Influenced

by Eva Robinson

  It seemed beauty should be a shield against death, but it wasn’t, was it?

  The Harvard Crimson hadn’t said how she’d died. Already Rowan had texts from friends: Do you think it was suicide?

  Her mind flashed with the image of her own lips, a greyish-purple color. Fear slid through her veins at the unwelcome thought.

  They hadn’t been super-close friends, but Rowan had admired her, which was better. She’d wished Arabella would post more online so she could study it, learn from her. She just wanted to soak up that brilliant presence. She needed someone to emulate.

  She glanced at her phone, wondering if she should post some sort of tribute to Arabella. No, it would be exploitative. It would look like she was using a friend’s death to create dramatic content.

  And she’d soaked up enough vitriol today already. The comments on her nude photo were tattooed in the inside of her skull.

  She’s getting desperate.

  She’s thirst trapping Marc, hard. This is sad.

  It was like they could see right into her soul. They could read her desperation. She was no Arabella Green, and even death couldn’t dampen her raging jealousy.

  She needed more than the wine.

  She pulled out a glass vial of white powder again and tapped out another line on the mirror in her lap.

  She rolled up a dollar bill, pressed against one nostril, and inhaled. Another line or two, and that confidence that she craved would be back, just like the old days. She’d have the certainty that every word that dropped from her lips was brilliant and hilarious, that she was a goddess among humans. That she was just as clever as the rest of them, or even more so.

  Once more, she stared at the pictures of Arabella, and her throat tightened. Arabella’s husband, Adam, was probably a complete wreck right now. Whatever problems they’d had, this must’ve pulled the world out from under him. He’d failed to appreciate her in life. But now? He must realize what an absolute idiot he’d been.

  If Rowan died, would Marc be upset? She wanted to think he’d be devastated, weeping on the floor. And then… then he’d write a novel about her. He’d memorialize her on the page. True immortality. It almost seemed tempting, really.

  As the coke rushed through her system, she imagined Marc on a wholesome countryside walk with his Stepford girlfriend. A woman who’d never post nudes. What would her name be? Rose or something. A perfect English Rose. She looked after injured woodland animals and old-growth forests.

  Rowan opened her phone. Still no message from Marc, no reply to her messages. Nothing about the nude that had been for him.

  His indifference felt like a hand around her throat, squeezing. What did she have to do to get his attention?

  As the high started to hit her a little harder, her mood brightened again. He’d come around. Soon, he’d realize that Rowan was the best thing that had ever happened to him. So maybe she wasn’t always the nicest person in the world—but nice was boring, wasn’t it? She was funny and sexy. And there was nothing worse than being boring.

  Just because she’d made one little mistake didn’t mean true love had to end. You only had one shot at your soul mate, and he knew as well as she did that they were meant for each other.

  If he’d seen the photo, he would have responded.

  The problem was, obviously, that he hadn’t had the chance to see it. He wasn’t with Rose, growing increasingly bored. No, that was just a story she’d invented. He was probably crying in an empty shed in the English countryside. He was so brokenhearted—still—that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her photos. She almost felt bad for him, really, devastated as he was.

  With the cocaine in her system, everything seemed clear now. It would all turn out fine for her, like it always had. When she put her mind to something, she made it happen. Maybe she wasn’t brilliant or deep, but she got things done.

  Smiling now, she opened her phone and copied a link to her newest photo. I was thinking of YOU, she wrote to Marc, and hit send.

  A thrill lit her up when she thought of him opening it in his decrepit English shed where he lay sprawled in the dirt. He’d smile for the first time in a month.

  The thrill only lasted a moment before she could feel the creeping darkness moving over her mind, like elongating afternoon shadows. It was that mental image of the grey skin…

  She was making things worse, wasn’t she?

  Death lurked around her. Arabella was dead, and sooner or later, death was coming for everyone. There was no escape.

