“Shit, I’m sorry!” she said. “There were so many follow-up calls after Bowen’s show, and a second lawsuit has been filed because of this hashtag—don’t worry, it has nothing to do with you—and then Oliver FaceTimed . . .”
She tilted her head and finally took Cleo in. Hair and makeup had tried their best to morph her into Jennifer Grey, but it hadn’t gone as well as anyone had hoped. Cleo had never in her wildest dreams envisioned wearing a shirt tied in a knot to expose her belly button, nor had she ever wished for wavy hair tied back in a bandanna or, frankly, false eyelashes and extremely pink lip liner, which the makeup artists said was necessary under the lights to make her features pop.
“Yes.” Cleo sighed. “This is really happening.”
Bowen joined them and double-kissed Gaby on the cheeks.
“We’ve gotten so many hits from your clip. You’re welcome back anytime.”
Cleo didn’t love the sound of that, not because she didn’t think that Nobells deserved to be dragged forever, and she was elated that #pullingaCleo was still a life force of its own, but because part of her worried that the longer this story stayed in the spotlight, the more the real rationale behind it—her long list of regrets—would be exposed. She knew this seemed paranoid. But still. She was sitting in the greenroom of the Grand Hyatt, set to do the mambo, dressed as a character out of a movie she’d loved in middle school, while her sister, with whom she had previously been more or less estranged, tended her son whose appendix had nearly exploded, so Cleo wasn’t about to be shocked at anything anymore.
“You look extremely adorable,” Bowen said to her. “If that’s OK to say.”
Bowen was in a vest with no shirt underneath, old-timey striped trousers, and a top hat, and somehow, though Cleo knew she and MaryAnne would have nicknamed him Mr. Peanut, she thought the getup made him even more attractive. She hated this.
“It’s OK to say,” Cleo said. “But don’t worry—I won’t take it the wrong way. I won’t try to kiss you or anything.”
“I wouldn’t . . . ,” Bowen started, then stopped. “Look, can we talk about this later?”
“We don’t have to talk about it ever,” Cleo said and then saw Francis gesturing to her because he wanted her to stretch out before they went live.
“Cleo, that’s not—”
But Cleo was already halfway across the room, having mentally added Bowen Babson to her list of regrets. Two hundred and thirty-four now.
Cleo’s nerves kicked in just as the lights went down and the emcee welcomed the crowd. Her intestines contracted and her hands started to shake, and honestly, she wished Georgie were here to talk her through some breathing.
Gaby was seated at the table with Veronica Kaye, who was trailed by her staffer Topher. Gaby and Veronica said a quick hello once Cleo and the rest of the contestants emerged from the greenroom. Ostensibly, being graced by Veronica Kaye should have calmed her nerves, but it did not.
“I just love that you are out here taking a risk,” Veronica said. Then she leaned in closer to Cleo’s ear and whispered, “No regrets,” which sent Cleo off into an entirely different anxiety spiral. Surely it was just a coincidence that Veronica had used such a common phrase, but Cleo—rational and pragmatic, her father’s daughter still—did not fully believe in coincidences, and she was unable to shake the sense that Veronica knew more about her than she wished.
Suzanne was up first. She and her partner were doing the Sandy and Danny “You’re the One That I Want” scene from Grease, and while Cleo was not keen on her own belly shirt and clamdiggers, she was greatly relieved not to be wearing vacuumed-on black latex. Suzanne was in her early forties but rose each morning to hit the six a.m. SoulCycle class, and though Cleo didn’t want to appreciate one thing about Suzanne Sonnenfeld, much less objectify her because that felt wholly un-feminist, she had to admit that she pulled off that latex quite well. Suzanne loved the spotlight and played to the crowd, and even though she was a horrible bottom-feeder who catered to the lowest common denominator of politics, she received rousing applause. Washington was apolitical when it came to dominance, Cleo supposed. And as she bounced off the dance floor and past Cleo, she leaned over and said, “I’d never eat shit for you.”