I'll Eat When I'm Dead

by Barbara Bourland

  Bess took the wheel. “Anders, did you know that the textile industry is the world’s third-largest overall polluter, and the second-largest polluter of our water supply after agriculture? Each year eighty billion garments are produced worldwide. The global production of cotton alone consumes one trillion gallons of water, thirty-three trillion gallons of oil, and twenty billion pounds of chemicals annually.”

  “We’re starting with face cream that could kill you,” Cat continued, “but we won’t stop until you can be certain that the blouse you’re wearing didn’t poison someone’s well water. When we rely on goods—beauty products, clothing, shoes, anything—made under conditions that violate our own moral and ethical codes, we become vested in the oppression of others. The American woman can change that with her dollar.”

  Subscriber issues were delivered worldwide at 4:00 a.m. GMT on the same day the September issue hit newsstands. Protesters had chained themselves to the Food and Drug Administration’s headquarters in Washington, DC, by lunchtime; two members of Congress who had taken particularly lucrative positions on behalf of beauty-industry lobbyists resigned by 3:00 p.m. Four national pharmacy chains cleared their shelves of product from subsidiaries of Esme Bowder, Ruby Global, Calico Inc., and Raven & Co.—leaving just two brands of shampoo left in the bulk of their stores. The Dow fell 1,282 points before close.

  Over the last eight weeks Cat and Bess had been promoted from their comfortable status as boldfaced names in trade publications like Women’s Wear Daily to a full-blown international obsession, dissected daily in every corner of the internet. Their glamorous mug shots, salacious backstories, perfect pedigrees, camera-ready wardrobes, and Photogram histories had sparked a flame of curiosity in the public eye; Paula had no trouble convincing Margot that flame could be fanned into a frenzy that would burn to RAGE’s advantage.

  The first weeks of their ejection into the coliseum of public opinion had been merely an experiment. Cooper’s publicists sent them to events throughout August, with full makeup, hair, and wardrobe, as food for the internet’s gaping maw, and it had worked like a charm. After only a few days, Mania devoted an entire vertical and real-time interactive map to Cat and Bess, running it completely on user-generated content that pulled the GPS coordinates from any photo that was taken of them anywhere. Margot had been enraged. Why aren’t we the ones who are capitalizing digitally on our own fucking product? she’d screamed at Paula, but it didn’t matter. The map was just one of the pieces lighting the route of their new trajectory, and RAGE’s subscriptions went up by half a million.

  The amount of time Cat and Bess now spent preparing to be photographed cut into their workdays significantly. They were no longer expected to attend meetings or even review copy. Other staffers, their workloads doubled, bristled with resentment; only Molly threw herself into their service, refusing to return to school for fall semester on the basis that they “obviously” needed her help. Bess was grateful for the loyalty and allocated Molly a stipend for the year, calling her a “contributing assistant editor.” Molly picked up the slack without question and happily settled into the cubicle next to Bess’s, where she arrived early in the morning and was the last to leave at night.

  “Congratulations. You still have jobs here,” Paula had said to Cat and Bess the morning they’d returned to the office after their release. “Right now your jobs are to go out and be the faces of RAGE. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

  So they spent the rest of their summer showing up at factories filled with child slaves in Cambodia; they made appearances at the headquarters of Gap, Nike, Apple, and even Walmart to meet with executives about their living-wage efforts, factory conditions, and sustainability efforts. They opened stores and approved beauty products, doing each other’s hair and makeup on live television as they chatted idly about what their favorite new brands contained, hosting behind-the-scenes B-roll at deeply vetted pharmaceutical labs, all the while providing the internet black hole with constant new images of themselves, sometimes five outfits a day, for perusal, assessment, commentary. The eight weeks between their arrest and tonight’s event had gone by in an instant.

  Occasionally when she was trying to fall asleep at night, Cat tried to calculate the number of dollars people were making on her name. The Cat Economy. She’d stopped counting once she multiplied the image licensing fees beyond $10 million.

