Chapter 11 Florence
Joni Jewell’s lyrics pound like a headache while Evelyn gives me the grand tour, as if this place is an art gallery.
Now all he wants is to get her back.
Just you wait, I’m gonna get her back.
But he’s never gonna get me back, get me back, get me back.
Joni repeats the refrain get her back more than thirty times in a two-minute song. People on the internet praised Joni for her double entendre as though no one had ever done that before.
I could’ve done better. But the villain can’t write her own revenge song.
“This is your housekeeper,” Evelyn says, gesturing to a woman in a uniform: gray pants, gray top, her (graying) hair pulled into a sleek ponytail without a single flyaway out of place. “Sascha. And this is your chef, Andrew.”
Andrew stands behind the kitchen counter.
He’s wearing the same uniform as Sascha, but with a black hoodie over the top, its sleeves pushed halfway up his muscled forearms. His dark-brown hair is cropped close to his scalp, and his cheeks are dotted with stubble, a five o’clock shadow a few hours early.
“Can I get you anything?” he offers, the slightest hint of a Southern accent sneaking its way between the syllables.
Next to Evelyn’s crisp diction, the roundness of Andrew’s words is practically exotic.
Without waiting for an answer, he reaches into a cabinet and offers up a white ceramic platter.
I expect to see an arrangement of fresh fruit—strawberries sliced into bleeding hearts, kiwis cut into tiny stars—but instead the plate is covered in candy: Twizzlers, SweeTarts, Sour Patch Kids. I laugh out loud.
“Guess my tastes don’t really challenge your culinary skills.”
Evelyn answers before Andrew can. “Your manager told us that you prefer sour candy when you’re—” She pauses.
“When I’m what?” I prompt, then shake my head.
“I’m not going through withdrawal.” Heroin addicts notoriously crave candy.
“And I’m not here for rehab,” I add. Callie was supposed to tell them that.
She didn’t even pretend she was sending me away to get clean.
Included in the care package she gave me at the airport were a few joints, cleverly disguised in a cigarette carton, but I left them behind on the plane.
I don’t like going into hiding, I’d whined when Callie announced she was sending me here. It feels like admitting I did something wrong.
Didn’t you do something wrong? she’d quipped in return.
Didn’t he? I asked, but what I really wanted to say was Didn’t she? I was about to launch a solo tour when Joni Jewell cast me as the wicked queen to her perfect princess.
The song takes aim at both of you.
Yeah, but did Elizabeth Taylor disappear after Eddie Fisher left Debbie Reynolds for her? Did Camilla Parker Bowles disappear after Prince Charles cheated on Diana?
Callie bit her tongue before she could point out that I’m neither Hollywood nor actual royalty. Instead she said, They both listened to their publicists.
You’re not my publicist.
No one else is.
The truth is, Callie is my everything: manager, agent, publicist, assistant. I can hardly remember which she was first anymore.
What about Nick? Joni Jewell’s boyfriend, the ho-hum sex on the roof of the Roosevelt that caused this mess.
He’s “retreated to the studio to work on his music.” Callie used air quotes to show it was part of an official statement.
Why can’t I do that?
Maybe you could’ve, if you hadn’t attacked her.
I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe how seriously everyone was taking a backstage scuffle.
It’s not like I tried to kill her, I whined.
You threatened to.
Those were just words! Sticks and stones and all that.
I never told my kid, Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you. Personally, I’d rather someone beat the shit out of me than talk crap about me.
You broke her tooth! Callie insisted.
My guitar broke her tooth. It was an accident. Or it wasn’t. I hadn’t been aiming for her teeth.
Now, Evelyn says, “Our guests come here for all kinds of reasons. Rest, retreat, reset.”
“Is that your motto?” I mutter.
If this place had a motto, it’d probably be in Latin so no one could understand it. According to Callie, it caters exclusively to UHNW individuals. I googled UHNW rather than ask Callie what she was talking about: ultra-high net worth.
“Really,” I explain, “I’ve done the rehab thing a dozen times.”
“Addiction is a self-diagnosed disease.” Evelyn speaks in that awful tone people use when they think they know better than you do. Her unblinking ice-blue eyes are set far apart so she looks more like a doll than a person. If they made dolls of women in their fifties.
Usually, therapists at places like this are recovering addicts themselves, meant to inspire the rest of us—look how great life would be if you got sober!
—as if anyone’s dream job is listening to other addicts’ sob stories all day.
But it’s impossible to imagine Evelyn sniffing coke or shooting heroin or even smoking a joint.
The whites of her eyes are too white, her forehead too smooth, her teeth too straight.
How long does it take to hate someone? Is twenty minutes enough? Because I already hate Evelyn.
I grab a handful of Sour Patch Kids from Andrew’s platter, catching a glimpse of a tattoo that peeks out from his sleeve and snakes around his wrist. I make out the words never settle, the title of a song off our first album.
I grin, but Andrew lifts a finger to his lips, the universal sign for shhhh.
“Why don’t I show you to your room?” Evelyn offers, apparently oblivious that her chef is a fan. “You can lie down, take a shower, get settled.”
I can decide for myself when I’d like to lie down or shower, but I definitely want Evelyn to leave me alone, so I follow her obediently, stealing a glance at Andrew, who’s rearranging the platter on the kitchen counter.
I think he winks at me, but I can’t be sure.
I feel a rush of butterflies in my belly.
He’s taller and more muscular than the guys I usually hook up with, but handsome enough that I find myself smiling.
I’m sure this is the kind of place that has rules about fraternization.
I can practically hear Callie begging me not to give her another mess to clean up.
Everything in the bedroom is white: white bedspread, white sheets, white rug beside the bed. The walls in here are floor-to-ceiling windows, just like in the living room. It must cost a fortune to heat this so-called cottage.
I guess UHNW individuals don’t think about that kind of thing.
Someone has brought my bags in from the car and placed my notebook at the foot of the bed. The pink ribbon on my black luggage is the only splash of color in the room.
“When do I get my phone back?” I ask.
Evelyn smiles serenely. I bet she’s the kind of person who gets calm when others get angry. “Why do you need your phone?”
“I’m a mother.” It’s the truth but it feels like a lie. I’m the last person anyone back home would call if something went wrong. I’m usually the reason things go wrong. Without me, there’s clean hair and homework and lights out at bedtime.
“I assure you that if we receive any messages from your family, we’ll pass them along right away.”
“I can’t stay here without my phone,” I insist. I try to sound authoritative, but it comes out as a whine. Shrill. “I’m a businesswoman. My manager might need to contact me.”
“Of course, you can leave anytime.”
I drop onto the bed. The soft mattress gives way beneath my weight like a waterbed. “Do you take everyone’s phones?”
“Care here is individualized to meet our guests’ needs,” Evelyn says like it’s a line she memorized from a brochure.
“What about me screams, Take her phone?”
“You said so yourself, you’re not here for rehab.” Evelyn smiles that same peaceful smile again, and I hate her even more.
“So?”
“Do you really believe you can rest, retreat, reset if you’re bombarded by news from the outside world?”
Evelyn slides the door shut behind her, and I grab my notebook and start scribbling.
How long does it take to hate someone?
Call me an addict, and I’ll take some more,
Smile while you try to control me now,
But you will never, ever hold me down.
Another lie. Of course they’re holding me here. I can’t leave, and Evelyn knows that.
I have nowhere else to go.