“I want you to. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just . . .” Velma’s face became complicated, as if several different emotions were jostling for front-runner: apprehension, displeasure, woe. Evie felt a cool chill, a long tickle of foreboding. Suddenly the night air didn’t seem so warm. “I like you, Chloe. I really like you. I’m just not in the position where I can get involved with someone right now.”
Evie swallowed. Still the script eluded her. “Oh.”
Velma met Evie’s gaze carefully, each word now feeling handpicked. “I got out of a relationship six months ago. We were together for . . . a while, let’s just say that.”
Emiko Aki, the gorgeous Japanese American model-slash-actress Velma had been with for a record four years. Last public appearance: LA premiere for Dying Comes Easy, the Michael Bay film Emiko starred in. Evie said, “I didn’t know that.” And then, emboldened by both the wine and how close they were standing, “Why did it end?”
Velma spoke with a deliberate casualness that betrayed past pain. “We didn’t have a strong enough connection.”
We have that connection.
The words formed instantly in Evie’s mind, immediate and unsummoned.
She let them play again, slower this time, more deliberate.
We have that connection.
She could feel it, humming between them, crackling the night air. Gently, Evie took Velma’s hand, spidering their fingers together in slow exploration. The sensation sent a whoosh through her entire body. They locked eyes.
“I just want to make sure,” Velma said quietly. “That we’re on the same page.”
Evie nodded. She understood. Velma had been hurt. By someone who, however talented and beautiful, she didn’t mesh with on a soul level. Velma couldn’t commit to the first pretty girl she took out for dinner. And of course, she shouldn’t commit either. Evie Selby would have to reappear eventually. But the potential for love—great love, earth-shattering love—was there. It was just so clearly there, and denying it was like denying the existence of the sun. Maybe naïve, self-doubting Evie Selby wouldn’t be able to see this potential. But Chloe could see it in such bright, hard relief she almost winced. Desperation and sadness and lust collided inside her, forcing her to draw a step closer. Distance was not possible.
“Yes,” Evie whispered. “We’re on the same page.”
Velma’s pupils were dilated, wide, wet pools of black. “Good.”
Evie tipped her mouth up, wanting, needing, for their lips to connect.
But Velma swerved her face away. Evie’s lips planted on Velma’s cheek. She pressed into it awkwardly.
A chuckle sounded in Velma’s throat. “Baby.” She stepped back, in the direction of her building. “There’s no rush.” She tugged her hand out of Evie’s grip, smiling crookedly. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
39.
Krista was dreading her third day of filming.
Yesterday afternoon had been godawful. God. Awful. Damian, that snitch, must have told Tristan about the trophy incident. After an hour of flubbed lines, Greg took Tristan aside for a chat. When the pair returned to the set, no one missed the look of incredulous disgust on Greg’s face, nor the strained look he shot at Krista. The knowledge seeped around the set like an invisible but odorous gas leak: Lenka Penka was responsible for Tristan dropping the ball. Needless to say, Lenka Penka was less than thrilled when she was awakened by her driver, Eduardo, with the usual, “Mes? Mes?” indicating they had arrived back at the set.
Immediately, she became aware of the pain. Cramps, as if her insides were being tortured by a thousand red-hot pokers. She must be getting her period. Fuck. Didn’t she just finish it? She let out a moan.
The car door was pulled open. Damian’s annoying cheery face was set to a smile. “Good morning, Lenka—” But then the smile dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought Lenka was in this car.”
Krista hauled herself out, face contorted with pain. “Oh man. It must be fucking Shark Week in my pants right now.” That was weird. Her jacket felt strangely big on her. Like it used to when—
“I’m sorry.” Damian peered at her. “Who are you? Where’s Lenka?”
She had changed. She had changed back to Krista Kumar. She was Lenka when she got into the car; she knew she was. But now suddenly, and completely inexplicably, she was a different person.
Shorter.
Darker.
And with two chunky man arms.
“I—I—I—” Krista grasped for a nonexistent excuse, her cramps forgotten.
