Chapter 19
IT NORMALLY TAKES EIGHT MINUTES to walk across the Bellagio’s casino from one end to the other. In five-inch stilettos, the walk takes closer to ten, especially when you’re exhausted and everyone’s staring.
In fairness, the hot-pink minidress Cole’s wearing—her second outfit of the day—doesn’t exactly render her inconspicuous.
The Balenciaga’s built-in corset is so tight she can’t take a deep breath, and the vintage Oscar de la Renta she’ll be wearing at the banquet later won’t feel any better.
The amount of clothing she packs for RealityCon each year is ridiculous, but it’s one of the many tasks she pays Alba to do.
Years ago, at her first RealityCon, Cole had no assistant, no publicist, and no glam team.
For her first panel on stage, she wore a tailored navy Ralph Lauren pantsuit she’d carefully steamed out in her hotel room’s bathroom that morning.
She thought she looked quite classy . . .
until she saw photos of herself on Reality Bitch, where her look was compared to “the pushy mom at the PTA meeting nobody likes.”
It was an embarrassing way to learn an important lesson: You can’t be on a show called Trophy Wives and look basic, ever.
With Tegan on her left and Alba on her right, Cole strides as quickly as her Louboutins will allow.
From somewhere to her left, someone calls out “Hi, Cole!” and reflexively she waves at nobody in particular.
The key is not to break pace or make eye contact.
Either of those can be perceived as an invitation, and invitations lead to conversations, and conversations mean questions about her husband that she doesn’t want to answer.
While Tegan’s done a pretty good job of shielding her from the worst of it, there’s no denying that the photos of Jordan Lennox and his mystery blonde are the talk of the convention.
“By the way, Jana Jones let me know they were thrilled with your interview,” Tegan says as they pass various craps tables surrounded by shouting men. “They’re cutting a new trailer with you in it.”
Cole glances over at Alba. “Did you ever get a hold of Barry?”
The younger woman nods. “His assistant said he’ll call you first thing tomorrow.”
Barry Giles is Cole’s newly retained divorce attorney who has a reputation for finding loopholes in even the tightest of prenups. He’s also the same lawyer who represented Cecily Monaco, and there is no higher endorsement than that.
The three of them veer right on the Bellagio’s dizzying, brightly patterned carpet, following the signs to the bank of elevators that will take them to the floor where the RealityCon events are taking place.
The convention attracts more than twenty thousand reality TV fans from all over the world, and tickets are often sold out a year in advance.
RealityCon has always been an easy way for Cole to track her rise from that pantsuit-wearing woman to the bona fide reality star who now earns seven figures per season.
And that doesn’t include the income she earns outside of the show.
When she signed last year’s contract, word got out that she was the highest-paid reality star of any network or streaming service.
The details made available on the gossip sites were accurate.
Cole made sure of that; she’s the one who told Tegan to leak them.
But seven seasons in, the petals have rotted off the rose.
Everything that used to be fun just feels like work now, and the cameras following her around for four months each year feel intrusive.
The producers find ways to up the drama every season, fueling the arguments between the cast members with alcohol, rumors, and gaslighting, until they’re all fighting like petty middle school girls.
By the end of filming, everyone’s exhausted.
Still, there is no shortage of women wanting to be famous and willing to look crazy as hell on TV to do it. Of the nineteen wives who have been on the show since its inception, only two have been on for all seven seasons, and that’s Cole and Cecily Monaco.
During the show’s inaugural season, Cecily was the obvious queen bee of the group.
The Emmy Award–winning soap star had just ended a three-decade run on Sunrise, Sunset before signing on to do Trophy Wives.
She was glamorous, bitingly funny, and obnoxiously wealthy, thanks to both her own career and her Canadian husband’s chain of grocery stores.
Her social circle included many of Toronto’s elite, from NBA stars and Grammy winners to pharmaceutical billionaires and media magnates.
“I love that you’re not one of these old-money assholes,” Cecily told Cole not long after they first met at the ultraexclusive Le Grand Lac Athletic Club.
