Distracted, she tapped open her email.
And promptly forgot all about Velma Wolff.
Evie had set a Google alert for “Chloe Fontaine” and “Extra Salt” the day she’d gotten the gig. So far, nothing. But today her entire inbox was full. She tapped the first one.
Salty Makes a Web Series, Internet Dies Laughing. The gang at Salty has taken time out from their busy schedule of having sex in the wheelbarrow position to create a web series called Extra Salt. It’s the usual truckload of garbage that you’d expect from these dopey airheads, held together by model-slash-bimbo Chloe Fontaine, who does a great job impersonating a baby deer who just got punched in the face. Highlights include—
She couldn’t read any more. Her face was burning up. That was her. The story was about her.
She clicked onto the next one.
Hottie Alert! Gentlemen, meet the newest addition to your spank bank, Chloe Fontaine. This dark-haired beauty will keep you and your johnson entertained for exactly 3.5 minutes. Hint: mute the video.
This was some sort of men’s pop culture site; sidebar features alternated women in bikinis with stories about power tools. Extra Salt was embedded below the text. Astonishingly, there were already forty-five comments.
Mmmm . . . daddy likes.
what’s wrong with her face?
i’d do her
This is the dumbest and stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Why is she alive?
BEND OVER BITCH I’M GUNNA STICK—
Evie dropped her phone. Her skin was crawling. Her breath snagged in her throat. The comments were so extraordinarily nasty, so incredibly disrespectful. About Chloe! Sweet, idealistic Chloe who was just trying her best, who was actually a really nice person. And that was just one website, Jesus. How many comments would there be on YouTube? Hundreds? Thousands? How many people were laughing at her, dismissing her, rolling their eyes at brainless Chloe Fontaine and her armful of fucking dildos?
“I was supposed to make things better!” she cried to her bedroom.
And there was only one way she’d get a second go at it.
One way to erase the hideous specter in the mirror.
One way to see Velma again.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a calm stream of air.
Just one more time.
47.
The sound of the front door slamming jerked Krista awake. She pulled the covers over her head and whimpered.
It wasn’t just that she’d gotten fired. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the Pretty was . . . affecting her. It was like every audition she’d ever lost, every capitulation to her father, every depressing breakup—every failure rolled into one huge wallop of anxiety, as concentrated as the Pretty itself.
It was so unfamiliar, this untamable, gnawing unease. Usually Krista wasn’t overly obsessed with her appearance. It was one of a thousand daily concerns, easily forgotten, only occasionally a drama. But now, the face that was reflected back to her in the bathroom mirror, as stunning as it was worried, was all she could think about.
There was only one person who had answers.
Penny Baker.
Penny’s Facebook page had been inactive for six months. An hour of online sleuthing produced only one picture of the woman she’d met in McHale’s Ales, taken at some fancy party in Abu Dhabi, on the arm of a darkly handsome man with sculptured facial hair. The captioned name read Penelope Worthington, née Baker. Penny might not even be in New York anymore, Krista realized. But she had nothing to lose in trying to find out.
She rode the subway with trepidation. Too many people seemed to be looking at her, watching her every move. At Union Square, she ducked out of a crowded subway car, convinced a man in a black over-coat was following her, a feeling that ballooned mild concern into a full-blown panic.
No one is after you. You’re just being silly.
Wasn’t she?
The brightly lit foyer of her old improv school’s training center was instantly calming. Familiar, low key, domestic. Young men and women sat comfortably on beat-up couches, under posters of famous comedians and old sketch shows. Krista remembered when she’d briefly been one of them: doing bits with her classmates, gossiping about the new improv teams or which teacher they had to study with next. Her life was easy then, easy in a way she wasn’t aware of until it wasn’t.
The boy behind the desk had a pale face overshadowed by a shock of red hair. He masked a now-familiar double take, inspired by someone who recognized either Cupcake Girl or supreme hotness. “Hey, what’s up?”
Krista flashed a big smile. “I took a class here at the beginning of the year with a friend of mine, Penny Baker. She’s . . . dropped out . . . of the world. I’m worried. Is there any way you could give me her address?”
