28. Natalie
NATALIE
I’m in Rebecca’s apartment. I don’t remember the cab, the walk upstairs, or her unlocking the door.
It’s small, even for a studio. A narrow bed is pushed against the wall, a couch that’s seen better days sits opposite a small TV, and a tiny table is cluttered with takeout containers and half-burned candles.
Rebecca guides me to the couch, and I follow without thinking. She could lead me off a cliff right now and I’d probably go. I feel detached, like my body and mind have come apart and I’m just hovering above the scene, watching it happen.
A couple of hours ago, we were getting ready for what I thought would be an ordinary night. Now it feels like the world’s been turned inside out.
“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks.
I stare down at my hands, they’re clasped in my lap like I’m waiting for something to happen.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”
This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me. I’m the one who’s composed, quick on her feet, always ready with a fix. I don’t freeze. But then nothing in my life has prepared me for this.
“So, you and Henry?” Rebecca says carefully. “How long’s that been going on?”
She doesn’t sound angry. Just thrown. Like she’s still trying to make this version of me line up with the one she thought she knew.
“A while. Months,” I admit. “I wanted to tell people, but you know how it looks.”
Right now, I want her to say I’m wrong. That it doesn’t look bad, that it’s totally fine. But she doesn’t. Because it’s not fine.
“I didn’t plan it,” I add. “It just happened. And I didn’t tell Cosmo because I knew how it would look, and now—” I stop. My throat’s dry. “Now it looks worse.”
She stands and crosses to the kitchen.
“Wine?” she asks. She pulls two bottles from her cupboard and inspects the labels. “Red or…red?”
“Red,” I say.
She smiles, and I’m grateful for it. She could be upset with me for keeping secrets. We’re not really friends. Not technically…but we kind of are. We have lunch, we go to events, she tells me about her dating disasters. About her life. But I never tell her anything. Not really.
As she pours the wine, guilt catches up to me.
I’m a terrible friend. She tells me everything, and I tell her nothing.
It’s not that I don’t trust her. I just don’t know how to let people in.
It’s habit, really. Some people grow up learning how to share.
I learned how to edit. How to look like the perfect people in the magazines.
Only now, I see it for what it is. An image.
Not real. No wonder I’m lonely. Or I was, before Henry.
Rebecca comes back with two glasses and hands me one before sinking onto the couch beside me, tucking her legs underneath her.
“I never talked about Vue with him,” I say. “I’d never do that.”
“I know,” she says. “But I don’t know how you’ve kept it to yourself. If I were dating a Carter, I’d never shut up about it.”
A small laugh escapes me. “He is great,” I say. “He’s not what people think.”
I tell her about him and about us. It feels good to finally say it out loud. But the words dry up when I think about tonight. He just exposed us to the entire industry. I rub my forehead, the pressure building behind my eyes.
“It’s not that big of a deal, right?” I say, though it’s mostly wishful thinking.
“Want me to see if people are talking about it?” she asks.
I nod and take a long gulp of wine. I watch her type on her phone, and I can tell it’s bad from her expression.
“It’s not great,” she says finally. She hands me the phone.
Articles fill the feed. Photos of Henry onstage, of Cosmo mid-smile, of me wide-eyed at the table.
Some are bad. Really bad. They don’t call me a fool, not directly, but they don’t have to.
The implication does the work. There are headlines about Playboy Carter and his “secret romance with his professional rival.” Questions about whether this was strategic on my part, suggesting that I’m angling for a senior role at Carter.
What I hate most is that the people writing these things know nothing. They don’t know me. They don’t know us. But they write their opinions with the confidence of someone who does. They talk about me like I’m ambitious, manipulative, as if I somehow planned being humiliated tonight.
I hand the phone back and close my eyes. Cosmo’s probably messaged me by now. He won’t be happy but I’m sure we can figure it out. I take my phone from my clutch. There’s just one message.
Henry: Please call me.
Nothing else. Literally, nothing else. No messages from anyone asking if it’s true. Nothing from Cosmo. I decide I’ll call him tomorrow and explain. I just need some time and the wine to wear off. I take another sip.
“Stay here tonight,” Rebecca says. “The bed’s a little small for two but the couch folds out.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—” I start.
“We’ll watch a movie,” she says as though it’s settled. To be honest, I’m glad. Sleeping on her old couch seems better than going home alone.
Rebecca’s a wonderful distraction. We watch an old movie, then half a season of something neither of us are really following. Around two a.m. she falls asleep sitting up.
I can’t sleep. The room is too still and my thoughts are too loud.
It feels like I’ve cycled through most of the stages of grief in a single night.
Denial, trying to convince myself it wasn’t a big deal and would all blow over; anger, mostly at myself but a little at Henry for announcing us like that; bargaining, running through imaginary headlines and press angles, trying to find a way to take back control.
I’m probably edging into depression. I’m nowhere near acceptance.
Henry meant well, or I hope he did. He thought he was protecting me, maybe even celebrating me but he made a choice that wasn’t his to make.
I told him I needed time. I know I was taking too much of it but that didn’t give him the right to decide for me.
Especially not in front of half the industry.
I’ve stopped refreshing the articles. They’re getting more unhinged by the hour. Apparently there’s a secret love child now, which is news to me. But worse than the articles are the comments.
karen1977: Henry Carter could have anyone. No way he’s actually with her.
truthhurts88: Please. She knew exactly what she was doing.
mediajunkie22: Can’t wait for her tell-all in six months.
c_Chic: He’s out of her league, professionally and otherwise.
layton23: Imagine blowing up your career for Henry Carter. He’ll replace her in days.
citygirllondon: This is so embarrassing. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.
realtalker5: Another woman sleeping her way up. Nothing new.
tired_of_it: Yikes. This is what feminism looks like now?
God, people are awful. The urge to reply bubbles up. I want to ask them if they’re perfect, if they’ve never made a mistake in their lives. But I let it go. I put myself in the public eye and I have to take the criticism. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
I keep scrolling until a headline stops me. My stomach tightens as I click. Vue has released a statement.
“We are aware of the events that took place and the attention they have received. We would like to refocus the conversation on the incredible dedication and creativity of the Vue team, whose hard work and vision earned this award.”
I read it again, slower this time. It’s short, careful. They didn’t say we’re investigating or we’re reviewing internal conduct or she’s fired.
It says a whole lot of nothing. It’s the kind of statement I’ve helped write for other people. I never imagined I’d be the one PR were trying to contain. Still, it’s neutral. No blame. No heat.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling as Rebecca snores softly beside me. Maybe this isn’t a total disaster.