“I was trying to make a point,” Tess said. “We accept our height, and we don’t think it signifies anything about our character or discipline. We should accept our body types, too, not fight to be what we’re not. I could live off dandelion greens and never be a stick figure. You don’t have big breasts. So what?”
“You don’t understand,” Selene said. She walked back to the pile of clothes she had left on the living room floor and fished out a tiny pink T-shirt. Tess couldn’t help noticing it was printed with the slogan SPOILED BRAT. “My body affects my career. I’m not going to get certain parts without tits. I got this stupid shit show because women back then, fashionable ones, wore those Empire gowns, so my body type works for this.”
Tess noticed she pronounced it the French way – om-peer.
“If your body is right for this, it will be right for other things.”
“I’ll never be a Bond girl.”
“Why would you want to be a Bond girl? You should aspire to be James Bond.”
“Are they doing that?” Selene asked eagerly. “A female James Bond? Because that would totally rock.”
She threw herself down on the sofa, sloshing some Red Bull but making no move to clean it up. Like almost all the other furnishings here, the sofa was huge and oversize, which gave Tess the sense that she had climbed Jack’s beanstalk to arrive at the giant’s aerie. But she couldn’t help noticing that the apartment, for all its high-end details – the view, the top-notch appliances, the velvety upholstery – could not quite transcend the blandness that marked it as a rental unit, a temporary place for those with money, but no roots. It lacked the touches that quotidian life bestows – a teakettle, framed photographs, objects collected on travels. It was nothing more than an enormous hotel suite, and the size only emphasized its sterility.
“Do you like having a place this large, when you’re all alone?”
“I needed space in case my family visits,” Selene said. “But they’re schoolteachers, it’s hard for them to get away.”
Tess had learned that much on her first Google pass. Selene was the youngest of five children from a relentlessly normal Utah family. When their youngest daughter decided she wanted to be in the movies, the Waites hadn’t objected, but they also had refused to uproot the rest of the family. She had gone to live with her mother’s sister in Orange County and sought emancipation as a minor at the first opportunity. It was curious to Tess that Selene’s parents, who seemed sensible and solid, would essentially give their daughter license to be a wild child, but maybe people got tired by kid number five. “Selene knows her own mind,” her mother had said in one of the few interviews to which she had ever consented. Asked if she was proud of Selene, she had said: “I’m proud of all my children.” Selene might as well have been parentless Aphrodite, rising from the sea on a clamshell.
“Let’s get dinner,” Tess suggested.
Selene made a face. “I haven’t found a single decent place to eat in this town.”
That stung a little. Tess thought that Baltimore, whatever its limitations, could put on a pretty good feed. “There’s Charleston, right here in the neighborhood.”
“Too much fish.”
“Do you like pizza-”
“I love it, but” – Selene patted her nonexistent belly – “I can’t risk it. I’ll be all bloated tomorrow. It’s got to be protein. Sushi is best, although I have to go easy on the soy sauce. Puffy eyes.”
“Well, I could do sushi,” said Tess, a little uncertainly. Hadn’t Selene just vetoed fish? Besides, Tess wasn’t big on raw things.
“Can I pick the restaurant?” Selene’s manner was coy and wheedling, her default mode.
“Sure.”
“And wherever I pick, you’ll go?”
“Yes.”
“Wherever I want to go?”
“Wherever you want to go,” Tess promised.
Which is how they ended up, not even thirty minutes later, in Selene’s driver-equipped car, headed for New York.
They were just about to enter the Holland Tunnel when Selene pulled out her iPhone and, with a quick glance at Tess, began sending what appeared to be the War and Peace of text messages. Lloyd could do the same thing with his cell phone, whereas Tess was reduced to playing a virtual Gary Cooper when she texted, laboriously tapping out yes and no.
“Change of plans,” Selene announced. “Nobu is mobbed. We’re doing Mexican instead of sushi.”
But when the Town Car stopped in front of what appeared to be a very ordinary diner, Tess was dubious.
“This? We had to drive two hundred miles so you could eat here?”
Selene laughed at her. “You’ll see.”
Selene pulled on her hoodie and donned a pair of oversize sunglasses, despite the fact that it was now 11:30 P.M. They went inside, passing through the bright, quiet diner and into a concealed staircase that led to a very different establishment beneath, a truly subterranean lair of cavernlike rooms. The bar was jammed with people waiting for tables, but the bored-looking hostess raised one eyebrow at the sight of Selene and said: “Of course.” The hostess, a ravishing creature in her own right, did not acknowledge Tess at all; she might have been a piece of toilet paper stuck to Selene’s boots which, now that she noticed, weren’t actual boots but spiked Mary Janes with knitted tops that reached just to her knees, worn with a skirt that barely covered her silky underwear. At least Selene was wearing underwear.
Come to think of it, Tess decided as she followed Selene’s twitching bottom, a piece of toilet paper might get more attention. After all, someone might have felt obligated to point out that trailing tissue to Selene, however discreetly, while Tess was invisible to this young, chic crowd. How could they decide so quickly that she was a person of no consequence? There was nothing outrageously wrong with what she wore. In fact, her black trousers and sweater, paired with flat-heeled boots, weren’t that different from what many of the diners here wore. Granted, most of the people dressed like her were men, but still, she was carrying the look. No, there must be something indefinably off about her, an unshakable whiff of hoi polloi.
Yet Tess recognized no one – except the young man who was waiting for Selene. But then, Buddhist monks, living in seclusion in the mountains of Tibet, probably knew of Derek Nichole, a pretty boy who had transformed himself into the actor of the moment by taking on a trio of foolproof roles – crippled man, developmentally disabled man, cancer-ridden gangster trying to make one last score so his small daughter would be financially secure. He hadn’t been nominated for an Oscar, but the consensus was that it was a matter of when, not if.
“Hey, doll,” he said, not bothering to get up as Selene slid into the semiconcealed booth. No cheek kiss, no hug, just the smallest of waves, the fingers barely lifting from the table. Tess wondered if it was film or fame that taught one to modify gestures that way. “I didn’t know you were bringing your mom.”
“Joke,” Selene assured Tess. “JOKE. I mean, Derek’s met my mom, and she’s a blonde like me.”
“I don’t know,” Tess said. “I could be your Baltimore mama. The city used to lead the nation in pregnancies to girls under fourteen.”
“Yes, but I’m twenty, so you would have had to have me when you were six.”
Tess waited a beat for Selene to declare again “JOKE!” When she didn’t, it seemed too late to correct her math skills. Yet Derek, his tone gentle, said: “The numbers go the other way, baby. You add fourteen to your age to figure out how old – well, it’s not important. Margaritas for everybody?”