by Holly Brown
I feel another welling of shame. I had friends in high school, but I dropped them when I went to Stanford. Any new friend I thought I met turned out to be, well, not. I don’t have Chase anymore. Dad’s an only child, and both my grandparents are dead. I’m not sure if I can count Reese. She’s on Edwin’s payroll.
“I have my father,” I say, “and he’s the most important person in the world to me. What about him?”
“Do you honestly think that if those groups try to call a bunch of people in Tulip and spread rumors about your father that it’ll work? Or that if they call your father and tell him shit about you, he’ll believe them?”
“No.”
“See, the reason those groups air people’s dirty laundry, and make sure that Google searches turn up rife with it, is because they’re trying to limit prospects. Make you untouchable. Make you a liability to friends, so it’s hard to keep old ones or make new ones. Make it hard for you to get a job or a place to live. You looking for a new job?”
“No.”
“Good. Because INN’s your home. What I’m really saying is, we keep you famous, we keep you safe. You get your own police detail. You get INN monitoring and scrubbing your social media. You get all our connections. Those groups are looking for easy targets and lives to ruin, and celebrities don’t fit the bill. Right now, they can fantasize, but that’s all. You walk away and who knows?”
Who knows indeed. So that’s where all this truth telling has been leading. Just in case I’m a flight risk, he wants me to know that there’s nowhere safe to run. I’d be at the mercy of the mobs.
Has this been part of his long game too?
I look at his face, and there’s nothing threatening in it. He’s just Edwin, who I’ve liked from that first day on the plane, and who I thought liked me. But he’s shrewd, and he’s cunning, and he never claimed to be otherwise.
“I want you on the air tonight,” he says. “This is your series. INN needs you.”
“I’m not sure I have it in me, Edwin.”
“I’m sure that you do. But stay here and relax. I’ll be back in a little bit.” After he’s exited, my head lolls against the back of the couch. I just need the quiet.
It doesn’t last long. My phone is ringing. Chase’s ring. Am I even allowed to talk to him when I’m still on the Until story?
I won’t give anything away. It’s time to end this once and for all.
“I got your texts,” I say. They seemed tame compared to the vile things I’ve read over the past twenty-four hours.
“I shouldn’t have said some of that stuff,” Chase says. He sounds as tired as I feel. “You were ignoring me, and I just kept getting madder.”
“I was ignoring you because you called me names.”
“Come on, Chey. We both know I didn’t start out that way. I didn’t know how you could do something like that to me. How you could just set fire to everything I’ve been working for.”
“If I hadn’t done it, someone else at INN would have.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
“INN has the documents. We have the proof.”
“There’s no proof.”
“If you think that, then tune in tonight.”
“You get what Edwin just did, right? He declared war on Silicon Valley. He turned against his own.”
I glance toward the door. Edwin didn’t say when he’d be back. “He’s unbiased. That’s what ‘independent’ means.”
“He made all his money in tech. He’s biting the hand that’s fed him. Because he thinks the real money is in media, which is nuts anyway. You’re working for a lunatic.”
“INN is exposing the truth. We’re telling the stories no one wants to tell but everyone should hear.”
“OH MY GOD!” he explodes. “Is that a slogan for INN?”
“No, that’s what I think.” I need, so desperately, for it to be true, for all this to mean something. “We’re the only ones acting in the public interest, working for an informed electorate.”
“Oh, right. Edwin’s going to galvanize the citizenry.”
“He’s trying to, at least. You’re trying to surveil them.”
“The thing about you, Cheyenne”—and now he’s dripping with a simpering pity—“is that you’re so suggestible.”
“You just hate that I’m not taking your suggestions anymore. You flew out here to manipulate me, and it didn’t work.”
“Oh, right. I’m the manipulator. Everyone at school told me about you. They warned me that you were the world’s biggest cocktease.”
“I didn’t sleep with any professors then, and I’m not sleeping with my boss now.”
“Of course you’re not. That’s your trick. You make people think it’s possible. You make them think they have a shot. That’s what everyone sees when they look at you on-screen. Like you’re almost accessible. It’s Professor Trent writ large.”
The low blow lands, and the shame floods in. “You know I never did anything with Professor Trent.”
“My point exactly. He gave you all those advantages because he had hope. You never kill their hope, Cheyenne. That’s not your style. And everyone told me. Even Lydia, who doesn’t like to think badly about anyone. Now everyone, everywhere, knows what a fool I am. You’ve ruined me, Cheyenne.” He sounds like he’s about to cry.
It’s always about him. It always will be.
I hang up.
It’s for the best that Chase and I are over. He never really knew me anyway. Because if he had, he would have known that during that conversation, I was trying to convince myself as much as him. That I drank the Kool-Aid, but it’s threatening to come back up.
I stand and straighten my clothes, not that it matters if they’re wrinkled. My scuba dress will be pristine as always.
I THROW MYSELF into rehearsals, trying to think of nothing else, and then it’s time. In Ty’s studio, I await my cue. Graham walks right by, like he doesn’t see me. He might not even remember last night’s call. In the ferocity of the online onslaught, I’d practically forgotten myself.
