The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  She had no idea, but what she did know was she was running late. The shoot for the “Feminist Action Hero” story had run over. Kelly had been surprisingly supportive, letting her talk for ten straight minutes about how young adult fiction was a stronghold for heroines created by and for women, a far cry from the sexualized female heroes of patriarchal superhero movies, and a variety of other salient points that were slipping her mind right now because she had absolutely nothing to wear. Not only that, but her bangs needed straightening. They were just long enough to tickle her eyelashes. The effect was indie-rock-moody and certainly sexy, but damn, they were starting to get annoying. If Evie’d had any choice in her Pretty persona, she wouldn’t have chosen bangs, from a purely practical standpoint.

  Her phone rang. She assumed it was Krista, who’d been texting all afternoon about a “legitimate actor emergency.” But it wasn’t a number she recognized. The restaurant? Someone from Extra Salt? “Hello, this is—” Wait, careful . . . “—me.”

  “Hello, my darling. I had a feeling you’d pick up.”

  “Mom.” Her voice looped high in surprise. Evie checked her phone again. “I didn’t recognize you. What number is this?”

  “The new landline. I know, a landline. Your mother is ancient.”

  “Oh right. Yeah, you did mention that.” Evie glanced around her bedroom, feeling like she’d just misplaced something she couldn’t remember putting down. “How are you? How’s . . . everything?”

  “Well, I don’t need to see another moving box again in my life, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re settling in okay?” The journalist in her whispered that was the same question as before, but she was a bit too thrown to think clearly. She sank onto the corner of her bed and tried to remember exactly when her mother had moved.

  “I am.” Her mom took a deep, satisfied breath. “The air here is so fresh. I can already feel the toxins leaking out of my skin.”

  Her mom was being literal: for the past sixteen years she’d worked in the neighborhood’s most upmarket hair salon (but at forty-five dollars for a women’s cut, that wasn’t saying much). “I bet.” Evie heard the pleasantly tuneless sound of wind chimes. She tried to picture her mom, Tina, watching the sun set over the Adirondack Mountains, but the image was fuzzy. Was the view east or west? Was her gray hair up in a bun or loose over her shoulders? She still couldn’t quite believe that her mom had actually gone through with the much-talked-about dream of ditching the suburbs and moving to a mountain town.

  “You’ll have to come visit. You’d love it up here. There’s a farmer’s market every Sunday. I’m thinking of selling my jam there.”

  The prospect of leaving New York brought Evie back to the present with a thud. “I’d love to. But not right now. Everything is . . . busy.” Evie twisted in front of her mirror to check out her butt.

  “Well, soon then. You sound a bit . . . stuffy. Do you have a cold?”

  “Um, yeah, I think I’m getting one.” All good on the butt front.

  “Have you been taking echinacea? Do you still have that Rescue Remedy?”

  The word remedy always made Evie wince. Remedy Dashall had been the gum-snapping, hair-flicking, queen bee of Evie’s grade. Evie didn’t go to prom. But Evie’s mom did Remedy’s and all her little worker bees’ hair for the big night. Evie was sure the appointments were some dig at her. The image of her mom being bossed around by Remedy with a head full of foils was simply horrifying.

  Evie made a noncommittal noise. “I can’t talk right now. I have a date.”

  “Really? Who with?”

  Of course, Evie would’ve loved to tell her the truth—that the Velma Wolff had sent her flowers and a reservation for dinner tonight at Whitewood, a fancy restaurant in Tribeca part owned by Jeff Goldblum. But that would invite too many questions. “Online date. I haven’t met her yet.”

  “I’m so glad you’re still dating women, sweetheart. Lesbianism is the ultimate expression of feminine energy that we need to heal this earth.”

  “That’s definitely why I’m doing it,” Evie deadpanned, and they both giggled. “But I’m sorry, I really can’t talk right now. I’m late.”

  “But we haven’t spoken in weeks.” Her mom sounded disappointed and Evie fought a wave of guilt.

  “I know, but I have to get to the restaurant. In exactly”—she checked the phone: 7:40—“twenty minutes! Shit, I haven’t even started my makeup.”

