It was Ravi’s Instagram. And yes, it was her in the picture. Ravi was on all fours and she was riding him like a horse around the bar she’d taken Willow to last night. Fully clothed, but fully drunk. “Oh my god,” she whispered, before fighting a giggle. The picture was hilarious.
“You must’ve been pretty hammered to let him talk you into that,” Greg said.
“Dude. That was one hundred percent my idea.”
“Really?” Greg looked impressed. “Lenka, who are you here to see?”
“Cameron Mitchell.”
“Cameron’s your agent?” Greg lifted both hands, as if to say, What a coincidence. “Fantastic.” He glanced over Krista’s shoulder. “Ah! Speak of the devil.”
A squared-jawed man in a navy suit, pink shirt, and patterned pocket square was striding through the heavy glass doors. Cameron Mitchell. He was on his phone, but when he saw Greg, he spread out both arms. “G-man!”
The two men embraced, pounding each other on the back.
“Do not freak out,” Cameron began. “I already have five girls perfect for the part lined up. You are going to want to eat tapioca pudding out of my ass when you see them. Seriously: you’ll need seconds—”
But Greg was waving his hands, saying, “Don’t worry, it’s cool.” He gestured to Krista. “I found her. Lenka.”
Cameron trained sharky eyes on Krista. “Lenka?”
Krista knew she was out of her league, but no one was treating her that way. She was one of them. She could feel it. So she rolled with it. “Hey.” She stepped forward to shake Cameron’s hand. “What’s up?”
“Lenka.” Cameron nodded in approval. “Where have you been hiding, young lady? If you say CAA, I’ll fucking kill you.” He laughed. He had veneers.
“Wait,” Greg said, “you guys don’t know each other?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Cameron let his eyes trail up and down Krista’s body. He started nodding intently. “A little exotic, a little different. Fuck white bread. Yeah. I’m in!”
Greg smiled at Krista fondly. “Lenka, I’d like to offer you a part in my next film.”
“What?” Krista’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”
Greg nodded. “I am.”
“Let’s do it!” Cameron began pumping his hips in Krista’s direction. “Let’s put you in a fucking movie!”
Krista’s face split into a smile. She’d done it. She’d gotten a part, in a movie, in the goddamn foyer. Finally, someone had unhooked the velvet rope and was ushering her inside.
To Hollywood.
To motherfucking stardom.
17.
She felt him noticing her.
Amid the slipshod energy of peak hour in Soho, she could sense him recognizing her: Caroline, the tall, willowy blonde who’d claimed to be locked out of her apartment. She swung her eyes up to meet his.
Mark started. He’d been letting his eyes linger. Not just look.
For a moment, neither said a word: two players unsure how to begin a game. Then Mark cleared his throat. “You found your phone.” He nodded at it in her hand.
She blushed and ducked her head. “I’m sorry about that,” she said softly.
A wave of commuters started threading between them, compelling Mark to come closer. “Were you even locked out?”
Willow shook her head. “I . . . I’m shy.” She shrugged helplessly and laughed. “Pretty lame, right?”
He smiled at her. “Points for invention. And bravery. Next time—keep your phone on silent.”
Willow made a face at herself and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “Look, I’m sorry if I—”
“No need to apologize. Seriously.”
“Okay.” Once again she felt his gaze start to linger, to slide into softness, before he caught himself.
“Have a good night.” Mark gave her a quick nod, and turned away.
“I’m Caroline,” she called after him. “By the way.”
He turned back. His face contorted for a moment, as if he’d forgotten his own name. Or was considering telling a lie. “Mark.”
“You look like a Mark.” The breeze from a passing cab whipped her dress and hair around, reckless and warm. She could feel the effects of her eyes on him, those wide-set eyes the color of the Mediterranean. Hypnotizing. Like a drug.
“Bye.” He started striding off again. The wrong way. His subway stop was in the other direction.
Willow watched her boyfriend join the bobbing sea of commuters and shoppers and tourists filling the cobbled streets of Soho. She watched until he was swallowed up by the city.