  She started running every day when she woke up, both to cleave any leftover meat off her bones—seeing pictures of her own body everywhere left her reeling with insecurities—and to burn the anxiety out of her mind. If she was tired enough to sit still by the time Raphael and June arrived to do her hair and makeup, she’d be able to make it through the day, to complete the labor of rotating her polished alabaster skin toward whatever lens was watching. You’re changing the world, she told herself. You’re forcing even Walmart to care about buying living-wage wholesale. You’re the impetus for the first real beauty regulatory bill in Congress. You’re someone. You’re important.

  Bess stepped into her new position with an addict’s gusto, reveling in the new clothes that showed up on her doorstep by the trunkful, considering the appearances and events merely the cost of doing business. She spent her downtime smoking pot and itemizing her growing collection of stuff in CoopDoc spreadsheets.

  Each night was the same. They hopped into the Suburban after events, cut each other out of their clothes, and wiped their faces clean before retiring alone to their apartments where they’d scroll through Photogram, too exhausted from a full day of socializing to speak to anyone. Cat particularly loved a meme that pasted her unsmiling photos over pictures of puppies and kittens with the caption “ur not good enuf.” Bess loved fan comments that displayed the same affinity for cataloging that she’d been born with, and spent her downtime happily confirming the tiniest details about her outfits—the color of her nail polish, the brand of her belt.

  They’d briefly tried to make friends in this new world but discovered that anything and everything they said managed to get quoted the following day, often incorrectly, online. There was no one to trust except the people they paid. Other celebrities either ignored them completely—famous for eight weeks certainly wasn’t famous enough for most—or simpered with a condescending excitement that served only to point out the novelty of their existence.

  Their new lives affected everyone around them. Bess’s sister Ella, the hard-partying film and television agent, had stepped in to negotiate their appearance fees and strong-armed several CEOs into meeting with the two girls. She was the one who had ensured Cooper would pay for the Suburban, the driver, the clothes, and the fees for their new entourage; she was the one who landed Walmart. Last week, Ella had hired two freelancers to keep up with the appearance requests and contract minutiae.

  Cat emailed her mother once a week with an update about what she’d accomplished; Anais always wrote back right away, with “Ik zie U graag, Katteke,” but not much more. I love you, little kitten. She didn’t understand.

  The October issue was due on newsstands in under two weeks and expectations were high. Cat and Bess were only vaguely aware of the contents, now that their days consisted solely of changing clothes and trying to keep up with their own insane schedules. Cat had done her best to update her CoopDocs for Lou with detailed notes and instructions. She prayed that Dotty for It, Judy and the Technicolor Housecoat, Tea Party All Night: A Celebration of Suri Cruise, and Gone Yachting (A Gowanus Story) had been shot correctly, but no one shared proofs with her anymore. She’d have to wait for newsstands to see if they’d worked.

  As the Childlike Publicist motioned her toward the next step-and-repeat, Cat wondered what Hutton was doing right now.

  She’d texted him exactly six days ago, her bruised ego finally and wholly faded in direct inverse proportion to her overwhelming loneliness. Hi, she’d written, late at night, alone again in her apartment, a little mew across the chasm built between them since her arrest seven weeks earlier. He’d te
xted back immediately. Hi. Can I call you?

  She responded by calling him, her heart cracking when she heard his voice. They both fell over apologizing; him for putting her in jail, her for ignoring him for so long. You were right, she’d told him. It was worth it. The September issue proved that. Hutton allowed long silences to go between their words, the spaces knitting a new intimacy, before he finally admitted he’d knowingly pushed her into it; but that he was still crazy about her, and he was more sorry than he’d ever been; could she forgive him? I already have, she’d replied.

  Since then they’d spoken on the phone every single night when Cat got home but hadn’t yet seen each other again in person. Cat said she wasn’t ready. Hutton had accepted her explanation without question. That’s fine, he’d said. I’ll wait. And he did; he waited patiently, getting to know her a little bit better every night over the telephone.

