“Come to my office tonight, before the gala,” Leopold whispers to both of them, as if he doesn’t want the rest of the company to know how much they’re embarrassing themselves.
“Okay,” Adrian says. “No problem. Right, Z?”
He tries to smile at her again.
Zara can’t smile in return — not even a quick, pretend tug of the muscles. She can’t say no problem back to Adrian. Leopold is the biggest problem she can imagine right now.
Barrett calls himself the God of All Props, but sometimes he feels like the God of Broken Things.
He’s still at work even though everyone else is running off to get ready for the gala. He’s been here all day! He is only a tiny bit hungover! Fantastic, Barrett thinks. He should be given a trophy. Which he would then promptly lose in Storage Room Two.
It is a kingdom of crap.
“Have you found those chairs?” he calls to one of his assistants. Aubrey? Audra? One of those A names.
“Over here,” she says from about half a mile away. She is knee-deep in furniture. He drinks in the sight of her in tight jeans, gray T-shirt, and dark ponytail, which swishes as she walks. When Barrett came to New York and hunted down Leopold to ask for a job, this was not the one he envisioned, but it has its benefits.
“Chairs!” he says, so loudly that the sound rings in the huge space.
Leopold has demanded a completely new set for act 1. He has rejected fourteen different types of chairs already. If Barrett were anyone else, he would have been fired over the chairs.
The girl bends down to retrieve an oak Craftsman. “What do you think of these?” Barrett can vaguely tell that there are more of them in the pile — maybe a whole set.
“Sure,” he says, not really caring.
He settles down in an armchair covered in seventies avocado upholstery and watches as the girl power-sands and stains and polishes. They’re not really supposed to do that sort of work in here — ventilation issues — but Barrett is in charge, isn’t he? He hums in appreciation of the girl and her work. He, personally, has decided that he won’t be working much until he gets a better job. The one his father should have given him in the first place.
In the meantime, he is determined to enjoy being the God of Broken Things. And Audrey or Aubrey is part of that. He’s been too busy to talk to her yet, to find out what keeps her up late at night, thrashing with disappointment, what makes her sad to the point of disbelief. But as soon as he does, he will know just what to say. He is very good at broken girls.
“Have you ever blackmailed someone, Aubrey?” he asks, taking a stab at her name.
“It’s Abigail,” she says.
“That is so sweet.” He runs a finger along a seam in the chair until he finds a hole. He plunges deep into the stuffing. “What a sweet name.”
“Of course I haven’t blackmailed anyone,” she says, narrowing her eyes as she snaps a chair leg into place.
Barrett sighs. “It sounds like it would be fun, though, doesn’t it?” He knows the truth, of course. Blackmail is exhausting. Soon the chairs are ready, and after a quick inspection, Barrett tells the girl — what was her name again? — that she can leave.
Leopold Henneman is on the floor of his office, imagining ways to die.
The fake gun has been held to his temple and inserted into his mouth, touching the roof. He has toyed with various knives. And then there are the many ways to asphyxiate. Leopold has held his breath, testing the limits of his mortality with the same calm as when he thinks about placing an actor for a soliloquy.
Meg opens the door and looks down at him.
“Vision?” she asks.
“No,” he says, setting a hand to his temple. “But I had one earlier today, and it’s still with me.”
“Here,” Meg says, holding out a small orange prescription vial. “You forgot to refill this.”
Leopold is terrible at keeping track of his prescriptions, even though sometimes it feels like they are the only things keeping him human. His doctor, who does not believe in visions, nonetheless prescribed him something for the pain.
The little orange vial of Oxycontin is mostly hidden in Meg’s hand as she taps out a pill onto her palm.
“You’re an angel,” Leopold says.
Meg’s eyebrows lift slightly.
She takes the chair nearest to him as he lifts his head to swallow. He reclines, the back of his head dull against the carpet. He has spent so much of his life looking at Meg, but this is a new angle. It casts her in sharp absurdity, a Picasso — her fine arched nose and tart pink lips entirely in the wrong place. It reminds Leopold that the loveliness of her face will unravel soon enough.
