Most Hated, page 3
The hotel room door opened again, and in came a woman who could be recognized by anyone. Sabrina looked to Lexi to see if she—
Lexi flew up out of her chair with a squeal that would have been at home in the orchestra of background noise at a college bar, and ran to her, arms outstretched.
“I’m Lexi, oh my god, it’s crazy to meet you!”
“Nicole,” said the newcomer, extracting her hand from the sudden proximity between the two of them.
A mic pack was attached, and she showed a true and genuine familiarity with the routine.
“I grew up listen-ing to your albums nonstop, full disclosure, I was a little young for them. But I didn’t even care, I was obsessed. You’re a total icon. Seriously. Obviously, but you know what I mean.”
Lexi had that habit of pronouncing “ing” like “een” and had something Budgie told Sabrina was called a vocal fry.
Between the obnoxious limes on the table, the selfie, and the affectation, this girl was going to be hard to stand. Either that or Sabrina had spent too much time in a bubble, feeling too comfortable saying the people around her were crossing lines.
She took another sip.
Nicole was given a glass of champagne, too. She looked nervous. Or maybe “nervous” wasn’t the right word. Dahlia was nervous. Nicole looked uncomfortable and fidgety. If she had to guess, Sabrina would say the fan-girl encounter had caught her off guard and distracted Nicole from completing a more pressing task, like the bank robber whose heist is thwarted by a chatty cop.
Sabrina was sick to death of her suspicious self. Or whatever this cobbled together version of her was.
5
Dahlia
Okay, Nicole is, as Lexi said, an icon.
A former popstar. A mega popstar. Girls my age spent the summer of age ten creating dance moves to her music. To this day I remember every word to her biggest hits. She did the Super Bowl. She did SNL—host and musical act (she was a bad actress, but no one cared). She was briefly married to her male equivalent in the pop star world. But after eight years of togetherness, it took only one year to break the marriage. That was when she went downhill.
She lost her shit.
She was photographed taking her top off in the middle of the day at a bar in Nolita. She was the kind of drunk where she keeps saying she’s having a good time, but it’s very clear that she is hysterically unhappy. She was filmed getting kicked out of The San Vicente Bungalows for skinny dipping. She punched a paparazzo. She was in rehab a few times. She went radio silent. The photos have been dragged out as proof of what can happen.
Nicole’s sanity break involved a lot of booze, a lot of exhibitionism, and a whole lot of cameras. It also included one rough mugshot for a DUI in Vegas, where she mowed down a road sign.
And here she was now, in the same hotel room as me. If you had told me in fifth grade, when I was listening to her music at the park on my portable discman, I’d be here with her, I would have screamed like Lexi did.
Nicole sat down with us and gave the awkward I just got here wave.
It was strange seeing her in real life. To be honest, Sabrina looked exactly how she did in pictures. Completely put together. Smooth skin, perfect hair. Like a modern-day Katharine Hepburn. The only difference between her and the photos were that she looked tired and weary. Dark circles under her eyes and a deep exhaustion that permeated the room.
But Nicole looked different in a whole other way. It was like she was the knock-off, lower-priced version of Nicole Trace. The Nicole Trace from Wish. The blonde wasn’t quite as shimmering or icy; it was brassy. Her makeup looked hurried, and her clothes looked inexpensive and ill-fitting. Her phone had a crack down the center of the screen. And she had the confidence of a new kid in middle school. The worst part was that she looked like she knew we were all thinking that her best days were behind her.
Nicole might have been right in that assessment, except for Lexi, who seemed to be looking for another in for a boost in her social media presence. Lexi had a hungry look in her eyes when she asked, “Okay, Nicole, can we take a selfie? I’m posting for my followers, and this will make their heads explode.”
“Can we not do that? I’m not feeling a hundred percent and I’d rather not.”
Lexi looked stunned. Sabrina did a finger gun at Nicole.
Budgie chuckled, and I watched in wonder.
The door opened again, and Fiona scurried over saying, “You made it! How was the flight?”
