“Aside from the constant humiliation,” I say as CiCi once again coifs me up, “I’m definitely not going to miss having to get dressed up like this. It’s a Thursday night. I should be going out for drinks with you in jeans, not having makeup put on my cleavage.” I frown at her as she pulls a brush across my sternum again. “Is there a reason you keep putting stuff on my boobs? Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”
She snorts. “It’s contour. The lights you’re going to walk under are going to make you look like a dead woman without stuff like this.” She steps back to check her work. “Your tits have really never looked more fabulous.”
“I kind of feel like my breasts were just insulted.”
“We definitely made the right choice going with this dress,” she says, apparently pleased with her décolletage efforts and setting the brush back on her desk. “No offense, but yours did kind of have that librarian-off-to-a-high-class-funeral look.”
“How in the hell does one make a funeral high-class?”
Grinning, she says, “I’m in PR. I can make anything high-class. Your tits are examples A and B.” I try to smack her, but she moves out of the way too quickly. “And besides, you’re going to a Hollywood premiere. If you don’t wear something with a label, you’re doing it wrong.”
I pout. “My dress had a label.”
“GAP doesn’t count.”
I eye the dress in her mirror. “I bet this thing cost more than my first car.”
“Well, that dress is vintage Gucci,” CiCi says, pointing her finger at me. “It’s a classic.”
“What it must be like to be rich,” I wonder, still evaluating the dress from all angles. “I feel like a twisted version of Cind—” I catch myself and slap my hand over my mouth.
She rolls her eyes. “Just say it.”
“I swear that was accidental,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “Anyway, in this version, instead of turning into a pumpkin at midnight, someone drops one on my head from really, really high up, and I die.”
“Somehow I don’t think Disney would have gone for that ending.”
“And my fairy godmother swears a lot.”
“Okay, Disney should have gone with that version.”
I stand up and try to sell myself on my appearance. I can’t really think of anything I could wear that would make me feel comfortable, but at least when I’m dressed like myself, it’s easier to deflect. The spaghetti straps on the long black dress are so thin, I worry they may snap if I so much as sneeze. It’s also super low-cut compared to my normal look, with slits that go up to my thighs on each side. I had to borrow a special strapless bra from CiCi to keep everything in place, and as I have a full cup size on her, my boobs are a bit squished, but pretty impressive-looking.
All in all, I suppose I do look pretty great. My hair is straightened and lying perfectly, and we once again went with a cat eye, this time thicker. Plus, CiCi’s not wrong—the ladies are looking pretty boss. Shame to waste them on a night like tonight.
“We used the waterproof stuff again?” I ask, pointing to my eyes.
“Yep. Never thought to do otherwise.”
“Ahh, self-preservational makeup. What a time to be alive.”
CiCi checks her phone. “Okay, your car will be outside in five, so let’s get you going.”
“I can’t believe you sent for a car. This is all so wasteful. God, I hate him.”
“No, you don’t,” she says, as though that’s an actual fact. Before I can vehemently argue, she holds up a long teal coat for me to slide into. “And it’s not like I was going to let you ride the subway. You would be late, for starters, but you can’t show up to his hotel like that. Plus, I dare you to walk to and from the train in those shoes.”
I look down at the strappy four-inch heels as I hoist the coat up onto my shoulders. “Oi. Good point. I already can’t feel my toes.”
“That’s how you know the shoes are working.”
I grab a little sparkling clutch off her desk and shove in my phone and whatever peach-colored lip goo she has on my mouth, plus a small collection of things like my debit card, MetroCard, and some cash with it.
“Okay, but consider this,” I say, turning to her suddenly. “How bad would it be if I just didn’t go, or faked my death or something? What’s the worst that could happen?”
She gives me a suspicious look. “Do you really want to know the answer to that? It’s like asking what Charlie did to the guy who beat up his truck. There are things that are best left unknown for the sake of our sanity. And safety.”
I whine. “Damn it.”
“Look, text me often, and I can come get you as soon as it’s over if you want. I’ll keep my phone with me all night. You say the word, and I’m there.” She pauses for a second. “Well, I’ll be a few blocks away where you would have to meet me, because they don’t let regular people anywhere near stuff like this unless they’re on the list, and I’m in no mood to get tackled by an overzealous bodyguard tonight.”
“I think I’ll be fine,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “I’m probably just going to come back here and embrace my pathetic state alone for the night. Wallow in misery with a pizza or something. I’ll let you know I made it back alive, and we can have lunch tomorrow?”
