Bliss (26 page)

They howled, and threw pillows at the TV. Sophia said, “Good thing she's not ‘there to make friends.' Or she'd be totally fucked.” Then she put her foot on Demi's thighs, and started rolling her ankles. She'd been doing it to Demi or anyone in close proximity since she was a kid. All the little pops and crunches loosened in her bones and joints, and she relaxed.

“So Leandra's in London now,” said Sophia. “Burning her way across Asia and Europe.”

“Let's hope she stays there.”

“Just tell me! Why do you hate her? What did she ever do to you?”

Demi took a huge bite of ice cream and mumbled, “I can't talk. My mouth is full.”

A text popped up on Sophia's phone, from, of all people, Renee. “Renee? Last time I saw her, she called me a no-talent princess on the verge of losing my looks,” she said.

Demi said, “Did she change her mind?”

“It says, ‘Heard about @theden! Congrats!! Would love to buy you a drink to celebrate.'”

“I bet she would!” said Demi.

Sophia said, “I'm texting ‘Thanks. Busy now, but I'll be in touch.'”

Renee replied, “The truth is, I need your help/advice. The party line ad didn't happen. Skyy scrapped my shoot. Could you introduce me to your agent?”

“When the wheel of fortune turns, it rolls right over you,” said Demi.

“I have to help her,” said Sophia. “If I don't, the wheel of fortune will turn and roll over me.”

“You can't possibly believe that,” said Demi.

Sophia wasn't generally superstitious. But with the show's upheaval, she left nothing to chance, especially her good karma. “I did push her into a swimming pool by-accident-on-purpose. I owe her. What if I invite her to the First Night party?” she said, referring to the planned celebration after the first shoot day wrapped. “You'll be working at Dory. David is on deadline. I can do one lap around the room with her, log the good deed, and then I can wipe my hands clean of her.”

“I wouldn't cross the street to spit at her,” said Demi. “Waste of my precious saliva. But I applaud your kindness to the bitch.”

Sophia sent the text with mixed feelings. It was going to be a long day, and then, with Renee at her side, a longer night.

*   *   *

The first day of shooting was a thrill. She loved it all, the makeup, cameras, soundstage. She even loved the waiting around, and made good use of the time making a video of every inch of her dressing room to send to Demi and Leandra, and taking random shots around the set of her costars, the makeup tables, the wardrobe closets.

For the party that night, Sophia wore a slinky black cocktail dress from BCBG and jeweled sandals from Zara. She knew she'd overdressed as soon as she walked into the Supperclub on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite the swank location, the other Denizens (as everyone on the show called themselves) were dressed down, casual.

“I should have told you,” said Paula, the veteran. “First off, you get why we party the first night? In most of our contracts, you don't get the big check until after the first day of shooting. That's done, so now we all get paid. Yay, let's drink. But, because we're all exhausted from everything that got us here, the tradition is to dress casually, and make it an early night. The crew guys will stay until closing. I'm out of here in an hour.”

“I might as well be wearing a sign that says ‘Virgin.'”

“Don't worry about it. Just have a drink and relax. It's a party, remember?”

Renee arrived soon after Sophia. She was dressed up, too, and seemed happy to stand out. “Hey,” she said, kissing Sophia on the cheek. “Thanks for leaving my name at the door.”

“No problem.”

Silence. Renee broke it by being honest. “We don't have to hash over recent history. By my count, you owe me one. Put me in front of the right people tonight, and we're even.”

Just get it out of the way
, she thought. “Come on.” Sophia brought her over to the power cluster of the showrunner, two of the writers, and one of the directors. They were having an intense conversation in a booth with serious drinks (scotches, neat) in front of them.

“It's our star,” said Julie Chapman, the runner, aka the most important person on the show. Her husband, Henry, was the director. They'd done a few hit shows together over the years, a bona fide dynamic duo. Along with the cast, the Chapmans were the show's backbone, and the real reason the network had faith in
The Den
. “Great scene today, Sophia.”

