“Hi, Evelyn,” I say, cutting her off. I’m not about to call her Dr. So-and-So when she came out and called me Florence without asking. She pronounced it likeEeevelyn, and I’m tempted to sayEhvelyn just to annoy her.
She looks momentarily flustered but recovers smoothly, extending her hand for me to shake. “Welcome to Rush’s Recovery.” She says it like I’m an honored guest, which—at these prices—I ought to be. Callie promised I could afford it. This particular center is for particularly rich people, but really all of these places are for people with some degree of privilege—most aren’t covered by insurance or, even if they are, not completely. Why do you think you hear so many stories about celebrities in rehab? We’re among the lucky few who can afford to go back over and over again.
“I’ll be your care manager while you’re here with us. Let me showyou around your cottage.” She gestures to the building behind her without breaking eye contact. I’m not sure she’s blinked once since I arrived. Even robots are programmed to blink so that they’ll look human.
“Cottage?” I echo. There’s nothing cottagey about it. For starters, it’s huge, as big as the sort of house I would’ve called a mansion as a kid. (Before I found out what real mansions were.) Cottages are made of wood and stone with thatched roofs—at least the ones in the movies are. This whole building is a window, with exposed iron beams holding it together, framed by towering pine trees. The trees give the impression of being hidden while the gleaming glass walls make the place seem fragile and exposed.
Over the years, I’ve learned that rich people like to give their expensive belongings playful names, like calling the 2,000-square-foot guest house in their backyard their “shed,” or calling their $150,000 vintage Bronco their “knock-around car,” as though being poor is a charming affectation.
“That entire building is for me?” I ask.
“We respect your privacy here,” Eeevelyn says, and I almost laugh. It’s been years since anyone’s respected my privacy, least of all at places like this, where I’m expected to share my deepest, darkest secrets and fears.
“But not to worry, Florence.” She says my name again, as if to remind me of it. “I’ll be available to you at any hour for the duration of your time here.”
Time hereis rehab-speak fortreatment, but the onlytreatmentI need is a quiet place where the paparazzi can’t find me.
I wonder if Eeevelyn has heard Joni Jewell’s latest hit, the one everyone knows is about me though she never says my name; it’s oh so verywink wink, hush hush. The tune might be in Evelyn’s head right now. It’s nothing if not catchy; I have to give Joni credit for that.Billboardsaid it was full ofsonic surprises.
Joni Jewell. God, I hate that girl’s name. And it’s her real name, too, I checked. I can still hear her nonthreatening little girl voice telling some interviewer that her parents named her after Joni Mitchell because they always knew she was going to be a songwriter. Her parents didn’t give her a name they thought would look good on college applications and résumés, determined for her to end up as a banker or a lawyer, the sort of secure jobthat comes with a pension plan and a 401 (k). The whole family moved to LA when she was fifteen, driving in their van cross-country like the fucking Partridge family.
No one ever called Joni Jewellshrill. Natural blond (unlike Evelyn; I can tell from years of dyeing my own hair, there’s gray underneath her perfect highlights), skinny as a rail, perfect little double-A chest that doesn’t need a bra, not one hair out of place, brown eyes so big and round she looks like a cartoon character.
She couldn’t put a foot wrong if she tried.
So I walked all over her.
I reach for my notebook, but realize I left it in the car. My hands itch. I shiver, watching the steam of my hot breath hit the cold air. It was sixty degrees when I left LA last night, but I wore a fur coat on the plane. I bought it after our second album went gold. My kid hates this coat, animal cruelty and all that.
I run back to the car and grab my notebook from the back seat, scribbling the lyrics fast, like if I have to hold them in much longer, I’ll be sick.
I walked all over her.
Even as I write it, I know I’ll never turn it into a song, because it’s a lie. If anyone’s getting stomped on, it’s me.
Callie said it all might have blown over if I hadn’t threatened her. (Joni, not Callie. I never threaten Callie except threatening to fire her— an empty threat since we both know I can’t. No one else will have me now.)
Drop off the grid until the Joni Jewell mess blows over,she said.Wait a week or two, and some other starlet will offend someone, and no one will even remember what “Get Her Back” is about.
“Let me show you inside.” Evelyn leads the way up the stairs and into the cottage. The back wall is made of the same floor-to-ceiling windows, with ocean views as far as the eye can see. I know I’m supposed tooohandaahh, but the sea looks gray and angry, waves tossing in the wind. What’s the point of a house with glass walls, so easy to see into, so easy to break?
I swallow a sigh. Joni Jewell is currently on a twenty-city tour across America, and every night, her finale is “Get Her Back.” There are videos of her performances all over the internet like the algorithms themselves are promoting her. Her record label is paying for security detail to keep her safe from me.
It’s an easy story for the press to sell, tale as old as time and all that. The wrinkled crone and the good little girl. I’m the wicked witch to her Dorothy, the evil queen to her Snow White, the aging starlet to her ingenue.
Even when I was Joni’s age, I was never what anyone calledsweet.
5Lord Edward
I close my eyes as we touch down, gritting my teeth when the small plane shudders on contact. There’s a driver waiting for me on the tarmac of the tiny East Hampton airport beside a black Range Rover with dark windows.
“Sir,” he begins. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
The wordaccidentconjures the sounds of screeching tires, twisting metal, and shattered glass, as though someone turned the volume up too loud. My head starts to pound.
“Lord Edward?” the driver prompts, looking at me expectantly.
“Oh no,” I say finally. I try to look concerned. I must go too far, because the driver’s face falls.