I need to get through this. I can’t give in to Graham, or Chase, or the trolls.
After Ty opens the show, welcoming viewers, he tosses it to me. “Thanks, Ty,” I say, my heart galloping, yet my delivery is smooth, just as Albie and I practiced, again and again. “I’m happy to be here.”
“Pivot,” Albie says, “toward the camera. Now you’re talking to the viewers at home.”
I pivot in the way I’ve been taught, the one that gives my body the most flattering lines, and perform Graham’s script as written. Not a single deviation, or a single stumble. I’m on an autopilot that’s assured but not mechanical. I walk the viewers through another cache of documents, even more damning than the first. Until is toast. Chase is a liar.
“Pivot toward Ty,” Albie says.
I do, and Ty says, “Have a seat. Let’s talk some more.”
It’s time for my walk, on live TV. I’m haunted by the memory of Luke and all those takes, but I’ve put in a lot of practice since then.
The walk is a purposeful sashay. As I lower myself onto the couch, I don’t even need Albie to tell me to cross my legs, slowly. I’ve got this. The one advantage to being targeted from outside is that Ty doesn’t seem nearly as frightening inside.
Tonight, he does me the favor of getting incensed. Being associated with the scorch of his indignation is good for my brand, though it might be too little, too late.
He looks into the camera, and now he’s the one flirting with the viewers, making them feel special (and superior) for tuning in. “Listen up. You want a country you can be proud of, just like I do. So I’m going to tell you what to do. Get angry at the right people. The right institutions. Government was designed to contain people’s worst selves; instead, it’s taken on the character of people’s worst selves. The opposition party only opposes. But YOU can oppose too.” His face is rapidly turning crimson. “WAKE UP, PEOPLE! DON’T LET THEM DROWN OUT YOUR VOICES LIKE T
HEY DROWN OUT THE TRUTH!”
It’s practically a call to arms. And there I am, beside him. I’ve arrived. I wish it felt better. I wish it felt like anything at all, but I’ve gone numb.
Albie is effusive in my ear (well, as effusive as he gets), and even Ty gives me a nod and a “Good job.” I’m sure there will be another celebration at the bar. Yet all I want is to get far away, to slow everything way down and really ponder. It’s like I haven’t been able to truly think for myself in weeks.
I sleepwalk my way to the elevator, and then down to the street, and since it’s only ten o’clock, the avenue is busy enough to swallow me up. It’s only once I’m outside that I remember I was supposed to have a police escort. I think about going back up, but I’m just so tired. All I want to do is get back to my apartment as quickly as I can, and when I glance around, no one seems to be lying in wait for me. No one’s paying me any attention at all. Just to be safe, I’ll hail a cab to go the few blocks home, and I won’t forget my police escort again, because you never know.
I’m thinking all that as I make my way to the curb. That’s when someone bumps into me, hard, and I’m flying into the street, with cars approaching.
Then there’s a hand on my arm, yanking me back. Beth’s hand.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I look down in amazement as if to confirm that I’m still in one piece. “I—I think you just saved my life.” I look around, and once again, no one is looking back. I don’t recognize anyone. Maybe I tripped, or someone didn’t even realize they’d bumped into me, or didn’t care, and they kept going. It could have been an accident. It must have been.
“Thank you,” I say. Then I really look at Beth and see that her face is tear-streaked; there are rivulets through her heavy stage makeup. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer. She’s shaken up herself, but I’m not sure if it’s because of what she just did for me or what came before, the reason she was crying.
“I’m here for you,” I say. “It doesn’t have to be a one-way street, you helping me.” I realize just how much I’d like to help someone else.
“I can’t pull you into this. Just keep going, Cheyenne. I’m really proud of you.” Then she lifts her arm, hails a cab, and is gone.
It’s only when I’m in my own cab that everything catches up with me, and I start to hyperventilate. I could have died. Someone might have tried to kill me.
And he (or she) had the chance because Edwin told me that I would have an officer assigned, yet no officer had introduced himself or followed me down to the street. It could have just been an oversight, but it might not have been.
These are crazy thoughts. Edwin doesn’t want the future of INN to break a major story and then get run over in front of the building.
Unless he thinks that would make great news.
I’m really and truly losing it.
I should have asked Beth what she saw, who she saw. She’s the only person who knows the truth. As soon as I can, I’ll ask her. It’s not the kind of thing you text.
The cabdriver is watching me in the mirror. “It’s a panic attack,” he says in a heavy New York accent. “You just gotta breathe, and you’ll be okay.”
He continues to monitor me in the mirror, and I think, Has he seen me naked?
Breathe. That’s my only job right now.
The cabdriver doesn’t engage me in conversation. The doorman doesn’t either. By the time I’m letting myself into my apartment, all the adrenaline has fled my body and I’m on the verge of collapse.
I see a text from Dad, telling me what a great job I did, but it rings hollow after what he said last night. It’s like he’s snowing me, too, like I can’t even trust my own father.
I fall into bed with all my makeup and my scuba dress on, and I’m out immediately.
I wake to my cell phone ringing. I grope for it and see the number.
