Page 26 of Sway

“Dammit. So will Baba. Looks like we’re stuck together.” We head outside and jump into our awaiting limo.

Diana gives me a big smile from the farthest seat. “So, Vika, where are we headed?”

She seems too eager. “Well, Lady Di, we will go to ONE Sunset for some drinks. And for God’s sake, order cocktail and not your damn Hawaiian Punch. I have image to uphold.”

“Leave her alone,” Jenny starts in.

I look around the limo. Jenny, Salomé, and Diana are huddled in the back three seats. Iza is sitting across from Salomé, sizing her up, and Nicole is glued to her iPhone.

Well, isn’t this fun bunch? Time to liven up the party. “So Salomé . . . how’s the diet coming? Did you see you made this week’s US magazine ‘Weight-loss Losers?’”

“Fuck you, Vika,” Salomé spits.

I laugh. “Well, at least you’re talking with me now.”

“So it’s going to be like that, Vika? Fine. I’ll play. What’s it like to sleep with a man old enough to be your grandpa?” Salomé asks me.

Jenny covers Diana’s ears as Iza turns the color of borscht. Nicole drops her phone on the floor and puts her hands over her ears. “Girls, please. You’re talking about my father. For God’s sake, stop.”

I really love my stepdaughter.

The limo pulls up to ONE Sunset. Fans and paparazzi crowd around it, jostling to get a glimpse of me. One guy takes an elbow to the ear and slugs the guy next to him.

We emerge from the limo, holding each other’s hands like we’re in kindergarten. There’s a private VIP entrance but why should I hide? Flashes are going off all around us. Do our publicists know their jobs, or what? Soon we’ll be bumping the president off the front pages.

Once inside, we’re escorted to the upper candle lounge and I order us all rounds of Ketel One Citron Lemon Drops and ONE Sunset’s signature cocktail, the White Orchid, a delectable combination of Canton ginger liquor, white cranberry, and lime juice.

Jenny looks ill—almost as ill as when she was getting those heinous scores last night. “So how long exactly do we have to stay?” she asks.

Salomé checks her watch. “I think just until they get some good pictures of us.”

As if on cue, some photographers crowd our long red booth and take some candid shots of us hugging, gossiping, and dancing around the table. The other diners all stop eating and stare at us and a couple of girls ask us for autographs. We pose for some fan pictures and settle back into our booth. I still can’t believe this show made ballroom dancers famous. I remember ten years ago how jealous we all were of the professional ice skaters. We didn’t have tours sponsored by Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Now we’re the superstars.

The drinks arrive. We all know how many calories are in our cocktails, so we stay away from blended drinks. This is the one indulgence I need to relax. I down mine in a flash. I push one over to Diana. “Here, Dianichka, try little sip. It tastes just like lemonade. You’ll never know difference.” She stares at the drink for a bit and then sinks back into her seat.

Salomé pounces on the menu. Before the waiter can even read the specials, Salomé has already ordered the truffled mac n’ cheese with goat cheese, mascarpone, and thyme. I order the seasonal oysters with pomegranate mignonette and a passion fruit ponzu one cocktail. Jenny orders the Hamachi sashimi and all the other girls sensibly order the asparagus salad.

The newest Dolla song starts pulsating. Salomé’s eyes perk up. She jumps off the sofa and starts grinding to the song. She dances like a stripper. Thank God, no one recognizes me from those days. I guess they weren’t looking at my face. God, I hated working at O’Farrell Brothers. It was so dirty. I only danced for a year. That’s when I decided if I was going to make my living off of teasing nasty men, I might as well marry Benny and at least get a partner and dance title as well.

Two lemon-drops and a White Orchid later, I’m officially buzzed. There are hundreds of candles peeking through the cutout wall behind us, illuminating our table. The waiter brings our food. Salomé doesn’t even come up for air; she stuffs her face and then excuses herself to the restroom. Ten minutes later, she returns—redolent of Reach.

Jenny leans into her and smells her breath. “Dammit, Salomé. You better not be vomiting again.”

Salomé holds her stomach. “It wasn’t like that. I was just feeling sick.”

Jenny clutches Salomé’s leg. “Don’t lie to me. I swear I’ll break your leg so you get kicked off if you start purging again. This stupid show is not worth killing yourself over.”

Damn, I didn’t know she was still vomiting. I thought I convinced her to get help years ago. In everything else, you do what you need to do. But you don’t mess with that shit. The destruction is dreadful. I guess she’s just still too lazy to hit the gym and starve herself like the rest of us.

Iza chews off one of her acrylic nails. “Uh, Vikochka, I’d love to stay together with you. But tomorrow I have dance party for Genya’s mom’s studio.”

Salomé muffles a laugh. I doubt she misses being a slave to Genya’s mom.

Poor Iza never gets to hang out and play. She slams her drink and then gets up. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the Kitson boutique party?”

Diana tugs on Iza’s dress. “Party, what party? I love Kitson.”

I shake my head and mouth nyet. But Iza takes pity on Diana. “It’s just some launch party for their new line of organic clothing. You can come if you want.”