The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  Kelly socked his shoulder. “Fuck off, you know I quit. I did!”

  “Mm-hmm.” Marcello gave him a doubtful look. “And I’m the queen of England.”

  “You’re the queen of something.”

  Marcello arched a well-groomed eyebrow. “Don’t I know it.”

  Kelly snorted. “Mate, this is Chloe Fontaine, our host.”

  “Slash journalist,” Evie added.

  “Right.” Kelly nodded, without skipping a beat. “Host slash journalist.”

  Marcello regarded her politely. His top eyelashes had a light coat of mascara. “Hello, Chloe.”

  For the first time since she arrived, Evie felt a creeping sense of intimidation. Not just because of Marcello’s style. Because he carried himself with the air of someone it’d be impossible to impress. “Yo,” she replied, and instantly regretted it.

  She followed Marcello to a small door marked Dressing Room 4. A padded leather chair was positioned in front of a bench set into the wall under a long mirror bordered by light globes the size of oranges. There was a black washbasin in one corner. Marcello tossed his fedora on the bench and swung his suitcase up next to it. He popped it open, revealing a neat array of lipsticks, powders, mascaras, and more. He began unpacking everything with practiced efficiency. Evie paused in the doorway, unsure. He waved a blush brush at her. “Take a seat at the basin, beautiful, we don’t got all day.”

  Say it. Trojan. Horse. Remember?

  “You need to use the restroom?” Marcello sounded wary. “It’s down the hall, second on the left, but, sweetheart, I can tell if you be using that for a quick-fix diet.” He mimed sticking a finger down his throat. “And I will tell Australia, because I will not be working with females who think throwing their guts up is—”

  “What? Oh god, no,” Evie cut him off. “It’s just . . .” She took a deep breath and tried to mimic Marcello’s look of haughty defiance. “I won’t be needing hair and makeup.”

  Marcello frowned. “Australia didn’t say anything about y’all bringing your own people.”

  Evie shook her head. “I don’t have my own people. I just don’t want any hair or makeup done.”

  Marcello considered her, not quite intrigued, but certainly not bored. “Why not?”

  Evie drew herself up until Chloe was towering. “Because it sets an unrealistic beauty standard for women and girls. Because it encourages women to perceive their value to be linked to their appearance. Because we need role models who look like real girls.”

  Marcello stood stock-still, completely stunned. Then he tipped his head back and burst into laughter. “That’s good!” he said, giggling appreciatively. “You’re good, Chloe.” He pulled a white lace handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the corners of his eyes. “Ooh, you got me smudging. Go ahead and sit down at the basin, beautiful.”

  Evie’s cheeks were warm. Nerves were starting to be replaced with irritation. “I’m not kidding. I don’t want to wear makeup for the shoot.”

  Marcello smiled at her quizzically. “You don’t want me to do your hair?”

  “No.”

  “And you don’t want any makeup.”

  Evie shook her head.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “’Cause you want to apply it yourself?”

  Evie shook her head.

  “’Cause you . . . brought your own product?”

  Now Evie was smiling when she shook her head. She was literally blowing this man’s mind.

  Marcello glanced at the closed door. “Does Australia know about this?”

  “No. But I’m not asking his permission,” Evie added. “This is the choice I’m making.”

  “And this is because you think makeup is”—Marcello waved a hairbrush around—“bad for females.”

  “Because it sets an unrealistic—”

  “Okay, okay,” Marcello spoke over her. “Settle down, this ain’t Oprah.” He leaned back on the bench in front of the mirror and stared at her thoughtfully. Evie could see a million thoughts rushing behind his cat-shaped eyes. Was he going to bribe her? Beg her? Knock her out with hairspray and make her up while unconscious?

  He shrugged. “All right.”

  Evie blinked, surprised. “All right?”

  He began packing up his kit. “You gotta do you, girl. If you don’t want my help, that is fine and dandy by me.”

  Evie nodded, reminding herself not to act too grateful. “I’m sorry we won’t be working together.”

  Marcello swung his kit back onto the floor. “Oh, we’ll be working together. You can trust me on that.” He paused, assessing her with a cool, curious eye. When he spoke it was almost more to himself. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of newbies, but I’ve never had this.”

