They hadn’t spoken since he’d dismissed her in his office, blowing her off for his “big important case,” and his feeble late-night texts the following week had dropped off after just four or five days of no reply. After that he hadn’t called—so she hadn’t called. It wasn’t exactly a breakup as far as Callie had been concerned: she’d thought of it as more of a détente.
Everyone who’d seen it assured Callie that the Rhythm Nation video was the sexiest, funniest thing they’d ever seen. That even if Janet Jackson forbade the use of the music—which she would never do, Jonathan claimed, because they’d gotten wasted together in Nashville once and she was sure to love it—they could put anything over it, even just a drumbeat. It’ll kill, they said. It’s guaranteed viral. It’ll get a hundred million views in a day.
But all she cared about was whether or not Mark would see it. “You’re my best friend, Cal,” he’d said to her a thousand and one times. “You’re the sexiest girl I’ve ever known,” a thousand and two. They’d had momentum this summer—she knew they had—yet somehow it had disappeared in a single afternoon. She kept trying to remind herself of how he’d looked when he’d blown her off that day in his office: apologetic, but not in love. He hadn’t looked at her with love. And somehow knowing that didn’t seem to help her to let go permanently; it only gave her the strength not to call.
She had tried so hard over the years to forget him, to get over him, to love somebody else. It never happened. His big laugh and easy smile, his puffy hair that always looked so silly; the way he ate a sandwich, drank a beer; moved his big arms and legs around; all of it felt to Callie like he was designed just for her and her alone, like God had molded someone from her rib, her only complement in the universe, a soul mate.
An email sat in her drafts folder that she’d edited and rewritten a hundred times. She pulled it up on her phone just to look at it. Just to think about saying it was enough—that was how much she loved him.
I love you. I want us to be together.
I’ll get my shit together and be your perfect wife.
I’ll have a million of your babies.
I have forgiven so many things: The time we screamed in the street on my birthday. The time you made me hide under the bed. The time you came over to my apartment on Carroll Street and ignored me for three hours, then told me you never wanted to see me again. I will never run out of room to forgive you or out of room to love you more. I belong to you.
I want you to belong to me.
Yet—just like every other time she’d read the email—she hit Cancel and put down her phone.
Another day, she thought. Maybe tomorrow or next week. He’ll see the video, and read about the shoot, and he’ll call, and we’ll get back into it, and then maybe I’ll finally send it, once we get our momentum back. That’s the play. Don’t plead for commitment out of the gate, she told herself. Get him back in your arms first.
But Mark Hutton would never get to read it, because Callie Court died the next day.
Chapter Fourteen
Lou Lucas woke up at 4:00 a.m. without an alarm, springing out of bed to make the first cup of coffee. As the kettle heated up she changed into a pair of spandex underpants and matching sports bra—the type worn by elite marathoners—and searched for her favorite padded socks. She grabbed her headphones and stuffed them into her ears, her caramel-colored locks set in place the night before with a series of pins and foam rollers. She wrapped an Hermès scarf around her head to keep it all perfect, then coated her dry hands with cream.
The kettle whistled, and she poured the steaming water over a porcelain Hario set atop a thermos, then laced up her sneakers and tucked her house key into her bra. When the coffee finished brewing, she screwed on the thermos top, then sprinted out the door and darted across the street into Central Park for a quick five-miler to and around the reservoir before her day really began.
This would be a career-defining day for Lou: months of planning finally realized, which she now knew they needed desperately. October, out on newsstands this week, was a piece of shit. Paula and Margot had made it clear the blame rested squarely with Lou; her half-digested versions of Cat’s work had come out just plain boring, their efficacy cut in half because Cat hadn’t been there to help her understand what she’d meant to do. The October issue seemed a pale imitation of the high-concept high fashion that RAGE was known for, and Lou was, frankly, embarrassed—and furious with Cat for leaving her without any help.
But that wouldn’t matter. Today’s shoot would put the November issue over the top, and they’d be back on track; the visuals, of earthy, logoless garments, seamlessly matched their new efforts to promote sustainably made clothing; all the fabrics Callie would be wearing were undyed, a small step toward adjusting fashion’s position as the world’s second-largest polluter of drinking water, thanks to the chemicals required to dye and treat most textiles. Lou’s tanned legs pumped up and down with energy and she couldn’t keep a reasonable pace, ripping through her miles, passing every runner she encountered and even lapping a few. She felt her legs go numb, the muscles and sinews swelling with use and adrenaline. Sweat poured down her back in rivers and she grinned, taking a huge swig of her coffee. Yes—today will be my day.
She checked her watch, a thin little slip of platinum from Cartier, and realized she would need to turn back now and get changed if she wanted to be at the Museum of Natural History to greet the crew at five thirty.
She turned back and let her legs loosen, her gallop slowing to a canter when she reached Central Park West and spied the facade of her building. She nodded to the doorman, leaped into the elevator, and rushed back into her apartment for a quick shower, furiously scrubbing her skin clean.
After she hopped out and slathered herself with alternate layers of jasmine-and honeysuckle-scented lotions, Lou felt focused and calm—completely ready to tackle the most challenging day of her life. She surveyed the three outfits she’d set out the night before and felt her instincts pull her toward the middle one: the pair of cuffed, slightly oversized jeans she’d been wearing the day she got into Cambridge, though her first husband had eventually convinced her not to go; a pale blue shantung tank top; and a gauzy cream sweater from Japan, the stitching full of artful holes.