this winter.”’
The ping of an incoming email was the only thing that dragged Emily back to reality. She clicked open the email from Kim Kelly and began to read.
Camilla,
I tried again, exactly like you said, and I CANNOT work with her anymore. I love Emily, you know that. She’s done great things for me over the last decade, but she’s lost her edge. I don’t know how anyone with eyes could think I look good in this total fucking nightmare of a dress. And now she says I have to find something RTW because there’s not enough time?????? RTW to the SAG Awards, are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been hearing great things about Olivia Belle. Can you get in touch with her and see what her availability is for the next 24 hours? And please write to Emily and let her down easy. I like her, I really do, but it’s time for me to move on. Fire her nicely, please. Xx KK
Without even realizing it, Emily was blinking at the screen and then rubbing her eyes. Camilla was Kim Kelly’s manager, and it couldn’t be more obvious what had just happened. It took only a split second to decide whether she should wait for Camilla’s email or write directly to Kim.
Kim,
While it’s obvious you didn’t have the nerve to fire me yourself, I don’t happen to suffer from the same condition. So I will gladly tell you straight to your face that the problem isn’t the dress or the designer or me. It’s you. Namely, your raging eating disorder that allows you to think that at 104 pounds and a size two, you look like a wildebeest. I hope you get help before it’s too late. I’m sure Olivia Belle will be the *perfect* fit for you.
Sincerely,
Emily Charlton
She punched ‘send’ without rereading it. Good riddance, she thought. But then the deflation. The dread. Another client lost to Olivia Belle. Another humiliating and high-profile firing. Another step closer to having to shutter her business altogether. She fired off a quick, slightly panicked email to Miles, giving him the update, but she had no idea what time it was in Hong Kong.
Next to her, the women had given up on trying to schedule a playdate. They had somehow segued into an uninhibited conversation about vodka-soaked tampons.
‘I mean, I’ve, like, read that the college girls all love it. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it,’ the mom of Elodie said. She had on workout wear, head to toe: running shoes, yoga pants, a performance fleece, and a reflective headband, topped off with a down vest.
Her friend wore a variation of the exact same outfit, only she had swapped out the headband for a knit hat with a massive fur ball on top. This woman – India’s mommy – leaned in and said, ‘Oh, it’s amazing. OBs definitely work best because of the no applicator. All of the buzz, none of the calories!’
‘Wow,’ the headband mom said reverently. ‘That sounds amazing. Have you ever tried tequila? I’m not a huge vodka fan.’
‘But that’s the best part!’ crowed the fur ball. ‘It doesn’t matter what you use – you can’t even taste it! And I haven’t noticed that any one type is easier on my vag than any other, so … as long as it’s not flavored, I think you can use whatever you have laying around.’
‘I’m trying it. This weekend. Wait – does that mean you would pass a Breathalyzer? Like, if no alcohol goes into your actual mouth, you should be fine, right?’
Emily was about to respond – they were raging idiots to think that alcohol absorbed through their vaginas instead of their stomachs didn’t have the same effect on their blood alcohol level – but she stopped herself. After ten days in Greenwich, Emily had seen the same faces over and over again. Telling people off in her favorite Starbucks was probably not the best way to go.
She glanced around. It was as though someone released a man-repelling chemical weapon at seven a.m. each weekday and didn’t turn off the spigot for a full twelve hours. The only men able to survive it were the ones older than eighty or too rich to even pretend to work anymore, but they didn’t spend their time in Starbucks. It was women as far as the eye could see. Women in their thirties, pushing strollers and chasing toddlers; in their forties, eking out every second before school let out at three; in their fifties, meeting for a cappuccino and a chat; in their sixties, accompanying their daughters and grandchildren. Nannies. Babysitters. The odd twenty-something who taught a local yoga or spin class. But not one damn man. Emily noticed how different it looked from L.A., where everyone was freelance and flexible and sort of working and sort of not. She missed L.A., but it was not missing her back. Olivia Belle had probably signed half the city by now.
Her phone rang and flashed MILES.
‘Em? Hey, sweetie.’
‘Hi. I’m so glad it’s you and not the bitch who just fired me.’
‘You got fired? Who fired you?’
Emily laughed. ‘Kim Kelly. In an email that wasn’t even intended for me.’
‘Kim Kelly’s a cunt.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment, honey, I really do. But can you not use that word?’
‘What, “cunt”? Since when does that bother you? You’ve been in Greenwich too long.’
‘Probably.’
‘Have you always hated “cunt”? How could I possibly not have known that about you? I mean, my God, we—’
‘Stop saying “CUNT”!’ Emily all but shouted into her phone, causing Elodie and India’s mommies to turn and stare. ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked them.
‘Me?’ Miles asked.
‘No, not you.’ Emily raised her voice and said into the phone, ‘I prefer “cooch.” As in, next time you want to get drunk, you should consider sticking vodka-soaked tampons up your cooch. That’s what all the cool moms are doing.’
This time the women, dumbfounded, exchanged a look.
‘What? Vodka-soaked tampons? What are you talking about?’ Miles said.
‘Nothing, never mind.’ Emily took a gulp of her now-cold latte. ‘So where are you now?’
‘Just got back from dinner to the hotel, which is insane. I can’t wait for you to see it.’
‘Yeah, me neither. The pictures look incredible.’
‘I’ll be back in L.A. a week from this Friday. You’ll be home by then, right?’
‘Of course. Unemployed, washed up, and humiliated. But home.’
‘Oh, come on, Em. Who even cares that Kim Kelly fired you? She’s a shit actress, anyway.’
‘She’s won three Oscars and two Globes. She was one of my best clients.’
‘She’s a hack. And getting older and fatter by the second. You, my love, are the queen of the crazies. I know it, and so does everyone else.’
Clearly he was trying to make her feel better, but it only made Emily desperate
