The Elizas: A Novel(83)

I know this because I wrote him. I wrote about this whole place. But it isn’t supposed to be real.

“Eliza? Eliza Fontaine?”

My head swims as it turns. A PA in a Dr. Roxanne ball cap rushes up. “Thank God you’re here. Let’s get you to hair and makeup.”

The nameless grunt grabs my arm and guides me to a trailer on the other side of the parking lot. In the distance, I can see the tree line that leads to the bungalows. In the late-day heat, the buildings shimmer and dance. I continue to smell that orange-blossom scent even though I don’t see a single blossom anywhere. Unconnected brain pathways bang together like the metal balls in a Newton’s cradle. I swear I’ve never been here, but I’ve been here. I looked at plenty of photos of this place online for research for The Dots, but once again, my descriptions were so accurate. It’s like my fiction made this place real.

In the trailer, everyone talks to me at once. The makeup lady, a small, spidery woman with sad eyes, sits me down and starts caressing me with a powder puff. “Water?” asks a PA wearing heavy perfume. Another PA takes my phone from me and plugs it into a charger. A young, pretty blonde with a headset and a clipboard sidles up next, pumping my hand forcefully.

“Roz Lowry,” she says. “It’s awesome to meet you. Your agent reached out—I’m so happy we were able to make this work.”

“Uh-huh.” I try not to sound suicidal. My hand is slick with the lotion from her palms.

“Pretty cool that we’re doing this here, huh?” She sweeps an arm out the trailer’s tiny window, gesturing to the monstrous hotel structure behind us. It is the color of raw chicken. It is an association I’ve made before.

Amanda, the makeup artist, has me tilt my head back so she can apply false eyelashes. “So you’re going on first,” Roz says somewhere above me. “Taylor Swift is on after you, so Roxanne might ask you if you’re a Taylor fan, which I hope you reply yes. Then she’s going to ask you some pretty standard stuff about yourself. How old you are, where you went to school, that sort of thing. And why you wanted to write the book. You know, the questions we sent ahead of time. Try not to get too complicated with your answers—it’s a live taping, so we won’t be able to do retakes.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, feeling feathery makeup brushes swipe across my eyelids.

“I just finished your book today, by the way,” Roz says. “Amazing. And really heartbreaking.” She offers a gleam of perfect white teeth.

When my phone, sitting on a counter being charged, bleats, I jolt up. I see another number that I don’t recognize, except this one is from Palm Springs. A sharp, hot feeling darts through my chest. I glance at the makeup artist. “Uh, can I take this?”

“Sure thing, honey.” She lets me slip out of the chair. “Just make it quick, okay? We’re on in about ten.”

I walk outside the trailer and start across the parking lot before I pick up. “This Eliza Fontaine?” It’s a guy’s voice.

“Y-yes . . .”

“This is Darrell from the Tranquility resort. Andrew Cousins-Glouster called us—said you’re looking for a security image?”

“That’s right.” I stare down at my shadow. It slants crookedly across the lawn. I look like I’ve been dismembered. “At the Shipstead bar.” I give him the date I’m looking for.

“Well, unfortunately, I don’t have security footage from that night—our cameras were out. But I have Richie on the line from the Shipstead with me, and I think he can shed some light on what you need. Richie?”

“Hey,” Richie says, reluctantly, his voice gravelly and cautious.

“Hi.” I can feel sudden sweat on my lower back.

“So yeah, Andrew described you, and I remember you. I mean, sure I do, because of the pool, you know? You were drinking stingers, which we rarely make.” Stingers! “And so was the lady sitting next to you.”

“The blonde?” I ask incredulously. There was no way Gabby was drinking stingers. There was no way Gabby was drinking anything. My heart rockets. I can almost taste the stinger in my mouth. I can hear, once again, “Low Rider.”

“Nah, you met with a blonde, but she came in later. This lady had dark hair, like you.”

My mouth opens. “Are you sure?” I don’t remember that at all.

“Your name’s Eliza, right? I made a joke that she looked like your twin. It was like a second Eliza sat down. I called you two the Elizas. Then the black-haired lady looked at you and said something that must have really pissed you off. You looked livid.”

“Please. Stop staring,” I whisper.

“And then she left. And then your friend with the curly hair arrived.” There’s a pause, and a cough. “So, yeah, that’s what I’ve got.”

“Thank you, Rich,” Darrell breaks in. I’d forgotten he’d been listening. “Miss Fontaine, does this help? I want to make sure you have what you need. Any friend of Andrew’s is a friend of ours.”

I whisper something that might be a yes or might be a no, and the call ends. I let my phone slide from my fingers; it clatters to the grass. A dark-haired woman. Another me. I’m less shocked than I should be, and that’s what frightens me the most.

I root around in my memory, and a few lights come on. I can sense someone sliding into the seat next to me. I’d smelled her drink first, then gazed at the brownish liquid in the triangular glass. I turned and looked, and she was sitting there, next to me, so poised and composed. I’d sucked in a breath.