“Are you sure you won’t even try to talk to him?” she says one last time. “Even if he doesn’t believe you, at least you’ll know you gave it your best shot.”
“Oh, hey,” I say, pointing at an empty spot on her floor. “That poor dead horse is being beaten again.”
CiCi smirks and grabs me by the shoulders, pushing me out of her apartment. “Smart-ass.”
“Rest in peace, little horse.”
“You be careful, know I’m a sobbing call away, and good luck, cupcake.”
“Thanks, hon. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
I catch a glimpse of the clock in her living room as she closes the door. If I don’t haul, I’m going to miss the car, and CiCi’s right—these are not the shoes in which to be a stubborn hero and prance across town.
It’s a lot easier to keep my mood in one piece when I’ve got my best friend to banter with, but it’s another story altogether when I’m in the back of the car, alone, headed to the hotel of the man who hates me more than I realized people could hate.
When we finally pull up to the hotel, I’m treated to the doorman opening the car door for me. So far, I’ve only been privy to that sort of attention when Caspian is with me. And sure, they do that for every single person who rolls up to their sidewalk, but it’s still nice to be treated like a human, and not just because I’m standing with someone like Caspian.
I walk into the lobby, my shoes clacking loudly against the marble floor, and make my way toward the elevator. When the door slides open, I’m almost too relieved when I see the operator from my first trip here. “It’s nice to see you again, Jacob,” I say. “How are things?”
“I’m well, Miss Montgomery,” he says. “Mr. Tiddleswich’s room?”
I try not to visibly deflate. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
I wish the ride were longer. I wish I could cling to Jacob and ask him to turn the elevator around. I wish I could kick the emergency stop button and hide in here until I’m sure Caspian has long since headed back to England.
As I step into the penthouse, prepared to meet my unmaker, I instead find a flurry of people in the living area, talking on phones and to each other. Sometimes both at the same time.
A woman sitting on my beloved Jasmine spots me first, and her face lights up. “You must be Clara,” she says. Another Brit. She quickly crosses the room, and two of the other people, both on their phones, glance over, still engrossed in their conversations. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you finally!” the woman exclaims, holding out her hand. “I’m Margot, Cas’s agent.”
I shake her hand and reply, “Likewise! I’ve heard such wonderful things about you!”
Truthfully, I don’t remember hearing anything about her, other than the references to the amorphous “team” Caspian has made periodically. I don’t know what I expected his agent to look like—possibly a crusty old white dude with slicked-back hair and a 1992 cell phone strapped to his hand—but Margot is none of those things. She’s in her fifties, I’d guess, and she looks alert, trendy, and genuinely friendly. By the way she’s dressed, I gather she’ll be attending the night’s events as well.
“Those two over there are Nathaniel and Devon,” Margot explains, gesturing to the folks still on their phones. “Caspian’s manager and publicist, respectively.”
Nathaniel vaguely resembles the older white guy I pictured, but he’s not crusty or talking on an original Nokia. He seems terribly posh and dignified, even as he paces the room intently in his tuxedo.
Devon looks more like someone’s quirky best friend pulled from the screen of a rom-com. Her dress is a strapless tea-length gown in a fabulous bright print that I’m honestly dying of jealousy to see her pull off so magnificently. I make a mental note to invest in more vibrant colors the next time I’m able to shop. Life suddenly feels too short to hide behind a neutral palette.
Nathaniel gives a dignified hint of a smile and a quick flick of his hand in greeting before carrying on, and Devon lets loose a very cheerful wave, followed by a deeply apologetic look as she points to her phone, still pressed to her ear.
“We’re all so glad you could make it,” Margot says, motioning me inside the room. “Can I get you a drink?”
I shake my head. “No, but thank you for the offer.”
She walks over to the table and refills a mostly empty champagne glass from a bottle of bubbly amid several other empty bottles. “I’m sorry none of us have had the chance to say a proper hello before now,” she continues, taking a sip, “but you know how Cas likes to keep things separated. I think he was set to sack us all when we first heard about you.”
“Oh, gosh, I would hope not,” I say, trying to laugh. I look awkwardly around the room, wondering if Caspian is crammed into a corner somewhere watching all of this.
“Well, thanks for being such a good sport about it all,” she says genuinely. “The way I hear Geoffrey tell it, I think Cas has you to thank directly for landing the Aperture role. We’d been pushing for that for months, but after one dinner with you, they offered him the part.”