  And what if Rowan spent her life on this crap? Posting nude pictures, getting yelled at by strangers—was that what she wanted to look back on when she lay on her deathbed? No, it wasn’t enough.

  Now her neck prickled with that feeling that she was being watched. She rose from the chaise longue and crossed to the balcony window. When she pulled the curtain aside, she stared at the sun rising. Was it already morning? She’d thought it was midnight.

  When she turned to look at her apartment, she found every surface littered with dishes and clothes.

  Hannah was the kind of friend Rowan needed right now. Someone sensible, smart. A valedictorian. Someone who could truly help her make a difference in the world, so that when her time came, she could feel proud of herself. Someone to help her ward off death.

  She paced the wooden floors as she called Hannah.

  Hannah picked up right away. “Hello?”

  “Hey! Are you up? I figured people with kids wake up early.”

  “I’m always awake. Always.”

  “I was just thinking about you, Hannah. I know we haven’t been in touch in forever, but it felt really good to see someone from my past. Kind of comforting, I guess.”

  “It was a lucky coincidence, running into you. How are you doing?”

  “Um, it’s kind of sad, really. One of my friends died. And she studied psychology, like you. She was smart, like you. She went to Oxford. The blog post didn’t explain why she died, and people always wonder about that when someone young dies. It just said she died in Mount Auburn hospital. No explanation. She didn’t do drugs, though. But she could be a little dramatic, you know? She was always so mad at her husband.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? You sound…” Hannah trailed off.

  Dimly, under the thrill of her high, Rowan knew she wasn’t striking the right tone with this conversation. “I mean, I didn’t really know her that well. I just wanted to be like her. She was like an inspiration, I guess. But I wasn’t like her. I’ve been up all night. I had… a lot of wine.”

  “Well, it’s hard to lose someone you admire, even if you weren’t close.”

  Hannah seemed to know all the right things to say. “Yes, it is. I’m glad you understand. She introduced me to poetry. I just wonder if she… I just wonder if she ended her own life. She wasn’t sick, and no one mentioned a car accident or anything. She was very, very emotional, I think. She had one of those relationships where she’d get mad at her husband and dump a drink on his head at parties, you know? Very dramatic.”

  “Well, she definitely sounds like an interesting person.”

  “Yes!” Rowan practically shouted into the phone. “And that’s why I wanted to be like her. Because that’s the most important thing. What’s the point of living if you’re not interesting?”

  “Rowan, you’re plenty interesting. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know, I guess it got me thinking about lives having meaning and how we have limited time on earth. And if we’re going to die someday, I want to look back thinking I did something memorable. Beautiful people on Instagram are a dime a dozen. But if I helped make that building for those kids…” A brilliant idea struck her. “If I raise enough money, maybe we can dedicate one of the rooms to Arabella!”

  “I think that’s a lovely idea.”

  The thought electrified her. “It is, isn’t it? But what do you want, Hannah? What do you need in your life?”

  “You sound very energized.”
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br />   “I’ve just had four espressos. I’m addicted.” Lying was one of her greatest skills.

  “What do I want?” Hannah sighed. “I want to sometimes feel like there’s more to me than doing things for other people. More than rushing to fill sippy cups of milk. I want to feel like myself again, I guess. I’m also desperate for something more interesting in my life. Okay, this sounds stupid, because you’re talking about death and doing something meaningful, but I just want to go on vacation, and I don’t want to feel like a mom all the time.”

  “You have very beautiful eyes, do you know that?”

  She huffed a laugh. “My eyes are permanently bloodshot, and I have bags under them.”

  Apparently, Hannah always knew what to say until someone gave her a compliment, then things fell apart.

  A shriek in the background interrupted the call. It sounded like a panicked, repeated demand for animal crackers, and Rowan heard Hannah talking to her daughter in soothing tones, rustling around in a cabinet or something. It occurred to Rowan that although she still thought of having a child as a wild and bohemian decision, by age twenty-eight, it was completely normal.

