Chapter 27
THE SOUND OF PARKER’S DRILL throughout the house makes Cole anxious, so she does the only thing she can do to take the edge off: She drinks.
She pulls out the half-full bottle of pinot gris she opened the night before and heads upstairs to pack for rehab.
Though she appreciates Parker’s optimism, there’s no way to know whether Quan will bring Cole back after she completes treatment.
If her Instagram account is any indication—and it usually is—the fans are divided.
Some do want her back next season, if only to see her get ostracized by the other wives.
Some want her back so they can find out what happens with her marriage: Is Jordan really cheating with a mystery blonde?
Will he go to jail for embezzlement? But more than half of the fans seem to want Cole off the show, for good.
This wasn’t the case initially. The numerous videos posted online of “the punch,” as it’s now called, showed Cole reacting without thinking when a pushy, burgundy-haired woman suddenly grabbed her arm.
When Cole threw the punch, it seemed as if she was aiming for this woman—immediately identified as the snarky Reality Bitch herself—but had instead hit the girl standing beside her.
Cole’s fans were certain it was an accident.
But then slowly, as more videos were posted showing the punch from different angles, opinions changed.
Cole had clearly been aware of the young fan the moment she had approached, and was visibly annoyed when the girl tried to speak to her several times.
Cole must have assumed it was the fan who’d then grabbed her arm; ergo, the punch was intended for the girl.
And she isn’t just any girl.
“She’s a seventeen-year-old cancer survivor who documented her entire journey on TikTok to her two hundred thousand followers,” Tegan told her over the phone the following day, about sixty seconds before she fired Cole as a client.
“The trip to RealityCon was a gift from her mother to celebrate completing treatment. There is no amount of spin that will fix this. The videos are everywhere.”
Cole zips open her largest Louis Vuitton suitcase and ignores her ringing phone.
People have been calling and texting nonstop, but none of them are people she wants to hear from.
None of her castmates have reached out. Her glam team silently unfollowed her on Instagram.
Even her business manager has been quiet.
The only people eager to talk to Cole are from media sites, asking about the punch, asking her to explain it.
But how can she explain it? How can she them she felt like a wild animal caught in a bear trap when she learned that Samuel Figg was recanting his confession, and that she would have gnawed her own arm off to get away from Glynnis Glenn and that crowd of people waiting for her outside the elevator?
Even Phil Beatty, a man who eats a good scandal for breakfast, was upset with her. The Trophy Wives creator didn’t even try to sugarcoat the situation when he called the day after the videos went viral. “The fuck were you thinking, Cole? This is an awful fucking look, for you, and for the show.”
“I didn’t even see the girl standing there,” Cole had said to him, her voice cracking. “Beatty, you know I’d never hurt a kid.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatty said. “You did. Get your ass to rehab. We’ll talk when you get out.”
Cole didn’t bother to tell him that she didn’t feel drunk at the time of the punch. It was better for Quan to blame what happened at RealityCon on Cole’s well-documented drinking problem than on her supposedly terrible character.
They haven’t fired her. Yet. But negotiations for next season are on hold until she completes a thirty-day stay at a rehab facility and Quan has had a chance to assess the public’s perception of Cole Lennox.
It’s not entirely hopeless. After all, can you even be their highest-paid reality star if you’re not an entitled trainwreck?
It’s practically in the job description.
Still, Quan is not immune to public outrage.
And people are really, really mad that one of their obnoxiously wealthy trophy wives punched a teenage cancer survivor in the face.
On video. The crazy part is, Trisha Lewis declined to press charges.
She even took responsibility for her part in “the punch” by posting a video.
“Watching it back, I ignored the fact that she seemed overwhelmed and stressed, and I did touch her, which wasn’t okay,” the seventeen-year-old said earnestly in the four-minute TikTok, which she filmed outside her church and now sits at eight million views and counting.
“I don’t believe she intended to hurt me.
But is this is a teaching moment for us both?
Absolutely. I’m praying for Cole Lennox as she embarks on her sobriety journey. ”
Unfortunately, the teen’s graciousness didn’t help.
The internet came for Cole with their pitchforks and their steely knives to kill the beast. Sephora was the first to sever ties.
