The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  Krista yanked out her phone and began typing a text.

  hey tristan,

  it’s lenka penka. i’m really, really sorry about what happened the other day. i didn’t respect you or what was important to you. my actions were regrettable and i never intended to cause offense.

  i hope you can forgive me. good luck on the movie. i miss being there.

  lenka xxx

  She sent it to the cell number listed as Tristan’s on the call sheet. Then she sat, barely moving, staring dully at the customers filtering in and out of the coffee shop or watching a triangle of sunlight inch slowly over the laminated tabletop. An hour passed. Then another. Her phone rang, startling her. It was a number she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “Lenka. It’s Cameron Mitchell. Your agent.” A pause, possibly just for effect. “I have some surprising news.”

  50.

  “I could work on you all morning, Madame Chloe, but ain’t nothing is gonna make you pretty when you’s looking so sour.” Marcello pointed at Evie with a tube of liquid eyeliner accusingly. “What’s happened? And no, I won’t take ‘nothing’ for an answer.”

  Evie sank down even farther into her chair. The Pretty had chewed up her stomach and spat it out her butt. She’d brushed her teeth five times to get rid of the taste of vomit.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  Kelly wasn’t even fazed by the vicious internet attack Extra Salt had inspired. He’d told her not to pay attention to the haters, calling them “man-hating feminazis or horny pricks living in their parents’ basement.” Jan had called to congratulate him: everyone thought Extra Salt was great. Of course they did. They were all idiots. “What’d you think of it?” she asked Marcello.

  “ ‘It’ being the first episode?”

  Evie nodded.

  “I thought it was—” Marcello screwed up his face.

  “Lame? Lamer than Tiny Tim?”

  Marcello smiled. “It was exactly what I was expecting.”

  Evie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “The worst part is, for some ungodly reason, I was actually excited about it. I thought I could make something good and meaningful. Something I’d be proud of!”

  “Me too.” Marcello pursed his lips at her. “But now I’ll have to start over.”

  Evie caught sight of herself in the mirror. She’d just smudged mascara and eyeshadow all down her cheeks. “Shit. Sorry, Marcello. I’m such a klutz.”

  “No problem, beautiful.” Marcello wet a sponge with some cleanser and began dabbing at the dark stains. “Let’s just save the dramatics until you’re off camera, okay?”

  Evie sat obediently as Marcello began repairing his work. He paused to tweezer an errant eyebrow hair and Evie yelped. He smirked at her. “Be thankful you didn’t live during the Renaissance,” he said. “Back in the day, ladies used to pluck their hairlines to achieve the high foreheads that were so en vogue.”

  “Ugh.” Evie shuddered. “Why have beauty standards always been so damn painful? Why can’t we decide they’re, I don’t know, all about cellulite and milk mustaches?”

  “Does that annoy you?” Marcello asked, dotting Evie’s skin with foundation. “The fact you’re not in charge of how you look?”

  Evie stiffened. In one sense, he could have been talking about himself; after all, he was the one currently prepping Chloe’s on-camera look. But it almost sounded as if he was asking about Pretty, and the fact it turned her into an ideal, but not necessarily her ideal. Evie had to resist the urge to drop her gaze to her forearm, to the place where her tattoo used to be. In reply, she made a noncommittal noise and redirected the conversation. “Why do you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Makeup.”

  “Makes me feel purdy.” He smiled at her coquettishly.

  “Is that why you like putting it on other people?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Because it makes them look pretty?”

  “Because it makes them feel pretty.” Marcello pulled a chair over and sat down so he was sitting eye to eye with Evie. “My job is to make women, and some very forward-thinking gentlemen, feel like the best version of themselves. And I know you think makeup sets an unrealistic standard and yadda yadda yadda, but the way I see it, I’m just helping people bring out their inner goddess. I can’t make you beautiful, Chloe. I can just help you see, with a little color here and a little color there, that you are already beautiful.”

  “I get that,” Evie said. “I do. I felt pretty damn hot when I met Velma the other night, and I think that did have something to do with a little color here and there. But it’s still not right to me.”

  “Why not?”

  Evie bit her lip, thinking. “When I was about ten or eleven, I got super into red lipstick. I wanted to wear it all the time: to school, to the park, to watch TV, to bed. And my mom was like, ‘Uh-uh. That’s not for every day. That’s for special days.’ ” Evie looked up at Marcello. “But now for any woman on TV, or in politics, or who expects to be listened to, it’s become everyday. Hollywood couldn’t give a shit if women feel beautiful. They only want women to look beautiful. All the time.”

  Marcello cocked his head, not denying this.

  “If you’re not born with good genes or you don’t want to pile a ton of crap on your face every day, then you’re not as powerful. Beauty is power,” Evie said, realizing. “But it’s not real power.”

  Marcello nodded thoughtfully. “I think what you’re saying is true.”

  “And it’s a bitch to put on!” Evie exclaimed. “It’s expensive, and it takes ages, and it’s bad for your skin.” Evie gestured at where the mascara stains had been on her cheek. “I can’t act like a fucking human being without totally messing it up. And there’s something very wrong about the fact you can’t make out with someone while wearing lipstick, right?”