We all turned our attention to the attractive, shrewd-looking woman with the intense hazel eyes who had entered the room. She was very done up, lots of makeup, long fake lashes, glistening glossed lips. She looked almost like she could be Lexi’s pushy stage mom.
And then … she spoke.
How to describe it?
You know Janice on Friends? Or Fran Drescher? Her voice was hybrid of those but an octave higher at the same decibel. She had this baby voice I cannot quite put into words. Loud and unique.
“Of course I made it! Oh my gosh, you are so sweet. Hi all! I’m Mariana.” She said the first part to Fiona, shaking her bangled wrists before taking the champagne flute. “Do you have any mineral water? I’d kill for a mineral water. They only had those awful cans of water on the plane. Whoever okayed canned water?”
She came over to us and flumped down onto the couch beside me, a smidge too close.
She shook her hair back and out of her face and let out a coo of what I would call privilege-tired. It’s specific. The sort of tired someone gets after planning a vacation wardrobe.
“I flew right in from Miami. I don’t know how much time you’ve all spent down there, but the airport is abysmal. Such a zoo. Anyhoo, I get there a few minutes later than I wanted to,” she paused, “Classic Mariana. The driver drops me off at the wrong door, which I don’t even realize until it’s already too late. I get in and I’ve left my purse in the car. Such an idiot. Luckily, I had my ID and my AMEX with me in my phone wallet.” She held up the card, it was black. “I always have to have it on me like this because I lose my purse all the time but never my phone. But I needed the purse, I mean it has everything in it, including my Xanax, which I don’t like to go anywhere without, much less on a plane,” she said. “I shit you not, I buy the cheapest flight I can for the driver and call him and say, ‘Romeo, I know you’re going to absolutely hate me, but I need you to park and bring me my purse, I’ll be at gate B16, I bought you a ticket to, I don’t even know where, Orlando or something, so get that cute butt in here!’ Long story short—”
Too late.
“He gets in as I’m about to board. I am the last person in line and he races over and starts apologizing, bless his heart. It was such a scene.”
“That must have been hard,” said Sabrina.
“You wouldn’t even believe. I swear I feel like I climbed Everest. And the worst part was, I ended up realizing after all that? The Xanax was in my carryon.”
“That’s the worst, oh my god, it’s lucky you have such a dependable driver,” Lexi laughed.
“Tell me about it.” She remembered another thought mid-sip, swallowed, and continued. “All this, I look like a maniac, but the poor TSA attendant who went through my carry-on at security must have thought I’m even crazier than that. I own a sex toy company, so when I travel with my samples, I’m always worrying, what is the TSA going to think about me if they go through my bag? They’ll assume I’m some sort of sex-crazed psychopath!”
“A sex toy company? Tell us more.” Budgie settled into her chair to listen to what was undoubtedly going to be a whole thing.
“At first it was a fun hobby, you know all my friends were talking about their marriages and wanting to spice things up and some of them—believe it or not—had never even used a toy before, and I thought, what the hell? I knew a guy who knew a guy, and bing, bang, boom, a year later I was off and running!”
“Bing, bang, boom!” I echoed.
She pushed me on the leg, laughing, and said, “Pun intended of course. It’s taken off and been so rewarding. Enough to keep me busy, that’s for sure. We’ve got all kinds of fun new designs coming out. It’s all sustainable, made in the USA, all the leather stuff is vegan—
Oh,and we also contribute to a charity to stop female circumcision.”
There was a general murmur of that’s nice, at least.
“How are you ladies? God, I always do this, I go on and on about myself, my husband is always giving me crap for it. Tell me, tell me! I obviously recognize you, Ms. Sabrina, and you, Nicole. Such a pleasure!”
But we didn’t get the chance; the door opened again, and this time brought with it a gust of an efficient, fast film crew, all very focused and falling into step behind one man.
