them both, maybe because I think my sister might even be impressed for once, “but this feels good.”
I turn slightly in the mirror so that the dress catches the light and shimmers back at me like a snake.
“Are you still going to do it?” Esme asks then, catching my eye. “Like we talked about?”
I frown at her and turn back to Xtina instead.
“Do you have anything I could wear over the next few days? I’ve got a couple of lunch meetings and things.”
“Let me think about it. I have another appointment now, but I can get some looks together and courier them over to you later? I feel like white is really working on you with that hair.”
I can feel Esme’s eyes on me as I change out of the dress and into my regular clothes, but I ignore her. I try not to think about her question, about what it would mean for the baby steps I’ve been taking to reclaim parts of my life I thought I lost years ago. I think about Emilia’s fierce, seemingly unconditional belief in me, and I know that its value is something my sister would never be able to understand because she’s never lacked it from my parents, and I try not to resent her for it.
“What?” I ask eventually, when we’re in the elevator going down to the lobby, because Esme is still studying me as if she’s trying to work something out.
“Nothing. I just thought you said that none of this stuff was real,” she says.
“Of course it’s not,” I say. “It’s all bullshit.”
“You sure seem to be enjoying it a lot for someone who thinks that,” Esme says sort of smugly, as if she’s won a debate I didn’t even know we were having.
CHAPTER FORTY
In my experience, women who don’t say a lot are one of two things—exceptionally stupid or exceptionally smart. I figure you’re the latter, but nobody has given you the chance to show it,” John Hamilton says as he leans back in the wicker chair on his deck. We are at his house at the very top of the hills, so high up that the air feels thinner and the city unfolds beneath us like a game of Chutes and Ladders. John claims that the house was owned by a famous pop singer before him, the evidence to prove this being four Grammys left behind, because wherever she was going, she didn’t need them anymore.
“Mmm,” I say. The hot tub is bubbling away next to us, but I pretend not to notice. “And that’s just women?”
“Well, women are more extreme than men, wouldn’t you agree? There are a lot of mediocre men in this town, and not enough brilliant women.” John smiles winningly at me, and I can’t work out if what he said was actually an improvement because I’m blinded by his little marshmallow teeth, incongruously set somewhere in the middle of his large, fleshy face.
“You must have met my agent and manager then,” I say, and he just stares at me.
“What?”
“Mediocre men?”
“Ahhh. Ha. Ha ha, that’s funny,” John says, folding his arms across his chest. “See . . . ? You’re smart.”
I nod, wondering if I’m supposed to congratulate him on being smart enough to notice my smartness.
“Speaking of smart, that was a great interview you did,” John says then, and I look at him, surprised that he bothered to read it.
“It’s already Vanity Fair’s most shared piece this week,” I say, remembering now that Nathan told me to mention this. I hope I worded it correctly.
“That’s great. Like I said, it was a good move. So tell me . . . how much weight have you actually put on . . . ten, fifteen pounds?” John asks, his eyes narrowed as he assesses me. I can’t quite believe that this was his only takeaway from the interview, but, then again, maybe I can. I try to keep my face open, even though John must weigh nearly three hundred pounds himself and hardly seems qualified to be making this assessment. He smiles approvingly after a moment.
“Emilia told me it suited you and it does. Some women can’t carry it off, but your face is . . . I don’t know. Less harsh. You look like you could play a suburban mom now instead of the school drug dealer. A beautiful, young suburban mom, but you know . . . Hey, it’s a compliment,” he adds when I don’t respond, because I’m thinking about how glad I am that everyone feels so qualified to comment on my appearance in this way. I wonder whether all women are subjected to the same running commentary on their weight, or whether it’s reserved solely for the complicit, those of us trading in our looks for cash.
“So the project . . . ?” I say after a moment.
“Are you single right now?” John says, leaning back in his chair.
“Excuse me?”
John is sitting with his knees spread wide and his arms behind his head. He is both excessively comfortable in his own space and assured of his own power. I should stand up and thank him for his time, then walk out before he has the chance to demean me any more, but instead I am leaning toward him, my ten-to-fifteen-pounds-overweight body curving in on itself while I work hard to keep my tone light, my forehead uncreased, my jaw defined.
“You and Dylan . . . you guys broke up, right? I was sorry to hear it. I thought about hiring Dylan on this movie, give him that step up into features, but then I heard you guys were done, and I wanted you for the project more.”
“I think Dylan wants to stick to documentaries, actually,” I say, and I can hear how defensive I sound. I start again. “Tell me about the project, John. I really can’t wait to hear about it.”
“All right. You’re focused, that’s a good start. So it’s called Anatopia, and it’s this epic love story set in space. There are four planets that make up the dystopian galaxy of Anatopia: Neutron, Hydron, Platon and Euron. You’re Sienna, queen of Euron, and you’re at war with the other planets, only you’ve fallen in love with the son of the leader of Neutron. Your sworn enemy—”
“What are we at war over?”
“What?” he says, unimpressed at having been interrupted.
“What are we fighting about?”
“We’re still finessing the details,” he says. “We had a script but we weren’t happy with some parts of it, so we’re looking at some different names for a rewrite. Big names.”
“Big names! The biggest names you’ve ever seen!” I say, and he frowns at me.
“What?”
“Trump?” I say, grimacing. “I’m sorry, I think I’m nervous.”
John starts to laugh, thumping his hand against his thigh so animatedly that the housekeeper comes out to check on him.
“Agnes, great. Another La Croix for me—you want one, Grace? And can we get some of those smoked almonds, the ones with the low sodium?
Don’t bring them out if they’re not low sodium—I’ll be able to tell.”
Agnes nods and heads back into the house. I watch her retreat, sort of wishing I could follow her.
“So isn’t that wild? Does that sound wild to you?” he asks, grinning at me as he runs his hand through his hair, and the way he says wild makes me feel embarrassed for him.
“It does sound . . . wild,” I say, thanking Agnes for the can of La Croix she has brought out and poured over ice for me. “There was some talk of a feminist angle. Where is that?”
The drink crackles as I wait for John’s response. He doesn’t answer my question until Agnes has gone back inside.
“Sorry, I don’t like talking about work in front of the staff. You never know who they’re talking to, you know? Everyone in this town is working on a fucking script.”
“Mmm . . .” I say lightly, hoping Agnes doesn’t have to stay in this job for too long. “So the feminism?”
“The feminism is all in the way your character—that’s Sienna of Euron—how she’s this badass ruler of this entire planet, you know? But she never really wanted any of it, she nearly gives it all up for this Neutron guy, even kind of loses it for a while after he dies in battle, but it ends up being this fury that propels her to beat the other planets. When she emerges as the victor, you think the movie is over, but the real ending will totally destroy you. It makes the hair on my arms stand up just thinking about it,” he says, and he pauses to show me his large arm. I try to appear impressed, even though I can’t see anything happening in his follicles.