  Kelly hadn’t said anything to Marcello about this being her first gig. But it didn’t sound like that was what the makeup artist meant. He was looking at her in the same way Jan had in the audition: as if Evie was hiding something. As if he knew. She tried to mask her alarm. “How do you know I’m a newbie?”

  “Oh, honey. It’s written all over your newbie face.” He gave her a long, meaningful look, then sailed out of the room.

  20.

  Gemma and Rose, Salty’s fashion editors, were waiting outside the dressing room with four racks of frocks. The sharp pinch of insecurity Marcello’s comment had inspired promptly worsened. Just like the popular girls at her high school, Gemma and Rose had never been mean to her, not directly. They just treated her like she was irrelevant: young and uncool. Instinctively, she braced herself for the effortless way the pair normally looked right though her.

  “Chloe, hi! I’m Rose—”

  “And I’m Gemma.” She fluttered her false eyelashes at Chloe’s waist approvingly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re really a two–”

  “So many girls lie,” Rose whispered.

  “But you’ll fit everything we have. Is there anything that catches your eye?”

  Evie stared at the duo in front of her: obedient chipmunks in couture. Their heads were cocked, eyebrows raised, waiting—impossibly—to follow her lead. Evie felt a little surge of anger before trying to focus on the clothes. Everything looked too bright, too shiny. She tugged at the first thing her fingers landed on. “Um, this?”

  “Definitely!”

  “Love that!”

  Evie frowned, moving her fingers at random. “Or this?”

  “Even better!”

  “So cute!”

  They were performing monkeys, dancing on command. But before she could work out just what to do with this, Rose extracted a green snakeskin catsuit. “If you like those, you’ll love this.”

  “It’s a Luksus,” Gemma added, stroking it lovingly. “Ferosh, right?”

  Evie read the price tag: $3,150. That was more money than she made in a month. And she had a full-time job in Manhattan. She tried to make her voice sound gushy. “Totally ferosh. But, actually, I have an even better idea. What if I just wear this?” She indicated the soft gray T-shirt she was wearing.

  The chipmunks blinked, trying hard to follow along. “What do you mean?” Gemma asked.

  “I mean, I wear this. It was made in Brooklyn, and some of the company’s profits fund microloans in South America. Isn’t that . . . like, fresh?” Evie said, trying hard to remember the lingo the girls used. “Conscious consumerism is really my jam.”

  Rose stared at the shirt as if it were a dirty dish towel. “But it’s just a T-shirt.”

  “You can’t just wear a T-shirt,” Gemma said. “You can’t. You just can’t.”

  “Yes, I can,” Evie said, smiling. “I think it’s so cool. I love this shirt, it’s totally my favorite.”

  The girls stared at Evie unhappily. They couldn’t defy her, Evie realized. Talent was in charge. She was talent.

  Gemma held up a delicate purple scarf. “What about if we just add this?”

  “Yes!” Rose gasped, expertly tying it around Evie’s neck.

  It felt
luxuriously soft against Evie’s skin. “It’s beautiful,” Evie admitted.

  Gemma jumped on her interest eagerly. “It’s organic silk.”

  “Please?” Rose’s eyes were puddles of naked need. “It looks so pretty on you.”

  “All right,” Evie said. “I’ll wear the scarf, but only if I wear the T-shirt.” Rose winced and nodded.

  Gemma pulled a brave face. “Yay?”

  Evie came back into the studio feeling triumphant. While Evie Selby could be assertive, even downright vicious, online, she was not like this in person. Chloe Fontaine was. Chloe didn’t seem to care as much about what other people thought. She was like a Russian spy who drank vodka during the day and wore fur, even though that was politically dicey. Now all Chloe had to do was stick around for a few more days, and not suddenly disappear on camera. Imagine that, turning back into Evie Selby, in front of all these people. And what if it was just as abject, just as painful? The thought gripped Evie with such a quick, hot horror that she had to force herself to deep-breathe until it went away.

  One drop. One week.

  She hoped.

