Most Hated, page 8
I woke up at eight, to the sunlight that I loved so much that came through the windows in the bedroom at the New York place. Our other house in the gated community of America’s heartland was surrounded by big, tall, hideous trees void of any natural light. I would never have agreed to a dark and gloomy house like that if I’d been involved in choosing, but when we—when Mick—made the purchase, I was told it was a place to land. Soon after I found out we were going to have to live there. Build a life there. Exist there.
I could sleep until the early afternoon in that house, nothing to do, no one to see. But here in the city, I always woke up to the sun and delighted in going to the big bright, open kitchen where I could slice open a grapefruit, make a coffee, and use all my little things to have a morning ritual. A glass beaker for the steamed milk, a cute sugar bowl, pretty silverware, a view to look out on, music on the speakers. I was pretending, a little, that life was like that, every time.
But since I was going through the motions, didn’t that make it real?
This morning, the day after the party at Budgie’s, I was in a good mood—hangover avoided with Evian and a few pricey preventative vitamins. Plus, Mick was home. When I knew he was home, I always knew I’d find him out in the dining room, lit by that thirsty pale morning sunshine where he’d be reading on his iPad, already a few hours past his early morning workout. He always waited to shower—he said in case we had sex. Something about him in the morning, hot and sometimes still a trace of his good-smelling sweat, meant that he was often right to wait.
To my disappointing surprise, he was not alone when I came out. He was fully dressed and showered and his publicist, Regan, was over.
Regan, by the way, is super attractive with the kind of good looks that I hate the most. She can make a hideous face, and instead of looking like Kristen Wiig doing a character, like I do, she still looks cute. She’s smart, she’s funny, she comes from money, and she can do more for my husband than I can in the ways I sometimes fear matter to him more than anything. She has no boyfriend and is in no hurry. We talked once at the horse races, when she came along in a big group with us, and she said that she didn’t expect to get married, but that if she did one day, then sure. Raspy voice. Unbothered. She was dripping with real cool. She didn’t have an ounce of desperation. Not a degree of need.
Whatever they were discussing they stopped talking when I walked in the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Hey you, good morning. I wanted to let you sleep,” Mick said. “We’re sorting out my schedule and stuff while I’m here. I’m going to have to fly back tomorrow for a few days.” He came over to me, kissing me briefly and putting a hand on my waist.
“Oh, okay. Sure.” I nodded. “Hey Regan.”
As I stood there in my pajamas, I realized there would be no further analysis of last night’s party. We’d barely had a chance to talk in the car, and Mick had fallen asleep fast once we got home. Not that I wasn’t accustomed to living in the company of Mick’s business team. There was always a manager, an agent, a stylist, a lawyer, a watch dealer, a shoe rep, a photographer, a nutritionist, a travel agent around, in the car with us, on the plane with us, in our home; sharing my space and Mick’s attention were part of the deal, what I signed up for. But he had, at one time, been sweet at carving out us time, and I was hoping to have a chance to dissect the party in great detail with him today.
“Dahlia, I love that pj set,” Regan enthused. “They look super luxe. So, so good on you.”
“Thanks,” I answered. “They were a freebie from that photo shoot Mick and I did last year. I think they retail for something crazy like around seven hundred dollars, but I’m sure they’d gift you a pair if you asked. I mean you set the whole thing up.”
“Oh I’m good. I sleep in the nude,” she deadpanned. “I read somewhere that sleeping naked helps you fall asleep fast and reduces stress.”
Not knowing what to say or how to respond, Mick and I both nodded, and he kissed me again on the cheek.
“Mick, we have to go.” Regan stood up, “We’re already running late for the meeting.”
“What meeting?” I asked.
“The new accountant,” Mick explained, now competing with the low hum of our Nespresso. Caffeine was going to be critical today. “Apparently, I missed some signatures, and I said we’d go there rather than ask him to come over here.”
