The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  In front of her sat a small white box, just a few inches wide. It had been sent up from the studio for Chloe Fontaine, left on Evie’s desk to pass on to her “roommate.” Evie was a little nervous opening it, afraid of what parting shot Kelly might take at her.

  Nestled on a bed of white satin was a card printed with neat cursive.

  For when you’re feeling beautiful.

  —MARCELLO

  Underneath the card was a weighty gold tube. Lipstick. She smiled. It was the perfect shade of red.

  Her phone chimed. A text. From Velma.

  I’m sure you don’t want to see or hear from me right now, and that’s understandable. I just want to say I’m sorry. I never planned to hurt you. I should have been clearer from the beginning that I’m not in the position to be in a relationship right now.

  Please know you are delightful, and I’m glad for the time we spent together. And if you’d ever like to get a no-strings-attached drink, you have my number.

  A few seconds later, she texted again.

  P.S. I forgot to tell you: I spent a few hours reading your sister’s blog last week. She’s a great writer. I have a friend, Mia, who’s interested in it. Here’s her cell. Tell her I sent you.

  Each time Evie read the messages, a new emotion washed through her. At first, hurt. The sharp sting of rejection, the slow pang of sadness.

  Then dark amusement: the nerve of suggesting a “no-strings-attached drink”!

  And finally, curiosity.

  Who was Mia?

  Ordinarily, Evie would use Mia’s cell number to Google stalk her, playing detective until she found a last name, read everything she could about her, develop a series of anxieties about the phone call that would have to be workshopped in depth with Krista, before making the call three days later with two separate plans of attack.

  But today, she just tapped on the number. A woman’s voice answered on the third ring. “This is Mia.”

  “Mia, hi, my name’s Evie Selby. Velma Wolff passed your number on to me. She mentioned you were interested in my blog, Something Snarky.”

  “Evie! I’m glad you called. Yes, Velma turned me on to you.” Mia sounded efficient and warm at the same time. “I’m a fan. Very funny, very feisty. Lots of potential.”

  Evie warmed with pleasure. As her blog was anonymous, she rarely received a compliment about it. “Thanks.”

  “My partners and I are launching a new website that focuses on female op-eds. Smart, fresh, opinionated. We’re looking to work with a dozen writers from a range of backgrounds who all have a unique perspective on everything from what’s happening in the White House to what white privilege looks like today. It’s a paid gig, livable wage. And we’d love to make you one of our signature columnists.”

  Evie blinked. “Okay.”

  “We want each writer to build up their own following, have their own brand, but united under our umbrella,” Mia continued. “And we want a combination of written pieces and video content.”

  The clumsy, bewildered excitement that’d been growing in Evie’s chest stopped short. “Wait, what?”

  “Video content,” Mia repeated. “I know Something Snarky is anonymous, but if you work for us, you can’t be. We want Evie Selby unmasked.”

  “But . . . you don’t even know what I look like.”

  Mia let out a confused half laugh. “That really doesn’t matter. So what do you say? Like I said, I’m a fan. I’d love to email you a contract and have it back by the end of the day.”

  Evie closed her eyes. Her heart was hammering. Her palms were sticky with sweat. It was everything she wanted, suddenly, on the other end of the phone with a woman who sounded like she had a mortgage and was vaguely important. How could it be that easy? It couldn’t be as good as it seemed. Could it?

  But beyond the suspicious nature of serendipity: being on the internet, a public person? People would hate her, just like they hated Chloe Fontaine.

  “Evie? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, give me a minute. I’m just trying to think.”

  “Okay. But I don’t have all day.”

  Evie sat back in her chair, and for a second Chloe’s brazen yet proper sort of posture came back to her in a feline sweep of confidence.

  Chloe didn’t really care about the haters: not really. She was too busy getting shit done. And, Evie had to admit, she was quite fond of her supporters. It was fun seeing so many smart, funny people reblog and tweet about her red-carpet stunt at the Arzners.