Art is the one thing that lasts.
“Do you want me to help you up?” Meg asks. “Adrian Ward and Zara Evans are waiting outside.”
“God, I told them to come here,” Leopold says. “Private meetings, you know. To help her along.” He climbs up from the floor as Meg places the weapons back in their drawers. It’s easier not to think about them when he has the drug in his system. It is already starting to settle into his limbs, spreading looseness through his mind.
By the time Adrian and Zara come into the office, Leopold is as close as he ever comes to feeling content.
Adrian claps his hands to prove his readiness. “What did you want us to practice?”
“Oh, these meetings aren’t a strict rehearsal,” Leopold says. “More . . . inspiration.”
Zara winces. It does not escape his notice that his lead actress hasn’t been entirely delighted with his methods. Leopold has chosen, after a great deal of work and effort and consideration, not to give a fuck.
This is how he gets results. And results are what matter. Coddling people has never resulted in a piece of great art. Letting everyone meander toward the point has never helped anyone find truth.
Discomfort. Pressure. A touch of madness.
These are what create perfect moments. And Leopold is in the business of perfection.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know you have to prepare for the gala tonight. I won’t keep you long.” He beckons to Meg. “They seemed to be having trouble with the idea of kiss/kill earlier. Shall we show them?”
Meg purses her lips. Leopold loves this — the moment when she resists. He loves watching as she agrees, bit by bit, that he has made the right decision. She slides across the small room, into Leopold’s space. He draws her close, wrapping his arms around her with a stunning ease. The danger that Leopold was talking about is there, passing back and forth between them, an electrical charge.
“Like this,” Leopold says, breathing the words onto Meg’s neck. “In the scene at the market. When you are making your home together. On Ariston’s bed. As you fight. As you make love. As you wait for the soldiers to come. I want you no farther apart than this.”
Zara and Adrian watch. They are pinned to the picture in front of them, unable to speak.
That is exactly what Leopold wants.
That is perfect.
Zara waits as Kestrel tests the heat from a flatiron with her finger. She sways in front of her vanity mirror, her firecracker-red dressing gown swishing against her thighs. Zara begged for help getting ready for the gala and then immediately started to regret it. What if Kestrel sabotages her first public appearance as Echo? Would she go that far — would she try to get rid of Zara if she had the chance?
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Kestrel says with an unnatural glow to her smile. Too many white strips.
She puts Zara in the makeup chair and goes to work with an array of steel instruments in tiny sizes. Zara knows what Eli would call them: dollhouse furniture from hell.
She checks her phone.
There are the messages from her parents. They ask the same things over and over again. How is rehearsal? How is the city? Are your boots warm enough? Do you want us to come in for a night? She sends them just enough of a response to let them know she’s not dead, that she’s doing fine.
Tha
t, no — she doesn’t want them to visit.
“So, are you going to the gala with anyone?” Kestrel asks, her voice like dragging string in front of a kitten. Zara gets the message and puts her phone down. “Adrian, perhaps?”
“No,” Zara says. She’s spent enough time pressed against Adrian today. She thinks of Meg and Leopold trapped in their kiss/kill moment, and her mind goes slippery with discomfort.
“Aren’t you curious if I’m going with anyone?” Kestrel asks as she swipes something cold onto Zara’s eyelids.
“Oh,” Zara says, picking up her cue. “Do you have a date?” She hopes that Kestrel has someone to go with. Someone to make her happy, after the disappointment of losing Echo. “Who is it?”
Kestrel is swaying, sending her robe back and forth with an electric shimmer. “I can’t tell. It’s a secret.”
Zara’s phone buzzes in her pocket. Her palms are lined with sudden damp, heart doing the clichéd thing that hearts do. Zara knows from movement classes that bodies aren’t natural-born liars. And right now, her body is telling one simple truth.
She’s been waiting to hear from Eli.
Zara waits as Kestrel curls her eyelashes and dabs on a clear gel, then layers it with matte red lipstick. She touches a cold spot of perfume to Zara’s neck. As soon as Kestrel breaks for the walk-in closet, Zara goes for her phone.