“After which he has a podcast at the Sirius studios midtown, a promo for the Boys and Girls Club and if we can squeeze it in, an interview for Men’s Health.”
“Haven’t been around the city in a while you know. You’re right, I do miss the energy. What time’s your thing today?” he said as he downed the last of his juice.
“Two.”
“Let me know when you’re wrapping up. I have a full day but maybe we can grab a bite later or something.” He hugged me and I let out a groan.
“You’ll be great. You’re Dahlia. You’ll be awe-some.”
Nothing was wrong. We were out of synch. I didn’t need to worry.
He grabbed an apple out of the silver bowl on the counter as Regan gathered up her things and after he kissed me again, longer and on the lips this time, they boarded the elevator together and left.
Standing alone in our apartment, I felt a little like a psycho girlfriend. Okay, things were a little different right now. But he was still being cute and sweet; he was still him. We made plans for later. He kissed me.
And why was I upset? Because I didn’t get a chance to complain more about the night before? We’d talk at dinner.
God, why was I dismantling him like he was a new boyfriend and I wasn’t sure he was into me? He was my husband. We’d made vows. We’d made promises. And I had no reason to think he’d broken any of them.
The truth was that I was nervous about today. We were filming Mariana and me meeting up for a drink at a rooftop wine bar. I was not one to doubt myself, but last night I’d fallen far away from where I ever thought I’d be once being filmed. I always assumed I’d be myself, that I’d be comfortable, funny, charming, all the things I can pull out even at the hardest times.
Uncertain how on earth I was supposed to come off as likable today, I determined I would have to perform better.
There was no space for my own resentments—like how Mariana had been the actual jerk. Worse to Sabrina than to me. And yet she’d kept her cool.
Two and a half hours after my shower, I was ready. Perhaps doing my own glam was a bad idea; the beauty gods were punishing me with a bad hair and face day which was unfair; they’re not supposed to align at the same time.
When fishing in my makeup drawer, I’d had a terrifying moment where I thought I’d chipped my nail polish. When I gasped and looked at my hand in fear and then felt enormous relief, I wondered how much worse this was all going to get. I never cared about a chipped nail. I never took that long to get ready to go out. I was more of a concealer, mascara and lip gloss kind of girl. Not like this version of myself, for the second day in a row made up like it was my wedding.
***
The bar was almost empty downstairs, and the rooftop upstairs had a few people who looked conscious of the cameras.
Production had me arrive first, and they served me an extra full glass of wine. I tried to sip some to bring the level down to normal, so I didn’t look like a total lush.
After half an hour, once my rosé may as well have been microwaved, Mariana walked up in a bright yellow jumpsuit and big silver earrings, bright pink pumps, with a large white wicker tote, and white sunglasses with pink lenses.
I was very proud of myself for managing not to say, holy—
The thing is, if she was my actual friend, I would have teased her for being that bold with her style and would have meant I was impressed. But with her, I was going to have to act like this was normal. I was in an Isabel Marant dress, Stuart Weitzman sandals, Ray-Bans I’d had since college, and carrying my Saint Laurent shoulder bag. Loud as her outfit was, I felt like I was dressed as a before picture.
Usually, I loved this outfit. Felt like myself in it, confident, even.
She gave me a big smile and showed a grand wingspan as the beginning of an unexpected hug. She kissed me on both cheeks, then said how cute I looked.
“Thank you, I love this,” I said. “You’re—” She’s what? Like a bird of paradise? “Stunning! So summery.”
“You’re sweet, you know I got this straight off the Mugler runway in Paris a few months ago, this was my first chance to wear it.”
“Ah, well, I’m honored.”
“After this I’m going to a friend’s bridal shower.”
She turned to order, and I took a deep breath in. I get it, you didn’t dress up for me.
“I’ll have a Pellegrino, with a lime? Thank you.”
“No wine for you?”
“Oh, no,” she shook her head like she never touched the stuff.
She was good.
She was really good.
