Hannah watches it all. Her eyes are still on me when she says, “Okay, Roger. Go ahead and dress me.”
Chapter 32
Hannah
Sunday, July 14, 2024
Fuck saints—you guys weremonsters,” roars Andy Quang, the youngestSNLcast member. He crouches close to be heard above the noise in Cathédrale, his buzzed head and stud-lined ears level with the long, white tablecloth.
Across the table, Ginny arches her brows. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”
“Is that good?” I shout.
TheSNLafter-party is a madhouse. Cast and crew are packed shoulder to shoulder at tables, stuffing themselves with food even though it’s close to two a.m. Others flit around talking, high-priced liquor sloshing out of their cocktail glasses. The energy in here is amped up, a manic mix of excitement and relief, like a bunch of high school seniors after the bell rings for summer. The lights in this expensive New York restau-rant are cave dim and the EDM music is turned up so loud no one has any choice but to shout. I wish I was at Ripper and Kenny’s table across the room, laughing with the writers. But the minute we got here, Roger pulled me toward this table with Lorne Michaels, the head ofSNL.
“Of course it’s good.” Andy takes a slug of his egg-whipped cocktail and eyes the end of the table where the bigwigs sit. “Art should be visceral, subversive. That’s my philosophy. Seems like it’s yours, too, the way you sing.”
I remember now that Andy was recruited toSNLfrom a comedy troupe that got arrested for flashing a sitting president. “How do you think tonight went—” I start to ask, but Roger chooses that moment to lean all the way across me.
“Andy, you’re monopolizing her time.” Roger’s tone is light and teasing, but it’s obvious he means it. He slides another martini in front of me, the same kind he’s drinking, gin garnished with pearl onions. It started off disgusting—but now, after an undisclosed number of them, I’ve warmed to the taste. “Here,” Roger says, tapping the drink. “I took the liberty of ordering you another. The night is young.”
Before I can assure Andy that he wasn’t monopolizing me, he mumbles an apology and darts away. I wince. Ever since the paparazzi started hounding us, I can’t shake the sense of being watched, the fear of being reported on. I’m already picturing what Andy might whisper to a gossip columnist: “Hannah Cortland? What a bitch.”
“Andy Quang isn’t testing well,” Roger says in a lowered voice, leaning so close his warm breath tickles my ear. “Don’t bother talking to him; I’m sure he won’t be signed for another season. Spend your time with the people who matter.” He nods toward the end of the table, where Gavin Dawson, ten-yearSNLveteran, sits. “Gavin’s a star. I’ll arrange an intro.” Roger squeezes my bicep. “It would be great if photographers caught you two talking.”
At this point in the night—in the very long week, actually—I’m too tired to put up much of a fight. I dump the pearl onions onto my napkin and take a sip of my briny martini, meeting Theo’s eyes across the table.
“Whoa there,” he says, so quietly I wouldn’t have been able to discern it if I hadn’t been watching his lips. When I put down my drink, he slides his hand across the table and gently takes it, moving it to his side.
Ginny nods approvingly. “Probably wise.”
Roger laughs. “Relax, Theodore. You can take off your Fixer hat. She’s not your responsibility tonight.”
The way Theo looks back at him—well, I’ve been thinking about it all night. Theo looks at Roger worshipfully. And Roger’s a tool. I’ve known it since the first time I met him, which was actually years ago, when Manifest first signed us—though clearly, I didn’t make much of an impression.
But the fact that Roger is a tool isn’t surprising. He’s the CEO of a major record label—of course he is. What’s surprising is that Theo doesn’t seem to see it. Sure, Roger’s his boss, but he wants Roger’s approval so badly. Roger’s all the worst stereotypes of the industry, an aging mogul who acts like he’s twenty years younger, desperate for people to see him as hip. Everything—from his shoes to his highlights— screams money and trend-chasing. He’s slickly handsome, sure, but in a way that’s the opposite of Theo, who’s dark and lush and complex, a Renaissance painting come to life. Especially now, in this dimly lit room, with candlelight making his skin glow.
“Renaissance painting come to life.” Ginny shakes her head in disappointment. “That’s it. Youaredrunk. No more martinis for you.”
Ripper said Theo’s probably just lusting after a promotion, fetishizing the corner office and thick business cards and platinum airline status that come with being a big shot. But I’m beginning to suspect Theo would take a hug from Roger sooner than a raise.
The most surprising thing of all is that Theo’s radiant need to win Roger’s approval has infected me. Goddammit if I don’t want to help him.
Speaking of. I glance at Roger’s expectant face and crook my finger at Theo. “You heard him. Give back the drink.”
A bomb of laughter goes off at the other end of our table. Gavin Dawson shoots out of his chair so hard it tumbles to the floor. Andy Quang leaps away from him, holding a buzzer and a triumphant fistful of Gavin’s iconic curls. The other cast members at the table are howling. Some of the crew start clapping. Even Lorne shakes his head, bemused.
“What the hell just happened?” Ginny asks, and I repeat her question.
Theo cranes to see. “Andy just shaved the side of Gavin’s head.”
“Comedians and their pranks,” Roger says. “They’re worse than frat boys.” He takes advantage of Theo’s distraction to maneuver my martini back to me. I empty it even though the inside of Cathédrale is starting to blur. Right after Ginny died, I liked seeing the world this way: hazy and faded, the one clear thing her face. It was the only way I could tolerate it. There’s a certain nostalgia in coming back.
At the other end of the table, Gavin is cursing at Andy while one of the female cast members laughs at him, loud and braying. Lorne folds his arms over his chest and calls out, “Roger, what are we going to do with these kids? They get crazier every year.”
The whole table turns to look at us. I will the world to sharpen as Roger straightens next to me, loving the spotlight. “You think your comedians are crazy, but this one—” He jabs his thumb in my direction. “I had to send a man on tour just to watch her.” It’s a perverse kind of bragging, what Roger’s doing, and even drunk, the irony isn’t lost on me that he once wanted me off his label for that kind of behavior. I lower my eyes, tugging the ends of the tablecloth. “She’d probably shave her whole head onstage if someone handed her a razor.”
“Prove it!” one of the younger cast members calls, to collective laughter. With great dramatic flair, Andy Quang walks over and kneels in front of me, presenting me with the buzzer like a knight presenting a queen with a scepter.