  He’d been promoted to a unit in the Major Case Division and moved down to One Police Plaza, the NYPD headquarters in the financial district, to work with the senior team, whose members were continuing to investigate the sources of funding behind Bedford Organics. He was probably there right now, Cat thought, going over casework. She pictured him sitting behind his desk in his rumpled clothes, a pen in his long fingers, sorting stacks of paper. Her cheeks started to burn from smiling, and she suddenly very much wanted to be out of the spotlight.

  She walked away from the step-and-repeat and ducked behind it into a white VIP tent, looking around for Bess’s blonde curls. The tent was full of fragile women in expensive dresses looking pained, but none were Bess.

  The Childlike Publicist appeared with a tall cane that collapsed into a chair, an object popular in nursing homes and backstage at fashion shows. Cat sank into it gratefully and wrote a quick text to Hutton; whatcha doing later, it said. No reply.

  “There’s just two more shots! We can be soso quick with those,” the publicist squealed, her baby voice coming out in a rolling vocal fry.

  “No, I can’t,” Cat said firmly. “I did two. I’m contracted for two.”

  “IknowIknow, but BP would be soso happy if you could help out. It’ll be so quick.”

  “No!” Cat snapped, closing her eyes to avoid making eye contact.

  At first she and Bess had worn themselves out trying to meet the demands of all the handlers, publicists, assistants, and photographers they encountered every day. Two weeks into their new life Ella had accompanied them for the day “just to make sure” everything was going according to plan. She’d barked fiercely at everyone, refused everyone, embarrassed them horribly—and reduced their fatigue by half. Over dinner that night at Farmer’s Almanac, a new rooftop urban garden overlooking Newtown Creek in Greenpoint, Ella had lectured them on the value of saying no.

  “My assistant sends you a summary every fucking morning, okay?” she’d fumed, waving away the gingham-romper-clad waitress who was trying to get her to stop smoking. “Disaster is my business. I can get you your lives back, but not if you give them away first. Just say no. Don’t do more than they pay for. Ever.”

  Ella then put her cigarette out dramatically in a rhubarb Napoleon topping the passing dessert cart, threw back a thimbleful of grappa, and left. Cat and Bess soon discovered that she’d gotten their meal (a seven-course tasting menu with wine pairings) comped on the way out the door. They looked at the Mania map. Forty-six users had pegged them there. The next day the restaurant had been “closed to new reservations until further notice.”

  The following week’s schedule was impossible. Ella and Paula had booked them into dozens of appearances in the days leading up to Fashion Week. Cat wasn’t sure how she was going to handle it. She was getting increasingly uncomfortable eating in public. She missed having something to worry about besides how she looked.

  The sapphire ring on her middle finger buzzed. It was programmed to alert her when Bess, Lou, Paula, Margot, Molly, her mother, or Hutton tried to contact her; all other notifications were disabled. She reached for her phone to see a text from Bess:

  where are ya

  white tent, in chair

  ask someone to take you through the opera stage door

  ok see you in five

  Cat looked up from her phone and tried to orient herself among the center’s three buildings. The publicist pounced at the opportunity to catch her attention and placed her little body squarely in Cat’s eyeline.

  “Feelingggg betterrrr?” the girl drawled out. “I know I get so so tired when I get all dressed up.”

  Cat wouldn’t be coerced into a bonding session. “Please take me to the opera stage door,” she said, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. She put her phone back inside the black Lucite bag the stylist had given her earlier.

  “Happy to!” the girl chirped, disappointment flashing briefly across her face. “I just want to say, though, you two are So. Awesome.” A manic grin stretched across the matte pancake of her contoured cheeks, the tiny pearls of her teeth gleaming with the taste of opportunity. “If you ever need an assistant, let me know, because I have really enjoyed working with you today.” She cocked her head in a way that was meant to telegraph enthusiasm. Yet all Cat could see was a sentient bottle of drugstore foundation.