The retail giant issued a statement announcing they were pulling Cole’s spray tan line from their shelves.
This detonated an avalanche. Over the next few days, all her brand deals were dissolved.
Maybe it’s exactly what she deserves.
She folds her favorite silk blouse into the suitcase and pauses.
What does she need a silk shirt for? The weather in Oregon is tricky this time of year, and it’s not like paparazzi are allowed in rehab.
She replaces the blouse with a sweatshirt and adds a pair of joggers.
It’s been a long time since she’s packed for herself, because that had always been her assistant’s job.
Unlike Tegan, Alba didn’t even bother to tell her boss that she was resigning.
After providing Cole with a list of potential rehab facilities, the Gen-Zer simply “quiet quit” over the next couple of days until she stopped responding to calls, texts, and emails altogether.
Cole had never before heard the term quiet quitting—which means doing the barest minimum and without any enthusiasm whatsoever—but she sure as hell knows what ghosting means.
She heads back to the walk-in closet to see what else she might need.
Even though she’s lived here for eight years, it’s still crazy to think this primary bedroom suite alone is almost the same size as Cole’s childhood home in Seaside.
She mentioned this to Jordan the first time she visited, but her new boyfriend’s reaction was not what she expected.
“Am I supposed to feel guilty that I grew up with money?” Jordan had said. “Or feel bad that you didn’t? How is either one my fault?”
Cole was startled. “It’s not. You just never told me you live in a mansion.”
“Mansions start at eight thousand square feet, and this house is only seven.”
“I mean, close enough—”
“Who built this place, you or me?” Jordan snapped. “I think I know what kind of house I live in.”
She couldn’t understand why he was being so sensitive.
Her comment on the size of the bedroom was just an observation, her way of offering him a small glimpse into the life she had before they’d met.
She never imagined he’d be offended by it.
She always assumed the reason he rarely asked questions about her past was because he knew it made her uncomfortable, and back then, she was grateful for it.
But eight years in, she now knows it has nothing to do with respecting her privacy at all.
Jordan just doesn’t give a shit. Where she came from matters to him not at all, as long as she’s the person he wants her to be right now.
She realizes her suitcase is full and zips it closed. As she heaves it off the bed bench, she hears Parker call her name.
* * *
The surveillance expert meets Cole back in the kitchen, looking a little less energetic than she did that morning.
“That was a doozy,” Parker says with a tired grin. “I’ll need to show you how to use the system. You ready?”
Despite the chaos of the past few days, Cole is feeling very calm. Wine will do that. If Parker notices she’s drunk, she doesn’t say anything.
She’ll quit drinking when she gets to rehab.
“First thing I need you to do is take a good look around the kitchen.” Parker leans against the counter and cracks her knuckles. “Welcome to Spy Shit 101. Tell me where the cameras are.”
It’s not easy pretending to be totally sober when you’re a little bit drunk, but Cole’s had a lot of practice.
She walks around slowly, her eyes scanning over the light fixtures first before moving down to everything else within her line of sight.
Despite her best efforts, she can’t locate a single camera.
“I give up,” she says, glad that her words aren’t slurred. “Tell me.”
Parker points up at the closest light fixture to Cole, one of three identical pendants hanging over the fourteen-foot marble island.
Shaped like a large upside-down bowl, the gold shade is affixed to a black metal cover, which is then attached to a long black metal rod that hangs rigid from the ceiling.
Cole peers up at it, but she still can’t find it. Parker pulls a laser pointer out of her pocket and beams a red dot of light onto the black cover.
“Right there,” Parker says. “Since you’re short, you’ll probably have to stand on your island to get a closer look.”
“I’m not short, you’re tall,” Cole says, and they both snort. It’s probably a very bad idea to climb up on the island in her current state, but she does it anyway when Parker offers her a hand.
Standing on the slippery marble in her socked feet, Cole examines the screws in the cover that hold the pendant shade in place. The screws are all the same, except for one, which is a smidge rounder and shinier than the others.
“Wow,” she says, and it comes out wooooow. “I can barely tell.”
Parker helps her back down, and they tour the rest of house together. The surveillance expert points to every spot where the cameras have been installed, and 100 percent of the time, Cole cannot find them. Most are in the light fixtures and lamps, and a few are in small gadgets like the TiVo box.
