Chapter One
Lilly
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Lilly Benedetto drives the crappiest, most broken-down car in Southern California, which is how she finds herself sitting on a bench next to the valet stand outside Cecconi’s in West Hollywood late Friday afternoon, waiting for her sister to come and pick her up.
“You realize there’s a dealership like three blocks from here,” June says when she cruises to a stop at the bright yellow curb, immaculate in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a tank top cropped just enough to show a sliver of tan, flat stomach. At twenty-nine, she’s older than Lilly by two full years, though you’d never know it to look at her. She’s been using a retinol serum since she was twelve. “You literally could have walked over, tossed your hair a little, and driven something new right off the lot.”
Lilly shrugs, sliding into the passenger seat of June’s cool, quiet Audi and cranking the air-conditioning, tilting the vents up so they blow against her damp, blotchy face. It’s the end of October but still close to a hundred degrees in Los Angeles, and her stretchy black tank dress is sticking to the sweaty ridges of her spine. “My credit’s bad,” is all she says.
It’s a bullshit answer, and they both know it, but it’s a testament to June’s sweet and mollifying nature—and, probably, tothe fact that Lilly is the unequivocal boss of her four sisters—that she doesn’t press. Instead she waggles her fingers at a couple of scruffy-looking photographers camped across the street as she pulls out into traffic; the guys wave back as they pack up their cameras, ambling off toward their black SUVs. “Did you call them?” June asks, nodding her curly blond head toward the window.
“Rude!” Lilly whirls on her, laughing. “What, so that they could all come down here and watch me get my shitty car towed? Of course I didn’t call them.”
June grins. “I’m just asking,” she says easily. “You know Olivia tips them off every time she leaves the house.”
“Olivia would tip them off every time she got a UTI if she thought it would get her picture inUs Weekly,” Lilly counters, “but no. They were there to take pictures of Isobel. My vehicular difficulties were just a bonus.”
“Lucky them,” June says, glancing over her shoulder as they merge onto the 101 North toward Calabasas. Lilly leans her head back against the seat. She parked on the street specifically to avoid the embarrassment of the valets hiding her ancient Honda behind the restaurant with the rest of the undesirables, only to be rewarded for her foresight by a double-decker bus full of tourists gawking at the grim spectacle of the tow truck dragging it forlornly away. Isobel and the rest of her crew had left by then, thank god—not that it matters, since Lilly knows from experience that the whole debacle is probably already trending on Twitter. If there’s one thing the internet can’t get enough of, it’s a Benedetto sister having a misadventure of any kind.
“I didn’t even realize you guys were hanging out again,” June says now, pushing her oversized sunglasses up into her hair as the late-afternoon light begins to fade. “You and Isobel, I mean.”
“Oh, we’re not,” Lilly corrects. “It was just a brunch to launch her line of ugly purses, that’s all. She only invited me like twenty minutes before it started, which means somebody must have gotten mouth herpes or something and she needed a seat filler.”
June shakes her head, full lips twisting. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“That’s very loving of you, Junie,” Lilly says, sliding her sandals off and propping her feet up on the dashboard. “Unfortunately, your optimism is undermined by the fact that my complimentary belt bag party favor was monogrammed for Addison Rae.”
By the time they make it back to Pemberly Grove it’s almost dusk, the sun slanting warm and pink and golden over the hills. They wave to Edgar, the octogenarian gate attendant, then follow the winding streets of the development past the long-shuttered clubhouse and the algae-covered pond before finally pulling into the long, curving driveway of their parents’ sprawling faux colonial.
“You and your hobo wagon are already on the Sinclair,” Olivia reports when Lilly and June muscle open the rusting gate into the backyard, fishing her phone out of her cleavage and waving it accusingly in Lilly’s direction. She and Kit are draped across an enormous unicorn inflatable in the middle of the bean-shaped pool, the two of them wearing matching Valentino sunglasses and sky-high Louboutins. Their gangly, moribund friend Tony, who does all their photography—in exchange, so far as Lilly can tell, for the pleasure of their company rather than monetary compensation of any kind—snaps busily away. “Photos and everything.”
Lilly bites back a grimace. That was fast, even for Hollywood’s most notoriously salacious gossip blog; she supposes you’ve gotta be quick these days if you don’t want to get scooped by a thirteen-year-old with an iPhone and a window seat on thestar tour. “Just another day of breathless, fawning coverage, I’m sure.”
“Shockingly, no.” Kit reaches out with one intricately tattooed arm and plucks the phone from Olivia’s hand, squinting down at the post. Of the five of them, Olivia and Kit are the two youngest and the ones with the most social media cachet, perpetually toasting each other with cronut-flavored vodka or filming cheery videos about how much they love their knockoff Vitamix. If their nascent careers as influencers haven’t yet proven to be terribly lucrative in terms of actual American dollars, at the very least neither one of them will ever need to purchase their own flat-tummy tea ever again. “‘Did Somebody Call for an Uber?’” Kit reads now, her plump, painted lips curling in dark amusement. “‘Lilly B’s Busted Beater Breaks Down Again.’”
“That’s... alliterative.” Lilly winces. “Sorry,” she says, more to June than anyone else. She stopped caring what the Sinclair or anyone else had to say about her or the Honda a long time ago. Still, she doesn’t like to embarrass her sisters.
“Don’t worry about it.” June sits down on one of the wobbly lounge chairs lined up on the patio. Then, suddenly realizing it’s covered with a creeping fur of neon-green mildew, she sits on another one instead. “Could be worse.”
“Could be better!” Olivia counters indignantly. “What is that, like, the third time in the last two months? Can you please just nut up and get a new car already? People are going to think we don’t have the money to replace it.”
“I mean, we don’t have the money to replace it,” Lilly reminds her. “Just ask Dad.”
“It’s not funny!” Olivia protests, though Lilly wasn’t actuallykidding. “Your whole”—she waves a hand in Lilly’s direction—“situationis really dragging us down.”
“Are you sure that’s not the staggering weight of your fake eyelashes?” Kit posits sweetly. Olivia flips her the bird in reply.
“Dinner’s here,” Marianne announces then, sliding the patio door open and poking her pale, sullen face outside. At twenty-four she’s the middleborn Benedetto, floating ominously at the center of their family like a haunted island in the middle of the sea. A couple of months ago she turned up in a supporting role in some random Lena Dunham mumblecore project none of the rest of them had the foggiest idea she was doing; if it turned out she was also breeding heritage pigs or running a high-stakes poker game out of the pool house, Lilly would not be the slightest bit surprised. “Mom says come inside if you want to eat.”
Olivia sighs, dropping her head back so it’s nestled in the crook of the unicorn’s graceful white neck. She’s got the same dark, wavy hair as Lilly, long enough that the ends of it are wet from trailing through the bleachy blue water. “Somebody needs to tow us in,” she announces imperiously.
Lilly frowns as Tony sets his camera down and shuffles over to the skimmer, casting it into the pool like a fishing line so Olivia can grab hold. “What are you guys even advertising?” Lilly asks, holding her hand out to pull Junie to her feet.
“Nothing,” Olivia replies, boosting herself neatly up onto the pool deck, heels and all. “We just look particularly good today, don’t you think?”
They say their goodbyes to Tony and head inside the house, where their mother is standing at the kitchen island dressed head to toe in snow-white athleisure, pulling various Chinese foodcontainers from a massive paper bag. “No, really, don’t bother helping,” she says, holding one manicured hand up dramatically. “I’m all set here.”
“Sorry,” Olivia says, leaning over to kiss her on one round cheek. “Were you slaving away over a hot stove all day long?”
