Page 52 of My Grape Crush
Nicole swirls her glass, releasing a cascade of fragrant scents that tickle my nose—ripe berries, a hint of spice.She inhales deeply and looks drunk with love. “What I expected was attitude and aviators. Not a hair out of place. Dumb as a stick.”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
When Nicole smiles, her whole face changes, and she leans back, happy to indulge my request that she’s clearly put some thought into. “A pinhead princeling who wouldn’t know the difference between rosé or rotgut if it slapped him in the face.”
I absorb the hit. Take it like a man, Rhys. “Appreciate the honesty. Although, ouch.”
Her grin widens. “Be happy someone around here appreciates you.”
Okay. Rita and Imighthave gotten off on the wrong foot. In my defense, I was trying to do both of them a solid, offering pointers—angles I previously sussed out, where the light worked best, and dead spots for sound. As soon as I dipped a toe into her craft, Rita turned on me, fully and completely.
“Dude,” she’d bristled in a classicfuck youtone, “just because you’re the ‘star,’” air quotes around that, “doesn’t mean you’re the boss of us.”
Both of Nicole’s eyebrows had shot skyward.
Me? I backed off.
Only a fool wages war with this new breed of righteous warrior. And Rita is a specific brand of hater. The bitter, jealous ones who diss me as a talentless overnight sensation, and I’m like, you idiots, I’ve been at this for sixteen years. I early-adopted Instagram when you were bawling in diapers. Sure, I fumbled around at the beginning, like everyone. Niche and content and metrics? Those meant nothing when I started. Yes, I rode the wave to the top through timing and sheer luck. Yes, I make it look easy, swinging in my hammock every night, rambling on about life. Post the video and, presto, ten new companies beg me to flog their products for ridiculous sums.
Any chimpanzee, right?
Not that I need her undying devotion to feel better about myself, but seriously.
If it's so fucking easy, you do it.
As Nicole and I munch sandwiches and swill wine, we replay the “best of” Rita lines. Sound-bites that I grudgingly admit were hilarious, if they weren’t so damn pompous.
“What did she say to you in your villa this morning?” Nicole asks.
“That I was no better than a Russian oligarch who floated around on a yacht worth more than Africa’s GDP while feasting on the last lobsters dragged off the ocean floor.”
Nicole laughs so hard, wine squirts out of her nose. She clears her throat, banging a fist against her chest to halt the laughing coughs. “I cannot believe those words left her mouth.”
I side-eye her. “Is it me or you who tells Evelyn she should be ashamed foraggrandizing a Roman emperor who was the showpiece for degeneracy?”
Nicole shakes her head, at a loss. “Can’t you fire her?”
“I hope so. Dani’s looking into it.” Nothing would please me more than to have Rita stare poverty in the face. I take another sip of wine, addicted to the velvety texture that coats my tongue, flavors of dark cherry and cacao unfolding with a shimmer of tobacco. No wonder this inspired Dani to create her incredible labels.
“Maybe we should offer her some wine,” Nicole suggests. “Calm her the hell down.”
“She probably drinks Yellow Tail,” I say, damning Rita forever. “Or wine coolers.”
Nicole mulls me over with a warm, wistful smile. “Where were you when I was straight and twenty years younger?”
At six p.m., I am done. Depleted. In need of a beer, or ten, and some quiet time in my hammock. If the clock-puncher life means dealing with the human equivalents of sixty-grit sandpaper, maybe I’ll stick to influencing after all.
The lone bright spot of the day was Dani. She dropped by after lunch to share two pieces of news. One, we were stuck with Rita. It turns out she’s the daughter of Bettina’s sister and needs this gig. No real surprise that Rita has burned a few bridges in the biz. Given that, you’d think she might try and sand down her caustic personality.
The scarier notion? Maybe what we witnessedwasher trying.
Newsflash number two hit me like a curveball. With Shania out and Sawyer charging off to scoop Gia, was I cool looping in Dani with Calvin’s people? I said, “No problem” when I should have said, “Stop the goddamned presses.” Calvin was one thing, but Sawyer unleashed with JC’s wellbeing on the line? A big and bad idea. But it wasn’t the time and place to bring that up, so I asked if Dani was around later to talk details. She had a meeting with Evelyn but floated tomorrow instead. I mentioned another swim at the lake, and Nicole’s head snapped around so fast, that I half-expected it to fly off.
She caught thatanother.
And she displayed remarkable restraint waiting until Dani left before she sidled up to me with a smirk bigger than the moon. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Anything you’d like to share?”
I kept my mouth shut. The truth is, there is nothing to share unless I can make shit happen. For sure Nicole could offer up womanly advice, but only one person on the planet can guide me through this.
