by Holly Hart
Erik full-on guffaws, finally turning from the window. “I like her. Stella, not Anne. Sexy accent.”
Magnus frowns. “Too much the wildcat for me.”
“I’m sure she’ll play the pussycat, if you stroke her just right.” Erik squares his shoulders. “Anyway—we about done here? Magnus?”
He glowers. “Does it matter?”
Really, it doesn’t. He’s outvoted, two to one. Besides, we can’t let her go. No telling what she might do, given time to stew on it. I’ve seen that blog of hers. Kitty has claws.
“You know what? Fine. Whatever. You guys have your fun. I’ll—I don’t know. Invest in a scratching post.” Magnus gets up too. “Coming?”
I shake my head. “Going to work here for a while. Text you when her contract’s back.”
As soon as I hear the elevator ding, I fire up my laptop. Countess BeeBee’s posted already.
Who Wore it Breast? – A Tale of Three Dresses
Oh, the humanity! A perfect red-carpet debut for silver-screen upstarts Betsey Heywood (Bite Me, Cowboy!), and Jeanette Thibodeau (The Barman’s Tale) went up in FLAMES, when they both showed up in this fiery Valentino (Neiman Marcus, $4,299).
There’s a slightly off-kilter shot of Betsey and Jeanette, at what must be the precise moment they realized their predicament. Betsey’s lips are pursed, Jeanette’s brows beetled. They’re staring each other right in the cleavage, comparing identical plunging necklines. Whoever took the photo had impeccable timing. Stella herself?
As is so often the case, high tragedy devolved into low comedy, when this little sweetheart crashed the party.
I chuckle at the sight of a chihuahua pup snuggled into an equally red pullover.
Boop the snoot. You know you wanna! ;-)
A cursory check of the comments reveals...nothing of substance. No one seems to have noticed the scandal that wasn’t.
“Nice save, Countess,” I murmur.
My phone chimes. Twelve hundred hours. Time to wrap this up.
5
Stella
The contract’s ridiculous. The code of conduct alone covers three pages, with subsections on table manners, dress, and...when I’m allowed to speak, and to whom. I’m supposed to turn in my phone, in exchange for one loaded with a pre-approved set of apps and contacts. Submit to weekly inspections of all personal spaces and effects. Use the “supplied birth control regimen,” whatever that is.
It’s offensive. Hilarious. Terrifying.
3.3 – Personal Presentation and Grooming – Signatory shall not, at any time,
1) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue in heels less than three (3) inches in height;
2) Wear any article of clothing, or any accessory, from a designer not on the approved list (Appendix C);
3) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue in a condition of fatigue or disarray, or without adequate cosmetics and styling, as defined in Appendix D;
4) Convey the appearance of boredom, discontent, or animosity;
5) Present herself in any public or semi-public venue dressed in a manner deemed inappropriately sexually suggestive by co-signatories Brightman, Gunnarsson, or Moss.
So I can’t...be tired in public? Dress off the rack? Go to the gym...unless I want to risk the treadmill in heels? Maybe there’ll be a gym provided. Judging by the boys’ impressive physiques, they’ve got to be working out somewhere. But even if I can stay in shape, I still won’t be allowed to...interrupt or contradict co-signatories Brightman, Gunnarsson, or Moss, either in person or through written or electronic communication. Or use public bathrooms, apparently.
And the dress code!—Appropriate cosmetics include, but are not limited to, foundation of a shade complementing signatory’s natural skin tone, concealer, bronzer—blah, blah, blah—lash extensions, filler.... Wait, filler? Isn’t that, like...what morticians use, to hide unsightly gouges and scrapes? And spray tan on olive skin? Yeah...no.
Violating the contract means, let’s see—forfeiture of salary and/or benefits; possible prosecution; disclosure of employee conduct records, and any pertinent evaluations. Nice.
It’s a nonsense contract. Watertight as a colander. But it’s not the contract I’ll have to worry about, when it’s time to go public. It’s the lawyers that come with it. They’ll have my assets frozen. Bury me in motions for years. Drown me in debt till I give up and go away.
If I can’t come up with something truly damning, it’ll all be for nothing. I’ll spend the rest of my life sitting on the scandal I couldn’t break.
I grab a pen. I can sit here and pretend to agonize, or I can do what I decided to do, the second I looked into that camera and defended my voice. There’s something behind all the menace and intrigue. Something beyond silly rules and boudoir games. I’m more certain of it than ever. Whatever happens, I won’t back down.
I initial each page, and sign on the dotted line.
Starkey shows up two days later. I’m in my robe and slippers, fixing breakfast. He knocks like he’s trying to break the door down. My egg falls off the spoon and smashes on my knee. I hop to the door, swearing and squidging, hot yolk pooling in my slipper.
“So. Sneaking past the doorman now?”
He looks me up and down, taking in last night’s makeup, this morning’s mess. “I’ve come to collect you for the spa.”
I blink. “The spa?”
He sidles past me, uninvited. “Tonight’s your meet-and-greet. You need to be made...presentable.”
Oh, fuck you, Jeeves!