It’s Leopold. Zara’s heart pauses for a single, painful second.
You’re going to be glorious tonight, my dear.
Even though it’s just a text, she can hear his voice, the way it caresses the words. He’s decided to be pleasant with her tonight. Doting, even. She’s starting to hate that more than the moments when he’s cruel.
Another message from Leopold.
Where are you?
Zara doesn’t want him to know. It’s ridiculous — she’s staying at Kestrel’s, he’s perfectly aware of that. It’s not like she can hide from him. But she wants to. Her fingers rattle over the buttons as she texts back.
I’m getting ready.
She shoves the phone under her leg, but it goes off again, shuddering into her skin. She looks down. She lights up.
It’s Eli.
Goddamn gala.
Zara rushes to respond.
I was afraid you weren’t coming.
From inside the closet comes muffled shouting. “Do you like A-lines?” Kestrel asks. “Forget it. How do you feel about off-the-shoulder?”
Another text from Eli.
Leopold likes the lanterns slightly more than he hates the lanterns. Must bathe in champagne to celebrate.
Part of Zara is relieved — she wants Eli to be there tonight. Part of her is confused — why is Eli acting like nothing happened, like they’ve simply skipped back in time to before they kissed?
Zara’s phone buzzes again.
Do you think I’ll need a dress?
I’m not in charge of these things but probably yes.
Insert swearing here.
Zara lets out a small breath that should be a laugh. Talking with Eli like this feels good.
But Zara wants more.
When Kestrel emerges from the closet, any worries that Zara had about sabotage are gone. The dress Kestrel holds up is stunning — white silk, sheer at the shoulders, luscious and broad at the hips. It even looks like it might fit. “What do you think?” Kestrel asks, studying it with a critical eye.
Zara is in love.
People expect her not to care about pretty things. She’s not beautiful — she can hear Leopold, telling her that in no uncertain terms — but Zara has always been lit up by pretty words, pretty art, pretty dresses. Her mind skims back to Eli.
Pretty girls.
“Go,” Kestrel says, feeding off Zara’s spike in happiness, pushing the dress into her hands. “Try it on.”
Zara drapes the silk over her arm like a miniature waterfall. She heads for Kestrel’s bathroom — because of course, Kestrel’s room has an en suite bathroom. The tile is cold on her feet as she slips off her jeans and undoes the button-down that Kestrel insisted on so Zara’s makeup wouldn’t smudge. She pulls on the dress — the fabric is smooth, irresistible. It sits on Zara like a better version of her own skin.
She looks at herself in the mirror.
What would her parents think of this girl? She has the same straight nose as their Zara, the same complexion. But her lips spring up like roses, bright red, and her cheeks are perfectly ripe. The white dress sings the praises of her hips, her stomach, her chest — the parts of her body that she usually hides. Zara touches the snow-colored fabric around her middle. She can’t hide anything now. She doesn’t want to.
“Thank you,” she calls out to Kestrel. “The dress is perfect.”
No answer. Kestrel must be changing.
Zara opens the camera on her phone, takes a quick picture, and sends it to her parents. She wants them to see her like this. She wants them to understand. She doesn’t want to put her phone back on the floor with her jeans, so she looks for a spot in the medicine cabinet to set it down.
Something tugs at her vision. Something hiding in plain sight, half-covered on one of the shelves. In the midst of all that lavender and pink and mint green, it’s easy to pick out a single bright-orange prescription bottle.
Xanax.
Zara grabs the bottle and it gives a rattle. She pops the lid; there’s a handful of pills at the bottom, small powder-blue ovals. She can hear Toby’s voice.
Xanax, Oxy — she used to gobble them like cut-rate candy.
Enna was an addict. There’s no reason to think that her death was anything other than a simple overdose. Still, Zara is already doing the math. The prescription count printed on the label is twenty. How many are missing? Five? That can’t be enough to kill a person — right?
She’s still holding the bottle when Kestrel breezes in.