  The Sports Weekly desk and chairs were gone. In their place was a bright red chair tucked into a hot pink desk, which was decorated with a glass bowl of sweets and a vase of white tulips. The Girl Fairy had paid the studio a visit.

  Kelly appeared beside her. “Is there a problem with your style team?”

  Evie shook her head. “No.”

  One of the crew members called, “Camera up. Ready when you are, Kell.”

  Kelly cursed softly under his breath. “We saw a hundred girls, you know. I pushed for you.”

  “And I’m still going to do a really good job,” Evie said. “I’m the same person you saw last week.”

  Rich wandered over, rubbing his jaw. “She doesn’t look that bad,” he said, looking Evie up and down as if she were a mannequin.

  Kelly checked his watch. “We don’t have time to piss-fart around. Let’s just shoot her as is. Chloe, take a seat.”

  Evie obeyed. From her vantage point overlooking the studio floor, she saw various crew members frown at her, perplexed. An older man with silvery hair approached Kelly, but Kelly just waved him away, hissing, “I know, I know.”

  Evie looked down at her hands, pretending not to notice. Stay strong. You’re in charge.

  “Okay, Chloe.” Rich addressed her from next to the huge camera aiming at her. “You’ll just be reading off the teleprompter. Ready?”

  Evie nodded. “Yep.”

  “Then let’s roll sound.” A flurry of crew calls, then they were recording.

  For the next thirty minutes Evie read and reread the script. Rich had her say things like, “All the goss and glam you’ve been craving” and “Want a little extra? Subscribe to Extra Salt” a bajillion times, each time emphasizing a different word or adding a wink. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. But she was determined to prove to Kelly and the crew that she was a professional. A professional who didn’t need five inches of makeup and fuck-me cleavage to do her job.

  Eventually, it was time to take a break. Before Evie had the chance to stand up, Kelly approached her with a white plastic box. He emptied the contents onto the desk. A dozen different dildos tumbled out merrily.

  “Ah, okay.” Evie chuckled cautiously. “You have some fun hobbies you’re not afraid to share.”

  “Jan wants to feature one as Dildo of the Week,” Kelly announced.

  “Dildo of the Week? Isn’t that a little crude?”

  “Mate, it’s playful and fun,” Kelly said. “Pick whichever one you want. And don’t worry,” he added as Evie opened her mouth to protest. “We’re saying it was a viewers’ pick, not your own preference.”

  Kelly strode off, leaving Evie alone with the dildos. What a ridiculous task: picking the Dildo of the Week. Once Chloe had proved and asserted her authority, they certainly wouldn’t be doing silly stories like this. Evie picked up the closest dildo warily: an enormous black thing the size of a child’s arm. I shall call you Morgan Freeman. She waved Morgan Freeman around a little, trying to get the magic-pencil thing going. Huh, it was working. Stiff old Morgan Freeman was going all squiggly . . .

  A new thought popped into her head. A deliciously exciting and absolutely perfect thought that eclipsed the desk full of dildos. “Kelly?” she called, squinting out into the blackness of the studio floor.

  Kelly reappeared a few feet in front of her. “What’s up?”

  Evie tapped Morgan Freeman against her cheek, trying to appear thoughtful and not insanely eager. “We should cover Velma Wolff’s book launch tonight.”

  “The lesbo?”

  Evie was too excited to be annoyed by this. “For Milk Teeth, it’s her new one. It’s about—”

  “I’ve heard of it.” Kelly hitched up his jeans. “You sure it’s tonight?”

  “At the Pembly. Salty is covering it for the magazine, so I know Jan would be into it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Evie swallowed, regaining her composure quickly. “Evie told me. My roommate, Evie. She was in the features meeting.”

  Kelly glanced at his watch doubtfully.

  “I can prep the questions,” Evie added. “I’ve read every single one of her books. She’s a New York Times bestseller,” she added. “And stacks of celebrities will be there. Literally. There’ll be so many celebrities they’ll be putting them in stacks—”

  “Okay, okay, hold your horses. I’ll get Jan on the blower.”

  Evie assumed this was Australian for on the phone. “Amazing!”

