by Kate Myles
“How many?”
“I’m only supposed to do one, but I did three.”
He shakes his head. “The IRS doesn’t care about that.”
She squeezes the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. There’s something deeply off about this girl, more than the run-of-the-mill issues of the disorganized. Is it new, or is he just now noticing? She closes her eyes.
“Are you breaking up with me?” she asks.
The Uber driver looks at Doug in the rearview.
“What are you talking about?” Doug asks.
“The air-conditioning. That’s like a booby prize?”
Doug squares his body to her. She’s not wearing her seat belt. “You know, Chloe. You’d be better off if you weren’t smart.”
The air of burgeoning conflict dissolves as Chloe’s face opens, all eager and expectant. “What do you mean?” she asks. Jesus, this girl loves talking about herself.
“Look, I’m no saint,” Doug says, “but you’re carrying on like a bimbo. You know that, right?”
She nods.
“If that’s all you want, fine,” he says. “You’ll do well in LA. But you need to understand something.”
She touches his leg, near his crotch, and presses firmly. He squeezes her hand and moves it to the seat. He looks at her. “Chloe, you don’t have the same margin of error that I do. Do you get that?”
She slides toward him, waiting for an objection. This is difficult. He wants to be done with her. She swings a leg over his, straddling his thigh. “I need someone to tell me things like this,” she whispers.
“Easy,” he says. He gestures to the driver. “This guy’s going to give me a bad rating.”
She pouts. “We did it in the other car,” she says.
“That’s because we used your account,” he says.
The driver speaks up in a gravelly voice. “Don’t mind me. I’ve seen everything.”
Chloe lifts her shirt, exposing her apple-size breasts. He reaches for them reflexively. They move onto an exit ramp. He pulls her shirt down as they stop at a red light. Pedestrians cross ahead of them. A twentysomething skateboarder. A mom in yoga pants pushing a stroller.
“Do you promise not to give Doug a bad rating?” she asks.
“Cross my heart, darling,” says the driver.
Chloe lowers herself to the floor. “But maybe you’re right,” she says. She brings her mouth close to his crotch. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
She thinks she’s fucking with him. That’s what she thinks. He grabs the back of her neck with his right hand and unzips his fly with his left. The driver meets his eye again in the rearview mirror. They stop at another red light. There’s a line of people on the sidewalk, waiting to get into an onigiri stand, and Doug is overwhelmed by the stench of mildewed floor mats and linen-scented air freshener.
Chloe looks up at him. “You okay?”
He redoes his pants and addresses the driver. “You can let us out on the next block.”
“Okay, Chief,” says the driver.
They’re a half mile from the office, farther than where they usually separate. They make a game of it normally, looking around for familiar faces before Chloe gets out of his car. “Do you see anyone? Do you see anyone?” they say like cat burglars on an adventure.
This time, they don’t look. They don’t scan the cluster of customers outside the bibimbap place. The driver says, “Thanks for the show,” as Chloe opens her door.
He hears her say, “Hi!” before his foot hits the curb. On the sidewalk are Angela, his dragon-nailed accounting lady, and Ellen from HR with the frizzy hair. He, Chloe, and the two women freeze.
Doug nods. “How are you, ladies?”
“Good!” they say in unison.
“Glad to hear it.” He gives them a salute and heads to the corner. Chloe follows, and he can hear the silent shock of his employees behind him, yawning and gaping into a giant OMG!
He presses the walk button. Chloe stands close. “God dammit,” he says. He slams the signal with the base of his palm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHLOE
How does gossip travel? In whispers? In bathrooms? Text message chains? Do dirty details float invisibly through the air and wiggle their way into the ears of every person but Chloe? For the next two days, she hears nothing from anyone directly. Her affair with Doug is announced in some backstage area where Chloe has no access. One by one, her coworkers emerge from behind its curtain with a subtle change in demeanor.
Maurice, the innovation strategist with the shaved head, has always been one of her regulars, stopping by once or twice a day for a chat. Now the most he’ll offer is a grim smile. Jeremiah, the bearded IT manager, is different. He’s begun loitering near her desk, leaning on the counter above with a voice heavy in leer and innuendo.