“No need to be a dicknose about it.” I nod toward the kitchen. “Seeing as my breakfast’s currently running down my leg, you can make me a fresh egg. Soft-boiled. I’m hitting the shower.”
Starkey opens his mouth, like he might have an opinion on that, but whatever it is, he thinks better of it. I hear him going through my fridge as I lock myself into the bathroom. Good. Maybe he’ll clean up in there, while he’s at it. Something about him screams neat freak.
When I emerge, scrubbed and dressed, he’s made himself comfortable in my breakfast nook, with an egg of his own. Coffee, too. I slide in across from him. “By all means. Help yourself.”
He pushes the tabasco sauce my way.
“Thanks.” The bottle’s almost empty. I shake out the last few drops. “Hey—how’d you know?”
“Hm?”
I hold up the bottle. “The sauce. How’d you know?”
Starkey raises a brow. “Instagram. Under ‘Hangover Food’—one soft-boiled egg. One slice of toast, cut into strips. Red tabasco. Sometimes with a side of caviar, though I didn’t see any in your fridge.” He manages to turn the word fridge into an indictment all its own, dripping with disgust and affront. I decide against telling him the “caviar” was stage dressing: tiny balls of vinegar and gelatin, sprayed with olive oil.
“If I wanted caviar for my toast....”
Starkey looks up, questioning.
“I could ask for that? After, uh...once the arrangement starts?”
He nods. “There’ll be an app on your new phone. I’ll show you, when the time comes. You put in your grocery selections; they arrive within the hour.”
Within the hour? Faking the lifestyle of a Countess is about to get much easier.
It’s only at the spa that it dawns on me I won’t be faking it—not any more. This place is the real deal. The reception area’s all gilt and white marble. Ferns and ivy cascade from recesses in the walls. There’s a lily pond set into the floor, stocked with tiny, darting fish. Actual sunlight dances on the water’s surface, pouring in from what’s less a skylight, and more a...soaring crystal dome. I Instagram it for the Countess (All-day spa day Tuesday! Jealous, worker bees?), feeling almost furtive, like I’m sneaking photos in a museum.
By the time I’m blogging my nails being airbrushed a deep, glistening red (Getting reclawed!), I’m starting to feel like I belong. Melting into it all—like I’m melting into this foot massage! Holy fuck!
I get my hair done like I’ve always pictured BeeBee’s: a sweeping updo, with tight, bouncy ringlets framing my face. It’s every bit as striking as I’d hoped. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll certainly look hot for it.
There’s a dress waiting when I’m done: a stunning black thing by Alexander McQueen, with a flared, asymmetrical hem. Flashes of rich, blood-red lining peek between the folds, shifting as I move. When I reach down to flick off a stray thread, I notice the silk’s a perfect match for my nails.
I catch myself wondering if I’ll get to keep it. The tags are already gone, so it’s not like they can return it the next day. Maybe just this once....
An attendant pokes her head in, interrupting my reverie. “Miss Rossi? I’ve been asked to inform you Starkey’s outside, at your convenience.”
Starkey.
Fuck.
The bottom drops out of my delusion. I sit down heavily. What am I doing? Admiring myself in the mirror, dreaming of a closet worthy of nobility? One day of pampering, and I’m ready to...what? Vanish into the lifestyle?
Get it together!
I cram my feet into a pair of punishing Louboutins and head for the exit. I’ll need a place: somewhere outside all of this, somewhere I can be sweaty and tired and uncomfortable, and remember who I am.
A clock chimes as I pass through the foyer. Six o’clock already—can’t believe it’s so late. I’m starving, and shaky with nerves. Starkey wouldn’t cough up any details on the meet-and-greet, and my imagination’s providing all sorts of unsavory options. Like...there’s three of them—but what if there’s twenty of us? What if we’re supposed to compete, Bachelor-style, for their affections?
Or—or it could be...a cross between an interrogation and a job interview. Three titans of industry firing questions at me, while I sweat under a spotlight. Or an orgy—what if it’s an orgy? Couldn’t help but notice the underwear that came with the dress: lacy, clingy, red and black—designed to end up on the floor.
I purse my lips. Stupid...it won’t be an orgy. I’d have been warned of an orgy. Prepared for it. Anointed with, I don’t know...ceremonial oils. Pheromone perfumes. Something a little racier than a clay mask. It’ll be, I don’t know. A dinner. A dance. A scene from Eyes Wide Shut.
Ugh!
My face feels tight under the makeup. I can feel Starkey looking at me, comparing my dolled-up self to the just-rolled-out-of-bed version. Seeing right through me. But he only nods as he ushers me to the limo.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Relax. The hard part’s behind you.” Is he trying to comfort me?
“You’re really not going to tell me anything?”
“Wait twenty minutes, and you’ll see for yourself.”
Outside, rush hour’s in full swing. A Prius starts a honking match with a Jetta. A woman trudges by with a dog in a shopping cart. A heavyset man hoses dead leaves off his stoop. I could be part of that—shopping, eating, daydreaming. Instagramming my shoes. A week ago, a day ago, I would’ve been.
It’s not too late to jump out at a stoplight. Run screaming into the crowd.
