The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  Then the article came out and Inana’s face and name were everywhere again, and it was a stark reminder of all I’d lost by rebuilding this woman’s life and reputation at the cost of my own journey, even though she was already dead. And while the phone calls didn’t get insane until a few weeks later with people wanting to interview me and talk about my work, I needed an escape.

  Penelope was there with her classical beauty aesthetics, soothing me with refinery and a complete change of class level, never mind culture and scenery. She was a friend when I needed one. A shoulder; a mentor. Helen Mirren-like, I found her experience and age comforting. I trusted her advice and presence as you only can trust a stranger who has no expectations of familiarity with the way you are in the ways a friend does.

  Not that I had many friends at that point. So much of my life revolved around Jack for so long to the point of becoming almost insular, now that that aspect was over, I was drowning in freedom on top of it all.

  I needed Penelope. She was there.

  She was—and is, as far as I know—a high-ranking Juliette Society member. I know they were handling me, using her to see how I’d react to the events of the recent past. But she told me the truth and asked me if I’d be able to “man up and deal” or if I’d let myself become a footnote in the history books of people who could have mattered if they hadn’t self-destructed instead.

  I loved her plain way of speaking, finding her directness refreshing after all the secrecy and political doublespeak I’d grown accustomed to while dating Jack and being immersed in that world where perception is everything and words are weighted to pull you down to your demise. You don’t realize how exhausting those kinds of careful conversations are until you no longer have to deal with them, or be polite to people you think are horrible human beings.

  So maybe they were right and I was a threat back then. I simply wouldn’t have cared who I took down with me; I was simply sick of insincerity and lies.

  Besides, when you’re at your darkest hour, the best place to be is inside the City of Light. My heart—I’d been rubbed raw as though the first layer of my skin had been buffed by a slightly too exuberant exfoliation session or a sore hole after a dry ass-fucking. I was okay, but everything hurt and experiences stuck to my nerves, irritating and painful. My emotions were abraded and I needed soothing.

  Drowsing around Paris slightly drunk on wine with Penelope was exactly what I needed. Thirty years my senior, she’d gleaned wisdom from things I’d never experienced and knew exactly the things to say to prevent me from further spiraling.

  Even now, she remembered my birthday and took the time to send these beautiful flowers to let me know someone cares. I lean closer and breathe in the scent of the flowers before kicking off my heels and heading into the bedroom to change.

  My room is not how I left it.

  A flat white box lies across the foot of the bed, contrasting against my sage-green chenille throw blanket. Inside is a dress.

  The fabric slips through my fingers like water, the satin so cool and soft it almost feels wet to the touch. The inky purple will make my eyes seem darker and reflect the shade of the dress, changing until they’re more like a young Elizabeth Taylor’s.

  There’s a note beneath the dress.

  A limo is waiting for you outside to take you to dinner. Happy Birthday.

  I scurry to the window and see the stretch limo parked by the curb.

  Looks like I’d better hurry.

  I walk back into my apartment after, a little baffled but it’s amazing what a little lobster and a lot of melted garlic butter will do for a girl’s mood even when she’s eating an incredibly fancy dinner by herself on her birthday.

  Penelope didn’t show up and really, I should have known she’d be too busy to do anything but spoil me from afar. I kick my heels off and remove my hair from its chignon, wincing a little as my scalp protests the change. I gently rub the kinks as I head to the bedroom to change out of the dress.

  I’m in the bathroom, having just washed the makeup from my face when my phone buzzes with the text.

  Mr. X: You looked beautiful in the dress. It’s safe, then, to assume you like it?

  My heart speeds up after one dramatic thud that makes my lips tingle. I’d assumed the dress was from Penelope because of the flowers. If Mr. X was the one who sent the dress and paid for my meal that means he was, or had someone, inside to place the box on my bed.

  How the hell did Mr. X get inside my apartment?

  And what else has he done while here? I jump to my feet and pace around the bedroom, looking half-heartedly for wires or cameras, but stop after a moment. Men like Mr. X aren’t the type to do anything stupid like that. They get off on power—like he did by giving me the interview with Benny, and then the dress, knowing that he could make me feel exactly like this just by mentioning the dress.

  It’s not just about the dress and my apartment being invaded. It’s the fact he was watching me tonight—or at least that’s what he wants me to think he did. Regardless of what he wants, I got a story. And he didn’t actually do anything to me except give me a fancy dinner and a killer interview.

  I reply: It’s beautiful. Thank you. I thought you’d be there today at the interview.

  Mr. X: I couldn’t make it. But congratulations and good work.

  Me: Why didn’t you come along for the celebratory dinner?

  Mr. X: I had other things to attend to. But we’ll speak again, I’m sure.

  I try to imagine him saying that with warmth instead of expectation.

  SIX

  THE INTERVIEW HIT DURING AN otherwise slow news week…and basically went viral overnight a week later when Duncan was taken into custody and people get voracious for the scandalous details. I’m more than ready for them.