“Ugh. Brilliant.” Kestrel grabs the bottle in a stranglehold. “I know I’m supposed to enjoy these soirees,” she says, twitching a pill onto her palm, “but they make me très stressed. It was better when Mama would come back from Paris or wherever and we would go together. Now she says that I can’t be seen that way. It’s babyish. And going with a secret date is sort of like going with no date at all, since you can barely be seen together. Still, it’s better than nothing, right?” The words pinch at Zara in ways that Kestrel can’t possibly understand. “Anyway, bottoms up.”
Kestrel’s smile is a flashbulb — bright, then gone. She tips her head back and dry-swallows the pill.
Zara steps into the Plaza. A man rushes to take her coat. She follows Kestrel’s lead, pretending she’s done this a hundred times before, but Zara is sure that something in her eyes, the twitchy corners of her smile as the coat-check man calls her gorgeous, gives her away.
She can’t really be here.
There is nothing real about this.
The grand ballroom at the Plaza is impressive, classical, edged with gilt. It looks like it was ripped out of a little girl’s dream and set down gently in the heart of New York. But it’s not just the room — it’s the people staring at Zara. Yelling, Over here, Echo! Taking her picture as she works against a well-trained impulse to hold herself tight across the stomach.
It’s the thought of Eli, out there somewhere. Eli, who kissed her.
When the crowd parts, Zara thinks it will be Eli waiting for her, but it’s not, of course. It’s Leopold, smiling broadly. It feels like he’s showing her what kind of smile he expects her to have on her own face all night. He hooks his arm through hers, and a little bit of the brightness in Zara’s vision fades, even though the room is studded by the flashes of photographers.
The gala is like rich food — after a few bites, it’s too much. At nine thirty, Zara loves it. By eleven thirty, her picture has been taken roughly ten thousand times. Her smile muscles are threatening to give out. Her sore feet claw for attention.
And there are other disappointments. Zara had thought that by this part of t
he production, she would be surrounded by new friends. But as she looks around the room, she feels further away from everyone than she did on the day of the read-through.
Meg is detached from Leopold for once, looking elegant but forgettable in a long black dress. Barrett oozes from group to group, flirting with every woman he can find. Carl is stone-faced, and Toby is drunk. Enna’s understudy makes the rounds, smiling at everyone like this is just another production — like the woman she replaced didn’t die only a few weeks ago. Kestrel moves around the room in an endless circle. No sign of her secret date. Zara can’t stop thinking about the Xanax in the bathroom. She’ll tell Eli about it — if Eli ever shows up.
Zara can’t even escape to look for her. Leopold has been steering her around by the elbow all night.
Everything is wrong.
And the champagne isn’t helping.
“Have another,” Leopold says with a goading smile as the tray in the waiter’s hand passes in a circle. Zara has already downed two glasses — more than she’s had in her entire life.
She doesn’t know why Leopold wants her to drink. Zara feels his attention like a hand at her throat. She has to do what he wants or he’ll take Echo away. He’ll hurt her career. He’ll make Eli disappear. Like he did with Michael and Toby.
“This is my Echo,” Leopold tells yet another group of patrons. His vaguely European accent is stronger than usual. Some days it’s as thin as tissue paper.
“She’s utterly charming,” says a woman in a silver gown, as if Zara had said something and wasn’t just standing there, hanging on Leopold’s arm.
“Yes, she’s a breath of fresh air,” an old man adds as he openly stares at her body.
In the thick of rehearsal, Zara almost managed to forget that there will be audiences soon. They’ll be there at previews, which Leopold says are just glorified rehearsals, but people pay money to see them. Those people will look at Zara however they want. After they’ve heard so much about the play and bought a three-hundred-dollar ticket, they’ll feel like they own a little piece of her.
“Wait until you see the big reveal,” Leopold says to the patrons. The champagne is harsh in Zara’s throat. Maybe she’s had too much. She coughs, holding the glass away from her. This is the first she’s heard of a big reveal. “I’d say it’s going to be brilliant, but that’s for you to judge.”
Echo After Echo Page 15