“Thanks,” she said, genuinely grateful to hear it. Now, on to her karmic labors. “I wanted to introduce you guys to a friend of mine from Toronto. This is Renee Quint. She's an actor, too, and has done a bunch of commercials.”

The Chapmans smiled and then returned to their conversation. Cue to leave,
now
. Sophia got the message loud and clear. Logrolling would not be tolerated. Another rookie mistake Sophia would never make again. Her nerves jangling, she backed away from the booth, pulling Renee along with her.

Renee shook her off. “Wait a minute. I didn't get to talk to them.”

“You did see their reaction, right?” said Sophia. “They couldn't have been less into it.”

“You could have pushed it.”

“I have to work with these people. I'm not going out of my way to piss them off on Day One. Even you must understand that.”

“Even me?” Renee asked.

Even a mean, selfish bitch like you
. “Time and place,” said Sophia. “This isn't it. I'm sorry, I thought it would be, but it's not.”

“Well, I'm here and I'm dressed, so I'm staying.”

By now, the Supperclub bar area was crowded with people who worked on the show, their friends, and others who knew about the party and came to hook up or be seen. The idea that a civilian couldn't gain access to a private Hollywood party turned out to be a myth. If you were a friend of a friend, or a friend of the bartender, or a friend of the bouncer, you could get in anywhere. The non-Denizens looked a lot like the roving packs of models and actors who turned up all over LA, in every bar, lounge, and club, every night of the week and twice on Saturday.

“Flashback to CRUSH,” said Renee.

“Don't remind me,” said Sophia.

They shared a companionable cringe. Renee smiled warmly at her, and said, “I'll buy you a drink.” They pushed through three-deep hotties to get to the bar. Renee ordered, and then handed Sophia a glass of red wine. “No hard feelings.”

Sophia accepted it. In a few minutes, the tension dissolved, and they shifted back in time to their Toronto dynamic, just two girls with high hopes and low-cut outfits. Renee brought up a few classic Vinnie moments, and Sophia found herself laughing at the memories and warming to her old friend. Sophia wasn't one to hold a grudge. There was no point in clinging to the negativity. Renee was Renee. Right now she was being pretty cool. They took a couple selfies together and then started talking to a few guys at the bar. Sophia recognized one of them from some TV show, but she wasn't sure which. She let him buy her a shot. Paola came over to kiss her good-bye. Cassie left soon after with her parents in tow. Before long, most of the other Denizens filed out. Someone put another drink into Sophia's hand. Renee kissed a model boy. Farther down the bar, a girl stood up on a chair, and started singing off-key. Her lips were bright red, lipstick smeared.

That was the last thing Sophia remembered, the smear.

*   *   *

Cold feet. A sour taste in her mouth. Sore shoulders. Sensations registered in Sophia's body, but her mind lagged behind. She came to consciousness gradually, and then all of the sudden, like swimming upward in slow motion, and then breaking through the surface. She opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry.

She rolled to her left for the glass of water on her night table, but it wasn't her night table. An abstract color-block painting hung on the wall where her vision board should be. Someone else's art. Someone else's bedroom.

She bolted upright, making her head throb so painfully that she had to lie back down. The sheet slipped off her body, and she realized she was naked. Next to her, a man lay on his stomach, his bare legs and back visible on top of the sheet. The pillow obscured his face. She could see only a beard and curly brown hair.

He didn't seem to be breathing.

Sophia scrambled off the bed, in a panic about where she was, who he was, what they'd done. Her movement dragged the sheet off the rest of his nude body. He flinched suddenly, making her scream. He wasn't dead. But relief was quickly replaced with rising fury. He wasn't dead, but he should be.

He turned over, exposing his junk to harsh morning light. She gagged and looked around frantically for a bathroom. She ran for an open door, and found the toilet. After unloading into it, she saw a mound of puke on the white-tiled floor near her dress. She put it on quickly. It was torn and damp. Her hair felt stringy and damp, too. She looked behind the shower curtain. Her underwear and bra were soaking wet on the tub floor.