Aleksandr Borrow. He was the quintessential off-kilter film director, screenwriter, producer, author, and I believe at one time, actor. His movies were not my thing, although Mick loved the dark humor and kick-the-shit-out-of-them violence.
“How is my beautiful cast doing on this fine afternoon?” he asked.
A cameraman followed him, and filmed him, and he appeared to be comfortable with the process.
“Sorry, I was told that we weren’t filming yet.” Nicole said brushing a self-conscious hand over her hair.
“Not to worry, this is behind the scenes content. Much more for me than for you, the guts of the show we’ll get to this week. Although I might add, for the next six weeks, if we’re around, we’re filming. Yes? Alright,” he clapped his hands together once. “Today is our meet and greet, a chance for you all to get acquainted before we start, since the implication once we get going will be that you have all met before. Has anyone met before? Besides Sabrina and Budgie, of course?”
“I’ve met Budgie a few times and I think I met Sabrina at the Met Gala once, but that’s it for me,” said Nicole.
Sabrina added, “That’s right, we did meet at the Met Gala. You looked lovely.”
“Thanks,” said Nicole. There was a touch of irritability in her response, I couldn’t imagine why. And I noticed that she didn’t give the polite and obligatory as did you response.
“My goal here,” said Aleksandr, pulling out the office chair from the desk, turning it around, and straddling it backward, “is to showcase some humanity. I don’t merely want to demonstrate how women can be crazy. I don’t want ratings from viewers who watch in order to feel sane by comparison. I want you all to demonstrate the ins and outs of female friendships, even if they are new.”
He narrowed his eyes at us and nodded, like he’d put it perfectly, “And let’s be frank here. May I be frank?”
There was a murmur of sure and yes, and Mariana who said a loud, “Yes, please!”
“You’re all here for a reason. Consider that reason. Know what it’s going to take to get you where you need to be. Redemption? A second chance? Perhaps you love a risk? Is it to become someone? To prove something? Is it because you’re bored?”
Because you’re bored was directed at me, and he was right about that one.
“If you’re bored,” he said, like he was reading my mind, “then what will keep your story interesting for the viewer? And … why are you bored? Can you fix that here? Think about it.”
He looked behind him and a woman stepped forward. She had straight hair, thick glasses, a plump face that hadn’t let go of the baby fat, was wearing a cardigan despite the warm weather, with a defensive stance like she dared any of us to come at her.
“This here is Zoe. I believe you have all spoken with her before.”
We’d emailed back and forth almost every day for the past month. She, Milo, and Fiona had coordinated everything, from setting me up with the entertainment lawyers to organizing my car for today. I would have thought she’d be the one greeting us at the door rather than lurking in the background. I tried to make eye contact, but she was glued to her iPad.
Aleksandr continued, “As I won’t be around all the time, please consider Zoe my ambassador. Fiona and Milo will also be here for you. Is Milo here? Did he come?” He looked around and a slight, young guy stepped forward and did an index finger wave. “Here he is. Listen, this is going to be fun. Try to work with us and if you’re afraid something will be taken out of context, my best advice is to watch what you say. Because it will.”
He winked then, and I wondered if I was the only one who heard that as a somewhat ominous threat.
6
Sabrina
If the house did not feel like her own before, it felt even less so now. A crew of people with a clear set of instructions came in with heavy plastic milk crates and a game plan. They walked around Sabrina’s house, looking for the right place to set up. They ended up picking the area between the front hallway and the living room. They blocked off the big windows with foggy mylar paper and relit the room with bright, tall lights. This did not bring back good memories.
They had rearranged her own real furniture, and the Boca do Lobo sofa was now populated with sequined, cerulean-blue throw cushions. There were many flameless floor candles (Pottery Barn, she assumed). At the forefront of this mise-en-scène was a strange setup that she imagined was intended to be a reflection of her.
This is how the world sees me.
There was a tacky chair, not hers, one they had brought with them, which resembled a throne. It was elevated on a riser. On the small table beside it, also an import from the set decorator, there was a tragic still life of Sabrina-ness.