The car rolled off, tires crunching slowly over the gravel. Damian glanced between it and her, confused. He can’t check with Eduardo, Krista realized. Eduardo had picked Lenka Penka up. “I’m her assistant,” Krista babbled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, assistant. She’s right behind me.”
Damian directed his gaze at the stream of black town cars and trucks making their way into the lot. “Behind you?”
“I mean, in front of me. She’s already here. Do you have a bathroom? I really need to go.”
She pushed past Damian and began speed-walking in the direction of the toilet block, hunched over to protect both her sore tummy and her identity. There was only one thing that mattered, only one thing that could save her now. The Pretty. Did she remember to pack it in her tote?
Thanks to the timetable taped to the bathroom mirror, she knew she was supposed to change back this morning—she’d taken it on a Wednesday, and it was Wednesday today—but when she woke she was still Lenka. This was met with fervent relief; one more day until she’d have to radically shit herself to stay Pretty. But just to be on the safe side, she decided to chuck the Pretty in her tote anyway. Hadn’t she? Or was that one of those things she’d planned to do, but didn’t actually do, like go to yoga or take birth control?
Her phone started buzzing. Damian. Calling for Lenka. She stabbed at the screen to reject the call. Anxiety made her feel like she was covered in ants.
Thank god the toilet block was empty. There were two near the entrance, and evidently she hadn’t been the only girl to work out that this was the grossest. Now she was thankful for the fact there were no paper towels and the whole place smelled like pee. She locked her stall door and began digging through her tote. Keys, wallet, phone, pen, lip gloss, lipstick, call sheets, copy of Salty, pizza cutter (what?), mascara, more lipstick. But no Pretty. Krista began dumping her shit out onto the floor, panic blooming. She’d put it in! Hadn’t she? Her phone buzzed again, insistent, refusing to be ignored. With a sharp cry, she shoved her hand into her pocket and ripped out her bleating phone. As she did, the bottle of Pretty flew out of her pocket and splashed into the toilet bowl.
“Yes!” Krista rocketed her hand into the water, wiping the bottle dry on her shirt. Hands shaking, she unscrewed the dropper. The small sensation of wetness hit her tongue. She yanked down her underpants and positioned her butt over the bowl, waiting for the inevitable.
Ten minutes later, Krista heard someone come in. “Jesus.” The girl’s voice sounded disgusted. “Is anyone in here?”
Krista banged her door open. The dirty mirrors reflected a statuesque woman with mocha skin and eyes the color of the forest floor. A curtain of glossy black hair fell around her shoulders like a cape.
The PA’s eyes widened, no doubt recognizing the woman before her as Lenka Penka: Cupcake Girl, Tristan’s costar, general troublemaker. She shrank back a step.
“I wouldn’t go in there for a while,” Krista said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Someone, who isn’t me, really went to town in there.”
40.
When Evie woke, she was relieved to find that the room was in perfect focus. She was still Pretty.
She rolled over, the dull buzz of yet another hangover greeting her. But they were worth it. Because last night—and she couldn’t even conjure the phrase last night without breaking into a toothy grin—last night had been perfect. Her smile stretched wider as she recalled the nervous energy that had per
meated dinner, a perfect dinner, in a perfect restaurant. With a perfect woman. A perfect woman she’d . . . never see again.
Today had to be her last day. A small part of her was relieved not to be constantly checking for side effects or unexpected transformations. But a larger part was disappointed. Back to being a Regular. A face in the crowd. A copyeditor. At least she’d be able to distract herself by watching Extra Salt go live. The memory of a date with Velma Wolff was just a souvenir. A warm, sweet souvenir that made her stomach flip-flop.
Krista called Evie just as she was about to leave. “Hey,” Evie said. “How’s the moviemaking biz?”
Krista’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I changed back this morning. After I got to the set.”
Evie dropped her purse. “Shit—”
“It’s cool, it’s cool, I had the Pretty with me. But you should be careful. It’s probably like your period, or something. Maybe it varies?”
“Of course.” Turning back on set. Exactly what she’d been afraid of. “Where’s the stuff you left for me?”