When she came out of the bathroom, the man was sitting in bed, cross-legged, the sheet gathered around his waist. “Good morning,” he said.

“Where am I?”

“My place.”

“Who are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“
Who the fuck are you?
What happened last night?”

He looked at her like she'd woken up crazy. “We had a great time, that's what happened.”

She dug into her memory but found only a hole. A sob seeped from her lips.
Did I have sex with him?
Vague images surfaced from the Supperclub. Paula saying good-bye. Model boys at the bar. Renee laughing, making out with an actor she sort of recognized. This guy was a friend of his? She could not remember meeting him or talking to him.

The saddest part was that Sophia had always been so careful to the point of paranoia. Her mom had trained her since junior high to buy her own drinks, cover her glass with her hand, and never leave a beverage on the bar unattended. How did this happen? She'd kept her palm over her wine. That actor handed her a shot. Had that been it? She should never have taken it.

Sophia had been going to bars, and worked at bars, for years. One slip, and she woke up into a nightmare.

Run. Run. Run
. Panic and adrenaline raced through her blood. She had to get out of there. “Where's my stuff?” she screamed, frantic to find what belonged to her, to remove any trace of her from this place. She stumbled around the room, but couldn't find her bag, her phone, her shoes.

He said, “Chill out. Come back to bed.”

Sophia vomited again.

“My carpet!”

She found her way to the living room and searched to no avail for her belongings. Had she left her bag at the bar? And her shoes? Her stomach flopped at the idea of putting on wet underwear.
Leave it. Just go. Go.

Sophia bolted through the front door, and ran into the street in bare feet. She looked at the street signs as if that would help her figure out her location. It was just a random block, an apartment complex like hers, across the street from a gas station and a Taco Bell. She had no phone, no money, no shoes, and no idea where she was. Was she still in LA? Which part? For all she knew, she could be in another state.

Crossing the street, Sophia went into the gas station. The clock on the wall said it was after ten
A.M
. She was supposed to be on set an hour ago. The woman behind the counter acted nonplussed by the sight of a frantic shoeless girl in a torn dress stumbling into the Quik Mart. Maybe it happened every day. Sophia begged to borrow her phone for just a second. She logged onto her Uber account and dropped a pin to order a car. Then she logged out and gave the phone back.

The woman said, “We sell flip-flops and gum.”

Her breath was toxic, and her feet were filthy. She went into the bathroom to clean herself up. Incredibly, Sophia didn't look traumatized, just hung over. No one would suspect she'd been drugged and possibly raped by a stranger. Her gaze settled on her eyes, usually her safe place. She peered into herself, and saw a shattered girl. Her stomach turned over again.

She washed her mouth out, and rinsed her feet. Then she went back into the store to ask the cashier, “What neighborhood is this?”

“Koreatown.”

It wasn't too far from the studio in the Valley. The Uber car arrived and whisked her to the set. It was ten-thirty
A.M.
by then, and she was an hour and a half late. She ducked into her dressing room and showered. Her costume for the day was Valerie's work ensemble—jeans, boots, and a sleeveless blouse. Wardrobe always supplied underwear and bras that were custom made for the given outfit. Covering her parts with the thin scraps of fabric made her feel slightly less vulnerable. Slightly.

A PA knocked on her dressing room door, making Sophia jump. “Sophia? Are you in there?”

“I'm here,” she said.

“We got a call from the Supperclub. You left your bag there last night. Do you want me to send someone to get it?”

“Yes, thanks.” A small blessing: The bearded man didn't have her wallet and phone. She started crying with relief.

“You're wanted in makeup,” said the PA.

She sniffed back the tears and had to psych herself up for a few minutes just to leave the sanctuary of her dressing room. But she did it. She took one step in front of the other, and moved all the way across the cavernous soundstage to the makeup area. She sat down in the chair, and Wanda, her regular, immediately got to work on her face.

“What's this?” she asked.

Sophia looked in the mirror where Wanda was pointing. Bruises circled both her upper arms.

Sophia swallowed hard, her salivary glands like a running faucet. “It's nothing. Can you just cover it?”