  Well, maybe I’ll do it for those kinds of people, Evie thought. That seemed like a pretty good audience. Hell, she could even reintroduce Chloe’s presence on the net. After all, Chloe was her roommate or her sister (depending on who you asked). She’d always be there to help.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I won’t sign a contract without first coming in to meet you and the team. I need a clear understanding of what kind of creative control I have and how much exposure I’ll get. And I’ll want to negotiate my wage and benefits.”

  Mia was silent. Evie felt very still as she waited for her to respond, as if the world were holding its breath. Mia chuckled. “Evie, I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine. I’ll get my assistant to set a lunch up for us. I’m sure we can work out a package that suits us both.” She clicked off.

  Evie stared at her phone in disbelief. Just like that. Just. Like. That. Five minutes ago she had been unemployed. But now, maybe things had changed. Maybe that phone call was a door that led places she’d never dreamed of, to a future she could be excited about . . .

  “Can I get you another?” A waitress had her hand on Evie’s empty glass.

  Evie felt a bang of recognition, a quick flick of adrenaline. It was Quinn.

  “Oh!” Quinn’s eyes widened. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” Evie said. “I guess you remember me.”

  Quinn smiled charmingly, a blush coloring her cheeks. “Didn’t you lie to me about working for the New York Times?”

  Evie made a face, and nodded. “Really gunning to be your worst first date of 2016. Am I in the lead?”

  “Mmm.” Quinn waved her hand around as if to say so-so. “I’ve been on some pretty bad ones, so—”

  “I have a lot of competition, got it,” Evie said, and they both laughed. “How are you?” Evie asked, noticing as she did how pretty Quinn’s eyes were: a light caramel brown. “How’s the music thing going?”

  “It’s going,” Quinn said. “I get out there. I sing my songs.” She pretended to play a guitar. “People talk during most of it, but I think I’m getting through to them.”

  “Is that your invisible guitar?” Evie asked, pointing at where Quinn had just been miming one.

  “Oh this? Yup, that’s it.” Quinn nodded, mock-serious. “Not so great with the sound, but so easy to transport.” She mimed throwing it behind the bar. Evie giggled, remembering Quinn was funny, as well as cute. “What about you? How’s Salty?”

  She remembered, Evie thought in surprise. “Actually, I just quit.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yup. Officially fun-employed.”

  “That explains the day-drinking,” Quinn suggested, and Evie nodded. “I’m going to get you another beer, on the house.”

  She took Evie’s empty glass. Evie watched her pull another beer, realizing as Quinn returned with it that she’d been watching her do so with a weird smile on her face the whole time. It wasn’t just that Quinn was really cute. It was the fact Quinn had a weird smile on her face too.

  “There you go,” Quinn said. “One ‘Good work on not working’ beer.”

  “Thanks.” Evie took a sip without tasting it.

  Quinn tapped her palms together, looking unsure whether to keep hanging around.

  Evie definitely wanted her to. “Look, I’m just going to say this,” she said. “I’m really sorry for lying to you. I was in a not-great place. But I’ve had a very . . . transformative month. And I don’t think I ne
ed to”—Evie cocked her head, searching for the right phrase—“disguise myself anymore.”

  “What happened in your transformative month?”

  “I kind of got my heart broken,” Evie said. “A little bit.”

  “That sucks.” Quinn made an empathetic face.

  “Yes, and no. It was one of those ‘what not to do’ scenarios.”

  “I’ve been in a few of those.”

  “But it’s over now,” Evie said. “And . . . I’m excited for what might come next.”

  “Cool.” They stared at each other until they both realized they were staring at each other, and looked away, exhaling embarrassed laughter.

  “I better let you get back to your day-drinking,” Quinn said, seeming reluctant. “It was great seeing you again—”

  “Can I take you out?” Evie blurted. “Or . . . however the kids are saying it these days. Take you on a date? No more lies. Scout’s honor.”

  Quinn ducked her gaze to her hands. When she looked up again, she was grinning goofily. “I’d like that.”