The boy gave her a bemused smile. “Sorry, we can’t give out students’ information.”
“Right, I thought so, but it’s an emergency. I think something might have happened to her.”
“If you’re her friend, why don’t you have an email? Or a cell number?”
Krista leaned forward, letting her cleavage deepen. “God, you have such incredible eyes. What would you call that: cerulean?” She batted her lashes, speaking the words like she was sucking a candy cane. “Or baby blue? Are they baby blue?”
The redhead looked unimpressed. “I’m gay.”
Krista huffed out a breath and yanked her top back up. “Look, I fucking need her address, okay? I’m seriously just trying to help someone I think might be in trouble. So don’t be a fucking pussy and help me out. Please?”
This approach worked.
Penny had listed her address as an apartment in South Park Slope, near the Gowanus Canal. It took Krista an hour to find it, then another hour to convince the current tenant to give her the forwarding address “Penelope Worthington” had left. Which turned out to be 500 Park Avenue.
A Pretty address.
A doorman in a crisp navy suit opened the wide glass door for her at 500 Park. The interior was all marble and chandeliers and money. When Krista told the sleekly presented woman at the front desk she was here to see Penelope Worthington, she swore the woman cocked her head, just a quarter inch, as if masking surprise. “Your name?” the woman asked, one ear pressed to a phone.
“Krista Kumar.” It was the first time she’d introduced Lenka as Krista.
The woman repeated this into the receiver. Then she hung up and smiled at Krista.
A careful smile. A smile that held some sort of warning.
“Penthouse.”
48.
“Fantastic. I can’t even begin to describe your evolution, Willow. This work is just blowing me away.”
“Thanks, Meredith.” Willow pictured her curator in her office, clicking through the new portraits she’d just emailed. She was slumped by the window in a quiet café in South Williamsburg, an untouched black tea in front of her. She’d left Mark snoring gently in his bed. The memory of last night hung around her like a soft, strange vapor. She felt like she was either falling or flying, and the confusion twisted her insides in a sickly pleasurable way. “I’m glad you like them.”
“Like them? Sweetie, I love them. Oh, the pain. The drama. I love it!”
The praise—so natural, so real—warmed her from the inside, burning away her hangover. She had to stop herself from grinning like an idiot. “Good.”
“Okay, screw it. I’m just going to go with my gut here. I want to give you another show. In two weeks.”
Willow straightened. Her first show had been booked six months in advance. “What?”
“I have something lined up, but I’m going to bump it back. I just have a very good feeling about this, Willow Hendriksen. I think this is the work that’s going to make you a star!”
“Wow. Thank you. That’s amazing. I just hadn’t . . .”
“Hadn’t what?”
Willow swallowed, drawing back into herself. “I guess I hadn’t really imagined them hanging on a wall.
In a gallery.”
Meredith trilled laughter. “Where did you imagine them? You’re an artist, Willow, and art needs an audience.”
You’re an artist. The words bounced around inside her, building in momentum until she almost felt giddy. “Right.”
“I think we just need one more series and we have a show. Tell me Caroline’s still in New York. Oh, her face.” Meredith sighed. “I could just stare at it for hours.”
In the window next to her, she met her own wide-set eyes, ghostly in the glass. In her mind, she imagined forming the word no. Telling Meredith that Caroline had left town, that it was all over. After all, she was hurting Mark, through actions she didn’t feel entirely in control of, obeying urges that came from a murky, almost mythical place.
But Mark had agency. He was making choices. And better she know the truth about her boyfriend now, before it was too late. After all, it was too late for her mother. Ten years of her life down the toilet after marrying a man who probably fucked a different woman every weekend.
Like Meredith said, she was an artist.
And art required risk.
“Yes,” she said. “Caroline’s still here.”
49.
As Krista raised her finger to the penthouse’s small, gold doorbell, an unexpected wave of fear paused her hand midair. What if Penny was . . . different? Disfigured? Deformed? Did she really want to know? Did she really want proof of the fate they had all sealed for themselves?