A breeze blew and I smoothed my hair down before continuing. “I wanted to apologize for anything I said last night.”
“Please, honey, don’t worry. We’ve all been there. You had a few too many, no big deal! No hard feelings.”
“I didn’t have a few too many, it’s more like I came off wrong. I joke around a lot. I’m not a judgmental person.”
“Okay, now when you say that, I feel like you’re still trying to say the same thing except,” she laughed and held a hand up to the sky, “under the sun, instead of the moon!”
“No, I’m not.” I respond, with ungrittd teeth. “I was wrong, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry if what I said hurt your feelings.”
“You know,” she said as she shook her head, paused, taking her time, then spaced out her words as though they were brilliantly thoughtful, “there’s something insincere about apologizing to someone if it hurt their feelings. You’re apologizing for me that I allowed that to happen to myself.”
She looked at me like I didn’t understand basic addition.
I took a sip of wine, trying to cool the magma that was already threatening to boil over. “I actually agree with that point of view, and that’s not—”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said, taking her water.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Look, I don’t know what your issue is with me, Dahlia, but I promise you, I want to be your friend. It’s dead and buried. I’ve moved on if that’s what you need to hear.” She gave a shrug and wrapped her swollen lips around her straw before setting her glass down.
“Mariana, I want things to be good between us.”
Ooh, that took everything for me to say.
“Understood, truly, I don’t know why you’re this stressed.”
What a saint.
“Okay, then, we’re good?”
“We’re good. Like I said, you had a little too much to drink. Happens to the best of us.” She gestured at my wine.
I smiled the smile I only muster when I consider homicide. “Mariana, you need to stop implying that I was intoxicated, and that alcohol was the problem.”
“You’re right,” she said, with a sweet smile back. “Maybe that’s who you are.” She shrugged again.
“It’s not who I am.”
“So you admit it was completely out of line? I’m confused. Are you contending that it was intentional, and you were sober and rude, or … what?”
She squinted her eyes and cocked her head at me.
I wanted to point out that I hadn’t even been the one to initially make the outlandish and true accusation, Budgie did. But I had been raised never to bring other people into my own disputes.
“I’m saying I misspoke.”
She made a puzzled face. “Alright, Dahlia. Apology accepted.” She scrunched her sculpted nose and squeezed my leg a little too hard. “You’re forgiven.”
“I—”
“Oh, and you know what, I brought you a little something.”
She pulled a bright red and white polka dot package out of her bag. The box had a giant black bow.
I looked at the gift like it might be a bomb, and then looked to her.
“It won’t bite. But you might!”
She laughed.
“You want me to open this … now?”
“Sure, please, yes!”
She took another big sip of her water, and I cautiously pulled on the ribbon.
Inside the box, and beneath a wad of tissue was an assortment of … things. I thought I was looking at hand lotion, but I read the label on the tube—vegan personal lube. There was also a purple vibrator that looked like a cactus, a large green silicone ring, and two additional velvet pouches. Not wanting to give camera time nor risk my reaction to the other items, I stopped there.
I knew my expression was a grimace, not a smile, as I looked at her and said, “Hey, what is all this?”
“It’s my company! Come Get Some! We’re vegan and sustainable and have options for everyone.”
“Um.” A moment passed. “Nope, I don’t have words.”
“Oh sweetie, don’t tell me you’re a prude. You’re too young to be a prude!”
“It’s not that, it’s … why are you giving me this?” I wanted to add “since you don’t know me?”
“Like I said, you and your man seemed like maybe you could use a little sparking up. So there you go!”
“That’s such a weird thing to say or do. My husband and I are great.”
“I’m sure you are, sure, sure.” She laughed to herself. “But everyone needs a little fun to mix things up in the bedroom. Trust me if that doesn’t do the trick, we’ve got plenty more that will. We’ve got outfits, jiggle balls, bondage gear, everything! Whatever you fancy!”
I was not going to come off as likeable if I didn’t loosen up a little.
