Page 71 of Famous for a Living

This is good.

What I do and have done is good.

“I’m talking to you while shopping for a pair of suede sandals, ordering an Uber, and swapping out Tony’s face in Photoshop with one of him actually smiling so I can post a picture of fondue night last night. I’m not arguing with you, Cat.”

“It’s just, you should hear him. You’d think I have a gambling addiction and am trying to win the world over to darkness. Dang it.”

The light above the bathroom mirror—and every light in the cabin for that matter—snaps off as I stand in the windowless darkness of the tiny bathroom, curling iron in hand. The phone on the small vanity glows, Serena on the other end.

I snap the barrel off my halfway-finished curl. Move toward the bathroom knob. I hate going outside to flip the switch on the breaker panel. It always creeps me out.

“On it,” Mina calls, the floorboards creaking as she flitters across the cabin.

I exhale. “Thanks, Mina,” I call out, and turn back toward the mirror. “I’m buying this place a new fuse box,” I mutter. “Serena, what have you got lying around?”

I’m only halfway joking, maybe, as I stand in the pitch blackness in my bathrobe for the dozenth time. “If I can just get through curling my hair once,” I plead to the walls of the bathroom. “I’m not asking for much here. Just once.”

“I have three brands waiting in the wings. Portable toilets. Crypto coins. Lactation lollipops. Just say the word on any of them.”

I pinch my lips together. I’m not going to utter a sound.

The lights turn back on, followed a moment later with Mina calling out, “Turned off the coffee maker. That did it.”

“Thanks, Mina,” I say back. Of course it did. Of course this cabin wants to withhold the chance at both caffeine and decent curls.

“So have you made plans to come on back yet?”

I toss a look over my shoulder to the closed door and tap the phone off speaker. I pull the phone up, cradling it to my neck, and continue in a hushed voice. “No. Not when there’s this situation going on, I can’t. It’s overwhelming, though. Everyone here’s got this unwavering confidence; meanwhile Murphy reminds me weekly that I’m on the brink of destitution. I can’t pull something like this off for Kannery—”

“Sure you can. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

“Serena, ten seconds ago you offered me a lactation lollipop deal. This is how far I’ve fallen. Let’s be realistic.”

“I am realistic. Here’s the thing. Murphy is fabulous, but he’s a stick-in-the-mud. I think it’s a calculated move, really. Keeping you depressed about your current situation is his insurance policy that you won’t sue later down the road for false expectations in the tiny, tiny chance things go awry. He’s neurotic like that. But look around you. Things are looking up. I even saw an article in The Times yesterday and you know what it said? It said ‘Braswell’s Club App Faces Hearing Due to Data Protection Authority Claims in Early April.’”

“So?”

“So?” she retorts. “So where’s your name, Cat? Because it sure wasn’t mentioned in the entire article. This is the beginning. People are starting to pull you out. Mark my words, it won’t be long before you become the victim.”

“I am the victim.”

“Yes, yes. We know. But people are starting to believe it. Anyway, my point here is come back as soon as you can.”

I chuckle quietly, winding up another strand. “What about my apartment? You’re already done ‘babysitting’ it?”

“I found a roach in the cupboard last Tuesday. I haven’t been back since.”

I roll my eyes. Of course she hasn’t. Of course she ran right back to Daddy’s.

“I’m starting to go stir-crazy with just Chevy around.”

“Serena. He is your boyfriend.”

“And you are my friend who doesn’t use my pearl mink floor pillows as a footrest while playing video games. He’s becoming more optional by the day. You, I need.”

I sigh. Even in the middle of 353 square miles of silent woods, I can’t escape hearing the woes of life with Chevy.

“So. It’s eight o’clock at night and you’re primping. What’s up?”