Page 16 of How To Plot a Payback

Plan away.

Decide which of the two spare bedrooms in that flat of yours Henrietta and James would prefer to call theirs.

He takes a breath. Moves to the dressing table. Opens a drawer.

I sometimes forget how at odds we are until he does things like this: opens his dressing table drawer.

The one in my dressing room is the color of lavender (yes, admittedly on the nose) and often topped by a fresh bouquet or two. They crowd my efforts to touch up hair or makeup, but I don’t really mind, and the scent is always well worth the trouble of searching around blooms for a hidden tube of lipstick. A floral couch from the flat Sonya and I (and four other girls) shared in my earliest days in Los Angeles sits staunchly in the center of the room. Nobody knows quite where it originally came from, and nobody, frankly, is brave enough to ask.

Though it sinks and sags in certain spots, and one side is split right up the middle and patched over with bright purple duct tape, it is probably the most beloved spot in the entire studio. Sonya, Kye, and I cling to this spot. Through ups and downs, highs and lows, whenever one of us goes missing, we typically find him or her there.

It’s the place we share our deepest fears and secrets, our moments of glory, and the situations we wish we could wash away with the power of tears. Sonya’s parents’ divorce. Kye’s mum’s diagnosis. (The splotch of champagne marks our celebration of her being announced cancer-free a year and a half later.) My own relationship tumbles.

It bears little pink wax stains from blown-out birthday candles and a burned-out hole from Kye’s short-lived interest in cigars—a hole formed, ironically, the same night I turned him down during his equally short-lived interest in me.

A giant Persian rug blooms across the floor in front of that couch, a mix of purples and greens and golds. And of course, there is a gigantic coffee station on an old but still functioning record turntable in the corner. Which, given the fact we work for Goodwin, is self-explanatory.

Espresso flows through our veins.

The walls are covered in pictures, some framed of awards won and handshakes given, but most simply taped up—of New Year’s Eve parties and wrap parties and late nights squeezed together on the couch stuffing ourselves before jumping back into rehearsal. Of first pets and first loves and some, I know, that probably should be taken down. (Who, after all, keeps photos of their previous boyfriends on the walls?) But every time I begin to, I conveniently remember something else I need to do. When the pictures go up, just like memories, they tend to stay.

(Minus those of me with my latest. The day after we broke it off, I walked into my dressing room to discover all the pictures of the two of us snipped into a thousand pieces of confetti and scattered over the rug. He left a disconcertingly large and dying bouquet of roses on my dressing table. And a lengthy, if not quite lucid, love letter. But that is another matter.)

Kye’s room, on the other hand, is the opposite of mine. Tan walls. Black dressing table. Zero photographs of former girlfriends—but then, is there a wall in existence that could manage to hold all of them?

Tan leather couch that, up until this moment, had never been tinkled on by person or animal. A single black shelf on the wall with four personal Emmys (i.e., props for wooing), each winged golden lady carrying a huge atom in her golden hands. And drawers that, thanks to his personal assistant and without any credit due him, are meticulously organized and supplied at all times. I don’t have an assistant, for the record. I am currently on the train of belief that it’s in the best interest of my mental health to have as grounded a life as possible. Ergo, my responsibility to tidy up my own drawers. Ergo, my untidy drawers.

Kye nudges away Henrietta’s curious nose while spraying something onto the soiled part of the couch. As he rubs with a crisp black hand towel, he opens his mouth. He says my name as one who has the unfortunate task of relaying bad news. “Lavender. Listen.”

Then he makes the mistake of looking at me.

He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I say innocently.

He points the towel at my eyes. “That. That look.”

“What look? I can’t possibly have a look. I’m much too sleep-deprived to procure a look.”

“Oh, you know. The Lavender Rhodes look.”

I’m attempting to manipulate him, yes.

It’s selfish, yes.

But I cannot live with ten dogs under my roof for the rest of my life.

Especially these.

They will eat me in my sleep.

I’m sure of it.

I was quite possibly hallucinating last night, but at one point I woke up and found them all standing over me, hatching a plan.

The Lavender Rhodes look must have come through once again, because Kye’s resolve softens.

He casts a doubtful glance at the dogs.