Page 32 of Dark Ugly Places

Bambi wakes to the thin cries of birds outside her window. She rolls toward the window, still partially open, the scent of jasmine floating in from the bushes next door. For a moment, she lies very still, feeling the hollowness of her belly, the bones of her hips that stick out no matter what angle she turns, the places where the fat in her thighs has all but disappeared. She reaches down between her legs and winces in pain. The sensation is worse than usual, but what happened, exactly?

Bambi rolls over. The beautiful white and gray linen sheets are strewn just so across the bed, arranged almost romantically. Jason’s clothes had been left not quite neatly, but haphazardly enough, and it all looks too normal to bear, as though nothing happened here. Bambi’s stomach rolls as she sits up. Underneath the stillness and beauty is something ugly she can’t speak. She knows the word, but she doesn’t like to think it.

Rising from the bed, she sees a tiny circle of blood on the sheets, no bigger than a quarter, where she had been lying. She leans toward it, presses a finger to the fabric, and feels a slight dampness. Her body freezes for a moment, and her heart begins to race. Immediately, she rips the sheets off the bed and throws them into a laundry bag, the small red stain disappearing inside it. Downstairs, Jason’s on the phone, and Lucita is in the kitchen preparing breakfast, the scent of toast and eggs wafting up. Her stomach rumbles, but not from hunger.

Outside, the day is gathering heat. Bambi showers and chooses a light sundress, even though it’s still autumn, but the warmth inside is palpable. Downstairs, she cranks up the AC on the wall adjacent to the kitchen. Lucita has prepared a scrambled egg and toast breakfast with a giant fresh fruit plate.

“Just a coffee, Lucita.”

Lucita’s face falls. “Of course. A cappuccino?”

“Yes. Nonfat milk.”

“Very good, Miss Bambi. I’ll make it for you.”

“Thanks, Lucita.”

Bambi sits at the breakfast nook and scrolls through her phone. Her eyes glaze over, and the screen blurs. Messages from her agent. Missed calls. Twenty-three emails about promotion opportunities with newer brands. One designer wanting to dress her for Jason’s upcoming premiere. Another shoot, this time in Mexico. Bambi puts the phone down and shoves it away from her. In the next room, Jason laughs on the phone to someone. He comes through, nodding and smiling, the device pressed firmly to his ear.

“Yes, of course I am, Agnes,” he says and leans in to give Bambi a good morning peck. “I’m always a good boy, you know that.”

He turns and winks at Bambi, and she moves to stare out the window at the sun streaming through the trees, high in the sky. It’s almost ten. The driveway glistens. Beyond it, the stone wall gates catch the sun like a shield.

“Well, tell her we can go over her lines when I get there. I’m off book.”

Jason puts the call on speaker and sets it onto the counter, Agnes’s gritty smoker’s voice coming through. “Of course you are, honey. But LaMonte wants formal rehearsal time. With the director present.”

Jason takes a swig of coffee and a bite of toast. “Sure. Whatever she wants.”

Agnes clears her throat. “With just the director.”

Jason furrows his brows and glances at Bambi, then back to the phone. She turns, angling herself to listen.

“Well, how’s that supposed to work, Agnes? It’s a chemistry thing. Frank is a great director, but he hasn’t worked with us before. We have a style. You know that.”

Agnes sighs, her voice tight. “Of course I know that, honey, but LaMonte insists. It’s in her contract.”

Jason scoffs, his face creasing with frustration, anger. He takes the phone off speaker mode and presses it to his ear. “Well, did she say why?”

Mumbling. Broken consonants. Bambi strains to listen as Lucita deposits her coffee on the table.

Jason’s face tightens as he takes the phone off speaker. “Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“Jason—”

He straightens and holds the phone toward his lips, jaw clenched. Bambi’s body tenses. “No. Clearly, there has been some miscommunication. Leave it to you suits to fuck everything up. Like I said, I will talk to her.”

“Don’t do anything before you get to Paris,” Agnes says and then coughs loudly. “Promise me.”

Jason pauses and thinks for a moment. “Fine.” He hangs up and throws down the phone.

Bambi sips her coffee, waiting for him to say something. He stands still, chewing his toast. Finally, Bambi can’t take it. “What was that all about?”

Jason doesn’t look at her. “Oh, you know. Regular studio bullshit.”

“She seemed worried.”

“Who? Agnes? Fuck Agnes. She’s just eating executive dick again. You know she’s repping that young kid from The Murder Chronicles, right?”