  “Oh, darling, you don’t need makeup.” With perfect sincerity, her mom said, “You are so beautiful.”

  Evie’s hand froze, midway to a hair primp. This was usually her cue to roll her eyes and mumble, “No I’m not,” or, “Face only a mother could love.” But after catching Chloe’s eyes in the mirror—a human-sized doll in the middle of her bedroom—all she could manage was, “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  36.

  The rest of the date prep happened at hurricane speed. Evie had to finish doing her eye makeup in a cab. Marcello said the trick was blending. She tried to imitate his easy fingertip swishes, hoping the outcome was sexy and not black eye.

  She was ten minutes late to Whitewood, the entrance to which was discreetly tucked away off a back alley. No name out front, just a heavy, metal door. Opening it, she walked into one of the nicest restaurants she’d ever been in. Only a dozen or so tables were scattered on a polished wood floor, draped with cream tablecloths, set with square vases of white roses. Lush green plants spilled artfully from the walls and between the tables, creating private screens. The light was low, romantic, thrown discreetly from subtle wall sconces. Everything—from the heavy silver cutlery to the large monochrome paintings on the walls—looked expensive.

  She told the hostess—a swanlike black woman in a beautiful yellow dress—she had a reservation under Velma Wolff. The hostess told Evie that Ms. Wolff had not yet arrived, and please, wouldn’t she take a seat at the bar?

  A tall glass of water was placed in front of her by a smiling bartender in a crisp white shirt and bow tie. When he asked if she’d like to see the wine list, she nodded a little too emphatically. A little liquor to calm her nerves. A few minutes to shake off the stress of the mad dash across town.

  The cheapest glass of wine was fourteen dollars. Fourteen dollars. That was more than she’d usually spend on a whole bottle. Oh well, she thought grimly. When in Rome. She ordered it, but when she pulled out her (embarrassingly ratty) purse, the bartender raised a hand in polite refusal. “We’ll put it on the table.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Evie tried to make it sound like this had just slipped her mind.

  She sat. And sipped. And waited.

  Five minutes passed.

  Then ten.

  The chance to relax morphed into the chance to worry. Velma had written her cell number onto the flowers’ card; Evie had texted her earlier to accept the date. Velma had texted back I’ll see you there. But there was no new message explaining her absence.

  At eight thirty, she was considering leaving. She’d downed one and a half glasses of wine; if she ordered a third she’d be drunk before the appetizers. She didn’t want to call or text; that seemed desperate. She had the right restaurant, right time. She’d leave. She’d foot the bill and just leave. She was Chloe Fontaine, after all, and being half an hour late was totally and completely—

  “Hi.”

  A man’s voice. Hushed and velvety.

  It was Jeff Goldblum.

  Her mouth went dry. There were no words.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, I just wanted to say hello.” His eyes were easy and warm behind elegant rimless glasses. His mouth was as soft as hotel pillows.

  “To me?” Evie wished she didn’t sound so terrified-slash-stunned.

  Jeff Goldblum chuckled and extended a hand. “I’m Jeff.”

  “Ev—Chloe.” She caught herself just in time. He let their handshake linger, and she blushed.

  Jeff Goldblum
nodded at her half-empty wineglass. “Can I get you another glass of rosé?”

  “Sure,” Evie managed. “Yes, please.”

  Jeff Goldblum, aka the sexiest chaos theorist in the history of monster movies, nodded at the bartender. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been here for almost half an hour.” He leaned against the bar next to her. There were only six inches between her and Jeff Goldblum. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “Yes. They’re late.”

  “Half an hour is far too long to keep a beautiful woman waiting.” His hand drifted down to rest an inch from hers. His fingernails were spectacular. “Can I be so bold as to ask you to dine with me?”

  Jeff Goldblum was inviting her to dinner. Her head whirled like a carousel, but before she could even begin to formulate an answer, she heard someone growl, “Goldblum.”

  It was Velma. Standing with her hands casually in her pants pockets, glowering good-naturedly at the man next to Evie. “Are you hitting on my date?”