Now she knew.
She knew what the beginning of betrayal felt like. A strange mix of sweet and sour. Of success and failure.
She started walking in the other direction, longing to be lost in the crowds.
18.
By the time Evie got home, she was overflowing with fizzy, prickly excitement. Despite her efforts to keep her emotions stitched inside Chloe’s smooth skin, they were pouring out, filling up the living room like a fish tank. She gave a little scream. She laughed out loud.
I got it!
I cheated Krista.
. . . I got it!
She snatched the Pretty from the coffee table, head spinning, wondering why Penny had given it to Krista, where they should keep it, and what exactly was in this tiny bottle, this tiny bottle that had already changed so much . . .
The front door burst open. Krista blew inside. “Dude, you’re never going to believe what happened to me today! I’m going to be in a movie!”
“What? That’s amazing!” Evie swallowed. “I have news too—”
Krista started running on the spot, shaking her hands in front of her. “You’ll never guess who with. Tristan McKell!”
Evie gaped. “Tristan McKell?”
“Tristan McKell! Tristan McKell! Tristan McKell!”
“Okay.” Evie ran her fingers through Chloe’s long hair, trying to catch her breath. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We are going to go to the roof—”
“Amazing.”
“We are going to watch the sunset—”
“Love it.”
“—and we are going to get. Fucking. High.”
Krista squealed and pumped her fist in the air.
The girls didn’t often use their apartment building’s rooftop. While it did have views of South Williamsburg and even a sliver of the East River, it was derelict and dirty and only accessible via a six-foot skeletal iron ladder Evie referred to as a death trap. But now, the victories of the day gave them the courage to climb. They left a note for Willow that simply said ROOF.
Soon they were reclining on plastic folding chairs in faded bikinis and cheap sunglasses. Below them, Brooklyn rumbled softly, glowing in late-afternoon light the color of mandarins. The air was warm and smelled faintly like melting tar and sunscreen: the summer breath of the city. Chloe’s body felt long and lean, like a sword. In the past, Evie found beachwear decisions to be complex affairs of trying to feel as confident as she was acting, equally uncomfortable in a bikini (too much pudge) and a one-piece (too much kowtowing to societal expectations). But Chloe made this dilemma a moot point.
Evie didn’t have to fake excitement at the news that Krista had gotten a part in a feature film. This rendered the Extra Salt audition switch completely irrelevant. There was no way she’d ever find out Evie had taken her spot. And even if someone, implausibly, ever told her, Evie would simply deny it. People believed whatever Chloe Fontaine told them.
Krista explained the film was called Funderland. It was about two best friends who discover the owner of their favorite childhood amusement park, Funderland, has died and left it to them, so they move from New York back to their hometown to run it. It was being filmed at an actual amusement park in Connecticut, starting Monday. “They’re sending a car to come get me. A car! Do you think it’ll be a limo?”
Evie wet the cigarette paper with her tongue. “What character are you playing?”
“Get this: Dream Girl.”
“Dream Girl? What does that mean?”
“I’m not totally sure. I kind of blacked out after they told me how much I’d be making.” She shot Evie a sly sideways look.
“How much are you—”
“Fifty thousand dollars!”
“No way!”
“I know! We got the studio up from thirty-five thousand. And I negotiated being able to keep my wardrobe.” Krista smiled proudly. “It was actually really fun to work on the contract. Cameron said I was a natural.”
“You are,” Evie said. She no longer played Monopoly with Krista because of the incessant negotiation and backdoor bargaining that always left Evie bankrupt.
“I gave them my social. Do you think that’ll work? Like, to get paid?”
Evie shrugged, twisting the top of the joint. “I guess so. I mean, you can always say the name you gave is your stage name. What is it?”
“Don’t laugh—Lenka.”
Evie lit the joint. “Pretty.”
“Penka.” Krista pulled a face. “Lenka Penka.”
“Lenka Penka?” Evie coughed laughter. “You sound like a Russian porn star.”
“Shut up.” Krista plucked the joint out of Evie’s fingers. “Let’s get back to Tristan McKell.”
