Chapter 20
IT WAS FUNNY HOW TELLING Jana Jones the simple story that she and Barb had concocted could bring up actual details Cole thought she had long forgotten. The Natalie Portman movie. The smell of Sam’s giant car. Her unrelenting nausea. Daniel Hawksfield. Lorelei’s weird stepbrother, Marty.
Huh. She hasn’t thought about Marty in years.
“Coming in hot,” her makeup artist says, leaning toward Cole with a strip of false eyelashes pinched between a pair of tweezers. “Tilt your chin up for me, hon.”
“Don’t forget to seal the glue,” she tells Fiona, her eyes half closed as her makeup artist works on the second set of lashes. “We skipped it last time, and my lashes came off when Cecily doused me with champagne. Now I’m a fucking meme.”
A snort comes from somewhere behind her, where Von, her hair stylist, is clipping extensions into her hair. “But you’re the best meme I’ve seen all year. Those lashes dangling like a dead spider—I’ve lost count of how many friends I’ve sent it to. Did you even know Cecily was going to do that?”
Eyes still closed, Cole smiles and doesn’t answer.
“Girl, how long we been doing this?” Lashes applied, Fiona steps back to study Cole’s face. “I don’t skip a damn thing. You specifically told me to use self-adhesive lashes that night, and we both know that self-adhesive lashes don’t stick for shit.”
“Excuse me?” Cole opens her eyes and blinks in mock innocence. “Are you suggesting that me and Cecily planned it in advance? We’re enemies. We hate each other.”
“Just like you hated Kylie?” Von teases. “You loved that girl, I know you did.”
Fiona clears her throat, and Cole watches as her makeup artist gives her hair stylist a stern look.
“What?” Cole asks Fiona. “What does that face mean?”
“Nothing,” Fiona says, but she answers a little too quickly. “It’s just . . . I know sometimes Kylie can be a sensitive subject for you, and it’s not our place to bring her up.”
It doesn’t feel like nothing, but Cole is too tired to push.
Whatever energy she has left needs to go into making tonight as fun for the fans as it can be.
The awards banquet is the last official RealityCon event, and until a new contract is signed, there’s no guarantee she’ll ever do another convention.
She sips from her wineglass and stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the twinkling lights of the Las Vegas strip below.
Her suite has a prime view of the Bellagio’s dancing fountains, and while the windows are too thick for her to hear the music, she can feel the glass vibrating from the powerful jets propelling the water upward.
The Bellagio does have a TV channel that plays the fountain’s songs in real time, and if Jordan were here, he would have turned up the volume on the current tune, “Luck Be a Lady.” But her husband hasn’t attended a RealityCon with her in a few years.
It’s one of many things he doesn’t like anymore, including her.
And yet, every season, the producers somehow manage to capture the handful of moments that make it look as if Cole and Jordan are still deeply in love.
A shared laugh. A knowing glance. A quick kiss that, from a certain angle and in slow motion, looks more loving than it actually was.
The hundreds of hours of footage where they barely speak to each other are left on the cutting room floor, because that’s not what Trophy Wives wants the viewers to see.
Cole and Jordan have been the show’s favorite couple since the beginning, but the fans—mostly straight women and gay men—also really love Jordan Lennox.
So much so that Quan refused to sign Cole on the past two seasons unless her husband agreed to appear in at least three episodes.
They are not a happy couple. They just play one on TV.
While the husbands are not the stars of the show—it is, after all, called Trophy Wives and not Wealthy Husbands—a popular, likeable partner is undeniably a huge asset.
And it’s not hard to be likeable when you have less than thirty minutes of screen time total in any season.
Jordan is the CEO of Lennox Luxe, a company his grandfather started that builds luxury custom homes.
While he doesn’t do any actual construction, rarely do they show Jordan without some kind of tool in his hand.
“What more powerful phallic symbol is there than a drill, darling?” Cecily Monaco mused during season one. She was comparing Jordan to Kylie Kahl’s husband, who founded a tech company. “Women want a man who can build them a house, not an app.”
Cole has not yet told Phil Beatty about her plans to separate from Jordan, but the executive producer won’t be surprised.
A scandalous breakup happens nearly every year on the show, and a divorce storyline is great for ratings.
And if she’s willing to put it all out there, it might even mean a pay bump.
Fiona hands her a small mirror, bringing Cole back to the present. “Check it, hon. You want more contour? I know you like a snatched jawline.”
Cole barely glances at her reflection. She trusts Fiona; they’ve been working together a long time. “Love it. Great job.”
Her first year on Trophy Wives, Quan didn’t pay for “glam,” and Cole didn’t know to ask for it.
But nobody wants to watch a show called Trophy Wives where the women look relatable.
The show is aspirational lifestyle reality, the kind of escapist entertainment where average women can watch beautiful, wealthy women live a dream life they’ll never have.
A glam team is now written into Cole’s contract.
“And voilà, you’re done,” Von says, dousing Cole’s head with a generous amount of hair spray. “Jordan coming in for the banquet tonight? We haven’t seen him in ages.”
“Nah, he’s stuck in Toronto.” Probably having sex with the blonde, Cole thinks, but of course can’t say. “I’ll see him back at home.”
The two of them start packing up their gear, and like every year, Cole feels a pang of sadness. “I guess this is it until next season, you guys. Assuming there is a next season for me.”
“Every year, you say that,” Fiona says, “and every year, they bring you back. You’re the star of the damned show.”
“We’ll see.” Cole gives them both a hug. “Now go out and have some fun. I’ll see you on the plane tomorrow.”
“We’re going to see Magic Mike at the Sahara,” Von says, his face lighting up. “The concierge scored us VIP tickets. I can’t wait.”
“You talked him into that?” Cole looks at her makeup artist and raises an eyebrow.
“Girl, please,” Fiona says. “He talked me into it.”
After they leave, Cole takes a long look at herself in the mirror.
Her evening gown is still hanging on the back of the bathroom door, but even wearing her silk robe, there’s hardly anything left of Nicolette Montes staring back at her.
How could there be? Between the move to Canada, the name change, the Botox, the fake lashes, the hair extensions, the spray tan, the gel nails, and the professionally applied makeup, she’s done everything possible to erase any trace of the person she used to be.
Only her eyes remain unchanged. And if anyone were to ever care enough to really look into them, they would see her for who she really is.
A criminal’s daughter. A terrible friend.
A lowlife who clawed her way out of a small town that would have drowned her.
A liar. A fraud. A trophy wife married to a man who doesn’t love her, no matter how hard she tries.
And, also, a murderer.