“Well, hey. I’m excited to try out your … wares, Mariana.”
“Mmhm! Anytime, love. And no hard feelings about last night, you’re fine.”And she winked her ridiculous, long fake eyelash at me.
I know I’m fine. I’m going to kill her, but I’m fine.
“Anyway, I’ve got to scoot, but it was lovely meeting up. You drink your wine, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”
She stood up, gave me another hug and double kiss, then waved goodbye and left like a self-righteous banana on too-high heels.
Once she left the rooftop, and going off an instinct and a small whiff I thought I might have gotten, I picked up her glass and sniffed the contents before taking a sip.
“Oh my god,” I said. “There’s tequila in this!”
But no one reacted, no one cared. Zoe had disappeared down the stairs after her, and the cameraman was fiddling with his gear. There was no one to commiserate with.
I had a nauseating feeling that my husband was going to wind up blowing me off tonight, and I’d have nowhere to take all this infuriation.
Going forward, I’d say as little as possible. Engage as little as they would let me and avoid any potential future misunderstandings.
But I had been a girl too long and knew myself too well to think that was ever going to happen.
13
Zoe
Zoe reappeared at the top of the patio stairs, “Alright, thank you, Dahlia, good job. Seriously, that was amazing.”
“Was it, though?” she said, taking another sip of her wine.
“Oh, yeah. She looks like such a bitch. Are you holding up okay? This is wild.”
“She is, right?”
“And that gift? So weird.”
“Okay, then I’m not crazy.”
There was a desperation in Dahlia’s tone that Zoe recognized. She looked at her for a moment, taking her in.
On a transactional level, Zoe knew how to interact with Dahlia. The EQ assessment had revealed a woman with a high emotional intelligence who was seeking validation and approval. Dahlia had transitioned from performing for her soccer team to performing for her husband within their marriage. In both instances she was aiming to work for the greater good without deliberately looking to benefit herself. And now, in exchange for recognition, Dahlia was going to serve Zoe’s needs. Some might have labeled Zoe’s intentions “calculating and self-serving,” but she didn’t see herself as the least bit manipulative; rather, she felt she ought to be respected for what she considered self-awareness.
Zoe had dark, floppy hair and dark eyes, and despite the experimentation in high school, going chocolate brown or getting purple highlights or trying bronde didn’t make her look anything but fake. She had bad skin with dark splotches, and makeup seemed to sit on top of her imperfections like a silk cloth laid over a pile of Lego. She wasn’t overweight, nor too thin; her figure was boring. Her skinny legs lay flush against each other like a cartoon drawing. Her boobs were non-existent, but she couldn’t rock the waifish, flapper look.
Jeans were always too tight in the wrong places—often the crotch and beneath the hip—and too loose in the other places—her butt. No, she wasn’t a monster. But she was neither a classic delicate beauty nor an exotic. She had a pudgy nose that she self-described as a Play-Doh nose. She had full eyebrows that, no matter the waxer, could not be formed into an attractive shape. Her lips were thin, chapped, and pale. Lipstick looked stupid.
The good news was that she had learned early that no amount of work or expensive grooming could make a difference. Halfway through her teen years, she’d accepted that attractiveness wasn’t in the cards for her. This enlightenment had freed her.
She never had to yearn for the right clothes to make her look good. She could wear whatever she wanted, she could do whatever she wanted, and the resignation wouldn’t matter; no one would see her differently.
There was no makeover that could change the poorly built person that she was. She believed she was an unattractive girl. And by learning who she was in time, she had gained as much freedom as the pretty girl who never had to worry about makeup or no makeup, sweats, or a form-hugging dress. She could do whatever she wanted.
The problem was she wasn’t a great learner, wasn’t an athlete. She got meager grades. She was the kind of kid diagnosed over and over with different disorders, ADD, ADHD, red-dye allergy, even bi-polar diagnosis from one doctor. Medicine only made her worse, deader inside.
