Krista pulled back and uneasily flipped on the light.
Tristan’s naked form became fully illuminated. His perfect six-pack. His muscular thighs. And . . . his complete lack of a penis. Nothing but the small bump she’d been touching. Krista’s jaw loosened, the truth landing like a grenade. That was it. That was his penis. His micropenis. It was the size of a button mushroom.
“Babe?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
A voice inside her was telling her to calm down, to not hurt Tristan’s feelings, but that voice was being drowned out by a wild whirling, a terrific crashing. Panic welled inside her, hot and insistent. “I, uh, didn’t expect it to be so small.”
“Compared to some, it’s actually on the larger side.”
“Compared to what?” Krista’s voice cracked. “Baby mice?”
“Lenka.” Tristan sat up. Krista jerked away, but Tristan took her hands, his voice stern. “Listen to me. We all have things that aren’t perfect about us. But this is what a relationship is—showing each other the things that make us imperfect.”
Krista was trying to look at him, but her eyes keep drifting down to the absence between his legs.
“I can still make you come,” he said. “With my hands. With my tongue. With a vibrator. So can we at least give it a try?” He fixed his soulful gaze on her. “Please?”
Krista swallowed. “Sure.” She nodded, unsure who in the room she was trying to convince.
“Good.” He cupped the back of her neck and brought her head toward his. He kissed her gently, again and again, until her shoulders relaxed. His hands raised to fondle her breasts, and in response she pushed her chest toward him automatically, her body moving with muscle memory, with desire.
Once again, her hands drifted down.
She touched the tiny lump.
Tristan moaned. “Oh, Lenka.”
Button mushroom.
“Lenka.”
Baby mice.
“Lenka—”
“I can’t!” Krista pulled away. “I just—Tris, I can’t.”
Tristan rolled onto his back and let out a frustrated groan. All the lust, all the excitement that had been building up inside her deflated, leaving a painful empty hollow. The illusion, the magic, had disappeared, like the lights being switched on at the end of a middle school disco, revealing the space to be nothing but a school hall.
Krista drew her knees up to her chest. “You must think I’m so superficial.”
Tristan took a moment to answer. “You have expectations. All beautiful women do.”
Krista shook her head. “But I’m not even . . .” She was a hypocrite. Krista Kumar wasn’t perfect. And here she was rejecting Tristan McKell, beautiful, sweet Tristan McKell over one tiny thing.
One seriously tiny thing.
“I’m going to go.” She fumbled for her clothes and started pulling them back on.
“Lenka, wait.”
“You deserve someone so much better than me.” She jammed her shoes on. “I’m sorry, Tristan.”
“Lenka!” Tristan swung his feet onto the floor. “Wait. Let’s just talk—”
“I’m sorry!” Krista pulled the trailer door open, stumbling on her undone laces. She flew straight into a sea of bodies, tripping over someone, landing on her hands and knees.
“Lenka!”
Around her, a collective intake of breath. A sudden freezing of motion.
Damian was herding a crowd of thirty or so extras past Tristan’s trailer. Kids, she remembered, for a crowd scene later that afternoon. Krista had landed among them, knocking a young boy over as she fell.
But that wasn’t why everyone was staring.
Tristan stood in his open trailer doorway. Paralyzed. Naked. With his lack of a penis on full display.
Krista saw the girl who moved first. The extra couldn’t have been more than ten, her hair in two pigtails. Her jaw was unhinged, but her hand moved like lightning. Krista didn’t even have time to turn her head before she heard the solitary click of an iPhone camera.
65.
For most Salty readers, the idea of walking a red carpet was a glittery wet dream. The attention, the glory, the dress that was worth the GDP of a small country. Evie Selby did not share this dream. Her experience with red-carpet fashion was limited to what she’d copyedited: “Oops! Ten Red-Carpet Mistakes A-Listers Are Still Making” (nasty) or “Chatting Snap: How to Pose for Paparazzi” (ridiculous). Which was why, on exiting the SUV that was transporting her, Rich, Marcello, and the camera guy, Adrian, to the press entry for the Arzners, her first instinct was to tell the driver to turn around and take them all back to Brooklyn.