  Diane invites me as her plus-one to an industry party to celebrate my interview’s success. It’s been getting huge airtime on television, especially with the senator’s arrest. Benny’s information was enough to put his old friend Duncan away for a long time—unless he buys his way out of it—and he gave it to the police just before he gave it to me. He didn’t violate any laws with what he gave me, wanting to ensure Duncan got put away.

  You never know. Sometimes the justice system doesn’t work at all how it should.

  No one thought OJ would get off, either.

  Regardless, the interview solidifies my reputation for being tough but fair, and someone who will get the story no matter what odds are stacked up against me. It’s flattering, but feels a little false, seeing as though Mr. X was the one who gave me the interview in the first place. Then again, it doesn’t matter how we get the story as long as the truth comes out in the end. If there was a scandalous exposé that made the world a better place, or revealed something terrible we should know about, like lead in the drinking water in Flint, Michigan, I wouldn’t care who revealed it; I’d just want to know. I’d want everyone to know because it’s their right.

  We walk into the grand ballroom at about ten, and the event is already in full swing. Diane abandons me fairly quickly, heading off to schmooze with people whose company is past my pay grade despite my moment of glory. I head to the bar to get something other than the champagne the waiters are parading around with on trays.

  It’s another hotel party, but this one takes place in the kind of ballroom you’ve probably never been granted access to. I wasn’t, until I achieved a certain perceived level of success. High ceilinged affairs with imported tiles for the floor. Most conference rooms in hotels are carpeted because of the acoustics, but no one cares about that here. They want their words to carry because here is a party where people are meant to show off and be seen.

  In industry parties like this, if you’re in attendance, you matter. If no one sees your face, you’re either too important to show up yourself or your career’s on a downward arc. Either way, no one’s talking about you nicely if your face isn’t in the crowd.

  In Hollywood, it’s worse to be not
spoken of. At least your name’s floating around the room, pointing to relevance, if people are ripping you to shreds.

  Part film festival, part Oscar after-party, part trade show, there are tables and sort of exhibitions set up along the walls where people are showing various installations. If you’re important, or an insider, you’re there to be pitched to. Otherwise, you’re there to pretend to listen as other people pitch their ideas and concepts to you.

  I’ll be pitching ideas to producers, directors, moguls, whoever I think can help my career or the magazine’s profile.

  Diane will be there taking pitches from people wanting to work at the magazine. It’s all a great big food chain. Everyone’s trying to take a bite from whoever’s ass is above theirs and latch on as well as they can.

  A few celebrities mill about, dragged by their friends to help entice producers and directors and media moguls to latch onto the pitches, but their bored expressions really aren’t helping.

  Of course, no one gets close to the ridiculously expensive spread on the buffet table. Caviar, shrimp, fancy little vol-au-vents that probably cost a hundred dollars for barely a mouthful and took an inordinate amount of fussing over by a stressed out chef to make sit lonely and growing lukewarm. What a waste of food, not to mention carbon. It’s not like those ingredients were just lying around in someone’s kitchen; more likely, they were flown in from the regions they are renowned for. I wonder what happens to expensive spreads like that at the end of the night. Do the caterers get to take them home, or are they tossed out like the excess in fast foods and supermarkets? The latter are becoming more self-aware and have realized that donating it to homeless shelters and food banks is a solution, but crab cakes and canapés have a very “let them eat cake” sort of feel.

  I wait, watching the table, getting excited when someone walks up to it, but it’s only to deposit an empty glass before striding away.

  So close.

  I’ve noticed this while going to haughty parties. The higher class it is, the more expensive the food, but few people actually eat it. My first couple of events I didn’t care—I’d never tasted such expensive caviar and there was no point letting it go to waste, so I’d partaken. But aberrant behavior is clocked and noted at places like these. If not by the hosts, then the people the host employs, and word gets around. You get pegged as an outsider and my actually eating the food didn’t go unnoticed. Diane gave me shit about “my behavior” at work on Monday. She hadn’t even been at the party in question but word travels quickly in bitchy little industry events.

  How ridiculous. Other than two other girls who ate—but purged their stomachs later in the bathroom—it was just going to waste. I couldn’t believe how silly and wasteful it was. But perception is everything here. It’s the reason I started trying to acquire a taste for champagne. If anyone in certain circles deigns to buy or acquire you a drink, you swallow it.

  There’s a lot of swallowing of another kind behind closed doors, but I’ve never been coerced into any of that. Maybe the men can see in my eyes that I’m not as easy as the last girl. Maybe I fall too far outside the mold of the girls they’re used to getting blowjobs from.

  Good. I like being able to surprise people when they underestimate me. Some of them might be shocked and scandalized by the things I’ve done, but that’s a secret that’s mine alone and gives me an edge when dealing with men who truly believe they’re above me.

  The knowledge that I could bring them to their knees with nothing more than my imagination, sexuality, and will makes it easier to keep the pleasant smile on my face.

  Drink in hand, I do a slow meander around the perimeter, checking out the films that are playing on laptops set up on tables. People don’t have the attention span for a verbal pitch anymore, so it’s become increasingly common to see mini-trailers made, as it were, to give an even better idea of the final product. It’s a great way to tell if a certain pitch would be able to stay cost effective, or if it falls flat without major special effects.