I’d hoped that the other call had been a one-off. I’d hoped that my second good performance on Ty’s show would have been an umbrella, and that Graham would have to see that I’m the real deal, I’m going places, and he has no choice but to back off and respect me.
Instead, I’m the one who has to respect him, or at least pretend to. Which means I have to answer.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks.
“It’s after two in the morning.”
“Sorry. I lost track of time. I missed you at the bar tonight.” He lets out a sigh. “I’m just lying here thinking about you.”
If I say nothing, give him nothing, he’ll have to move on to the next victim. No, he can move on to someone who wants his attention. According to Nan and Belinda, there are plenty of women who do. And yet, he keeps calling me.
“I’m imagining my hands on your zipper. It’s a long zipper, from those beautiful shoulder blades on down to the small of your back. And that ass of yours. Oh God, oh shit, that ass . . .”
I say nothing, give him nothing, but I have the awful feeling that my lack of participation, my lack of consent, is part of what keeps him coming back.
Chapter 27
August 9, 1991
A lot’s happened in a week. I’ll try to catch you up, Diary.
I met a guy, B.N. He works on the show, and everyone likes him. He’s always dressed really conservatively, with polo shirts and horn-rimmed glasses, and he has the most beautiful hazel eyes. His lips are nice too. He talks in this way that’s shy and gentle. He often hesitates, like he’s really considering what you’ve said and he’s not just waiting you out so he can speak again, like so many of the producers do. But then, he’s a writer.
It was kind of funny how it happened. I finally got invited to happy hour, only I was in a lousy mood, and B.N. turned it around for me. Everyone was trying to be nice and ask me all these questions, though nothing too personal, nothing that would touch on Lyndon, so it felt almost like a job interview. That’s until I started talking to B.N.
Then that night, I got a bunch of hang-ups, and I don’t know what came over me, the spirit of Dirty Harry, I guess, but I answered and said, “The police can see your number, you know.” Whoever it was hung up, and I had to hope he believed the lie.
Then my whole body broke out in a cold sweat. Answering had been a mistake. I’d confirmed I was home, and Someone Else might assume that meant alone. He’d be right. The Tank had already left for the night. Dennis has shortened his hours (more on that later).
I was in a panic and I didn’t know who to call, so I tried B.N. He didn’t even mind that I woke him up. He just came right over, though I made it clear it was as a friend. I don’t need any more men getting any more ideas.
It’s five nights later, and he’s still here. We talk for hours. The dark acts as a truth serum, and we can tell each other anything. He’s let me know some things I had no idea about, like that Trish and Dennis had an affair that ended badly, and now he’s determined to drive her out. B.N. said that Trish has been really ashamed and scared, and that she can be self-centered but she can also be kind (unlike Scott, who B.N. said is a chameleon who becomes like whoever he’s around, and right now, with the contract negotiation, Scott is often with “that shark agent of his”).
“York Diamond?” I asked fearfully.
“I don’t know. Is that his name?”
We both made jokes about how phony it sounds, and then started coming up with other, equally phony names. I was laughing, but a part of me stayed scared the whole time.
It’s still platonic, but I do have feelings for B.N., and I’m pretty sure he has some for me too.
So of course that’s when R.G. shows up. When it rains, it pours.
And of course he looked good. Dark hair, light eyes, athletic build, and that sexy smile aimed right at me. It’s only the second time I’ve ever seen him in a suit. The other time was when he accompanied me to the courthouse.
He was with the autograph seekers outside the studio, and he hung back until they all left. Then he came up to me and i
ntroduced himself to The Tank, which nobody ever does. I learned The Tank doesn’t shake hands.
Right there, in front of The Tank, he told me that he still loved me, that he’d never stopped, and the article brought it all back. He scribbled his number on the back of his business card and asked me to call so we could meet up and he could apologize properly. “Afterward, if you tell me you don’t ever want to see me again, I’ll respect that. But hear me out first, okay? Please.”
I shouldn’t have taken it, but I couldn’t stop myself. He’s R.G.
I haven’t called though. I’ve been busy, between work and B.N. and Dennis telling me that the network won’t pay for The Tank forever, that I need a safety plan. He sounded really cold, and I didn’t understand what I’d done to lose my value so quickly. He’d seemed so high on me after the article.
B.N. confirmed that Dennis is just a dickhead, which helped, and then B.N. suggested a self-defense class. I thought it was a great idea, and so did Dennis, who later popped into my dressing room and told me his great idea: to film the classes. “It’ll be ratings gold,” he said. “It’s all about female empowerment and keeping our viewers safe, with you as the surrogate. You’re their everywoman.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got the title. ‘Safety First!: With Elyse.’”
It’s a five-week class, which means a five-week segment, and I know that kind of exposure will be good for my career. But just like the article, it feels exploitative. Still, I am bringing awareness to violence against women, and they could learn some techniques that really could save their lives. That’s the way I have to think of it.
Yet Dennis being on the set today made me feel dirty. Every time I look at him, I think of what he’s doing to Trish. If that’s not violence against women, what is? B.N. believes the best about everyone, but not Dennis. And I trust B.N. Night after night, he’s in my bed, and he’s never made any sort of move on me. He’s a true friend, and someday, maybe he’ll be more.