  “Have you spoken to my mom yet about testing, Hannah?” asked Rowan.

  “Yes, I’m meeting with her in a few days.”

  “Awesome. She’ll put you in touch with a whole bunch of new people who need testing. And are you free Friday? My friend Stella is organizing a planning session for the teen center. But it’ll be more like a garden party.”

  “Of course! Honestly, I don’t think I’ve been to a party in years.”

  Rowan’s mouth was suddenly dry. What were Arabella’s last moments like? There it was again—that creeping shadow over her heart, death sliding across her chest, up her throat…

  “Hannah, do you think I should post a tribute to Arabella on Instagram? Or will people think that I’m exploiting her death?”

  “Do you use your Instagram to express how you feel? Is it an art form to you?”

  Rowan had never really thought of it that way before, but yes. Maybe that was what it was. It was art. And Arabella had helped her make it that way by introducing her to poetry. “Yes, I think so. I express how I feel.”

  “So you should do what feels authentic to you. If you’re thinking about Arabella and want to write a tribute to her, then go for it. You have a billion followers. You can’t worry about what they all think, can you? They can’t all like everything you do. Some people hate Chinese food. Some people hate pizza, and puppies. Some people are wrong about things. When you have as big an audience as you do, there will be people who don’t like things you do. Don’t focus on them. They’re not your audience.”

  “You are so right, Hannah. I’m really glad we reconnected.” The glorious high was coursing through her veins now. “I’ll text you the info about the party, okay? Maybe we can meet up ahead of time and head over together.”

  “Perfect.”

  When Rowan hung up, she opened one of her messages.

  It simply read, Kill yourself.

  And she couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that she would be following in Arabella’s footsteps.

  Fourteen

  Michael stood in his tiled kitchen, whipping up pancakes for breakfast. He’d make them with strawberries. He wasn’t normally fussed about a good breakfast, but he had a bit of guilt to alleviate. Namely, the woman in his bed whom he desperately wanted to ditch.

  He chopped some strawberries into sixteen chunks for the pancakes.

  As the first rays of dawn were piercing the opening in his curtains, he’d rushed out of bed despite his fatigue and throbbing headache. He liked the dawn light, and it streamed into his kitchen now, a hazy blend of melon and honey over the redbrick buildings outside.

  Irina shuffled into the kitchen, wearing only her thin pink underwear and rubbing her eyes. “Why did you set your alarm for the middle of the night? It can’t be time to work yet.” She smoothed down her platinum bob. Smudges of black makeup darkened her eyes. “I get migraines if I wake too early.”

  In all likelihood, that wasn’t true, because Irina seemed to lie constantly. He’d been on three proper dates with Irina, during which she’d told him the most fantastic stories about her life. And he’d lapped them up like a strong tea.

  It seemed she’d dated a laird and lived in a Scottish castle back when she was studying Scottish shipwrecks. Her father was a Russian oligarch with deep ties to American politics, which was how she knew of two senators who were being blackmailed by Russian mobsters. Born in Siberia, she’d grown up on a yacht near Hamburg. She’d become a brilliant dancer by learning on a gently rocking boat, so her balance was impeccable. Coincidentally, she’d also dropped out of medical school—just like Michael. Then she’d become a DJ, then a bartender.

  Given how mad her stories were, you’d think he would have realized she was dodgy before the third date. But she might be a habitual liar; in that case, lies wouldn’t make her nervous, which meant it would look like she was telling the truth. And what was more, on those first three dates, he had been nervous, which made him drink too fast and drift along with her tales like a boat in the Baltic Sea.

  It wasn’t until their third date—a cocktail bar in Central Square called The Lab—that the reality of the situation became clear. The final lie that shattered his illusions was Irina’s claim that she was a direct descendant of Anastasia Romanov. That, and something about looking for her family’s treasure.