Elise, the sweepy-haired vice president who usually ignores Chloe, stops at the mailboxes next to her desk in the afternoon. She glances at Chloe and seems like she wants to say something. She doesn’t, though. She fiddles with the stacks of bills and junk mail.
“Hi,” Chloe says in a hopeful whisper.
Elise sighs and gives Chloe a low, “How’s it going?” She doesn’t wait for Chloe to answer. She just walks away.
Chloe stares after her, marveling at the fact that Elise paid her any attention at all. The mood of the entire office has shifted. It’s so weird, Chloe thinks. It’s all because of me.
She texts Doug:
I think everyone knows.
He doesn’t respond. She texts him again a half hour later:
????
Take it easy.
People are acting weird.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Teddy from the mail room comes by to pick up the outgoing envelopes. “Thanks,” says Chloe. He doesn’t respond.
Doug texts:
I have a job for your group. This Friday.
What is it?
Party in Bel Air. Dr. Maryn’s house.
Chloe texts the other members of Common Parlance. They can make themselves available but want to discuss it first. Jo-Ann appears around the hallway with Brooke, the marketing manager. Brooke’s lipstick is deep purple.
“Hello, Miss Chloe,” says Jo-Ann. “Brooke is going to need the conference room at nine tomorrow.”
Brooke gives Chloe a tiny gasp and a wide-eyed stare. “Your skin is glowing,” she says.
Chloe touches her face. “Mine?”
“What kind of moisturizer do you use?”
“Oatmeal, I think. It’s from Rite Aid.”
“See?” says Brooke. She turns to Jo-Ann with raised hands. “Chloe is just one of those girls. She doesn’t need makeup. She doesn’t even need good moisturizer.”
Chloe hesitates. There’s nothing in Brooke’s face to suggest she’s making fun of Chloe. But still.
Jo-Ann purses her lips. “Are you going to mark Brooke down for the conference room?”
“Oh, right.” Chloe pulls up the reservation system on her desktop. “Jo-Ann?”
“Yes?”
“I have to leave at four. I have a meeting.”
Jo-Ann shrugs her shoulders. “Whatever you need, Miss Chloe.”
This is the fourth time today Jo-Ann has called her Miss Chloe. It feels like Jo-Ann is mocking her too. Which isn’t fair. Not at all. Jo-Ann, Brooke: all these people are acting like they have a say in Chloe’s relationship with Doug. But they know nothing. Nothing! They’ve never seen the pleading frenzy in his eyes in the second before he comes. They have no idea how his body jerks as he falls asleep and how, when he wakes in the middle of the night, he squeezes her and says, “I need you.” These women have never loved Doug.
Oh God. That’s what it is.
Chloe loves him. She loves him so much. It’s a pure thing, completely divorced from all these judgmental people. It’s potent and at the same time so fragile it’s like a living piece of herself cradled in the palm of her hand. She texts him:
I have to talk to you.
He shows up from around the corner, instantaneously. He nods at her. He feels it too. There’s no way this thing can be one sided.
“Gearing up for Friday?” he asks.
“Friday?”
“The party.”
“Oh yeah! We’re meeting this afternoon about it.”
Doug calls to Jo-Ann, who has started back to her office. “Did you hear? Chloe’s group is performing at Dr. Maryn’s party.”
Jo-Ann pauses before turning around. “Really? Chloe, why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t a sure thing until yesterday,” Doug says. “The synchronized swimmers they’d booked ended up canceling.”
Chloe’s whole body turns warm. She doesn’t even try to hide her smile. Doug is a genius. This explains why they were in the same Uber. He’s working everyone. And he’s asking her to join him in tricking the rubes.
Chloe says, “We went—”
“We saw the meeting planner the other day,” says Doug. “What do you guys say in entertainment? Good in a room? Chloe’s good in a room.”
Chloe meets the other members of Common Parlance at a brew pub on the way to Culver City. Sheralyn is at the bar already, waiting for the bartender to notice her. She’s added Day-Glo-orange streaks to her hair.
“I like your hair,” Chloe says as she sidles up next to her.
