“No, I can’t,” Cat said firmly. “I did two. I’m contracted for two.”
“IknowIknow, but BP would be soso happy if you could help out. It’ll be so quick.”
“No!” Cat snapped, closing her eyes to avoid making eye contact.
At first she and Bess had worn themselves out trying to meet the demands of all the handlers, publicists, assistants, and photographers they encountered every day. Two weeks into their new life Ella had accompanied them for the day “just to make sure” everything was going according to plan. She’d barked fiercely at everyone, refused everyone, embarrassed them horribly—and reduced their fatigue by half. Over dinner that night at Farmer’s Almanac, a new rooftop urban garden overlooking Newtown Creek in Greenpoint, Ella had lectured them on the value of saying no.
“My assistant sends you a summary every fucking morning, okay?” she’d fumed, waving away the gingham-romper-clad waitress who was trying to get her to stop smoking. “Disaster is my business. I can get you your lives back, but not if you give them away first. Just say no. Don’t do more than they pay for. Ever.”
Ella then put her cigarette out dramatically in a rhubarb Napoleon topping the passing dessert cart, threw back a thimbleful of grappa, and left. Cat and Bess soon discovered that she’d gotten their meal (a seven-course tasting menu with wine pairings) comped on the way out the door. They looked at the Mania map. Forty-six users had pegged them there. The next day the restaurant had been “closed to new reservations until further notice.”
The following week’s schedule was impossible. Ella and Paula had booked them into dozens of appearances in the days leading up to Fashion Week. Cat wasn’t sure how she was going to handle it. She was getting increasingly uncomfortable eating in public. She missed having something to worry about besides how she looked.
The sapphire ring on her middle finger buzzed. It was programmed to alert her when Bess, Lou, Paula, Margot, Molly, her mother, or Hutton tried to contact her; all other notifications were disabled. She reached for her phone to see a text from Bess:
where are ya
white tent, in chair
ask someone to take you through the opera stage door
ok see you in five
Cat looked up from her phone and tried to orient herself among the center’s three buildings. The publicist pounced at the opportunity to catch her attention and placed her little body squarely in Cat’s eyeline.
“Feelingggg betterrrr?” the girl drawled out. “I know I get so so tired when I get all dressed up.”
Cat wouldn’t be coerced into a bonding session. “Please take me to the opera stage door,” she said, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. She put her phone back inside the black Lucite bag the stylist had given her earlier.
“Happy to!” the girl chirped, disappointment flashing briefly across her face. “I just want to say, though, you two are So. Awesome.” A manic grin stretched across the matte pancake of her contoured cheeks, the tiny pearls of her teeth gleaming with the taste of opportunity. “If you ever need an assistant, let me know, because I have really enjoyed working with you today.” She cocked her head in a way that was meant to telegraph enthusiasm. Yet all Cat could see was a sentient bottle of drugstore foundation.
“Sure thing,” Cat said, accidentally knocking the folding chair over as she stood up. “I have to leave now, though.” She looked down at the chair, unable to even bend over to pick it up.
“Ohmigod of course…of course! Right this way.” The girl left the chair splayed on the ground and wrapped her bony little fingers around Cat’s arm, moving her briskly toward the Met and tugging her efficiently through the huddled masses of socialites, editors, handlers, bloggers, and photographers clogging the plaza. A bug hit Cat squarely in the face, but she didn’t dare react—not with all the cameras nearby.
The publicist held open the glass doors of the opera, then ushered Cat through a series of velvet-flocked doors into the cavernous backstage area. Huge logos fabricated out of fiberglass were stacked neatly against the walls in the order they would be loaded; plastic craft tables were heaped with labeled crates and boxes for the following week’s builds. Cat wound her way through a dozen piles of rope, curtain, scrim, and coiled electrical wire before she spotted Bess’s blonde curls in the distance.
She tried to detach herself from the girl’s grip, but her surprisingly strong fingers wouldn’t budge.
“I have to get you to the car!” she chirped again, yanking Cat along with even more force. “That’s my job!!”
Cat gave in and let herself be pulled through the hallway like a disobedient pony. She’d learned it was just easier to go along and get along. Ten yards later they rounded the corner into the loading dock, where Bess was being held in place by another teen.
“Get this fucking car here right NOWWWWW!” screeched Bess’s warden into her iPhone, entitlement dripping off her like drool from a dog’s mouth. “This is important,” she hissed, winking at Bess, who rolled her eyes.
“Please don’t yell at our driver,” Bess said wearily, trying to take the girl’s phone away. “It’s really unnecessary.” The publicist maneuvered away from her, putting down the phone but keeping the line open so the driver could hear her every word.
“He needs to understand you are important. V-I-P-P. That’s what our firm does, we provide Very Important People for Parties. These drivers are just not grateful enough for these opportunities, you know? Honestly,” she said, her tween face suddenly looking genuinely fatigued. “This is New York. We could hire anybody.”
Before Cat could remind her that Jim was employed by Cooper, and not whatever their PR firm was called, the Suburban pulled into the loading dock. She exhaled: only one more costume change and event before she could finally go home, eat Chinese food, and call Hutton. She released herself from the publicist’s fingers and tried to choke out a “Thank you” before fleeing down the loading ramp into the car.
Jim held the passenger side door open for them. “I’m so sorry about that,” Bess said to him as he hoisted her up onto the seat. Cat climbed in behind her.
“I couldn’t care less,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re a good guy, Jim,” Bess said once he’d walked around and climbed into the driver’s-side captain’s chair. “Thank you.”
“Cooper?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.
“If that’s what the schedule says,” Cat replied.