The objects included a folded tabloid with a garish cover and title reading COUNTESS CALLS IT QUITS, a tiara, and a coffee-table book on famous families of New York. On a coaster sat a Nick and Nora glass filled with a pale blush cocktail with a small rose as a garnish.
It was the cocktail created for her by the members-only club, Raffles London in Chelsea. Pink gin, Lillet Rosé, fresh lemon oil, and a small touch of vanilla bean-infused Campari. The recipe was included in an article in Vogue. It’s called—you guessed it— “The Sabrina.”
“This is all a bit me-obsessive, isn’t it?” she asked Zoe, who was walking her through the setup as the set-decorator peered through a camera lens at his creation and then made small tweaks to the positioning of it all, with almost no regard for Sabrina or her presence there.
“Don’t think of it that way. It’s a small touchstone for the viewers. It’s a reflection of you. It only seems like it’s obsessive because you’re like,” she dropped her voice, “normal. You’ve got to remember: these people are watching because they’re rooting for you. And the team wants them to like you. Take it from me, they’re going to love you.”
Because they hate me now?
“This is meant to be all in good fun. Be yourself. You’re cool, and together, and the world wants to see the real you,” Zoe continued. “They got all sucked into the bullshit with your ex. No offense.”
Her ex. No one referred to the great Earl Stanhope as her ex. No ownership was ever given to Sabrina.
Sabrina searched Zoe’s face for any sign of dishonesty. She couldn’t trust her yet, but she saw nothing to fear. She had clear, brown eyes and an earnest expression.
Could she have found an unexpected ally in Zoe? Sabrina didn’t feel like she could be disappointed by another person.
“I still think it makes me look like I define myself by all this,” she picked up the tiara and set it down, “stuff. A tiara?”
“Part of it is your character. Like it or not, this is who you are to the people who didn’t follow your career before the marriage,” she said. “I know it’s not who you are, and they will too by the time you’re done with them. You’re a powerhouse. You got this. If you really want me to swap it out with something else, I will. But I worry that putting something in the place of it will make you seem like you can’t accept who you have been, which is not who you are. You’re the one who tore that asshole a new one and have no fear. Not the one who wants to hide what everyone already saw.”
Sabrina gnawed on the inside of her lip and let out a sigh. “I suppose it’s … you think that’s the inference?”
“Absolutely. But again, if you want to swap something out, let’s do it. I’ll go to battle for you. I think of these as little tokens to the person you used to be. At least yours is glamorous. You should see some of the others.”
“Hmm?”
Zoe looked around. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but you know Lexi?”
“She’s the one with the Instagram account,” Sabrina puffed her lips out.
“Yes. She’s … a lot. She’s got quite a past. She was kind of an, um, dancer?”
Sabrina’s eyebrow raised of its own volition. “Radio City, or elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere, definitely.”
Getting her drift, Sabrina nodded. “I see. And her little side table?” “It was sort of an inside joke with the crew. They found these vintage glasses from Fishs Eddy, you know the dish place off 5th Avenue? They got these Collins glasses with sweet little illustrations of strippers on them.”
“Won’t she notice and get upset?”
“I’m hoping she’s too dumb.”
Sabrina laughed at the unexpected candor. “Is anyone?”
“You met her.”
Sabrina nodded. “What if she isn’t too dumb?”
“We’ll say we thought it was cute for her drink, the Lex Island Iced Tea, which she always calls the LIIT. I swear she picked that cocktail to get a partnership with every kind of liquor. We’ll pacify her.”
“That’s not what you’re doing here?”
Rather than look horrified, Zoe laughed. “Show me your stripper glass. You’ve got a drink named after you from a posh London club not a college freshman pregame. That and a book with your family in it loaded with cool-ass Manhattan history.”
“The magazine? The tiara?”
“What say we lose the magazine? I thought it was tacky anyway.”
“The tiara?”
“I don’t think we’re going to win on the tiara. It’s too much of the image. I know it’s annoying. But it’s only a prop.”