  At this point, he wasn’t even sure if she actually was Russian. She could be a theater student from Kentucky for all he knew.

  She stretched her arms over her head. “It was funny running into you last night. Wasn’t that strange? Fate, maybe.”

  He poured the pancake batter into a pan, and it sizzled.

  “I’m at Sligo a lot.” Not funny at all, because she knew he went there every week. And when she’d showed up wearing a little white sundress, he had planned to avoid her. But the dive bar was tiny. And he’d already had two whiskeys, and she really did have an innocent look…

  As he stood over the hot pan, Irina crossed to him and slid her arm around his abs. Despite her beauty, he had an overwhelming urge to get out of here. His tidy Victorian apartment, with all the dark wood and small rooms, felt far too cramped with her in it.

  “You making crepes?”

  “Pancakes,” he said.

  “That’s not pancake. Pancakes are fluffy.”

  Not where he came from. And he was nearly positive they weren’t fluffy in Russia, either.

  “Why do you like the Sligo bar? It’s revolting.” She rolled her Rs ever so slightly. “It is full of graffiti and old people. And the wine is not good.”

  “I like American dive bars. And I like talking to the old people who sit at the counter. They’re chatty and fun.” He flipped the pancake. “I think the real question is why do you go there, if you hate it?” Because you know I’m there.

  She sighed dramatically. “I’m going to write a book about dive bars. A novel.”

  He suppressed a smile as he slid the pancake onto a plate. Now that he was sober and divested of the illusion that she ever told the truth, her responses were kind of funny. “I see.”

  “But why do you like to hear about old people’s boring lives?”

  He was going to have to find a new dive bar to avoid making the same mistake. Or maybe he’d have to hang out with the hipsters at the Rosebud Diner.

  He scooped strawberries onto her pancake and handed it to her. “I just like the details. Like what they wanted to be when they were younger. What their weddings were like. What their parents used to cook them for dinner. What scares them. Why they got divorced. Real people’s lives are better than TV.”

  He especially liked hearing about people who had grown up in places different to him, which was probably how he’d ended up leaving the U.K. to begin with. And it was definitely what had interested him about Irina, with her imaginary Hamburg yacht childhood.
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br />   He poured more batter into the pan, starting one for himself. He hungered for other people’s stories, the details of their lives. They fed his soul. That was why he wondered if he’d ever settle down for good with a girlfriend. Because how long would the feast last before he’d learned everything? At some point he would have consumed every last detail, and he’d have to move on to the next person before he starved.

  But lies were no good.

  Mentally, he tried to work out how to ask Irina to leave.

  His phone vibrated, and a text popped up on his screen from Ciara.

  You up? I’m outside your apartment. Got here early.

  Ciara was strange and prickly, but he wanted to hug her right now, because she was saving him from Irina. They had an early-morning interview scheduled with Adam, Arabella’s husband. Ciara had arrived a full half-hour early to pick him up, which was ridiculous. And yet it seemed a perfect way to get out of here.

  He snatched the punnet of strawberries off the counter, which would have to do for his breakfast, and turned off the burner. “Ugh, bloody hell. I hate to have to kick you out this early, but my partner showed up early.”

  “Who is your partner?”

  She had a strangely possessive tone that set his teeth on edge. He hurried back to his bedroom and grabbed Irina’s clothes. “Her name is Ciara.”

  “You didn’t tell me she’s a woman. Is she outside?”

  She sounded like she was ready for a fight. Perfectly sane and normal.

  He dropped her white dress on the table. “Yes, she is.”

  The coldness in her eyes could freeze the blood in his veins. “Is she pretty?”

  Red flag. “Uhh… I guess?”

  “Interesting.” She snatched her dress from the table, every taut movement communicating her anger.

  He could feel the tension crackling around him. He knew he’d answered incorrectly, but it would have felt like some kind of betrayal of both truth and his partner to say Ciara wasn’t pretty.