  “Sure thing,” Cat said, accidentally knocking the folding chair over as she stood up. “I have to leave now, though.” She looked down at the chair, unable to even bend over to pick it up.

  “Ohmigod of course…of course! Right this way.” The girl left the chair splayed on the ground and wrapped her bony little fingers around Cat’s arm, moving her briskly toward the Met and tugging her efficiently through the huddled masses of socialites, editors, handlers, bloggers, and photographers clogging the plaza. A bug hit Cat squarely in the face, but she didn’t dare react—not with all the cameras nearby.

  The publicist held open the glass doors of the opera, then ushered Cat through a series of velvet-flocked doors into the cavernous backstage area. Huge logos fabricated out of fiberglass were stacked neatly against the walls in the order they would be loaded; plastic craft tables were heaped with labeled crates and boxes for the following week’s builds. Cat wound her way through a dozen piles of rope, curtain, scrim, and coiled electrical wire before she spotted Bess’s blonde curls in the distance.

  She tried to detach herself from the girl’s grip, but her surprisingly strong fingers wouldn’t budge.

  “I have to get you to the car!” she chirped again, yanking Cat along with even more force. “That’s my job!!”

  Cat gave in and let herself be pulled through the hallway like a disobedient pony. She’d learned it was just easier to go along and get along. Ten yards later they rounded the corner into the loading dock, where Bess was being held in place by another teen.

  “Get this fucking car here right NOWWWWW!” screeched Bess’s warden into her iPhone, entitlement dripping off her like drool from a dog’s mouth. “This is important,” she hissed, winking at Bess, who rolled her eyes.

  “Please don’t yell at our driver,” Bess said wearily, trying to take the girl’s phone away. “It’s really unnecessary.” The publicist maneuvered away from her, putting down the phone but keeping the line open so the driver could hear her every word.

  “He needs to understand you are important. V-I-P-P. That’s what our firm does, we provide Very Important People for Parties. These drivers are just not grateful enough for these opportunities, you know? Honestly,” she said, her tween face suddenly looking genuinely fatigued. “This is New York. We could hire anybody.”

  Before Cat could remind her that Jim was employed by Cooper, and not whatever their PR firm was called, the Suburban pulled into the loading dock. She exhaled: only one more costume change and event before she could finally go home, eat Chinese food, and call Hutton. She released herself from the publicist’s fingers and tried to choke out a “Thank you” before fleeing down the loading ramp into the car.

  Jim held the passenger side door open for them. “I’m
so sorry about that,” Bess said to him as he hoisted her up onto the seat. Cat climbed in behind her.

  “I couldn’t care less,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re a good guy, Jim,” Bess said once he’d walked around and climbed into the driver’s-side captain’s chair. “Thank you.”

  “Cooper?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.

  “If that’s what the schedule says,” Cat replied.

  Jim nodded, shifted into drive, and turned the radio to their favorite satellite station without comment as he sped his wards back to their Midtown barn.

  Cat pulled up their schedule on her phone. They were indeed heading back to Cooper for an outfit change, scheduled to be seen walking into a brand-new Nolita restaurant in two hours with a pair of actors that IQ—Cooper’s biggest men’s title—would be putting on the covers of the November and December issues, respectively. Cat hadn’t met either of them before, but she wasn’t thrilled about going to dinner with two closeted narcissists wearing tinted moisturizer and lifts in their shoes. She showed their photos to Bess, who shook her head sadly.

  “I hate, hate, hate actors,” she said. “And what is this restaurant anyway? They only serve toast? Is that a joke?”

  Traffic thickened and they pulled to a stop. Cat used her phone to change the car’s satellite station from XMU to a twenty-four-hour internet channel of Pop-Up Video. LCD screens unfolded from the roof, playing the video for “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” by R.E.M.

  The two girls sang along quietly at first, but were screaming by the time they got to “Leonard Bernstein.” Jim joined in on the choruses. Cat couldn’t hear his voice, but she could see his lips moving in the rearview mirror.