“I’m comfortable,” Jen retorts.
“Comfortable doesn’t get you fucked,” Lauren says, with the vigor of someone who has drunk too much to enjoy sex anyway. “Comfortable doesn’t get you over that dickwad.” Her anger is abrupt and embarrassing. Lauren realizes it and laughs, pretending she was joking. My adrenaline rouses, a static rustling the fine hair on my forearms. Between Brett’s engagement and Jen’s sudden willingness to film with her, Lisa’s comment that I can thank her later, it doesn’t take a veteran reality star to predict that things are about to go down.
“Phewwww,” Jen says to Lauren, releasing a long, cleansing breath and gesturing for Lauren to do the same. “Big breath. Your energy is too powerful to waste it on anger.”
Your energy is too powerful to waste it on anger—sigh. I couldn’t admit this before, because I was so desperate to see the good in Jen after I lost Brett, but Jen actually patents certain phrases before the season, then has coffee mugs and sweatshirts made with her inspirational sayings so that she can sell them from her Instagram page when the episode airs. I find myself wishing I had a drink in my hand to take the edge off her etheric drivel. This is a new sensation for me. I could never relate to those people who declare I need a drink! after a long week. I’d rather some stinky cheese, or a massage at the Mandarin. The desire for a cocktail stiff enough to make my eyes water should be a sign—get out while you still can!—but I’m not one to believe in signs.
Lauren pushes out a short, peppery breath for Jen’s benefit, before staking a toe to swivel in my direction, nearly losing her balance in the process. “You look hot,” she says, assessing me up and down. “I like your nightie thing.”
“Thanks, it’s Stella—”
“You know, I really admire what you’ve done. Telling your story. Helping women.” Lauren yawns, flitting her hand around as if to say, yada, yada. “But it doesn’t make you a saint.”
I force myself to respond calmly. “I never claimed to be a saint.”
Lauren burps silently, sending a whiff of hunger my way. “You claim to tell the truth, though, and you almost never do.”
Welcome to reality TV, where duplicity is not just encouraged, but a survival skill. The last time I saw Lauren, she was my yessum woman. The last time I saw Jen, she was abusing an abused rescue dog. Now Lauren is an adversary and Jen is peace, love, and light.
“Why don’t we discuss this at another time when you’re more clearheaded,” I say to Lauren in an undertone. It’s both an offer to protect my skin (I’ve lied about so many things, I’d rather discuss when I’m prepared to address which lie) and her own (you’re telling everyone you’re not drinking, but I know how many proseccos you’ve had tonight).
“I’m completely clearheaded.” Lauren makes her eyes wide and alert, as though this is undeniable proof that she is fit to operate a moving vehicle. “And I want to know why you told me Brett was the one who sent the video of me to Page Six when it wasn’t her.”
If I weren’t on camera, I would sigh with relief. Telling Lauren that Brett was responsible for that item in the press is the least of it all. “I didn’t tell you it was Brett. I said I suspected it was Brett because I know she has a line in to one of the editors there.”
“So do you!” Lauren trills.
“And so do you!”
A few lesbians in imported polyester passing as satin sleepwear stop speaking to stare at us. It will make for some great B-roll.
“Why don’t we go into the hallway to discuss this so we don’t ruin Lauren’s event?” Jen suggests, and I’ve been at this long enough to be able to translate that to Brett is waiting for us in the hallway.
I square my shoulders. I thought I was ready to have it out with Brett, but now that the opportunity has been presented, I realize I’m not, and that I don’t think I’ll ever be. I should not be the one who has to apologize to her, which I’ll have to do if I see her tonight. “I’m fine right here.”
“Of course,” Lauren mutters. “It’s not your event you’re ruining.”
I release a tinny, exasperated laugh. “You started with me!”
“Let’s just . . .” Jen puts a palm in the middle of our backs and takes a step toward the doors, our Buddha bellwether, forcing us to follow her. I’m resistant at first, but as we step inside I notice something in the far corner that makes me a willing participant of the cavalcade. It’s my husband, sitting on a love seat by the fireplace, too close to another woman.
I narrow my eyes and realize the woman is Kelly, wearing a white negligee that looks like it came with the sexy nurse costume from the Halloween store. Vince dips his head and murmurs something into her ear. Kelly plants her hand in the middle of his chest, restraining him with a kind smile. My heart is battering in my ears as I glance back at Lisa, fearful she will have Marc turn his lens on my scoundrel husband, but everyone is too focused on the impending confrontation between Brett and me to have noticed. One less thing to worry about, I think, momentarily relieved, but then I catch Jen’s eye and realize she saw what I saw. Great. Just great.
Brett is standing by the elevators, wearing the silk pajamas I bought for her last year. This is no happenstance. The pants are wrinkled and if I get close enough to smell her, I’m sure I will discover that they’re in desperate need of a dry cleaning, which is also strategic. She wants me to know she’s been wearing these, that she’s been thinking about me. The crew rings us and waits to see which one of us will speak first.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” Brett starts, which is a riot. That is exactly what she is here to do.
I laugh crudely in her face. “Why else would you be here, Brett?”
“I asked her to come,” Lauren pipes up with glee. How thrilled she is to be the wounded bird at the center of this drama. “It’s my event. I’m allowed to ask anyone I’d like to come. I don’t need your permission, Steph.”
Jen reaches for Lauren’s hand and clutches it close to her heart. “Laur,” she says, her voice deep and husky. “Remember what we talked about. Speak from a place of vulnerability, not vengeance.”
“Christ on a gluten-free vegan cracker,” Brett says, making eyes at the camera. When we were filming the first season, we were told to ignore the cameras. It was drilled into us. Then season one aired and we discovered that not only had Brett completely disregarded that rule, but that the viewers loved it, ordaining her the Jim Halpert of the show. Brett is incapable of seeing that private communication for what it is, which is a betrayal of her cast. Staring into the camera at moments like this is analogous to a laugh track. It’s saying to the audience—yeah, I’m laughing at them with you.
“Do you want me to mediate or not?” Jen says to Brett, dropping the Dalai Lama inflection. Something passes between them, indiscernible to anyone who is not us. They’ve seen each other since I was at Jen’s apartment, I realize. They’ve agreed on something. I am the one on the ropes tonight. I take a moment to gather my bearings—do they have something on me? Have they agreed to their own alliance? I decide, whip fast, that my best course of action is to show remorse.
“Lauren,” I say, turning to her with my hands steepled in prayer. “I genuinely thought Brett was behind the Page Six article. That wasn’t a lie. If Brett says it wasn’t her, then it wasn’t her, and I’m sorry to have created such confusion. Now, can we just go back in there and celebrate this important and necessary new chapter of SADIE?” Important. Necessary. These are the things every Digger would like to believe about herself.