I scan through my brain, trying to think if I ever heard Caspian mention Aperture, and I almost squeal when I realize Margot’s talking about a graphic novel series from the eighties about a mad scientist who does all manner of vile things until an experiment goes horribly wrong and gives him powers. When he uses them for evil, his body starts to rapidly deteriorate, and when he uses them for good, he gets stronger and stronger and his powers grow. It’s a really dark series, but man, is it good. It’s the only time my mom banned a book from the house—which, of course, made me all the more obsessed with it.
Some teens hide porn under their mattresses. I hid Aperture.
That inner squeal comes crashing back to reality when I remember there’s no way I’ll be able to watch Caspian in anything ever again, and now that stain has bled over into my beloved Aperture.
“Geoffrey is being far too kind,” I insist with a smile I hope doesn’t look as forced as it actually is. “I had a wonderful time meeting him and his wife. And everyone else, of course!”
Margot scoffs into her glass. “You’re among friends. Arabella is a twit, and you’re a gem for pretending otherwise.”
“I knew I liked you,” I say with an honest laugh.
The damn shame is that I do actually like her. And I’m really not looking forward to being verbally shredded in her presence later tonight.
The door to the bedroom opens, and a very feisty-looking woman carrying two giant cases comes walking out. She’s got an undercut with the tips of her black faux hawk dyed the same neon orange as Charlie’s vest. It’s not a look many could pull off, but damn, is she nailing it.
Caspian strolls in behind her, buttoning up the jacket of his tuxedo, looking incomprehensibly hot, as always.
This night would be a lot easier if I could go back to the days before I realized his hotness was an undeniable fact.
“Thank you, Tai,” he says to my new hair idol as she sets down her mammoth cases and grabs a luminous blue coat made of some sort of fur.
“Knock ’em dead tonight, Cas,” she tells him, grabbing the cases back up and heading for the elevator. I’m guessing stylist or hair and makeup?
Margot snaps her fingers to her two counterparts, still deep in conversations on their phones, and looks back at me. “We’ll let you two have a little peace and quiet before you head to the theater. But do try to control yourselves, as Tai can’t come back to get that hair of his under control again.” She throws a wink at Caspian, and I can’t help the blush that swirls across every inch of my overly visible skin.
She and the others join Tai at the elevator and start pulling on coats. All the more an impressive feat for the ones on the phone.
“Sorry about this,” Devon says, covering the bottom of her phone. She’s also English. I get the feeling this crew follows Caspian from London when he travels. “I look forward to meeting you properly later tonight!”
Nathaniel makes a nearly identical gesture to the one he greeted me with just as the door opens and the four of them pile in, with Jacob still at the helm.
When the door pings shut, I am very aware that Caspian and I are alone again. The last time we stood in this room, there was a great deal of shouting, and none of it was in my favor.
“They, uh,” I say, looking for anything to cut through the silence, “they all seem really nice.”
“They are,” Caspian says, adjusting a cuff link. He walks over to the couch and sits, reaching past the empty bottles of champagne to riffle through a stack of papers.
“Um, oh, hey,” I offer, “congratulations on the Aperture role. That’s really cool. That was my favorite series in high school.”
Without looking up, Caspian shakes his head. “Wonderful. Another bit of sensitive information for you to sell. I should have warned Margot not to answer any of your questions.”
I fight down the flash of anger. “I didn’t ask. She talked about it like she thought I knew, was all.” I shuffle my feet. “I was trying to be polite to you, which I’m aware is a lost cause, but I’m a sucker for hopeless cases, I guess.”
“Do try to restrain yourself from emailing your favorite gossip site as you stand there,” he says, still sorting through papers. “That would be extraordinarily crass, even by your standards.”
Yep. I was right. I could stand here and make my case about the truth of the senator and the Cranson papers until I bled the room of all available air, and it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.
It’s only now, as I look around the room, trying to bite down any vicious retorts that may be building, that I realize everything looks...off. Over by the giant picture window sits a small stack of boxes and suitcases.
Caspian will be heading home in the morning, and it appears as though he’s already all packed up.
This really is it. He’ll be leaving, taking his delusions with him, and there won’t be anything I can do to stop either of those things.
I shouldn’t care. I should be thrilled to have him out of my life forever, and not give a single fuck about the misguided impression of me he’ll be taking with him.
But I do care. Whether it’s because I can’t stand the idea of anyone thinking so poorly of me, or because I thought we’d gotten to a place of friendship...or because of the other things I still feel for him, despite my desperate quest to avoid thinking about those feelings since that night.
None of that matters now.
And the worst of it has yet to come.
I swallow down the feeling of dread climbing in my chest. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to make conversation. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Feel free to say nothing,” he says, not missing a beat.
It’s going to be a long-ass night.