  Jeff Goldblum glanced at Velma, then at Evie, then back at Velma, connecting the dots. He grinned. “Velma, you old slut. How are you?”

  Minutes later, Evie was being seated at one of the better tables at Whitewood by a deferential waiter good-looking enough to be an underwear model.

  “We’ll get a bottle of the Lancaster Estate cabernet sauvignon,” Velma told him.

  “Excellent choice.” The underwear model smiled.

  Red wine wasn’t exactly Evie’s preference and it did seem somewhat odd that Velma had ordered it before Evie had even properly settled, but the fact Velma had done it without looking at a wine list was so impressive Evie decided not to care. For a few moments, they busied themselves with placing napkins on their laps, finding the best way to sit. They smiled at each other uncomfortably, as if they were waiting for a third person who was running late. Velma gestured at Evie’s dress. “You look beautiful.”

  Evie almost said, “So do you,” but she stopped herself, not wanting to appear sycophantic. “Thank you.”

  There was a pause.

  An awkward pause.

  Evie glanced around, hoping to see their waiter on his way over with menus, or water, or something for them both to do, but he’d disappeared. Say something! Her brain shouted at her. Anything, say anything!

  Evie blurted, “I did my makeup in the cab—” at the exact same time Velma said, “That’s a lovely dress.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Velma asked.

  “Nothing.” Evie shook her head quickly.

  Velma laughed quietly to herself and placed both palms flat on the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking Evie right in the eye. “I’m nervous.”

  Evie stared at her, stunned.

  “I’m a terrible first date,” Velma continued. “I don’t know what it is, but I never do well on first dates.”

  “I changed my dress five times,” Evie confessed.

  It was Velma’s turn to look surprised. “Really?”

  Evie nodded. “I’m so nervous I think I might throw up.”

  “Feel free. At least we’d have something to talk about.”

  Evie laughed.

  The waiter appeared, bearing a bottle of wine and a couple of leather-bound menus.

  “Thank god,” Velma announced dramatically, which made Evie giggle again.

  Two glasses of dark wine appeared before them. Velma lifted hers for a toast. “To first dates. May we have as few of them as possible.”

  Evie smiled. She saw them as if viewed from across the room: two women, one famous, both beautiful, clinking bulbous glasses of undoubtedly expensive wine. The image made her shiver with pleasure. If only Remedy Dashall could see her now. “Cheers.”

  They clinked glasses. The sound rang out like a bell. The wine tasted like blackberries and dark chocolate.

  “So, tell me more about Extra Salt.” Velma sounded genuinely curious. “It’s a TV show?”

  “Web series. I was only cast as the host last week. You were my first interview.”

  Velma seemed surprised. “I think you did really well. Much better than most.”

  “Oh really?” Evie said. She folded her fingers together and rested her chin on them. The sweetly prim gesture felt coquettish, not entirely her own. “Pray tell.”

  Velma told Evie about her worst interview ever—a college newspaper in the UK whose book editor loathed Velma, describing her as “the devil incarnate but less charming.” Evie giggled, breathless, not entirely present. Velma Wolff is making me laugh. She’s sitting right across from me. She’s looking right at me!

  When the waiter returned to take their orders, neither had opened a menu. Velma told him they’d need a few minutes.

  “Did you go to college here in New York?” Velma asked.

  “New York State. Sarah Lawrence.” On partial scholarship, but mentioning it seemed too braggy.

  “And you majored in . . . ?”

  “Being a cultural cliché.” Evie smiled prettily. “Minor in journalism, major in gender, sexuality, and feminist studies.”

  Velma smiled, amused. “And what attracted you to that?”

  The way Velma drew out the word attracted made Evie tingle. There was no one in the restaurant, in the city, on this earth, except for the woman sitting across from her. “I imagine a whole host of complex socio-politico-economico factors. But a pivotal one was Call-me-Charlie.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Evie settled farther into her chair. “Okay. It’s tenth grade, and I’m mostly bored out of my brain in suburban Chicago. This is the kind of place where Olive Garden is considered fine dining and an eyebrow ring has the cultural significance of a swastika.” Velma laughed, and Evie paused to take a gulp of wine. “One day I get to school and find our frozen-in-carbonite history teacher, Mr. Dillard, has inexplicably disappeared, and we have a sub.”