Sheralyn raises her eyebrows. “I’ve had it this way for a week.”
The bartender finishes loading a tray of shots for the waitress. He points to Chloe. “What’ll you have?”
Sheralyn lets out a grunty laugh.
“I think she was first,” says Chloe.
“Oh no.” Sheralyn bows to Chloe and unfurls her hand like a court jester. “After you.”
Chloe orders a glass of pinot grigio. Sheralyn raises her chin high as she asks for a beer. It must be hard, Chloe thinks, not being pretty.
Her phone chimes. A text from Doug.
Prepare something for this one.
Don’t wait to feel the vibe. Maybe write some jokes?
Chloe and Sheralyn join Dylan and Howie at a high top. The table is sticky. Chloe runs her dry cocktail napkin over the surface, leaving tiny shreds of paper behind. She tells her castmates about the offer.
Sheralyn starts off. “So, what? You want us to be the entertainment at a rich-people party?”
Chloe gives a vigorous nod. “Basically.”
“I was a Power Ranger at a birthday in Beverly Hills a few years ago,” says Dylan. “It was humiliating. The kids kept roundhouse kicking my shins. The parents just laughed.”
“No one is going to kick you,” says Howie.
“Have you seen The Dr. Maryn Show?” says Sheralyn. “It’s degrading.”
Chloe bites her bottom lip in an effort to suppress her first few stirrings of desperation. She’d been so taken with the brilliance of Doug’s plan to have them perform. And his explanation of why they were in an Uber together. She forgot that her castmates were an ornery group.
“This could be amazing exposure,” says Howie.
“Watch, they’ll make us use the servants’ entrance,” Sheralyn says.
Chloe touches Sheralyn’s arm. “No offense, Sheralyn, but you’re way too class conscious. LA is actually pretty equal.”
Sheralyn points her forehead at Chloe, like she’s peering over the top of reading glasses. “Just because rich middle-aged men flirt with you doesn’t mean LA is egalitarian.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Meow!” says Dylan.
“It’s not meow,” says Chloe. “I didn’t start anything.”
Howie paws at Sheralyn’s shoulder. “Is it meow?” he asks.
“Screw off.” Sheralyn slaps the table. “Anyway, what’s up with Doug? Is he our manager now?”
“Seriously, Sheralyn,” says Dylan. “Chill.”
Sheralyn throws up her hands and crosses to the bar. Chloe stares down at her fingers, at the patch of rough skin on the side of her thumb. She scrapes at it. They have to agree to the party. Doug’s already told everyone at the office.
She searches her mind for arguments, for a plan, for some way to make things happen for herself. She looks over at Sheralyn, waiting again for the bartender, and bites off the last bit of scab on her thumb. It hurts. She’s bleeding. She blots the cut with her napkin. Howie gives her hand a troubled glance. Dylan drains the last of his beer.
“I think the issue is, how do we all see the group?” says Dylan. “There’s a risk of self-parody if we start doing these kinds of events. Like we’re holding up a mirror to society, right? And if we do this, show the elite what we really think of them, there’s a danger that they’ll lap it up and not get it.”
“You’re overthinking it,” says Howie. “This is an opportunity. We take it.”
Sheralyn calls out, “Should I get a pitcher?”
Chloe picks up her almost empty wineglass. She approaches the bar with urgency. Her roommate straightens and hardens as Chloe nears. There’s always been something resolute in Sheralyn, like she’s never been afraid to stick up for herself.
“Are you mad at me?” Chloe asks.
“Nope.” Sheralyn signs her credit card slip and doesn’t look at Chloe. She lifts the pitcher.
“Are you sure?”
Sheralyn stops. “But I’d love it if you stopped having sex in the living room.”
Chloe nods. Sheralyn brings the pitcher to the table. Chloe watches Dylan pour a round. Doug said Sheralyn wouldn’t be able to hear when they did it in the living room. She knew it wasn’t true, but she believed him. It always feels right to go along with what he wants. But Doug isn’t here right now. Chloe moves to the table and stands close to Dylan.
“Is this a paid gig?” asks Howie.
Chloe brightens. “Oh yeah! Ten thousand dollars.”