  Marcello laughed.

  “I mean, isn’t that the point?” Evie laughed too. “It’s so dumb!”

  “I hear you, Chloe Fontaine. I do. I think what you’re saying makes a lot of sense. And it seems to me someone like you is in . . .” He paused, as if carefully choosing his next word. “A unique situation to do something about it.”

  Evie met his knowing look with a blankness that didn’t accept or deny the implicit accusation. “You’re right,” she said. “I am in a unique situation.”

  Marcello rocked back on his chair and arched an eyebrow at her. “So what’s your next move?”

  51.

  Evie arrived home to find the apartment bathed in warm late-afternoon light, still and empty. She flopped onto the couch. Her body was humming like a speaker turned all the way up. She and Marcello had hatched a scheme that was a. flawless, b. wicked, and c. wonderful. Her first Trojan horse plan hadn’t aimed high enough. This plan did.

  Plus, she was going out with Velma tonight. Evie had texted her back a few hours ago, setting off a chain of deliciously flirtatious banter. In no time at all, Velma had suggested getting together again. Evie replied she was only free this evening, which admittedly was a lie, but a lie that worked. Velma immediately invited her to a “small get-together with friends.”

  Her phone chimed. Velma. Can’t decide what to wear. Does that mean I’m nervous?

  Evie’s thumbs flew across her phone. Step 1. Open wardrobe. Step 2. Select black pants, white V-neck, and black blazer. Step 3. Rinse and repeat.

  Seconds later, a reply. That made me laugh. See you tonight.

  Evie glowed, tingling all over. She tossed her phone onto the couch and peeked at the living room mirror. The flushed face of an excited, happy girl met her eyes. Chloe’s eyes. She took a moment to admire Chloe’s smooth skin, graceful height, and flat stomach. She was happy to have her partner in crime back. Her sister. Her perfect disguise.

  And even though Chloe was that—a disguise, a mask—Evie felt a quickening of her heart as she allowed the next thought to surface.

  Could Velma like Evie?

 
The real her?

  It was Evie’s sense of humor Velma responded to, Evie’s history at college, Evie’s observations.

  Evie exhaled noisily, pushing the thought away as quickly as it came. This was an elaborate game of fancy dress, but at the end of the day, she’d have to hang up her costume and get back to real life.

  But not right now.

  Evie shouldered her bag, intending to start date prep. Her gaze landed on the mess on the coffee table. The apartment had fallen into general disarray over the last week and a half, mostly because she hadn’t been cleaning up after Krista, or Willow, or herself. But now, amid the greasy takeout containers and unread New Yorkers, was something new.

  A large rectangular envelope, ripped open down one side. Evie recognized the sender’s logo: Eden Photographics, the place Willow had her photographs printed. She picked it up, curious to see if it was new work or not. Willow wouldn’t mind.

  The photographs were of Caroline.

  Dozens of them; silvery black-and-white images rendered on thick, glossy paper.

  Evie leafed through them. Something cold and black began unspooling inside her, seeping a quiet horror into her chest.

  The photographs were nightmarish.

  Willow, as Caroline, crying.

  Distressed.

  Ruined.

  Evie sifted through the photographs quicker and quicker, hoping for some explanation. Every time she met Willow’s eyes—those wide-set, alien eyes—she felt a jab in her stomach; a quick, sick blow. She was reminded of an ad campaign that Salty was forced to pull earlier in the year. In the images, beautiful women with black eyes and rope burns clutched expensive handbags. Evie had railed against it in Something Snarky: her readers had been some of the most vocal opponents. And now Willow was making art like this, eroticizing suffering. Even with tears streaking down her face, Caroline was beautiful.

  In pain.

  And gorgeous.

  Why was Willow taking pictures like this? What the fuck was going on?

  A key sounded in the front door. Krista. Evie hadn’t spoken to her since they’d argued last night. On seeing Evie she did a double take, looking wary. “Hey.”

  Evie thrust the sheaf of offending pictures at Krista. “Have you seen these?”

  Krista frowned at the photograph on top of the pile: Caroline, naked, cowering in an empty bath, staring at the camera with a pleading expression. “What’s with the weird selfies?”

  “I don’t think they’re selfies.” The girl in the bathtub reminded her of a pitiful dog. Her friend. That was her friend looking like that.

  “They’re kind of cool,” Krista said. “But at the same time . . .” Krista handed the photos back to Evie abruptly. “I don’t like these. Is this what Willow’s been up to?”

  “I guess so.” Evie grimaced. “Ugh, I can’t even look at these, they’re too freaky.” She knew the Pretty hadn’t been good for Willow. In some way, she’d just felt it. Had it been warping Willow’s mind? Changing it, as much as the Pretty changed their appearance? “Did you organize that dinner with her?” The question sounded more like an accusation.

  Krista looked startled. “What?”

  “The dinner! You said you’d organize a dinner, check in.”

  Krista backed up a step, darting her eyes sideways. “I thought you were doing that.”

  “No, you were supposed to!”

  “Quit yelling at me!”

  The front door opened again.

  The girl in the pictures, Caroline, breezed into the apartment. Evie and Krista froze, deer in twin headlights.