  These days, actors cost more money than they ever have, especially with the women demanding transparency and equal pay. Entitled bitches/sarcasm. It makes me sick that we are still undervalued in the entertainment industry, but we’ve still got a long way to go before we reach true equality.

  That’s part of the reason I still want to make my own films where women aren’t props or bimbos or only there to make a middle-aged man seem attractive and heroic. We need better roles. Something substantive and meaty that matters.

  Wait a minute.

  I know those curls.

  Warmth slips through my core as I remember the last time I saw Dominick only a few days ago. He squints when he sees me, but his smile is hesitant.

  I never did call him, though he left me his cell number. What can I say, I got busy. Then again, I might not be averse to a repeat of that night. I keep my approach slow and steady, letting the group of businessmen ahead of me move along so I arrive in front of Dominick alone.

  “Hey stranger,” he says. “Long time, no see.”

  “Indeed. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I spin the old joke.

  He smiles and pats the monitor beside him. “Working.”

  “You’re a filmmaker?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Looks like it.”

  I focus on the screen, at first politely, then forgetting about him as the images take over.

  Bodies move sinuously, a close-up, skin rubbing skin like a pit of snakes. But there’s a strange sort of overlay to the screen, not quite translucent. More like static that washes the screen with a paleness that almost obliterates the bodies.

  And there are flickers of something in the film, staying on the screen just longer than subliminal advertisements would be seen, images of blood spilling and needles being plunged into bodies, and babies with faces scrunched up bawling.

  And a whip slapping out to tear through a leaf. Shots of a jungle. A compound inside the jungle, but more like a gated community where you can tell from the ornate gates that it houses true wealth. All these flash across the screen.

  But always back to the sensual bodies.

  I frown. “Where is this?”

  “Central America.”

  Belize, maybe? “What is it? You made it?”

  He nods. “I did.”

  “What is that place?” I shiver, an almost superstitious chill running through me like I’ve seen it before and forgotten.

  He leans close before smiling. “It’s fictional, Catherine. A set. The story is one I’m trying to get picked up.”

  “What is that place? It feels…” Dangerous, sexy, interesting… I’m not sure which word to choose.

  “It’s more abstract at the moment, as I’m going for showcasing the vibe rather than the plot.”

  “But…” I trail off, feeling stupid. It felt so…real. “You invoked a real sense of authenticity,” I say, taking a sip of my drink.

  “Thank you. Anything that gets their asses in the chair, right?”

  “I have heard that said once or twice. Sex sells.”

  “That it does. Speaking of…are you here alone tonight?” His eyes wander over my body, making me glow with heat beneath my cobalt blue dress. “Tell me why you broke up with your ex. The one with the amazing cock.”

  No one’s close enough to hear us, and I get a dirty little thrill talking about this shit surrounded by people pitching serious political news stories. I lean in nice and close. “Well, I discovered my sexy boyfriend was cheating on me by finding his overnight sex bag he hid in his car trunk. I stole the condoms and put pepper oil in the lube bottle.”

  Dominick’s eyes light up. “You’re kind of an evil genius.”

  “Tell me something personal.”

  He rattles the ice cubes around in his empty glass. “I can’t imagine having sex while being sober. I don’t remember fucking while being in true love—mutually, I should add. I haven’t been sexually abused, but my best lovers have and I think I
’m ruined for life because now I can’t be satisfied by an emotionally healthy and nice girl that likes to make missionary love.” He leans closer. “Your turn.”

  “If my parents weren’t still alive, I would be completely selfish and be living the life of a cliché drug addict. I would party till I overdosed and I might even have fake tits. I would definitely be sluttier. I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

  “This conversation makes me wish bad things upon your parents.”

  My pussy throbs. Hungry bitch. I love the way Dominick flirts. It makes me want to blow this off and go home with him.

  He’d take me and fuck me and it would be amazing.

  But I’m not up for that tonight. I’d rather a new adventure instead of a repeat performance, as good as he was in bed. “Unfortunately this is a strictly professional event. I’m here with the boss.”

  “Ah, duty calls. Let me know if you need rescuing again. I liked that a lot last time.”

  Incorrigible. I smile. “She’s a better date than my last one. But, I should get going. I’m on the clock.”

  He grins. “So am I.”

  “See you around, Dominick.”

  “Count on it, Catherine.” Some people can make the syllables of your name sound exotic and tantalizing. Dominick is one of those people.

  I’m here to work, though, and so for the next half an hour or so, I make a few pitches to major networks and syndicates on behalf of the magazine. I also do my best to promote my own work, as right now I’m under an exclusive contract with the magazine, so where my work goes, they get a pound of flesh. It behooves them for me to do well on my own as well. Really, it’s a good incentive for their employees to make their own opportunities.

  I’m just shaking the hand of a major network producer and giving him my card when I see Colleen Masterman—legendary director. To say this moment knocks the wind out of me is an understatement—she’s been one of my idols since I was a teenager. Not so much when it comes to content, but the woman is an inspiration to girls who saw nothing but men dominating the field.