  “Only if she says yes,” Kelly warned. “And we’d need an actual interview with her.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll need to”—Kelly pursed his lips together—“dress up. That’s not negotiable. I don’t even know if these fucking promos will be usable—”

  “I’ll dress up,” Evie promised. Her cheeks were hot. She felt a bit giddy. Velma Wolff. Beautiful, classy Chloe Fontaine was going to interview Velma Wolff. Her excruciating elevator encounter with the writer was the only time she’d even met a celebrity, if you didn’t count seeing James Franco making out with someone he should probably have been babysitting.

  “Did you pick a dildo?” Kelly asked.

  Evie gathered them all in her arms, grinning ecstatically. “How can I pick just one?” she gushed. “They’re all my babies.”

  21.

  Krista was in the middle of a really good sex dream about Tristan McKell and something to do with midgets when her phone started ringing. Her room was impossibly dark as she fumbled for the offensive noise, eventually finding it and croaking out, “Hello?”

  She heard a man’s voice, tinny and with an accent. “Mes Penka? Your car is here.”

  “My car?”

  “Supernew Pictures? Lenka Penka?”

  Her car. The film. Her car to the film. Krista mashed her eyes with her palm. “Yeah. Shit. I’ll be right down.”

  It was 5 a.m. The call sheet she’d been emailed over the weekend did state a 5 a.m. pickup, but Krista assumed that was a mistake. But when she emerged from her apartment building twenty-five minutes later and saw the relief in her driver’s eyes, she realized that yes, she was supposed to be ready at 5 a.m. In the morning. Just like . . . a baker.

  In her mind’s eye, she had imagined watching the city streets flow past her, from her position as Famous Important Actor in the backseat of her very own chauffeured car. In reality, she fell straight back asleep. Hungover. Again. The weekend had been, well, epic was an understatement. She’d gotten home at four in the afternoon on Sunday. Her left shin was sporting a bruise she didn’t remember getting, she could not get “Copacabana” out of her head, and for some reason the phrase “Now that’s what I call a burger!” struck her as very funny but she couldn’t remember why. Her nose was running. She hadn’t paid for a single drink all weekend. Amazing.

  She was woken sometime later by a gentle, “Mes? Hello, mes?�
�

  Dirty gray dawn had given way to raw pink morning. They were pulling into a lot full of trucks. Krista pulled a hand mirror from her pocket, checking quickly that it was still Lenka Penka in the backseat. It was. “All good,” she told her reflection. “You got this.”

  A young guy wearing a headset opened her door. He had very curly pale blond hair that looked like pubes. “Lenka, hi, good morning.”

  “Hi. Hey,” Krista replied, emerging from the car somewhat ungracefully.

  “I’m Damian. We’re a little behind so I’m going to get you straight into hair and makeup.”

  Damian strode off. Krista followed him, her sleepiness gone. The buzz in the air was palpable. She couldn’t believe that this many people were up so early. There were crew members everywhere: carrying equipment, walking briskly with clipboards, wheeling racks of clothes. After they cleared the parking lot, Krista realized they were on the grounds of an actual amusement park, albeit one that appeared abandoned. The tall gates they walked through were covered with peeling red paint. The rides and game booths were faded and ghostly still. “Is this part of the set?” Krista asked.

  “No, this is all base camp,” Damian replied. “We’re only shooting on about a quarter of the actual park itself, which is up ahead. Okay, here we are.”

  They stopped in front of a large silver trailer. The sound of hair dryers and the smell of nail polish remover wafted from inside it. “See you later,” Damian said.

  Krista watched him walk away, just as efficiently as he’d arrived. Then she flagged down the nearest crew member and asked where she could find Greg.

  She was directed to the part of the amusement park that had been turned into the set. Lights were being set up around a games booth that, unlike the other ones, was freshly painted and looked brand-new. Greg was examining some storyboard sketches on an iPad when Krista approached. Again, he was dressed in soft flannel and washed-out denim: just as ready to milk some cows as direct a feature film.

  “Lenka!” he exclaimed. “Hi!”

  They embraced warmly.

  “This is so exciting.” Krista beamed. “I just wanted to have a quick word with you about my character.”