Sheralyn shakes her head.
“That’s a lot of money,” says Dylan.
Sheralyn looks away. “Fine.”
“Um,” says Chloe. They turn to her. She’s embarrassed to say it. “Doug asked that we plan the performance a little?”
Dylan and Sheralyn stare at her.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” says Howie.
“We’re not planning anything,” says Sheralyn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHLOE
It’s early evening when Chloe caravans with the other members of Common Parlance up Dr. Maryn’s long driveway lined with cypress trees. Chloe blasts her air-conditioning even though the temperature is dropping. She can’t believe she has AC. Doug had the mechanic personally deliver the car to her apartment.
Dr. Maryn’s mansion comes into view. It’s a blocky Tuscan with a fountain and front courtyard fenced in wrought iron. They drop their cars at the valet. Dr. Maryn’s husband, Stan, told them to dress in “stage blacks,” and now they look like a pack of wedding photographers as they approach the front door. Chloe glances down at Dylan’s tuxedo pants. His satin stripes are coming loose. She touches the sheer sleeves of the top Doug bought her. The fabric is light and airy.
A maid in uniform gestures them inside. The foyer is round, three stories high with a life-size mosaic of a koi pond tiled on the floor. Chloe steps onto one of the trompe l’oeil lily pads.
“If you don’t mind removing your shoes?” says the maid. She leads them to a vaulted closet under the grand staircase and points to a tidy stack of satin drawstring bags. “You can put them in these.” She produces an electronic label maker from her apron. “Can I have your names, please?”
Chloe glances around for smirks among her group, ready to hiss stop it at the first snarky comment. Dr. Maryn sweeps into the foyer with her famous spiky red pixie cut. Her husband, Stan, trails after. He peels an orange and fills the room with the scent of citrus. Dr. Maryn looks each member of the group up and down, before landing on the baby-blue remnants of Chloe’s last pedicure.
“Where are your bathing sui
ts?” Dr. Maryn asks.
“No, hon,” says Stan. “The swimmers couldn’t do it. This is the improv troupe.”
Dr. Maryn’s face freezes. “You hired an improv group?”
Stan pops a section of orange into his mouth. “Which one of you is Chloe?”
“Here,” says Chloe. She raises her hand and waves. A delighted smile breaks over Stan’s face. Chloe crinkles her eyes in response. Dr. Maryn stares down at Chloe’s feet again.
Dylan steps forward. “We’re not really improv,” he says.
Dr. Maryn tilts her head to the side. “Then what are you?” Her manner is more severe than what Chloe remembers from the few times she’s watched the woman’s show.
“It’s more of an open-ended approach,” says Dylan.
“Doug set it up,” says Stan.
“Ah yes.” Dr. Maryn spits her words out in a singsong. “Where would we be without Doug?” She points to Chloe. “Darling, what’s your name again?”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe, I’m going to need you to cover up those feet. Teresa?” The maid steps forward. “Please find a pair of socks for this young lady.” She gestures to the rest of them. “You can start outside.”
The members of Common Parlance don their masks, a mix of blank white and ornate Venice Carnival disguises. Dr. Maryn gives them a distracted frown and says, “Oh, mimes,” as they venture in their bare feet to the front courtyard. Her manner softens and turns convivial as the first guests arrive. She and Stan trade air-kisses with the newcomers and usher them around a lit pathway to the backyard.
Howie stands near the valet in a smooth gold mask that covers his entire face. His posture is erect and overcorrected. Chloe, Dylan, and Sheralyn form a receiving line next to him, standing up straight and formal, like they’re all servants in a nineteenth-century manor house. They offer exaggerated greetings to the new arrivals.
Dr. Maryn returns and stops at the sight of Dylan holding both hands of a confused-looking woman in a lace cocktail dress. She waves the group over with a wide, animated face, like she’s about to let them in on a secret. “I need you all to be less interactive, okay?”
“Sure,” says Howie. “Whatever you want.”
“Not everyone likes to be touched. Why don’t you pretend to be waiters for a bit? You can carry some trays.” She motions for everyone to follow her along the stepping-stone path to the backyard.