She rang the doorbell.
Footfalls approached.
Krista stiffened, suddenly wanting to run but unable to command her limbs into action.
The door opened.
Krista strangled a gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth.
The girl who answered the door was Penny: chubby, ordinary Penny whom she’d taken the class with. But her eyes were bloodshot. Her skin was red and puffy. Her mouth was as downturned as a toad’s.
“Krista?” the figure wheezed. “Is that you? How the hell did you find me?”
“Penny!” Krista stumbled back a step. She was right. The Pretty was a death sentence, a bad drug, a bad deed, Quasimodo, the beast—
“Come in.” Penny gestured. “Usually I don’t let anyone see me like this. I guess you’re an exception.”
Krista took an unwilling step inside, taking in the impossibly tall ceilings that Penny’s voice echoed around. The immaculate designer furniture. The geometric, multipaned windows. It was so cold she almost shivered.
Penny peered at her. “What’s wrong?”
Krista swallowed. “I could ask you the same question.”
Penny rolled her eyes and tightened the cord of a pink satin robe. “Boys,” she said with a weak smile.
It was only then that Krista understood. Penny wasn’t deformed. She’d just been crying. The relief that flooded her system caused her to physically sag, and she steadied herself on the side of an enormous Chinese urn.
Penny yanked a few tissues from a gold tissue box and blew her nose. “Do you want a drink?”
It was noon. “Uh, sure.” She followed Penny into an industrial-sized kitchen. “This place is incredible.” It made Willow’s apartment look minor league.
“You’re lucky you caught me. I’ve only been back in New York two days this summer. Today, and the day we met.”
Krista ran her hand over a polished granite countertop, admiring shelves of sparkling wineglasses. “Where have you been?”
“London. Then Monaco. Then back to London.”
“Cool.”
“It’s exhausting.” Penny opened a freezer door the size of a billboard. “Vodka okay?” She selected a hefty bottle from a freezer stacked full with booze.
Krista arched an eyebrow. “You keep the place stocked, huh?”
“Someone does. One of the . . . ‘benefits.’ ” Penny poured two glasses, added half a splash of seltzer, then led the way to a sofa facing one of the huge, angular windows. The sofa was bright orange, extremely uncomfortable, and, like every other piece of furniture, looked brand-new. Penny handed Krista her glass. “Cheers,” she said. The sound of the two glasses tapping rang out for a second before being swallowed by the space.
“Whose pad is this?” Krista asked. Even though the thought made her feel guilty, Penny seemed out of place here.
“My . . .” Penny took a moment to search for the word. “Friend. Although we’re in one of our unfriendly phases right now.” She waved loosely at Krista’s face and body. “I like what it did for you. It’s different. Are you enjoying it?”
Krista glanced down at herself, feeling an unplaced sense of shame. “What is it?”
Penny smiled and gave a half laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Sorry. My guess is as good as yours.”
“Why didn’t you tell me how rough it’d be, taking it?”
“Didn’t I?” She sounded surprised. “Guess it slipped my mind.”
Krista couldn’t imagine being so used to the transformation that it could slip her mind. What a horrifying thought. “Who gave it to you?”
Penny was silent for a moment, then she waved her glass around, at the apartment the size of a football field.
“The guy who owns this place?” Krista guessed.
Penny nodded. “More or less.”
“Is he on it too?”
Penny put her finger to her lips. “He’d kill you if you told anyone.”
This was said in such a light, casual way it almost sounded like a joke. But somehow Krista knew it wasn’t. Goose bumps pimpled her arms. Penny watched her silently, swirling vodka in her glass.
Krista asked, “Why’d you give it to me?”
“I told you. You were nice to me—”
“But we didn’t even really know each other.”
Penny sighed, turning to gaze silently out the window. Acne scars pockmarked her cheek. “Maybe you caught me in a weak moment.” She took another long sip. “Are you unhappy I gave it to you?”