  “If you give me your number, I will call you,” Evie said. “That way I don’t have to message you through the app.”

  “Oh, good idea.” Quinn dug out a pen from her pocket and flipped a beer coaster. Her pen poised above it.

  “Second thoughts?” Evie teased.

  Quinn shook her head, and started scribbling. “No. I just forgot my cell number for a minute.” She handed the coaster to Evie. “There you go.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for the beer.”

  Quinn nodded, twisting a few strands of hair around her fingertip. “So I’ll . . . see you later.”

  “Definitely.” Evie nodded. “Without a doubt.”

  Quinn gave Evie one final smile before turning back in the direction of the bar.

  Evie picked up Marcello’s gold lipstick and rolled it between her fingers. She would wear it on her first date with Quinn. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to. Because Quinn made Evie feel like she’d just been given a book that she’d always wanted to read.

  Evie’s gaze dropped to the coaster. Next to her name and number, Quinn had drawn a tiny heart.

  78.

  Evie, Willow, and Krista sat side by side on the couch, silently regarding the only thing on the coffee table.

  The Pretty.

  “How’s everything going with Mark?” Evie asked Willow tentatively.

  Willow was silent for a minute. “We’re taking it one day at a time. He’s still pretty freaked out by everything. But . . . I’m going to fight for him.”

  It was such an unusual thing for Willow to say that Evie and Krista traded a glance. “That’s great, Will.” Evie reached over to squeeze her hand. “That’s really great.”

  Their attention returned, inevitably, to the Pretty.

  “Would you do it again?” Evie asked. “Knowing what you know now?”

  Willow shuddered. “No way. Taking that was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

  “At least you’ll keep New York’s legions of therapists employed for a few decades,” Evie offered, and Willow smiled. “And maybe you shouldn’t just talk to them,” Evie added. “Maybe you should talk to us more too.”

  Apprehension flitted around Willow’s face, but then she nodded, resolute. “Okay. I will.”

  Evie turned to her roommate. “What about you, Kris?”

  Krista took an uncharacteristically long moment to answer. “It was good for me,” she said finally. “In the way prison might be. Oh, check it out!” She held up her phone. On the screen was a banking app. Krista tapped at the most recent deposit. From Creative Professionals United: $9,315. “A partial payment from Funderland! So I can pay our bills and get ahead with rent. I know it’s not everything, but it’s a start, right?”

  “Definitely,” Evie told her. “Nailed it, Kris. I’m really proud of you.”

  Evie noticed a package at Krista’s feet, addressed to Lenka Penka. “What’s this?” She fished around into the bubble wrap and pulled out a gold trophy, shaped like a bald little man. Krista handed her a small card. It read, No hard feelings.—T.

  “Oh, is this from Tristan?” Evie asked, impressed. Then she remembered what exactly this trophy had been used for. She dropped it hastily back into the box, wiping her hand on the couch. “That’s nice of him.”

  “Yeah, I know. He sent it to Cameron. Which kind of gave me an idea.” Krista glanced at the girls. “Maybe I’ll try becoming an agent.”

  “An acting agent?” Willow asked, and Krista nodded.

  “Really?” Evie said. “That’s cool.”

  “Right?” Krista sat up. “I’m a people person, and I love doing contracts and negotiations and shit. I don’t think I want to be an actor, but I like them. I get them. It would get my parents off my back. Maybe I can even use Lenka to help set up a few meetings.”

  “That actually seems like a really good idea, Kris,” Evie said, trying not to sound surprised.

  “What about you, Evie?” Willow asked. “Would you do it all again?”

  Evie regarded the purple bottle sitting innocently on the coffee table. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe . . . yes? In a weird way, I think it helped. I think it helped me feel better about myself,” she said. “But at the same time . . . I just really want to think less about my face right now. You know?”

  Willow and Krista both nodded.

  “Given that,” Evie said, “there’s just one more thing we need to do.”

