“Amos? What are you doing here?”
He was dressed in a manner almost calm for him—zebra-print silk shirt, crisp black trousers, and pointed brogues polished to a shine. He’d added some gold eyeliner around his waterline, which brought out the warm honey tones in his light brown skin and the amber flecks in his eyes—eyes which were scanning me, seemingly taking a similar assessment.
“Impressive work, Clipboard. Needs a necklace though—maybe a choker. You’ll have to let me style you sometime.”
“Clipboard?”
“You know, wouldn’t know fun unless it was neatly penciled in. And as for why I’m here, I went to Marigold’s Prep with Stampy. Speaking of, I haven’t seen him in a while, and if I know him like I once did—carnally, intimately, sinfully—”
“I get the point.”
“Then he’ll be doing lines in the bathroom, and that’s justnot the sort of thing you let a chap do alone. So if you’ll excuse me.”
With no desire to carry Amos home, I decided that it might be a reasonable time to make my farewells, which took far too long and involved many people begging me to stay.
I know. Now it’s ridiculous to imagine me leaving a party early, but I was exhausted, and that evening felt like a reckoning: all that I was and all I had to become to succeed.
I thought I could go home, take off the makeup and the dress, maybe phone Ivan who I imagined would insist on hearing every detail.“You crossed to the other side. Tell me—were there ice sculptures? Oysters? Nadine, please tell me they were giving out laxatives on trays.”
I ducked into the bathroom before I left and was in the stall rolling on a pair of tights for the journey home when I heard the footsteps—and then the voices.
“I can’t believe you brought Heywood here.”
It was a small class, and that voice had dug at me on numerous occasions. Zoe Holland, one of Harper’s closest friends who, despite her thoroughlydelightfulpersonality, appeared innocence incarnate and was always cast in roles that made the most of her big wide eyes and cherubic grin. I paused, not particularly surprised or wounded that she did not like me. But somewhat curious as to what Harper would say in return.
“Oh please, she’s harmless.”
“No, she’s not. She’s spent the entire time networking. It’s embarrassing watching her.”
“I sold this party to her as a networking opportunity. I can’t blame her for doing exactly that.”
“She’s good at it too,” another voice said—Maisie Owens, normally an ethereal, haunting actress best cast in horror, now thoroughly sullen. “She’s practically guaranteed to be invited back next year, so that makes one less spot for the rest of us. This was supposed to be our chance to get ahead, and you broughtherof all people?”
Harper’s answering laugh was scornful. “Anyone of note is going to take one look at her sale-rack polyester dress and know she’s not worth much of their time. I’m throwing a dog a bone, not handing her the keys to the kingdom.”
I flinched back against the bathroom door and then froze, worried they’d heard the movement.
“You seemed pretty chummy when you walked in,” Zoe grumbled. “Get any good dirt on her at least?”
“I wish. Just her sob story. She told me the only time anyone ever cared about her was when she was watching films with them. I mean god, could you imagine? No wonder she’s so desperate for everyone to tell her how wonderful an actress she is. It’s the only attention she’s ever gotten.”
I fell back against the door. Everything I’d told Harper turned into callous gossip for her to trade. I was too shocked to be hurt, too angry at myself for trusting her with it all to be furious at her too—but then they continued.
“You can’t turn her into one of your projects, Harp.”
“I’m not! I invited her to a party, that’s all.”
“Because you’re bored?”
“Because I felt sorry for her! Thinking she can study her way into some stage presence. How can you not pity that?”
“Definitely a project. Admit it, you can’t stand someone not liking you! You’re going to put her in your debt and pocket her. Start stockpiling Birkins or something, Harp. You can’t collect people.”
“Oh, stop,” Harper said, giggling, and then laughing harder. “I hardly want more time in her company; how depressing would that be? I just can’t see someone suffering and leave them be. I’m too nice.”
Their laughter faded, the door falling shut heavily behind them.
I screwed my eyes shut, trying to process the hurt—but it was more than just that conversation. It was the whole evening. It was my stomach turning as I watched Harper flirt her way to success, desperately promising myself I didn’t need to do the same. It was the way my heart plummeted at every critique—the way I didn’t know how to build a thick skin while remaining vulnerable on the stage, so every comment felt wounding and personal. It was every time I felt like if I just worked harder, paid more attention, and gave more effort, I might stop anyone from doubting me.