I close my eyes and stay put.
6
Jack
Eighteen thirty-seven. All systems go. Magnus reaches past me to activate the cam display. I bat his hand away. “Not yet.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Eighteen forty.”
He flops into my chair. His elbow catches a stack of iPhone boxes, setting them skew-wiff. “Can you believe this guy?”
Erik shrugs.
“I fuckin’ hate both of you.”
Eighteen thirty-eight. The ready light blinks on and off as Starkey checks in. Right on schedule.
Magnus has his feet on the coffee table. He’s doing it to annoy me. His spite’s rolling off him in waves. I adjust the monitors and turn up the sound. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not tonight.
Eighteen forty. I flick the—
“Let there be light!” Magnus throws his arms wide. iPhones bounce across the carpet.
—I ignore him. Flick the switch. Perfect timing: down by the kitchen, the girls are soaking up the grand reveal.
Mary’s confused. Looking over her shoulder like she’s stumbled into the wrong room. Karen’s about ready to cry. Stella gets it. Her lips are twitching, fighting a grin. She picks up a tray of hors d’oeuvres and glides forth with confidence.
I pull up a chair and settle in to watch. This is going to be an interesting night.
7
Stella
Starkey gives me a light push. A bulb flickers on, and the door clicks shut behind me. An instant later, I hear a tumbler clunk home. I whirl, but it’s too late. He’s gone, and I’m locked in.
“You must be Stella.”
“Yeah, I’m—” The words catch in my throat, as a willowy blonde steps out from behind an ornate Chinese screen. She’s dressed like me. Made up like me. If it wasn’t for her hair cascading loose around her shoulders, I’d swear I was looking in a mirror.
“Mary here.” She gestures at the screen. “And that’s Karen. She’s shy.”
Karen sticks her head out. “Hi. No, I’m not. Got a fucking run.” She’s had the full treatment, too. I spot the same high collar, the same ruby lips, before she pulls her head in.
“What happens now?”
Mary shrugs. “She didn’t say. I guess this is the final interview. Casting call? Did she tell you—”
There’s a thunk, metal on metal, and a sound like a garage door rolling up. Faint music filters in, and the murmur of distant conversation.
“Holy shit! Karen! Get out here!” Mary hurries to the middle of the room, practically standing at attention.
“Wait! Tell me what?”
She shakes her head: not now. Someone’s coming. Footsteps in the hall. Karen shuffles into the open, stepping into her shoes as she goes. It would be comical if it wasn’t so weird, the way we line up, expectant, eyes trained on the door. Like Pavlov’s dogs. Guess we are waiting for a bone, in a manner of speaking....
It’s Katrina who shows up. She claps her hands, brisk and businesslike. “All right, ladies! Straight down the hall, up the stairs, and to the right.” She steps aside to let us pass. “And don’t forget, your code of conduct comes into effect...now. Chins up, smiles on, and let’s have a great time!”
I shoot her a look. There’s something different about her. Something cheery, insincere. Like she’s putting on an act. What kind of act, and to what end, I’m not sure, but something’s off.
There’s no time to think about it. I fall in line behind Mary and Karen, almost losing my footing on the narrow stairs. There’s a steamy, starchy smell in the air, and I can hear the clatter of plates and silverware. A kitchen, then: we’re headed for the kitchen. Oh! Maybe they’re going to feed us. Or....
Mary pushes through the double doors. Karen shrinks away from the steam that billows out. “Ugh! My hair!”
“Oh, there you are! Just through here!”
“Huh? Where?” Mary glances at me. “Did you see—?”
“There, I think.” Beyond the steam and chaos of the kitchen, swinging doors open on an enormous staging area. A sweaty busboy squeezes through, grappling with a tub of dirty plates. The doors hiss shut behind him, but not before I count six long tables, crammed end to end with trays of canapés.
We wend our way through, single file—and not fast enough, apparently. A tiny woman descends on us, hastening us along. She’s dressed like us. So are two others, spooning caviar and crème fraîche into abalone shells, and it dawns on me: these are uniforms. This is a party. And we’re here to—
“Take a tray. Two, if you can manage. Get out there and circulate.”
Mary looks my way. “Is she serious?”
Karen huffs. She looks pissed. “No way. I didn’t go through all that to sling crab puffs at some society ball.”
I grab a tray. This, I can manage.
8
Stella weaves through the guests like a skier on the slopes. She’s done this before. She’s sneaky, too, staying just out of the guests’ lines of sight. Making sure it’s the food they notice, not her. This must be how she gets close to the people she blogs about: fitting in seamlessly, no matter what. I’m impressed. It’s hard not to stand out, with that face, that body.
“Sweet hip action,” says Erik. I nearly jump. We’re practically bumping elbows. How’d he get so close?
“Fuck off. She’s mine.”
“Whatever. I’m cool with sloppy seconds.”
Magnus shoulders his way between us. Taps on the monitor. “What about her? We letting her bug out on her own, or...?”
Karen’s still in the pantry, flat to the wall, watching the servers go by. I hit intercom 3. “Katrina?”
“Sir?”
