And sometimes, when Stephanie stops smiling but the lines around her mouth remain, she does look like she’s starting to get old.
The fight was supposed to have happened off camera, between seasons, and, like method actors, we were to commit. As soon as my lease was up in the fall and I was through paying rent to Sarah, I could afford to move out, and that’s when we would cease all communication. We couldn’t put on a front to the media, to the other castmates, to Jesse, if at home, late at night, we were texting each other goofy emojis. We’d seen what happened to Hayley when she was hacked, and we couldn’t chance anyone figuring us out. It’s why I didn’t reach out to Steph to congratulate her when the book came out and caught fire, even though I was dying to. Even though I was actually hurt. She had been choked out, spit on, and raped, and she never told me? She was supposed to be my best friend.
It’s also why I was unable to give her a heads-up about the lunch with Jesse and my sister. Maybe I would have found a way to get in touch with her if I thought Kelly was anything more than a Green Party candidate. But I truly saw it as a mercy meeting for my sister, which was completely naive in retrospect. Of course Jesse would see my niece, nine-foot-tall mini mogul, with stars in her eyes. And of course Steph would read the decision to cast two of my family members as me trying to make a grab for the spotlight when we’d manipulated an arc that was meant to split it. I allowed myself to believe that was when the fight became real for her, though deep down I knew that wasn’t it. Deep down, I knew what it was really about.
It took me until the all-cast prod meeting to realize that the fight was no longer fake. Steph and I are the only castmates who keep in touch off camera. So it was normal that I hadn’t seen Lauren or Jen until the prod meeting. That Stephanie had seen them was not. And when the women simultaneously turned their backs on Morocco, I knew it had nothing to do with me “refusing” to slip the book to my celebrity rider.
I don’t know what would have happened if Yvette hadn’t taken pity on me and exposed Jen’s back-alley protein habit. Once I obliterated the alliance, I figured I had two choices. I could expose Steph’s scheme, but in doing so, I would have to admit to my role in it, and Jesse, whose nonnegotiables are no fashion bloggers except Leandra Medine and no fake storylines, would have been irate. Or, I could play dumb. Pretend like this was all a part of the plan, that Stephanie wasn’t trying to ice me off the show, that she didn’t sincerely despise me now, and proceed with the reconciliation as we had originally conceived, cumulating in the trip to Morocco. To my great relief, Steph played along when I cornered her in the bathroom at Lauren’s event.
Only now, it feels like instead of pretending to be in a fight, we’re pretending to be friends. In my wildest dreams I never would have imagined that the fight would become real and the friendship the charade.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
Stephanie
My best friend is meeting me at Barneys, to help me pick out shoes for the dinner with the Oscar-Nominated Female Director. I reread Lisa’s reminder text from earlier this morning: REMINDER, this is the first time you’ve seen Brett since you made up in the bathroom at Lauren’s party. This CliffsNote is necessary as she assumes we’ve seen each other since Lauren’s party, three weeks ago. And why shouldn’t she? We “made up.” Things are “back to normal.” I’m going to Morocco. How I wish I could put negating quotation marks around that.
Lisa sends us these reminder texts before most scenes out of chronological necessity. We are not a scripted series but we are a corralled one. We shoot out of order, sometimes filming a coffee date after a big blowout between two of the cast members to “set up” the confrontation, which will appear to have taken place later in the hour on your television screen. Lisa used to text me before I met Brett, REMINDER, the last thing you talked about was Lauren’s arrest, when we’d spoken about a million different things since then, some on camera and some off. You start to pick out threads as filming progresses, the reminder texts serving as headline beats for all the intersecting storylines. Clearly, the Brett and Steph reconciliation is going to be a big one this season, just like we planned it.
Ever since Lauren’s event, I’ve waited for . . . something from her. If she texted me, I would have said she should have called. If she called, I would say she should have done it in person. She couldn’t have done it right, no matter what she did, but anything to acknowledge the real thing that happened between us would have been something.
I have lost friends before but it has never felt like this, like having a stroke and having to relearn how to walk, which hand is left and which hand is right. Brett nuked my instincts, coaxed my most vulnerable secrets out of me by dangling her own, which turned out to be artificial bait. I told her the painful details about things of which I’ve only given Vince the broad strokes, most notably, the extent of my struggle with depression. I hate that word. “Depression.” I hear it and I think of that black lab in the commercials, toy in his mouth, whimpering for a walk, his owner too flatlined to get off the couch. I hate it because it’s true. When my depression is at full strength, it doesn’t roar, it yawns. I have wet my bed, wide-awake and sober, because the effort of getting up and taking ten steps to the toilet has felt like an insurmountable summit. That Brett knows this and more—much more—and that I have now lost her loyalty feels like my secrets have sprouted legs and are out there in the world, wearing short skirts and hooker heels to solicit listeners. The threat of exposure menaces me constantly, but the fear is always secondary to the pain of the breach. I left my heart open around Brett. I turned around for one second and she burgled it.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that we challenged God by machinating our storyline the way we did, and he did not appreciate it one bit (we all know it’s a man). Like he got wind of our small-potatoes stakes and scoffed down at us, Oh, you’re looking for something to actually fight about? If I’d never proposed it, if I’d never messed with the order of the universe, would it still have happened? Wait a minute, I think-gasp, as I glide above a mannequin outfitted in so much velvet Prince would take offense. Does she think it’s my fault? Has she been waiting for me to say something to her? The softness I was feeling toward her stales as I ride the elevator the rest of the way to the shoe department. That would be typical Brett, who I am convinced does so much good in this world just to absolve herself of any wrongdoing.
I get to the fifth floor and discover I am the first to arrive. No matter, I think, pacified by the image of Brett showing up sweaty and frazzled, knowing she will find me coiled and rattling. I hate being made to wait. The minutes tick by and I realize, not only is she not early, she is late. Very late. Ten minutes late. Seventeen. Twenty-two.