There was a pause. Krista’s voice became tiny. “Um, what?”
“The Pretty.” Evie’s eyebrows shot up. “Tell me you didn’t take the whole bottle.”
“You said you were only doing it once!”
“But what if I turn back on set like you just did? What then?”
“If you’re still Chloe now, it’ll probably last the full day. I think it happens when you’re asleep—”
“Probably? You think?”
Evie heard a muffled knock and a voice call, “Lenka?”
“I have to go,” Krista whimpered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Evie shot back. “Why should I have expected that?”
Fucking Krista and her crazy plans. They always bit her in the ass: Why would this be any different? Piercing her nose with a safety pin. Barhopping on Staten Island. ’Shrooms before a flight. All idiotic schemes that resulted in pain and/or terror.
She could skip the screening. Stay home, fake an illness. That was what Evie Selby would do. Play it safe. But this was the reason she’d taken the Pretty in the first place. This was supposed to be her day, her chance to shine. Evie met her reflection in the living room mirror. Beneath thick, blunt bangs, enormous azure eyes stared back at her, gorgeous and defiant.
Screw it.
Chloe Fontaine took risks.
Things worked out for Chloe Fontaine.
A PA directed her to a green room. When she entered, several voices said her name at once. Milling around three black leather couches all facing a flat-screen TV were the crew and four carbon copies of California blondes: the other reporters. These girls were nice enough, at least to Evie, which she suspected had something to do with being mistaken for one of them: a fellow hot girl, and one in a position they probably coveted. She felt an odd sense of protective empathy for these young women, who, like Chloe, had gotten their jobs based on their looks. Her gaze dropped to her hands. She still had Chloe’s strong, clear nails, her long piano-player fingers. God, she almost expected to see Evie’s hands . . .
Someone squeezed her arm. She jumped.
“Sorry, beautiful.” It was Marcello. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Evie forced a chuckle. “Just stage fright, I guess.” She curled her fingers into fists, willing them not to disappear.
Rich stood up to address the room. “Okay, folks, here it is: the first episode of Extra Salt, going live in T-minus five minutes. Featuring our very own Chloe Fontaine.” A small round of applause broke out. Evie smiled and ducked her head modestly. “Can someone get the lights?”
A pink-and-red Extra Salt logo burst onto the screen. Gemma let out a tiny squeal. Evie exhaled. She was so full of nervous excitement it felt like two huge hands were squeezing her rib cage. Bubbly pop music started: the title sequence. Chloe Fontaine filled the screen, looking pretty if a little plain in a gray T-shirt. Choppy, quick cuts started. Chloe smiling cheesily. Chloe laughing. Chloe waving a big black dildo around.
The room broke into titters of laughter.
Evie bolted upright.
Chloe with an armful of vibrators, hugging them like they were more precious than gold.
It was footage from when Kelly was getting her to choose the Dildo of the Week. Footage she didn’t know was being filmed. It was mortifying. The girl on screen grinned at the camera, the Extra Salt logo popped up, and the music finished with a flourish.
“Hey, I’m Chloe Fontaine.” She flashed a wide grin. The footage had been blown out, overexposed so much she barely looked human. You couldn’t even tell that she wasn’t wearing makeup. “Welcome to Extra Salt, where you can find news and views on all things girl. First up: let’s talk lips. Lovely lips are a must all year-round . . .” Her intro to the first story started, drowned out by the dull roar in her ears. Kelly had tricked her. The dildos were a setup. From the corner of her eye, she could sense the producer shooting her quick, cautious glances. She didn’t return them, training her gaze straight ahead. One of the blond reporters was planting her lips on a guy’s cheek and shaking her head at the lipstick mark it left. Evie was too mortified to even roll her eyes at this. The image of her waving Morgan Freeman around like a cock-obsessed clown was tattooed on her brain.
The “Who’s Better in Bed” story ended up being street interviews of a lot of giggling, embarrassed girls and annoyingly bravado guys interviewed by clone reporter number two. Every single New Yorker interviewed was straight and white; two minutes of not-so-subtle eugenics.