The scene before them was chaotic, buzzing with fresh, nervous energy. Prom night on steroids. Dozens of people were scurrying about, some speaking into earpieces, some barking orders into cell phones. Evie’s fellow reporters were recognizable as the only ones in designer gowns. The effect was vaguely unnerving. It reminded Evie of the time she’d arrived at a fancy dress party dressed as a shrimp, only to discover the only other person in costume was a drunk guy wearing a barrel-sized jar of mayonnaise. He’d followed her all night, glassy-eyed and beer-breathed, repeating, “Shrimp cocktail? Hey? Shrimp cocktail?”
Evie negotiated the crowds to an area hung with banners announcing itself as Press Check-In, flashing the lanyards Tristan friggin’ McKell had helped them procure. The woman who crossed their names off handed Evie a press release emblazoned with Revlon’s logo, and told them they’d find Extra Salt’s allocated spot in the Print, Radio, and Online section, past the photographers and TV crews. Evie was so riddled with nerves she had to have this information repeated several times. The woman flashed her an encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine. You look gorgeous,” she added, as if this alone was success enough.
Gemma and Rose had procured for Chloe a floor-length cream silk gown, which they’d assured her was understated but classy, with just the right hint of sex appeal. Evie felt like she was wearing a nightie. But at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter. All she needed the dress to do was pass as normal red-carpet attire.
Velma will be able to see me in this dress, she thought, before realizing it was the first time she’d thought about Velma all afternoon. She was so in the zone that separation was actually bearable, but only just.
They flashed their passes at several sets of security. And then, there it was.
The pathway of the privileged.
The most auspicious flooring of them all.
The carpet.
Evie felt both over- and underwhelmed. After all, it was just a temporary structure, not more than a hundred feet of red, leading toward an auditorium where the ceremony would be taking place. It was hardly the Eiffel Tower or the Taj Mahal. But at the same time, Evie’s heart leaped about her chest like a bouncy ball. She was really here. This was really happening.
They found their spot on the sidelines, demarcated with a paper printout. Behind them, rows of fans stood craning their necks for the first sniff of celeb. Organizers milled about, seemingly oblivious to the growing crowd. While Rich helped Adrian set up the best angles, Marcello dabbed at Evie’s sticky forehead. “Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded, trying to appear confident. “Take these.” She pushed her index cards of notes into his hands. “I can’t have them on camera.” She also didn’t want Rich to see them.
Marcello slipped them into the pocket of his electric-blue blazer. Today, the fedora matched the chains around his neck: gold. “You look the part,” he murmured. “No one suspects a thing. Just relax, and do everything like we planned.”
“Right.” Evie wet her dry lips. “Just like we planned.”
Marcello gave her a wink and melted off.
“Kelly wants you to wear this.” Rich handed her a small silver earpiece.
She heard Kelly’s tinny voice. “G’day, love. Hear me okay?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Great. Just wanted to remind you about the Tr
ifecta of Terrific.”
“The what?”
“Dress, love, role,” Kelly said. “Dress: what they’re wearing, who the designer is. Love: how’s their love life, what’s up with their kids or when are they going to have them. And role: plugging their next movie. Short, sharp sound bites.”
Inwardly, Evie rolled her eyes. Outwardly, she nodded efficiently. “Got it.”
“I’ll be feeding you who to speak to, what to say—”
“I’ve already done my questions.”
“Mate, it’s your first time doing a live stream. I’m here to help.”
“But—”
“Chloe, I’m the producer. You hear it, you say it.”
Evie bit the inside of her cheek. “Absolutely, Kelly. No problem.”
“All right. I’ll be back when it starts.”