“Ah, ex-Disney kids. You are the most interesting breed of all.” The mental image Evie conjured was dated, she knew that. Perfect wave of hair, full bottom lip, and perpetual sad eyes that sent tween girls into overdrive: Tristan McKell, at the height of Boyz Unbridled fame, the ultimate boy band of the aughts, now relegated to being spun ironically at about 3 a.m., any club, anywhere. He was, what, fifteen then? Sixteen? Evie guessed he must be at least ten years older than that now. After Boyz Unbridled disbanded (the ultimate use of the verb), he’d reportedly had a spiritual moment, and then, bizarrely, popped up in a PT Anderson film a few years ago. He played a morose security guard at a strip mall, a supporting role as part of a big ensemble cast, something he actually picked up a few awards for. Maybe he’d done another movie after that, Evie couldn’t remember. And now Krista was going to be in a film with him. Krista. Her roommate. With Tristan. The former pop star.
“You’re not actually into him, are you?” Evie asked. “Isn’t he too pretty for you?”
“He was my first crush,” Krista said. “Ever. He awoke my libido. I have to do the sex with him.” Krista exhaled with a sigh. “That’s just karma.”
“You know the rumor about him, right?” Evie grinned at Krista. “Apparently . . . he’s the king of cunnilingus.”
Krista thumped Evie’s arm. “No!”
“Ow! And yes.”
“How do you know that?”
Evie shrugged. “It’s the sort of useful information you pick up working for a glossy.”
“Oh my god.” Krista thrashed her legs around. “Now I have to do the sex. He is number one on my vagenda. Ravi Harlow went down on me last night.”
“The guy from Too Many Chefs?”
“Yep.” Krista lowered her sunglasses. “There weren’t too many chefs between my legs.”
Evie took another hit of the joint. “How is it these guys never break your heart?”
“They have! Remember Edward Cullen?”
“Yeah, but he’s fictional.” Evie exhaled.
“What about you?” Krista ripped open a bag of jalapeño cheese puffs. “You said you had news?”
Evie closed her eyes, starting to feel swimmy and soft, like she was made of nougat. “I got it. I got the hosting part.”
“Dude, that’s amazing! Congrats! You’re gonna nail it, I know it. When’s the first episode online?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Cool. But what about episode two?”
Evie’s muscles relaxed into the plastic chair. “I only need one.” She was going to write stories. Smart stories, good stories. Like a real journalist. People were going to listen to her. The Trojan horse plan had worked. Just like she knew it would. The image of the little purple bottle swirled into her mind’s eye, tempting and mysterious. “Why do you think Penny gave it to you?”
Krista sighed, turning her face to the sun. “Because I was nice to her.”
“But don’t you think it’s weird? That she gave you it for free?”
“Maybe she has more than she needs. Maybe, I don’t know, she was feeling generous.”
“It’s just . . . so weird. We don’t know . . . anything about it.” But even as Evie said the words, they floated away from her, like smoke clearing.
Krista munched cheese puffs, happy and high. “Hey, Evie?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think Amy Poehler is doing right now?”
Evie smiled dreamily. “Something amazing. Something brave. Something cool.” She tipped her head to gaze at Krista. Her best friend licked cheese dust off her fingers, looking long and lustrous and absolutely beautiful. They’d done it. They’d twisted the reins of the Pretty through their fingers. They were the ones in charge. “Just like we are.”
Part Two:
Shadow
19.
The Pretty was a potion that opened doors.
Literally and metaphorically.
The metaphor openings included the free cookie the acne-sprayed barista gave Evie with her latte, the enthusiasm a complete stranger showed when offering to hail her a cab. The way her landlord, the very grumpy, highly suspicious Mr. Gorbul, was entirely unfazed by the fact he’d caught Evie’s “sister” using her own key, despite the fact this was strictly forbidden. “Stay as long as you like!” he’d insisted, one damp hand clamped on her shoulder, breath pickle-sour. “Really. As long as you like.”
She told him she’d only be visiting for a week.
One drop. One week.
