He was consumed by the architecture of that consensual edifice called reality. Months after Tristen conjured his fake GIFs on Celeb Jihad, the net of the Fappening (there were many fishermen now) trawled an actual video from Aubrey Plaza’s iPhone of her masturbating in front of a bathroom mirror with one leg propped on the counter — the real and the sham, the already-happened, the inchoate, and the never-was were simply different sides of a Möbius strip. He thought of the Baudelaire story of the man who delighted in giving counterfeit coins to beggars — was there really a difference? In the moment, joy was spread to giver and taker. He found the story in the I Ching (Hexagram 18—“Correcting the Corruption”) even more instructive. In the dead of winter, a dying emperor asked for fresh roses. The armies scoured the entire country but found only one flower each day; the ruler’s health returned overnight then plummeted in the morning when it began to wilt. Finally, the court magician presented him a rose that would never die, and the emperor lived to an old age. It was artificial…
Privacy wasn’t dead, reality was — but it sure was tough to kill. His screen-refreshable quote of the moment belonged to P. K. Dick: “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” It would take generations before the swashbuckling daring and seminal importance of the Fappening could be properly measured.
Someday, even his father would see, and be awed, and would know.
—
The Dusty Wilding kiss-off threw Larissa into a deep funk.
It wasn’t the type of thing she could gossip about with friends. Most of them, anyway. Maybe eventually… She didn’t have much of a career but didn’t want to get blacklisted either. Could happen. It wasn’t just that, though; it was pride. I got dumped. Of course, it wasn’t so simple but that was how it felt. Dumped! By a movie star! After losing my virginity!
As if life wasn’t fucking hard enough.
Her take on the actress had been so wrong that the heart-stomped stand-in began to question her judgment in general. She chastised herself for letting all those fantasies run wild. At the height of her crush, she imagined becoming part of a celebrity threesome — bellwether of a next-generation cultural trend of ménages à trois “marriages” soon to follow the humdrum glut of gay celeb conjugal couplings. (She even saw herself getting movie roles out of it.) Some of the reason those head-riffs were so compelling was the element of husband-payback. She could just see Derek, alone in bed after being ditched by his nine-year-old girlfriend, flicking on Hollywood Tonight! to catch Larissa leaving a paparazzi-swarmed restaurant with her crazy-famous lovers. Of course, she’d be famous too… how frickin’ great would that be? The thought of her daughter’s shock and embarrassment on learning the news wasn’t enough to dismantle the scenario — after all, her dad, with his dalliance, had thrown the first, unsavory punch, and because Larissa’s new friends were women, she was certain Rafaela would be more understanding. She had dreamed of the girl finally meeting them and loving them and being loved in return; a new, extended family that would heal her wounds.
Now everything was fucked.
New York Post headlines of her spurning intruded instead:
CAMERA-DOUBLE TROUBLE!
STAND-IN STOOD UP!
GIRLS GONE “WILDING”!
HUMPED-Y DUMPED-Y
DUSTED!—
The whole debacle was enough to drive a gal to Tinder.
Back when she was married, she heard hair-raising stories from girlfriends about their online exploits — one gave her the name of the hotel she was about to tryst at with a complete stranger. “If I don’t text you in two hours, call the police”! Larissa was glad to be dodging that bullet.
But that was then, and this is what now looked like: only last week she found herself hooking up with a thirty-two-year-old gaffer, in an attempt to wash her brush with greatness (and greatness’s hot young wife) from her system. When they kissed, she felt Allegra and Dusty’s tongues fencing with hers, like out of some erotic horror movie.
The sound of a key in the lock interrupted her reverie. Now that Sylvia & Marilyn was over, she was back to worrying about her troubled son 24/7. Yoga class helped a little but the shame of being played for a fool in an on-set romance made her more susceptible to unease — about the boy’s rootlessness, his reckless otherness, his deathwishy life.
Whenever he came to sleep in his old room, she regressed.
Tristen walked in.
—
She met Laura for an early dinner at Mr. Chow. She hadn’t invited Allegra, not because of their recent hassles, though maybe that was part of it. Her “project” was really just too new, and still felt dreamlike and precarious. So far, Livia was the only one she’d told — she needed to take baby steps.
“I know better than to ask why you’re in town!” said Dusty, with a laugh. She knew the filmmaker probably found all the cloak-and-dagger jokes tiresome, but she couldn’t help herself.
“HBO. We’re sort of putting something together.”
“I love Sheila.”
“She’s great. Steven’s kind of brokering the deal.”
The word was said ironically; Laura was fun. (A little guarded, yes, but fun.) Though her imposing career had been defined by the keeping of indictable secrets, Dusty found her warm, open, accessible. She was rangy and right around the actress’s age, with a downturned mouth like Jeanne Moreau’s. The overall effect was of an elegant pioneer woman and fearless soul sister. Dusty loved her on sight.
“Don’t you live in Berlin?”
“I do.”
“Would that be a problem? If we — if you decide you want to do this thing?”
“I’m back and forth for a while.”
“You know, I was actually kind of shocked you were interested — if you are interested, maybe you’re not! — I was shocked that you called me back. Look: regardless of what happens, I’m just so thrilled to be having dinner with the amazing Laura Poitras.”