“No. Hey, I wake up every day with awesome boobs. Like a boob job I didn’t pay for.” Krista gave a short laugh, but even to her ears it sounded hollow. “I guess it is kind of a mind fuck. But some people don’t have enough to eat, so how can I complain?”
Penny nodded. “I know.”
“Were you trying to get rid of it?” Krista asked, only realizing as she said it that this was a possibility.
Penny stared at her with bloodshot eyes that were big and sad and serious. “God, it’s really good to see you, Krista. Sometimes . . . Sometimes I feel like—” But she was cut off by the sound of the front door unlocking. Penny jumped, and not just at the unexpected sound. Fear, a flash of it, cut through her. A man with dark features strode through the front door. He wore a suit and carried a well-made leather briefcase. Krista recognized him as the guy with the ornate, perfect facial hair who’d been in the picture that the Google search had unearthed.
When he spotted the two women, he froze.
Even though it was already cold in the apartment, it seemed to get colder.
Penny almost tripped in her hurry to get up. Her eyes were wide, panicky. She gestured at Krista without looking at her. “I’m grooming her for Naseem. He sent her. This is Carlos,” Penny told Krista, indicating the man in the suit. “The one I’ve been telling you about.”
“Hi.” Krista rose to stand next to Penny, instinctively moving closer to the girl.
But Carlos only slid his eyes over Krista for a second. Instead, he focused on Penny. His expression shifted, as if he could smell something bad.
Penny tightened her robe around herself. “I thought you were leaving for Shanghai. What happened to your meeting?”
Carlos didn’t answer. Instead, he indicated her face. “What is this?” His voice was soft, but so clearly displeased.
Penny’s jaw was set. She was breathing through her nose. “You weren’t here. I need to see my mom.”
Carlos snorted a laugh. Krista had never
wanted to get out of somewhere so badly in her life. But that would mean leaving Penny alone with this man. “We have rules,” Carlos said.
“You have rules!” Penny took a step toward him. “I can’t do it all the time.”
Even though she had tears in her voice, Carlos regarded her as if she were a child: silly and inconsequential. “I have a dinner tonight. Be ready by six.”
Penny sucked in a breath. “Tonight? No. I can’t.”
Carlos began heading for the kitchen.
“I’ll leave!” Penny raised her voice. This stopped him. “I’ll go,” she said. “I will.”
Carlos turned, slowly, until he was facing her again. A pinched, dark smile pulled at his lips as he crossed back toward her, a cat advancing on a wounded bird. Penny was trembling. A tear, then another, rolled down her cheek.
Krista’s chest had seized up, the tension in the room physically painful in her body. Scared to move, scared not to.
Carlos reached Penny and placed both hands on her shoulders. He looked down at her, almost pityingly. “Where,” he asked quietly, “would you possibly go?”
In the elevator back down, Krista burst into tears. The tension and the crushing awfulness of what she’d just witnessed overwhelmed her. She hadn’t wanted to leave Penny, but Penny insisted. “I have to get ready,” she’d muttered. Krista told her she didn’t have to, she could just leave, she could leave with her right now.
“And go where?” Penny asked. “Do what?”
“I don’t know, crash on my couch for a few days. Get a job.”
“A job?” Penny repeated. “In New York? I never went to college. Half the bartenders here have PhDs. This is my best option.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She looked more than tired. She just looked done. “It’s really not that bad.”
Krista left 500 Park feeling like she’d just made bail, wandering into the sunlight in a daze, ending up in a mostly empty coffee shop, ordering a latte she didn’t touch.
She had to make changes, she knew she did. While sometimes she was able to think of her debt as something that was fixable, something that would somehow sort itself out, the truth was she was deeply ashamed. And more than ashamed: confused. Every purchase that had snowballed into debt, every one made sense at the time. Like the Zac Posen dress at the Gilt sample sale: it wasn’t just a bargain, it was a smart investment, it was saving money. It was scary to realize how unreliable her own brain could be, how easily she could be convinced of the wrong path. How did you know what was wrong and what was right?
The Regulars Page 23