Over the weekend, the girls had decided the Pretty would be kept in the bathroom cabinet and they weren’t to tell anyone else about it, no exceptions. Krista promised she’d try to find Penny Baker to get more answers about what it was, and where she’d gotten it in the first place. They taped a timetable to the bathroom mirror. Evie marked she’d taken the Pretty on Thursday morning, one day after Krista, two days after Willow. She’d only have enough time to film one episode of Extra Salt. Of course, if she could be Chloe Fontaine for a month, or maybe two, then . . . No. She stopped the thought in its tracks. That would be far too dangerous: physically and emotionally. What if someone found out? What if she started to lose all her hair or grow a few extra limbs? Surely the Pretty was some form of poison, given how horrific the transformation had been.
One week was an adventure. Anything more was dangerous. Anything more might seriously mess with her head.
After all, Evie Selby didn’t fail to notice how much better people treated Chloe Fontaine. And that was definitely weird.
It was almost as if she were a lovely, slightly vulnerable wild animal—a fawn, perhaps—that people were quietly thrilled to be around. Their gazes lingered on her face, and when she caught people looking, they’d glance away, not wanting to frighten her into fleeing. Of course, some people—men—wanted to shoot the fawn. The construction workers opposite the Heimert Schwartz building hollered at her as she waited to cross the road.
“Hey! Hey, sexy!” one called.
“Sexy! Sexy girl!” another followed, demonstrating the mental faculties of a toddler.
Evie narrowed her eyes, inwardly bristling. Exactly what reaction did they want here? Oh, hello! Yes, I am interested in you sexually. Why don’t you take me out, and I can talk about postmodernism and you can talk about pouring concrete?
And the Pretty opened literal doors too. Studio doors, with red-and-white On Air signs.
On Monday morning, Evie rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, an as-yet-unseen part of the enormous Heimert Schwartz complex. The elevator doors opened onto a wide corridor, with ceilings twice the height of those at the Salty office, and gray concrete underfoot instead of polished floorboards. Kelly wa
s waiting, arms folded. His jeans were hitched in place with an enormous silver belt buckle of a hissing serpent. “Chloe-with-a-C,” he announced. “Thanks for being on time.”
They headed through a set of double glass doors, around a corner into a large square space. Here, people with multicolored rolls of duct tape attached to their pants were wheeling in cameras or carrying lights. “Studios are all here.” Kelly pointed to four separate doors, each with an On Air sign. “We’ll always be in Studio B.” Kelly checked his watch. “They’ll be out in a minute.”
Evie peeked through the narrow strip of glass set into the door to Studio B. A mess of lights and cameras pointed at three men sitting behind a brightly lit desk in front of a green painted wall—a green screen, she assumed. The men were wearing suits and had necks like tree stumps. “What’s their story?” Evie asked.
Kelly glanced in. “Sports Weekly, I think.”
Evie watched the men’s muted discussion. Soon she would be the one in front of the green wall. Today they were shooting all the intros and outros to the other reporters’ stories, plus the promos. Kelly had sent the script to her new (fake) email over the weekend, pages of “Need more goss and glamour? Subscribe to Extra Salt!” and “From liners to lashes. Jeepers creepers, we show you how to get the peepers of the stars.” Evie’s eyes had rolled so hard they almost fell out of her head.
The studio door opened. “Okay, guys!” a voice boomed. “That’s a wrap.” Evie stepped out of the way as their crew began exiting.
“We’ll bump our gear in as soon as they’re all out,” Kelly told her. “For now we’ll get you into hair and makeup.” Kelly waved at someone over Evie’s shoulder. A striking-looking black guy was weaving his way toward them, pulling a small, wheeled suitcase behind him. A white fedora was angled on his head. His black shirt, complete with red buttons, was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal toned arms. As he got closer, Evie saw his lower lip and both pinkie fingernails were also bright red.
“Marcello,” Kelly greeted him.
“Australia.” Marcello sniffed at his hair. “Mmm, you smell good. What is that: eau de nicotine?”
The Regulars Page 11