What's Mine and Yours(46)

“I don’t make the rules, babe. He’s my boss. And he’s being nice. You’re so far behind he could have kicked you out a long time ago.”

Margarita took her oceanic breaths as she rode up the freight elevator. All would be well. How many people were lining up for a place in Cerritos anyway? It was too far inland, too regular. It could have been anywhere.

A man in a ratty T-shirt was waiting for her in the reception area. He carried a clipboard and his shoes were suede, expensive. She turned on a smile.

“Margot?” he said, sizing her up. His eyes seemed to snag on her chin. “You’re on time.”

“Of course!” Margarita laughed. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She laughed again and wondered if it was too much cheerfulness.

“You never know with talent,” he said. She shimmered at the word.

He was the producer, Ollie, and when they entered the loft, he introduced her to the team. The director was dark haired, beautiful, not quite white, Colombian maybe or Lebanese. Oblong face. Margarita wiggled her fingers at him, and he glanced back at his phone. The DP was a plain-faced woman in a black T-shirt, her mangy hair tucked under a Lakers cap. She slurped her coffee with one hand. Margarita was certain they’d have nothing in common. The prop stylist was much more L.A., in clogs and a linen dress, her red-and-gold hair piled on her head. Margarita decided she’d get her handle by the end of the day.

The set was tiny: an oak bed with pale sheets, a straw rug, a brass nightstand arrayed with delicate objects: a crystal paperweight, a navy-blue alarm clock. Margarita wanted it all. Her bedroom was nothing more than a mattress on a frame with wheels. It slid around when she was having sex.

When they started filming, she’d sprawl out on the bed and pretend it was the end of her day. She’d repay a girlfriend for brunch, order flowers for her grandmother in a nursing home, and, last, zap money to a handsome white man on a crowded street in Bangkok. He’d get her wire, check into a lavish hotel, plug in his laptop, and call her. She’d laugh at the screen, blow a kiss. Et fin.

They were starting at nine sharp, so she had to hurry to hair and makeup. Ollie showed her the breakfast spread: boxed coffee and greasy sandwiches. She had expected better from a brand like this: cold brew, avocado toast, yogurt, and melon.

“Oh my gosh, this is so yummy!” she said, biting into a croissant stuffed with ham and orange cheese.

The makeup artist had violet hair and false lashes. She was old and trying not to look it, but then again so was Margarita (twenty-nine).

“Aren’t you striking,” she said. “Look at your skin. I won’t have to touch you at all.”

Margarita knew this wasn’t true. The makeup artist would make her face disappear, then bring it back again. It was a process she loved to watch, like being born, or something. She propped her phone against the mirror to record a time-lapse. She watched her face grow creamy, uniform, more square than ever, and then there was bronzer, blush, and she had dimensions again; she was different, rosier, Margot.

The makeup artist traced gold dust along her brow. “You’ve got an exotic look to you,” she said. “But it’s not too much, you know? It’s really subtle. You’re not niche. You could go all kinds of ways. You know, one of my clients, she’s as white as they come, from Vermont, but you’d never know looking at her. She’s got freckles, and this big, crazy hair. She’s working for this brand that I bet would love you. They’re starting a hair-care line for women of color, and you’ve got that look.”

Margarita’s phone buzzed. It was her mother. She dismissed the call.

“I’ll call her later,” she said, in case the makeup artist had noticed. “I see her all the time. We’re very close.”

She checked to make sure her video hadn’t been lost, then uploaded it with the text Every Girl Is Beautiful. She listened to the message from Lacey May.

Margarita. Why won’t you call us back? It’s been days now that I’ve been trying. I don’t know what it is that you’re trying to prove. They’re saying they can’t start me on any treatments yet because there’s too much swelling in my brain. I’m on these drugs to bring it down. They’re talking about surgery. I want to get the whole family together before then. Just in case something goes wrong. Have you heard anything from your father? I can’t reach him either.

Margarita felt herself sink. It was bad enough her mother had never asked her to come home before. She’d waited until she was dying. And now, she was really after Robbie—he was the one she couldn’t do without.

Ollie came over, tapping his foot. It was nine thirty. They’d lost track of time. “She looks fine,” he said, and rushed her off to change. At ten, she padded onto set in a pair of skimpy pajamas. They handed her a tablet loaded to the home screen of the banking app. She had a fake name, Emmy, and a fake account balance—$38,292.06.

They started shooting, and from the first take, it was all wrong. She tapped when she should have scrolled, flopped onto her belly when she should have rolled to her side. And she wasn’t exuding a sense of pleasure at all—online banking was supposed to feel good. The director kept leaning over to whisper to Ollie. What was he saying that he couldn’t say out loud? This isn’t working or Look at her head?

Margarita tried to channel ease, exhilaration. She visualized the Pacific, gray on a cloudy day. She and Celeste paddling out. The warm water, a quiet rush. Instead she saw her mother gasping for air in a hospital bed. Her sisters on either side of her, all their hands clasped together in a knot on Lacey’s chest. Margarita heard Ollie calling her name. She’d forgotten where she was, what she was supposed to be doing. The director called for everyone to take five.