Minutes passed, the tension rising every second. Rich got Evie to run practice openings into a fat cordless microphone with a hot pink clip-on attachment that read Extra Salt on all four sides, and offered suggestions for interview topics Evie nodded at but ignored. It was all treading water. There was no denying what the main event was. At exactly 4 p.m., a roar swept the now-sizable crowd. Evie spun around. Coming around the corner, surrounded by a clutch of regularly dressed handlers, was the actress Olivia Wilde.
“Showtime.” Kelly was back in her ear.
Adrian shouldered the camera. “All set?” Rich called.
Evie raised the microphone to her lips. She flashed on seeing Velma Wolff for the first time, in the elevator in the Heimert Schwartz building. How afraid she’d been then, how insecure. Seeing Olivia, in a glittery frock that’d make the Milky Way feel underdressed, threatened to unleash that familiar wave of nerves.
But she didn’t let the wave break.
“All set,” she said. The light on the camera switched to red. Rolling.
Evie took a deep breath and flashed a confident smile straight down the lens. “Hi, I’m Chloe Fontaine, coming at you live from the red carpet for the Arzners, the annual awards show that celebrates women in film and television.” She took a few steps toward the red rope that separated the reporters from the carpet. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rich give her an encouraging smile. “While there’s a lot to celebrate, we still have a long way to go. So tonight, Extra Salt gets up close and personal with your favorite celebs to ask them: How can we change Hollywood to make it more sassy, less sexist?”
Rich’s smile wavered. His expression morphed to confused. “Ah, Chloe?” she heard Kelly say. “What the fuck was that?”
Olivia’s people were herding her down the line of reporters. Evie jostled into position, trying to angle her body toward the camera, keep her smile fixed in place, and remember Olivia’s questions. Adrian’s camera followed her obediently. After a few odd seconds of dead air, the actress was right in front of her. “H-hello,” Evie said, raising her voice to be heard above the screaming crowd. “Good afternoon.”
Olivia cocked an eyebrow. Evie felt a spike of embarrassment. “Good afternoon to you.”
“Right, she’s got a kid,” Kelly said. “Ask her about work-life balance.”
Evie’s words came in a garbled, skittish rush. “Chloe from Extra Salt this is a great event celebrating women in film and television but we still don’t have enough good roles for women how do you think we can change that?”
“What the— No!” Kelly shouted in her ear. “Jesus F. Christ, Chloe, I said work-life balance—”
In one smooth motion, Evie plucked the silver earpiece out of her ear.
Olivia blinked, taken aback. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Evie repeated her question, trying not to sound like a speed freak. “I’m interested in how you think we can change gender inequality in Hollywood.”
Olivia bit back a smile.
Oh god, Evie thought, I’ve done something wrong.
“Wow, I’ve never been asked about gender inequality on the carpet before.” Olivia met Evie’s eyes evenly. “Look, that’s a great question. It’s really hard to get stories that are about women made, stories that aren’t just about women being obsessed with or supporting men. We’ve got a lock on those films, seriously.”
“How can we change that?” Evie asked.
“It’s really important for women to write, direct, and produce more movies,” Olivia replied. “Men need to step up and support women behind the camera. We need to think about affirmative action, we need to think about mentorships.”
“Right,” Evie said, thinking aloud. “What if every male director working today was mentoring a female director?”
“I think the world would be a better place,” Olivia replied. “Look, we all benefit from a society that actively pursues equality. It makes the world culturally richer.” A woman wearing a headset touched the actress’ arm, indicating it was time to move on.
“Thank you so much, have a great night,” Evie said.
Olivia smiled at Evie, and gave her arm a squeeze. “Thank you.” As she moved off camera, she shot Evie a look over her shoulder, and gave her a quick thumbs-up.
Evie was too stunned to respond. She was panting, insides swirling, heart racing. It was only then that she realized it had worked. Olivia Wilde had answered her questions: not stupid questions about designer dresses, but actual questions about things that mattered.
Someone nudged her. It was Adrian. She was still on camera. She snapped to attention. “Olivia Wilde offering some sage advice to the boys’ club in La-La Land. C’mon, people, let’s demand more stories by the double-X set.” Behind Adrian, she could see Rich. He was shaking his head, bewildered. As she watched, she saw him answer his phone. Kelly, for sure.