  “Oh, hi guys.” Willow’s voice sounded drifty and slightly thick. Evie assumed she’d been drinking. Her gaze fell to the photographs in Evie’s hand, and she gave a small sigh. “They need so much work.”

  Evie and Krista exchanged a glance.

  “What needs work?” Evie asked. “Will, what are these?”

  “My new series,” she answered. “I’m having another show in two weeks. I just found out today.”

  “You’re having a show? With these pictures of Caroline?”

  Willow nodded, a dazed smile coloring her mouth. “Pretty great, huh?”

  Evie tried to slow the swirl in her head. Maybe if she didn’t know the girl in the picture, she’d see them differently. But she did know the girl in the picture. “I don’t know if great is the adjective I’m looking for right now.”

  Willow slid her eyes to Evie’s. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re crying in these pictures. Really crying.”

  Willow nodded. “That’s what makes them so good.”

  No, that’s what makes them so weird. Evie curled her fingers into her palms, trying to keep her voice even. “Are you okay?”

  Willow gave her an odd look. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s just . . . I mean, you’re obviously wasted, which is totally cool, except it’s five in the afternoon.” Evie exhaled, feeling jumbled. “Look, I know your last show was kind of a bust, and it must be hard not seeing Mark when you’re ‘Caroline.’ So, like, maybe the whole Pretty thing has just been messing with your head a bit. Let’s just talk about it.”

  Willow stared at Evie as if she’d been speaking in French. “Do you have any idea how patronizing you sound?”

  “I just want to know if you’re okay.”

  Willow raised her voice. “I told you I’m fine.”

  “Fuck!” Evie’s patience was fraying. “I’m worried about you. We both are. These seem like a cry for—”

  “You’re worried about me? Really. You too, Kris?”

  “Yes,” Evie said. “She is.”

  “Now you’re speaking for her?” Willow scoffed. “That was only a matter of time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Krista said.

  Willow’s voice was steely. “What do you think of my photographs, Krista?”

  Krista shifted between the two girls in front of her uncomfortably. “Um, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” Evie said. “You told me you didn’t like them.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Krista fiddled with her sleeve. “Look, things are really weird for all three of us right now. Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  Evie exhaled angrily. “Way to back me up.” She turned back to Willow. “Will, what is going on? Did something happen with Mark?”

  Willow bristled, a full shudder quaking her thin frame. She snatched the pictures from Evie, sliding them back into the envelope. Evie watched, dumbstruck. The air crackled with discomfort. Willow stormed for the front door and yanked it open. She cut her eyes back to Evie. “You like that I’m not a successful artist.”

  “That’s insane,” Evie said. “Why would I like that?”

  “Because it makes you feel better about what you’re not doing.”

  When Willow slammed the door behind her, it echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

  52.

  Evie showered furiously, blasting her skin with boiling hot water.

  Maybe it was a little comforting that her friends were still figuring themselves out, but it didn’t make her feel good that Willow was struggling. She wanted Willow to succeed, of course she did. But that didn’t preclude being honest. Willow would have to learn to take criticism. Because she’d be getting it once she put those horrid photos up in a gallery. Every time she pictured them—Caroline’s weak, weepy eyes—she felt like throwing up. This depiction of women as sexy, sad creatures, half nude and helpless, was everything Evie was working against. It was a veritable slap in the face for anyone who said women could be strong and independent and courageous. And it was Willow—Willow!—putting that message out there. Had she taught her nothing?

  But was she supposed to be teaching Willow? Was that just self-righteous narcissism to micromanage Willow’s art in order for it to better express Evie’s own philosophies? Maybe she should just let Willow be Willow. But there was something wrong with Willow, not artistically wrong: w
rong wrong. The line between meddling and concern was wavering. No option felt right and it was winding her up into a tight little ball.

  But she was not going to let this ruin her date with Velma. She absolutely would not.

  Wrapped in a towel, Evie hesitated outside Krista’s door. On the verge of chickening out, she made herself knock.

  “Come in.”

  Krista was curled in her unmade bed. On seeing Evie, she sat up. They regarded each other formally.

  Evie was the first to speak. “Kris, I’m really sorry about the audition. It was absolutely the wrong thing to do. You needed that spot way more than me, and I really wish I hadn’t done it. I’m sorry.”

  Krista nodded. “It’s okay. I get why you did it.” She bit her lip nervously. “I’m, ah, back in the movie.”

  “Really?” Evie sank down on the edge of Krista’s mattress. “How?”

  Krista shrugged. “I texted Tristan an apology. My agent called me a few hours ago.”

  “That’s great.”

  “There’s something else.” Krista lowered her voice. “I found Penny Baker.”

  Krista recounted her afternoon: the penthouse at 500 Park, the fight with Carlos, how trapped Penny seemed. “I guess the takeaway is: we have to make sure it doesn’t trap us too. You’re not taking it anymore, right?”

  “Right.” Evie hesitated. “Well, I took it again this morning. It’s my only chance to see Velma again,” she added. “And fix the Extra Salt mess.”

  “Hey.” Krista put her hands up. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I took it twice too. We should just be careful.”