Chapter 14
She sends Greg the completed Starlight profile and breaks open the bag of potato chips she’s been saving as her reward for finishing her article on time.
Her enthusiastic crunching wakes up the twenty-four-pound cat sprawled across her shins, who has finally made himself at home—home being, apparently, anywhere Barb is.
Not bothering to open his eyes, Dexter lifts his head and gives the air a little sniff before drifting back to sleep.
As big as he is, the cat only likes cat food.
Adorable. Barb snaps a photo of him and texts it to Ray.
He’s my cat now.
Ray’s reply comes in a minute later.
He’s a pretty hairy dude, didn’t know that was your type. Can’t do anything about my bald head, but should I stop manscaping my chest and let my beard grow?
Barb pauses mid-crunch. Is Ray flirting? Or is this just . . . playful banter? Sometimes he acts like she’s a buddy. Other times, he’s like a big brother. But every so often, there’s a hint of . . . something more.
She takes a breath and texts back.
I’d have to see your chest first before
I can offer an opinion.
Ten seconds pass. Three dots appear and then disappear. Another ten seconds pass. The three dots appear again, and she suddenly wonders if he might actually be taking a selfie of his naked torso from wherever he is at the moment. She didn’t see his truck across the street.
Finally he replies with just three letters:
LOL.
Which is basically the universal reply that, while funny, this particular conversation is over.
Disappointed, she plucks a long gray cat hair off her sleeve, and replies.
I have enough fur sticking to my clothes to make another cat.
Ugh sorry. I’ll drop off a lint roller when I get home later.
Barb is about to respond that she can buy one herself, but then stops.
She’s already taking care of his cat, for free.
You have to stop going above and beyond for other people, and then getting upset when they don’t do the same for you, she hears Dr. Leto say in her head.
Don’t be mad at other people for setting boundaries. Be mad at yourself for violating yours.
She keeps her reply simple.
Thanks.
She finally turns back to her computer, where there are three tabs open on her Word program: a partially written op-ed about the “Wonderland effect” on Seaside, her predictions for the upcoming reunion episode of Trophy Wives for Reality Bitch, and the novel she hasn’t worked on in six years.
Three wildly different projects on the go.
And what does a working writer do when they have deadlines to meet?
Why, they shut their laptop and scroll mindlessly on social media until they panic, of course.
The Instagram algorithm knows exactly what to show Barb, and the first thing she sees is that Quan’s official Instagram account has reposted the meme of Cole Lennox.
So has RealityCon, the annual reality TV convention that takes place in Las Vegas.
This year’s event is happening next week, and Cole is scheduled to be on two panels.
She’s also nominated, once again, for an award in the category Favorite Reality Star.
Will she even attend this year, knowing the questions she’s sure to get about the investigation into her husband’s financial dealings?
The first comment under Quan’s reposted meme has hundreds of likes.
@shellybshelly: Rumor has it Jordan’s daddy cut him off a long time ago and he’s only PRETENDING to be rich. Bet Cole knows everything. Hey @RealityBitchOfficial: are you guys EVER going to publish his financial statements?!
Interesting question. Only one person would know the answer. She clicks on FaceTime and calls the first number in her Recents folder.
Three thousand miles away in Maple Sound, Ontario, a woman wearing a black T-shirt with the Reality Bitch logo on it accepts the call.
As always, Glynnis Glenn is in full makeup, her infamous mop of curly burgundy hair filling the screen.
Nothing about her look is ever subtle, but that’s part of her schtick.
As is the shih tzu who can be seen sleeping behind her on an oval-shaped pet bed.
He’s about a third the size of Ray’s cat.
Without preamble, Barb asks, “So just how broke is Jordan Lennox, do you think?”
Glynnis, having worked with Barb for six years now, is accustomed to her best writer getting right to the point. She shrugs, her oversized dangly gold earrings swaying from each ear.
“Broke-ass broke,” Glynnis says. “I heard The Smoking Gun scored his financials, so we’re too late there. But I might have something even better: visual proof that Jordan does have a new mistress.”
“You got photos of that mystery blonde?” Barb sits up straighter. “From who, Asher?”
There’s one specific paparazzo who’s made a niche for himself following reality stars around, and that’s Asher Kaye.
The women of Trophy Wives are far from A-list celebrities, and their photos don’t exactly command top dollar—one grainy long-lens picture of J.
Lo on vacation would sell for more than a month’s worth of reality star photos combined.
But sell enough of them, and it’s a decent living, especially once you build relationships with the sites willing to buy them.
Like TMZ, Radar Online, Page Six, and, of course, Reality Bitch.
“I haven’t seen them yet,” Glynnis says. “Asher’s shopping the photos around, trying to start a bidding war. But he said it’s undeniable proof that Jordan is having an affair. We have to be the site that breaks the story. You know how this goes—anything after first is last.”
“I don’t know.” Barb frowns. “There’ve been rumors of Jordan cheating on Cole for years, and there’s never been anything concrete. That blonde is probably someone he works with.”
“The man steals from his own company,” Glynnis says. “Is it really such a stretch he’d cheat on his wife?”
“No, but up until now, he’s been smart enough not to get caught.
” A thought hits Barb then. “Wait. What if Jordan wants it to go public? If he’s really broke-broke, he might be trying to fuel the cheating rumors so Cole can stay on Trophy Wives and keep getting paid.
An affair is a guaranteed storyline. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually called the paps himself. ”
Celebrities call the paparazzi all the time.
How else would a swarm of photographers know to wait outside a specific hotel just in time to snap pics of a famous actor arriving at the front entrance?
Sure, someone working there could have tipped them off for a few bucks.
But any hotel that caters to VIPs will have a back entrance leading into a parking garage with a security team waiting to escort them to the private elevator leading directly to their suite, which, of course, has been booked under a fake name by an assistant who knows the drill.
“I think Jordan’s playing us,” Barb says. “I’m not helping him do it.”
“So you want me to assign another writer to this when Asher sells us the photos? I don’t understand. You’ve always insisted on exclusivity with Trophy Wives.”
“I’m saying don’t even buy the photos, Glynnis,” Barb says. “It all feels really calculated. I have no desire to help him destroy his marriage.”
“Where is this coming from?” Glynnis frowns. “You’ve always hated Cole. Suddenly you’re all protective?”
There’s an awkward pause. For a few seconds, the only sounds are coming from the shih tzu snoring in the background.
“Look, why don’t you come with me to RealityCon next week?
” Glynnis finally says, breaking the silence.
“Five whole days of panels, meet and greets, and press parties with our favorite D-listers all wandering around the Bellagio dying to be recognized. You’ve never been, and it’s fun.
I’ll cover all the expenses. And Lord knows I could use the help. ”
Barb smiles at the offer, the same one Glynnis makes every year. As much as she’d love to go, she knows she’ll never set foot at RealityCon as long as Trophy Wives is on the air.
“I guess that’s a no,” Glynnis says, though she doesn’t seem surprised.
“But you don’t have to stay anonymous, you know.
I live in a small town, too, and I tell everyone I’m the Reality Bitch.
It’s not like we have a relationship with any of these people we write about. It’s not like it’s personal.”
Glynnis disconnects the FaceTime call without saying goodbye, just like Barb called without saying hello.
She finds herself wishing she could tell Glynnis the truth. It is, in fact, deeply personal. But she never will. The more time that passes, the easier it is to lie.