A rise of cheers alerted her back to the carpet. Evie made out a tiny blonde dripping with diamonds making her way up the line of reporters. It was Juici, a plasticky pop star who’d starred in a cheesy rom-com. Evie tried to make subtle move along gestures, but Juici was shepherded in front of her.
“Hi!” Juici gushed, waving at the hysterical fans. Everything about her was fake: tits, teeth, tan.
“Looking very sparkly,” Evie said, one eye over Juici’s shoulder.
“Thanks.” Juici blew a kiss at the camera. “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
“Not if they’re blood diamonds,” Evie told her. “Then they’re more like oppressed people’s worst enemy.”
Behind the camera, Rich made a cutting motion across his throat, the phone glued to his ear. They’d have to get through to Jan to pull the plug on her, and she was at a screening. From the corner of her eye she saw Juici get shuffled away, looking confused.
Evie caught sight of the next actress. She didn’t need to fake enthusiasm—or nerves—when addressing the camera. “She’s one of the biggest young stars on the scene, but her attitude has always been so refreshingly down to earth. Jennifer Lawrence, what’s your opinion on Hollywood beauty standards?”
“They suck,” Jennifer replied, before laughing. “Oh, want to know why men don’t look good with makeup? Someone just told me this.”
“Why?”
“Because they haven’t been told they look bad without it,” Jennifer replied cockily.
“Ooh, I like that,” Evie said. “That’s good. But I do notice you’re wearing makeup now.”
The actress made a face. “Yeah. I am. They held me down.”
“You were powerless?”
“Yeah, they forced me.” She laughed.
“Well, I think there is way too much emphasis put on how women look in Hollywood,” Evie said, switching her attention between Jennifer and the camera. “I think unrealistic beauty standards, perpetuated by Photoshop and mandatory makeup, have to stop.”
“Hell yeah, sister!” The starlet pumped a fist.
“So I challenge you, Jennifer Lawrence, to follow my lead, and go makeup-free for the Arzners.”
Jennifer glanced around. “What, really?”
“Abso-totally. I have my m
ain man Marcello right here.” Marcello appeared by Evie’s side bearing wipes, makeup remover, and Q-tips. “I’m game if you are.”
A small crowd had gathered around the pair. Marcello held up his wipes like a magician.
“All right, you’re on,” Jennifer said. “Let’s do it!”
“Screw makeup!”
“We don’t need it!”
Working quickly, Marcello began removing every trace of mascara, blush, and lipstick from both women’s faces. The crowd around them was swelling. Fans pointed excitedly, caught up in the spectacle. As Evie waited for Marcello to finish Jennifer, she saw Rich. He was on the phone, nodding grimly. All color had drained from his face. As Marcello removed the final scrap of Jennifer’s makeup, and the crowd of people around them began clapping, Rich strode over to Adrian.
Seconds later, the red light on the camera went dead.
Extra Salt was off the air.
66.
Kelly’s face was the color of an heirloom tomato. “What the hell was that? What the hell was that? What the hell . . . was that?”
“You could also try, ‘What the hell was that?’ ” Evie replied. “If you’re aiming for all possible emphases.”
“Don’t be cute with me, Chloe!” Kelly railed. “Not now. I am so sick to death of you being cute with me!”
The pair was in Jan’s office; Jan was absent. Evie didn’t notice the awards or the view or the signed photographs on the walls. She was riding high, ecstatic with success. The red-carpet takeover had worked.
Kelly paced the hardwood floors, considerably less happy. “Dress, love, role!” he shouted. “Dress, love, role, is that so fucking hard to—”
His tirade was interrupted. Jan. She slammed the door behind her. Apprehension shot through Evie’s veins.
“Sit,” Jan ordered them both.
They did.
Jan swung her computer screen to face them both. It was the YouTube video of the Arzners. Jan tapped at something in the background. “Can you read that?”
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