Cole was new, and Cecily was bored, and despite their age difference, the two women hit it off immediately.
“But neither are you one of these new-money bitches trying to buy your way into the club. You don’t care about any of this, do you? ”
Cole looked around the ornate lounge, where they were sipping green juices after their Pilates class. “Jordan got me a membership here after we got married. I’d have been fine at Planet Fitness.”
Cecily’s laugh was tinkly. “I’ve known Jordy and his family for ages, and you’re nothing like his previous girlfriends. Jordy told me you actually have a job. What do you do?”
“I work at Saks.”
“Marketing? Finance?”
“Sales.” Cole sipped her juice and tried not to make a face, even though it tasted like dirt and grass sprinkled with lemon. “It’s good, except for the hours. I’m the new girl, so I’m stuck with mostly evenings and weekends.”
“You’re in retail?” Cecily nearly choked on her juice. “Oh, honey, no. Surely there’s something for you at Jordy’s company?”
“He offered, but I want to do my own thing,” Cole said. “Even if it means being on my feet all day.”
“At least let’s get you moved off the damn sales floor.
” Cecily still looked horrified, or as horrified as she could look under all the Botox.
“I have a hundred friends who’ll happily buy anything a young, beautiful woman tells them to.
Once you build up your client list, you can work by appointment only.
That’s where the money is.” She leans in.
“But tell me. What do you really want to do?”
“I wanted to be an actress,” Cole blurted, and it was the first time she’d ever told anyone in Toronto that, other than her new husband.
“I moved to New York City after college and started auditioning, but it turns out I suck at it, so after a few years, I quit. Now the dream is to have my own business. Doing what, though, I don’t know. ”
Cecily smiled knowingly. “I’m working on a lifestyle brand myself. Furniture, home decor, that kind of thing.” She pushed her half-finished glass of green juice away. “This tastes like dog shit. Let’s go get margaritas.”
Through Cecily, Cole developed a social circle of women whose husbands, like theirs, all had a high net worth.
She joined a few charity committees and started working on developing a spray tan line, which kept her busy enough that she eventually quit her job at Saks.
For a while, she felt guilty that she was evolving away from her old friends.
“It’s better this way, darling, trust me,” Cecily told her.
“Your life is different now. You think I keep in touch with my industry friends anymore? It’s best to find friends who have the same things you have.
Otherwise you’re that bitch who shows up to their barbecues in a Bentley, with a Birkin, and if I was them, I’d resent the hell out of you. ”
“Cecily’s right,” Jordan had said to Cole later. “You’re a Lennox now, and you deserve everything that comes with that. In fact, nobody even needs to know you’re from Seaside. Just tell them Seattle.” He kissed her forehead. “All that matters is where you are right now, and that’s with me.”
When Cecily first pitched Cole on doing the reality show, she’d laughed. The thought of being followed around by cameras all day was ludicrous, and she found the show’s very premise to be offensive. But when she told Jordan about Trophy Wives, he was intrigued.
“It isn’t meant to be literal, right?” he’d said. “It’s tongue-in-cheek, like Real Housewives. They’re not actually housewives; they work. Hell, look at Cecily.”
“It doesn’t bother you that people will think I’m a gold digger?” Cole was surprised at his reaction. “Or, worse, that you’re the type of man to marry one?”
He looked her dead in the eyes. “Are you saying you didn’t marry me for my money?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Cole said. “But . . . I mean . . . your money doesn’t hurt.”
They laughed.
“Talk to the producers, maybe do one season. It could be a great way to launch your spray tan line.” Jordan paused. “Also, this might be a good time to officially change your name. You always said you hated being called Nicolette.”
Though she’d been going by Cole ever since she’d left Seaside, her name had remained Nicolette Montes.
By the time filming started, it had legally been changed to Cole Lennox.
Whatever was left of Nicolette was now stored in a shoebox somewhere at the back of her closet, which was just how Jordan wanted it.
She always dreamed of being famous. But never did she think she’d be famous like this. And had she known what was coming—had she been able to predict everything that this life would both give and take away—she might have just stayed in Seaside.