Erin continues, “I guess I just mean everyone has their role, right? You’re the baby. The scrappy up-and-comer. Stephanie is the grand dame. The one with it all—money, success, love. Jen is obviously feminist royalty and Lauren’s the straw that stirs the drink. Hayley was, I don’t know . . . I guess she was the normal one?”
And that’s why you’re speaking about her in the past tense. Hayley’s obituary came in the form of an Us Weekly announcement detailing her desire to concentrate on new and exciting business opportunities. As if the whole point of the show isn’t to document that very thing. I liked Hayley and I think she had another season in her, but she got greedy, asking for all that money when she was bringing nothing to the table.
Cast members drop every year and I see no reason to go into crisis mode worrying that I might be next. We all have a story that will come to an end at some point or another, no use making myself crazy trying to manipulate the inevitable, as is the way of some of the cast. Still, I’d rather deal with that than with my sister, buzzing in my ear the last few weeks. Would the producers consider her to replace Hayley? Would I talk to Lisa again? Would I talk to Jesse this time?
I submit. “I guess I’m kind of the underdog.”
One side of Erin’s mouth tugs down, wryly. “Well. If the underdog has three million followers on Instagram while the rest of the cast has yet to break a mil. But in terms of your socioeconomic standing, yes, though I’m so interested to see how this season plays out now that you’re catching up to everyone else financially. It seems like you’re really firing on all cylinders, you know? You’re in a serious relationship with a drop-dead gorgeous human rights lawyer—”
“Who volunteers with sexual assault survivors and speaks five languages,” I pad.
Erin laughs. “Who volunteers with sexual assault survivors and speaks five languages. Then you’ve got the book deal. The two new studios. You’re trying your hand at yoga. All of this, it’s going to cause a power shift in the group. I mean,” she smirks—not at me; at her, “it already has, hasn’t it?”
Kelly watches me, curious how this is going to go. This is the first time anyone in the press has asked me about her. Stephanie. My former best friend.
I gather my wits and say, “I’m not one for beating around the bush.”
Erin leans forward with a collaborating smile, as though to assure me we can shape this any way I want if I’m willing to spill the tea. “I heard you and Stephanie had a fight and are no longer talking.”
I speak around her, to Kelly, “It was on TMZ, right? So it has to be true.”
Erin shrugs, unfazed. “TMZ was the first to break the news about Michael Jackson’s death and the Kim Kardashian robbery.”
“I love TMZ.” Kelly grins at me, thrilled to see me in the hot seat. Kelly knows all about my falling-out with Stephanie. But unlike TMZ, and unlike what I’m about to tell Erin, she knows the truth, and I can count on her to keep it a secret. Sisters are reliably good for two things: hating and loving.
“We haven’t spoken in six months,” I admit.
Erin purses her lips, saddened by this news. But the sadness is only an angle to solicit more information. “I loved your friendship with Stephanie. It felt important to see a relationship like that between two women. Important and remarkable, especially for the reality TV landscape that feeds off women in conflict. And you didn’t—” She cuts herself off, searching for a better phrasing. “I don’t want to sound blamey. I guess I’m trying to understand how two women whose bond seemed unbreakable don’t reconnect given the serious revelations made by one in her memoir.” She waits for me to respond. I wait for a question to actually be asked. “Unless . . .” Erin squints as if to filter out everyone and everything but me. “Unless you already knew about the sexual abuse?”
I am prepared for this. “Stephanie is a really private person.”
“So . . . you did know?”
“Just because we’re going through a rough patch right now doesn’t mean I’d betray her confidences. Violence against women, and particularly women of color, is a cause I feel very strongly about. I would never want to speak for Stephanie about her own experience.”
Erin frowns and nods: Fair enough. “Clearly, you still care about her. Does this mean we’ll get to see a reconciliation next season?”
I gaze at the old cash register in the corner. There’s still a dish of Bazooka Bubble Gum on the counter. I’d like to keep that, if possible. Some original touches as penance for the fresh hell of athleisure that’s about to rain down on this unsuspecting corner of an innocent fishing village. “It’s really up to her. She’s the one who is upset with me. Maybe it’s for all the reasons you said. I know she’s having her big moment with her memoir right now, a moment I want to make clear is well-deserved, but maybe she liked me better when I was the underdog.”
Erin props her elbow on the folding table, resting her chin on her fist, giving me her best I’m listening eyes. “Or do you think it’s because you wouldn’t pass on an advance copy of her book to Rihanna?”
I do a double take. Not even TMZ knew about the Rihanna part. Yet.
“Full disclosure.” Erin raises her hand like she’s about to take an oath. “I called Stephanie for a quote earlier this week.”
It’s a good thing I’m sitting down because I’m pretty sure my kneecaps have liquefied. She called Stephanie? Does she know?
“I had pitched this as a piece about our new yoga suite,” Kelly inserts with an amicable smile. And it’s true, she did. I didn’t see the need to have a member of the press present for today, but Kelly wants it printed in New York magazine that she is chief of SPOKE’s first foray into exploiting an ancient and sacred practice for its low overhead.
In addition to being SPOKE’s bookkeeper and also a .000000001 percent investor (she generously threw in 2K of the money Mom left us in her will), it was Kelly’s idea to expand into yoga. The pop-up studio is a trial run. If it does well for us, I promised Kelly that FLOW would be her domain. But for that to happen, Kelly needs to hire some instructors. Before Maureen there was Amal, who blew something called a Handstand Scorpion and spoke too high, like a little girl. How could anyone relax into something called King Pigeon with that voice? Before that was Justin, who was otherwise perfect if not for his declaration that he would require a 20 percent raise to leave his post at Pure Yoga. Next! Kirsten’s capital offense was her uninspiring sequencing.
I paw through the stack of resumés. “Kirsten. I want to give her a call back. She was good. I liked her.”
Kelly squares the pile of resumés I just cluttered. “Not Maureen?”
I tug my sweatshirt on. The sleeves are still wet from Erin’s hands. “Bitch should have preordered my book.”
“Jesus,” Kelly gasps, horrified. “Please tell me that’s off the record, Erica.”
Erica. Not Erin. Panic pole-axes me. Have I been calling an important reporter by the wrong name all morning? I retrace our conversation and take a metaphorical exhale, realizing I’m in the clear. Names are my thing. I’m slipping. I’ve allowed this Stephanie pettiness to distract me. Thank God for Kelly, who handles the details so that I can focus on the big picture. I remind myself this is why I need her around. Because lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe I don’t.
Kelly reaches for the passenger-side sun visor and flips it open, hauling her twenty-pound makeup kit into her lap. She brought the whole thing with her, like some kind of traveling theater dancer.