The Comeback(69)

“That interview you did was pretty sick,” Blake says, shifting positions in her chair.

“Did you really like it?” I ask, ever the needy actress. I even turn around to study her face to see if she’s telling the truth. The Vanity Fair interview was published online yesterday morning, and it appears that I hit the perfect note of contriteness, spiritualism and strength to satisfy the baying masses. Laurel told me she had already fielded dozens of requests for more interviews or TV appearances off the back of it. “The tide is turning!” she’d added, just before we hung up. After we spoke, I reread the interview alone in my house with a growing sense of dread: Camila had included everything except for my quote on Able, and the omission felt ominous rather than generous—as if she could be saving it for a different story.

“Yeah. I also heard my mom and her friends talking about it. They kept saying how brave you were to talk about your issues like that. They’re also really hoping you get back with Dylan.”

I nod slowly, turning to Esme. “Did our mom read it?”

“If she did, she didn’t mention it to me.”

“Cool,” I say, not wanting to ask outright what Esme thought of it, even though I’m sure she would have read it. I unzip the ugly black dress and pull it over my head, instinctively assessing my half-naked body in the mirror as I wait to be handed something else to try. When I look up, Esme is watching me over her phone.

“Hey, Grace. Do you think maybe I was the vain sister in a past life?” Esme asks then, grinning smugly at me. I roll my eyes at her. Of course she thought my interview was idiotic.

The next dress Xtina hands me is yellow with long sleeves and a cream silk bow at the neck. I raise my eyebrows at Esme in the mirror, and she shakes her head slightly back at me. It’s too fussy, too prim.

“What about that one,” I say, pointing to a slithery gunmetal dress hanging at the end of a rail Xtina hasn’t touched since I’ve been here. The rail has been pushed into the corner of the room behind another rail filled with fake fur coats and brightly colored stoles.

Xtina shakes her head, playing with the end of her braid. “I’m sorry, that one doesn’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain, but only certain designers are available for certain clients and events.”

I wonder if someone else is wearing it, and that makes me want to wear it even more. Esme smirks at me in the mirror.

“I think she means that whoever designed it doesn’t want you to wear their clothes,” she says, trying not to laugh.

“Look at all this other stuff though!” Blake says loudly, pointing to the pile of dresses I’ve already tried on.

I walk over and touch the gunmetal dress, the heavy material surprisingly soft in my hand. It is made up of thousands of tiny sequins that give the overall impression of an impenetrable suit of armor.

“Can I try it on at least?” I ask, and Xtina nods at me, because even though my value is currently somewhere around basement level, she still works for me. I slip into the dress, and the fabric settles onto my skin, cool and slithery. The dress is skintight around my breasts and waist before skimming off my hips and around the softness of my belly, ending exactly at my toes. It is the first dress I’ve tried on today that hasn’t been chosen solely to mask my new “fuller” figure; dresses with sleeves that cover my upper arms, or capes cascading over my shoulders and down to the hem of the dress. As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, Xtina smiles reluctantly.

“It does look cute.” She holds her phone up and takes a photo of me. “I’ll send it to their PR and we’ll see what we can do, okay? No promises though.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I think they’ll let me wear it once they read the Vanity Fair interview.

Esme and Blake are watching me in the mirror.

“I’m loath to admit it,” I start, smiling at them both, maybe because I think my sister might even be impressed for once, “but this feels good.”

I turn slightly in the mirror so that the dress catches the light and shimmers back at me like a snake.

“Are you still going to do it?” Esme asks then, catching my eye. “Like we talked about?”

I frown at her and turn back to Xtina instead.

“Do you have anything I could wear over the next few days? I’ve got a couple of lunch meetings and things.”

“Let me think about it. I have another appointment now, but I can get some looks together and courier them over to you later? I feel like white is really working on you with that hair.”

I can feel Esme’s eyes on me as I change out of the dress and into my regular clothes, but I ignore her. I try not to think about her question, about what it would mean for the baby steps I’ve been taking to reclaim parts of my life I thought I lost years ago. I think about Emilia’s fierce, seemingly unconditional belief in me, and I know that its value is something my sister would never be able to understand because she’s never lacked it from my parents, and I try not to resent her for it.

“What?” I ask eventually, when we’re in the elevator going down to the lobby, because Esme is still studying me as if she’s trying to work something out.

“Nothing. I just thought you said that none of this stuff was real,” she says.