  The three girls stood in the bathroom. Evie unscrewed the bottle slowly, ceremoniously. She met Willow’s, then Krista’s gaze in the mirror. One drop. One week. “Ready?”

  Willow nodded, certain.

  Krista followed suit.

  Evie turned the bottle over. The brilliant purple liquid spilled out, running in a lilac stream to gurgle down the sink. It only took a few seconds before the Pretty was finally, absolutely gone.

  They stared at the empty bottle, each girl lost in the memory of where it had taken them.

  Krista broke their respective reveries with a loud sigh. “Oh well.” She smacked her lips together. “Do you guys feel like pizza?”

  In the living room, Krista workshopped pizza toppings while Willow decided on a playlist. Evie opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc in the kitchen and filled two glasses and one coffee mug. Note to self: buy fancy wineglasses with first paycheck.

  The evening was muggy—summer was lingering in Brooklyn like a bad houseguest. Cold air billowed out from the freezer when she yanked it open. Evie was expecting to find the ice cube tray empty: the Krista Kumar special.

  It was full.

  Wonder of wonders, Krista had filled it. Evie felt a deep swell of affection for the former Lenka Penka.

  It was only after she cracked out some cubes and plopped them into the glasses that she remembered the photograph. She’d printed it out at a pharmacy on her way home. She stuck it onto the fridge with a cartoon fish magnet. The glossy image, and the moment it captured, flooded her with warmth.

  In it, the three girls were in the middle of someone’s loft in Bushwick, just before they realized they’d drunk entirely too much tequila. Krista and Willow were both laughing at something Evie had evidently just said. Evie had a dry smirk on her face. Willow’s and Krista’s mouths were both open, eyes squinty.

  They didn’t have the wow factor of their Pretty selves. But comparing the beauty of Chloe and Lenka and Caroline to the beauty of Evie Selby and Krista Kumar and Willow Hendriksen was like comparing strawberry-flavored bubble gum to actual strawberries. All the things being Chloe promised her—sexual sophistication, charm, a voice that demanded to be heard, self-respect—Evie Selby could have. She was sure of it. They might not be their ideal, cookie-cutter, fantastical selves anymore. But they could be themselves. And they could try to be compassionate and clever and curious about everything, especially when it came to each other. And especially when it came to being a woman in this world. That sounded
beautiful.

  Honey-colored light glowed through the kitchen window. But the storybook summer evenings would soon be coming to an end. Evie could almost feel a shift in the weather.

  She should call her mom.

  But only after a glass of wine. After all, they were celebrating.

  Acknowledgments

  What a pleasure to be able to acknowledge the endlessly enthusiastic and superbly sharp-eyed Megan Reid, my wonderful editor at Emily Bestler Books. Working with you and the warm, wise Emily B., as well as Hillary Tisman, Kathryn Santora, Matthew Rossiter, Lara Jones, Albert Tang, and Judith Curr’s entire team at Atria/Simon & Schuster is a dream come true. I’ll be forever grateful that you all fell in love with my Regulars as much as I did.

  I owe so much to everyone at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, especially my intrepid, patient, in-all-ways-kickass agent, Chelsea Lindman, and rights director Stefanie Diaz. I am so thankful for your belief in me: we did it! Let’s go get a cheese plate.

  Sarah Cypher: you are my secret weapon. I worked with Sarah, who runs The Threepenny Editor, on two drafts prior to submission, and her brilliant editorial feedback transformed The Regulars from a rambling hot mess into a coherent hot mess. Authors—hire this brain before you submit, trust me!

  Thanks to my exceptional beta readers: Alexandra Collier, Peter Neale, Sarah Oakes, Alecia Simmonds, and Nora Tennessen. These trusted friends are all accomplished creatives in their own right—Google them.

  I raise my smoothie to Jason Richman and Johnny Pariseau at UTA: thanks for falling for The Regulars and pitching it as a “feminist fairy tale” (I’m claiming that idea as my own: all good authors are just talented thieves). Thanks also to Addison Duffy for important enthusiasm.