“Ransom is briefing his security team.” I shoot her a look. “And while my husband is undeniably the most gorgeous specimen on this vessel—or possibly any vessel on any body of water—a girl can appreciate the view without jumping overboard.” I smooth down my navy cocktail dress, chosen specifically because Ransom once mentioned it matched my eyes.
My marriage to Ransom Baxter may be relatively new, but the way that man looks at me could melt the Norwegian glaciers we’re headed toward. And there’s not a soap star who could rival him.
The Golden Compass Lounge stretches before us in a sea of crystal and mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the coastline as the ship pulls farther away from land.
A string quartet plays something classical and important sounding that makes me feel woefully undereducated in the music department. Ice sculptures fashioned into Emmy awards grace the main buffet while floral arrangements of roses, exotic flowers, and oleander fill every free tabletop. All around us, passengers in their formal best chatter excitedly as their voices blend with the clinking of glasses.
By the looks of this crowd, every passenger on the ship has crammed themselves into the lounge, mostly women. And I can’t say I blame them. Once they got a whiff of the caliber of television evil that has infiltrated our ranks, they, too, couldn’t resist.
We each pick up a drink from a roving waiter and are quick to clink glasses in honor of our good fortune, just as Bess nudges me so hard I nearly spill my drink.
“Don’t look now, but Bridge Blackthorne fromThe Young and the Heartlessjust walked in,” Bess whisper-shouts so loud that half the room turns this way and gasps. And appropriately so.
“Where?” Nettie and I swivel our heads in perfect synch.
“I said DON’T look!” Bess hisses, but it’s too late.
There he stands— Bridge Blackthorne in the flesh. I actually think his real name is Charles something, although I doubt he’s answered to his proper moniker in decades. His prematurely white hair seems to glow under the chandeliers, and he’s dressed entirely in black, as if his character’s wardrobe and personality have completely consumed whatever real man might have existed before.
Bess moans. “The man looks like he’s auditioning to play a vampire who exclusively feeds on the blood of lesser soap stars.”
“I’ve got a neck he could suck on all night long,” Nettie offers, and both Bess and I elbow her before she walks over and offers up her body as a sacrifice.
“Wow, he’s even more intense in person,” I marvel. “Do you think those fluorescent green eyes are real or colored contacts?”
“Who cares?” Nettie fans herself. “The man pushed his mother off a balcony, and she forgave him. Now that’s charisma.”
Bess nods. “And a good way to avoid assault charges.”
“That was his character, not him,” I remind them, but even I’m not convinced there’s a difference anymore. These actors have been playing the same characters longer than most marriages last. At this point, their DNA probably contains traces of fictional storylines.
“Speaking of characters,” Bess says, nodding toward a striking brunette who’s just entered on Bridge’s arm, “that’s his wife Harper. She was the last of their crowd to board. She’s not an actress—she owns some fancy art gallery in Manhattan. High-end stuff, very exclusive clientele.”
I study Harper as they make their way through the crowd. She’s beautiful in a sharp, geometric way—all angles and sultry looks. Her dark hair is pulled back into a severe bun, she has pale skin, and red lips that look like they could offer up the kiss of death.
“How did a soap star end up with an art dealer?” I ask.
“Money marries money,” Bess replies. “Her family is loaded. Old money, the kind that comes with trust funds and summer houses that have names instead of addresses. She met Bridge at some charity auction for the arts about five years ago. Trust me, I’m up on my soap gossip.”
“She doesn’t look like she smiles much,” Nettie observes.
“Would you?” Bess counters. “The woman spends her days around priceless masterpieces and comes home to a man who thinks dramatic pauses are an art form.”
I watch as Harper surveys the room with cool detachment, her expression never changing even as Bridge works the crowd with all of his soapy charm. There’s something about her that feels off—like she’s performing a role just as much as her husband, only hers requires less enthusiasm and far more ice.
“Look, there’s Victor Darkmore!” Bess points more subtly this time toward Dirk Rothschild, and just like that, we’re through using the name he prints on his taxes. We can’t help but swoon at the fact his dark hair suspiciously defies both genetics and gravity. He’s sporting a black button-down shirt that’s tight enough to prove he still does whatever workout regimen his character mentioned in a 1995 episode.
“And Lance Williams!” Nettie spots Beth’s husband across the room, his silver hair artfully styled to suggest distinguished wisdom rather than actual aging. “AKA Dr. Luca Carrington Jr. fromCriminal Hospital. In fact, I’ll be referring to each of these gentlemen by their proper soap names from here on out.”
“I can’t blame you,” I say with a nod. “It’s who they really are.”
“Besides, I’m pretty sure none of them will answer to their real names anyway,” I add, sipping my champagne as if I’m not worried about the tipsy consequences. “Even their Wikipedia pages probably redirect to their character bios at this point.”
The trophy wives make their entrances with precision timing that suggests they coordinated their arrivals for maximum dramatic effect.
Madison Rothschild glides in first, a vision of platinum blonde perfection—yes, the frizz is well under control—and she’s wearing a white sheath dress that probably requires both double-sided tape and an engineering degree to stay in place. Her smile looks expensive with the kind of dental work that requires a soap husband’s salary and a good dental plan. If her teeth were any whiter, the ship would need to install dimmer switches on her face.
“I’ve just realized my lip gloss is completely wrong for the lighting here,” she announces to no one and everyone. “This filter is absolutely going to wash me out. Hashtag Cruise Problems, am I right?”