  “Call-me-Charlie?”

  “Exactly. Call-me-Charlie has dyed red hair, five earrings in each ear, and Doc Marten boots. She’s sitting cross-legged on Dillard’s desk when we get to class.”

  “Wow.”

  “She was the most badass person I’m sure any of us had ever seen in real life. And lucky for me, she was subbing during Women’s History Week. History of the suffragettes; first-, second-, third-wave feminism; Germaine Greer; bell hooks; Naomi Wolf: the works. I just remember her being so passionate and ballsy about it.” Evie shook her head. “I remember more from that week than from a whole year of class. I think we all were either terrified or in love with her. Maybe both.”

  “How cool.”

  “Did you have anyone like that? Anyone at school who gave you a new perspective or something?”

  Velma sat back in her seat. Her smile became complex, almost shy. Evie sensed she had crossed some kind of invisible barrier. “And so that’s why you chose women’s studies?”

  Evie cocked her head, considering this. “It’s probably why I joined the Women’s Action Collective, once I started. I associated feminism with this very cool, badass thing that cool, badass women were into. And, at least at my college, that ended up being true. I mean, we probably did more drinking and karaoke and making out with each other than we did actual activism, but it was fun.” Evie rolled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, smiling at the memories: hazy, weed-soaked, up-till-4-a.m.-planning-the-revolution memories. “They became my social circle, and that’s what everyone was majoring or minoring in, so it was kind of a no-brainer.”

  “And journalism?”

  “Well, my uncle’s a radio journalist, so I guess it’s in the blood. Uncle Mike. He’s also gay, so guess that runs in the family too.”

  Velma’s lips lifted in a smile, her eyebrows pulling together. “Interesting.”

  Evie ducked her eyes, feeling positively incandescent. Velma Wolff found her interesting. Evie wasn’t so insecure as to think she wasn’t—journalism and basic self-esteem had taught her everyone had a story—it was just . . . Velma Wolff found her interesting.
There was so much more she wanted to tell her—how her stint at the student newspaper made her think taking over the media was as easy as wanting to, and the crushing realization this simply wasn’t true; how her summer internship at Salty had been purely a means to a job somewhere else in the Heimert Schwartz kingdom and how radically that had backfired; how when her uncle came out as gay at age forty her grandparents disowned him but her mom refused to stop loving her brother—but before she could, the waiter returned for a second time.

  “I’m sorry,” Velma said without sounding sorry at all. “We’ll look now, I promise.” The waiter smiled and told them to take their time.

  Evie’s eyes ran over the menu without reading it. Was it going well? It was. Wasn’t it? Evie snuck a glance at Velma. The hint of a smile played on the writer’s mouth as she skimmed the menu. Evie clicked her eyes back in front of her, still feeling luminescent.

  “I think I’ll go for the duck,” Velma announced.

  Evie closed her menu. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  After the waiter took their orders—two ducks and a house salad to share—the conversation resumed, but refused to relax. There was an underlying urgency to everything they said. Their banter was giddy, resembling less an ebb and flow and more the logic of lightning. They scurried down conversational rabbit holes, forgetting what started them. Evie repeated herself twice. Velma dropped her fork. They were excited and nervous in equal measure, and the cumulative effect made for laughter that was too loud, pauses that seemed terrifyingly long. Wishing desperately to cut the adrenaline that insisted on tightening her muscles, Evie kept reaching for her wineglass, which the waiter kept refilling with a magician’s grace. They finished the bottle before the mains arrived, and ordered another. As the waiter uncorked it, Velma asked Evie if she had any siblings. Evie groaned, dropping her cheek into one hand. “Brothers and sisters? Oh god, have we come to that?” A small voice in the back of her head warned her this was rude; she was getting drunk. She told the voice to fuck off.

  “I’m interested!” Velma protested. “I want to work out if I’m dealing with the baby of the family or the classic example of an only child.”