Back in the kitchen, Parker pulls out her phone. “That was the hardware. Now for the software. Can I see your phone?”
Cole unlocks it and hands it over. The other woman types in a link and then downloads an app that is clearly not available in the App Store. A few seconds later, the green TLC Landscaping icon appears on Cole’s phone. Inside the app, she types again, and then hands the phone back to Cole.
“Create a password,” she instructs.
It takes a few seconds for the new account to load, and then a grid fills Cole’s screen. Each square in the grid shows a room in the house, and since there are so many, Cole has to swipe left to see the second set. Each square—each room—is labeled.
Cole taps on kitchen. And there, on her phone screen in full color and clear as day, is a bird’s-eye view of herself standing beside Parker.
She looks up at the camera and waves. A second later on the phone screen, video Cole follows suit.
The quality of the video is far superior to the security cameras installed outside their home, which are about a hundred times larger.
She practices zooming in and out. The picture is so crisp that Cole can see the small cowlick at the top of her head, which she’s always trying to hide.
Like Parker said earlier: real James Bond shit.
“Let’s try night mode,” Parker says. “Can you lower the shades for those windows?”
She means the folding glass wall panels that span the entire back of the kitchen, which can open and close like an accordion at the press of a button. As the shades come down, the video feed on Cole’s phone takes on a green tinge, but the image remains as sharp as ever.
“Can I record?” Cole asks.
“As much as your storage will allow. Pass it back, I’ll get that set up.”
As Parker works on the phone, Cole presses the button on the wall to raise the shades back up.
As the kitchen brightens up again, a beam of direct afternoon sunlight suddenly pops out from behind a cloud, hitting her square in the face and momentarily blinding her.
It’s only when her vision begins to clear that she realizes there’s someone in the backyard.
Blinking, she can make out the shape of a person approaching the glass. Then the shape knocks.
Startled, Parker reflexively springs backward, dropping Cole’s phone onto the floor. Her hand flies to her hip, as if reaching for a sidearm that of course isn’t there.
“There’s a motherfucking person in your backyard watching us,” Parker gasps, and it’s the first time all day Cole has heard the woman’s voice sound anything but cheerful. “You know her?”
Cole’s sight returns fully. Fitted jeans, tight tank top, long platinum-blond hair. Yes, Cole knows her.
“It’s my neighbor,” she says to Parker, her heart beating faster. “She always uses the back door when she comes over, but I . . . I wasn’t expecting her. Hey, are you okay?”
Parker’s back is flat against the wall, her eyes still on the folding glass wall and the willowy figure on the other side of it. She takes a few deep breaths until her breathing returns to almost normal.
“Sorry,” Parker finally says, sounding sheepish. “I don’t do well when I’m surprised. Leftovers from the army, yippee-ki-yay. Uh, is your phone okay? I hope I didn’t break it.”
Luckily, the phone landed on the rug runner near the island. Cole picks it up and checks it for cracks. “It’s fine,” she says. “And I can pay you now.”
It only takes a minute to transfer the remainder of the fees. When the other woman’s phone pings with the confirmation, she immediately picks up her suitcase and starts heading back to the front of the house.
“I can show myself out,” Parker says, moving at a pace quicker than before. “If you have any issues, message me through Third Party. And let me know if you want any spyware installed on your computers. Happy to come back.”
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” Cole calls out, but the woman is already halfway down the hallway.
“All good,” Parker calls back, and a second later, the front door opens and closes.
She’s gone.
Cole turns back toward the glass wall, where her neighbor is still outside, waiting. Cole hits the button to fold open the panels, and the younger woman finally steps inside.
“I should have called first,” Annika Roth says. “I didn’t realize you still had company.”
Annika’s hands are pressed together, fingers tangled, and she looks as nervous as Cole feels.
Annika doesn’t ask who Parker was, or why the other woman left so suddenly.
The two of them stare at each other, and it’s so strange how it feels like there’s everything to say, and yet nothing at all.
It wasn’t that long ago when they talked almost every day.
But Annika’s controlling husband shut that down. And then Cole’s cheating husband fucked it all up.
Finally Annika says, “We need to talk.”