“You don’t really look happy,” he said.
Which was true—she wasn’t at the moment. Not with Eric, and not with life in general. And really not with Spencer. She would have started screaming at him except the other cast members were coming out, so she just turned and walked away from him, back to the theater.
Most of the cast had gone out by now, saying their good-byes to Scarlett as they went. None of them asked her along, but they didn’t look like they were hiding anything, either. Maybe they all just assumed that Spencer would bring her along.
Eric was still there, packing away his spare clothes and makeup into his bag. He had done a slightly better job getting all the white stuff off of his face. He gave Scarlett a friendly wave and nod as she approached.
“I heard there’s a thing tonight,” Scarlett said. Her voice still had a touch of a quiver from the argument with Spencer. She tried to play it off like she had to cough, but it just came out a bit odd.
“Oh,” he said. It was an apologetic, long ohhhh. “Yeah. It’s a cast thing.”
There was a long pause in which an invitation, if it was going to be offered, would have gone.
“I’ll give you a call later, okay?” he said.
“Yeah. Sure. No problem.”
Those four words strung together were the most insincere in the English language.
As they stepped outside, Scarlett turned one way, and Eric and the remaining actors turned another.
And then she went home.
THE LONELIEST GIRL IN NEW YORK
Lola, still on her campaign to be the most efficient person ever, was both manning the front desk and studying up on career choices. There was a clear plastic file full of brochures and letters about different schools and companies, and she was researching online at the lobby computer.
“You staying here tonight?” Scarlett asked, mooning around the front desk.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m going out later with some friends who are home from Smith. You remember Ash and Meg, right?”
“Oh. Yeah…”
“If you’re not doing anything, we need all these mailers addressed and stamped. It would be a huge favor.”
She pointed to a huge box next to her full of newly minted Hopewell Hotel brochures.
“We’re doing a massive mailing to travel agents booking for fall tours,” she said. “I tucked the list and stamps into the box.”
The box was absurdly heavy. There had to be hundreds of brochures packed in there. Scarlett lugged it on to the elevator and dragged it along to her room. It was much, much too hot in the Orchid Suite. Much too hot, and much too dark. Scarlett peeled back the purple sheers and turned on all the lights, but it still seemed dim and unpromising. She looked out over the view. Saturday night in New York. And here she was.
Her neighbor who could never decide what to wear was fully dressed and obviously preparing to go somewhere. Anything for Breakfast Guy was unloading several six-packs of beer on his kitchen counter. Even Naked (now clothed) Lady made an appearance, dressed in some kind of coordinated blouse and pants thing with beading on it. She was going somewhere, too.
Only Scarlett was staying in to stamp and address.
She fell back on her bed, feeling the heat crushing on her lungs. Why couldn’t they live in a suburb where you just got in your car and went to the mall when nothing else was going on…like normal human beings? Not that Scarlett felt like she could have lasted very long in the suburbs. She’d spent two weeks with her grandparents in Florida once, and once the initial shock of all the sun and the proximity to Disney World and manatees wore off, the fact that there was nowhere to walk to except some fast-food seafood place and a pet supply store about a quarter of mile away got a little old.
Really, nowhere was good. Except with Eric. He had both perfumed and poisoned her entire world.
She picked up the box and lugged it down a few more doors to the Jazz Suite, the one room on the fifth floor that was decently air conditioned. She switched on the TV and tried to get lost in a Crime and Punishment marathon.
Crime and Punishment was very soothing—the most wonderfully predictable show on television. Murder in the first ten minutes. Police investigation in the next ten. Wrong suspect cleared by half past. By quarter of, the correct suspect was on trial, and after a surprise twist about eight minutes from the end, all was resolved in the last moment. This is what she needed. Something that did what she expected it to do, that didn’t let her down. Slimy suspects and cops with good quips. It was all balm to her frayed nerves. That is, until Marlene came stomping in just after the real murderer had been fingered.
“I have the TV now,” she said. “I called it.”
“What do you mean, called it?” Scarlett said. “Called it to who? Is there a TV committee that I don’t know about?”
Marlene ignored this. She took the remote control and changed the channel.
“I was watching that!” Scarlett said.