A montage started: a mix of celebrities on the red carpet, smiling, twirling, blowing kisses at the camera. Suddenly Velma Wolff was on-screen with a made-up Chloe, asking her, “Don’t you want to ask me about what I’m wearing?” It was footage from Velma’s book launch. But before the sight of Chloe had even really registered, the images cut to a countdown of 2016’s hottest red-carpet looks, hosted by clone reporter number three. Evie’s mouth fell open in silent disbelief. That couldn’t be it, could it? They were going to come back to the interview, weren’t they? But as the episode continued and the red-carpet story was replaced by something about fall’s must-have purse, Evie realized they were not. That was the edit of her Velma Wolff interview. She’d told Velma to watch this: she’d practically bragged about it. At least I’m bringing it home with the “Feminist Action Hero” story. Evie clung to the idea like a life raft. Kelly had promised her. It wouldn’t all be cheap sex and makeup tips.
She tuned back into the screening, desperate to hear the opening words of the story she’d been working so hard on: Feminism has a new friend in publishing’s hottest genre. Feminism has a new friend in publishing’s hottest genre. Feminism has a new friend in—
“And that’s all we have time for this week.” Chloe flashed a shit-eating grin straight to camera. “And remember, folks: diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend—” The footage cut to Chloe waving the dildo around. A female voice that wasn’t hers cooed, “This is.”
The screen cut to black. The room broke into laughter and applause, a chorus of “That was so good!” “You looked so pretty!” “Are you kidding, I hate my nose.”
The room was pitching, listing like a ship in heavy seas. Evie’s forehead prickled with sweat. With anger. With embarrassment. She remembered Luksus introducing her at Velma’s after-party; a hot new journalist with her finger on the pulse. Ira Glass in a miniskirt. Turned out, she was just the skirt. Someone tugged at her arm. She jerked it away and stormed out of the room.
41.
“Absolutely not. No way.” Evie planted both hands on Jan’s enormous desk. “You are not using those opening credits.”
“I thought they were great,” Rich offered. “Super funny.” He was swiping through his phone, sitting slouched next to Kelly. Infuriatingly, the young director seemed not at all intimidated to be in Jan’s corner office.
“If we do them again,” Rich went on, “can you pretend to
fellate the dildo?”
Evie stared at him incredulously.
“You know.” He mimed fellation. “Like that. Like you’re—”
“I know what fellating is,” Evie hissed. “No! We’re reshooting them with no dildos. I didn’t even know you were filming me! That’s totally illegal, a breach of contract!”
Rich snorted. “You should read your contract more carefully.”
“Is that true?” Jan asked Kelly. Her calm British accent sliced through the hysteria. “Did you film her without her consent?”
Kelly sighed. “Yes. But we needed—”
“Cut something else for the second episode,” Jan said.
“The second episode?” Evie exclaimed. “No! You have to recut something now, before it goes online.”
“It’s already online,” Rich said, holding up his phone. “We’ve had over a thousand views on YouTube.”
“No!” Evie gasped. “You have to recut the opening credits, put my story back in—”
“Chloe,” Jan interrupted.
“And the interview with Velma. Fuck!” Evie threw her hands up. “Everything good I did is gone!”
“Chloe!” Jan snapped. She fixed Evie with a penetrating stare. “Please. Take a seat.”
After a long hesitation, Evie sank down into a chair. She took a deep breath, trying for rational. “It was made clear to me that the host—me—would have the chance to contribute to the show. Why has all of my content been cut?”
“The Velma Wolff interview was completely unusable,” Kelly told Jan.
“No, it wasn’t!” Evie protested.
“ ‘Your novels are known for their unreliable narrators’?” Kelly looked scornful. “It’s Extra Salt, not Comparative Literature 101. None of our viewers would’ve understood what the hell you were on about.”
“And her action hero story?” Jan asked.
Kelly sighed, running one hand through his hair. “It was a tonal thing. It didn’t mesh.”
Rich looked up at Evie. “You said feminism thirty-five times.”
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