What's Mine and Yours(47)
She ran into the DP and the prop stylist in the bathroom. They were washing their hands at the sink, talking about the president. On the news, he had compared the people who crossed the border to livestock.
“My parents came over on a plane cause we’re Korean, right?” said the DP. “They didn’t cross the border, but he’s still talking about us when he says something like that.”
“I don’t know,” the prop stylist said. “He’s probably talking about, like, drug addicts and people in the cartels.” She looked at Margarita, waiting for her to weigh in.
“Right,” Margarita said, “like people who don’t belong here in the first place.”
“Exactly.” The prop stylist smiled at her. “Where do you live, Margot?”
“Oh, I live in Venice. It’s just this little pink house, super small, but I love it.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” the DP said. “We’re neighbors. I just bought a place off Rose. Where are you exactly?”
The prop stylist saved her. “You ever been to Black Bear? They’ve got this thyme syrup they mix into Sazerac. I know what you’re thinking—what the fuck am I doing drinking Sazerac…”
The women wandered back to set together, the DP complaining about closing costs. Margarita commiserated and asked whether either of them knew when they would be cutting checks. No one had mentioned anything to her yet about when she would get paid.
The director cut in, looking Margarita in the eyes for the first time all day. “Does anybody even read their contract anymore? Why do we even bother making contracts if they don’t read?”
Margarita saw then the only way to win was to show him she was more than he thought of her. She asked to start from the top again. Ollie coached her through. You remember the bottomless mimosas. Your grandmother loves the tulips. You miss your boyfriend in Thailand. Margarita nailed it all. The last thing she had to do was fling herself back on the pillows, shut her eyes, and sigh. She imagined an orgasm, a gorgeous line of coke, and they were done. There was a brief smattering of applause.
Margarita went around to shake hands as the crew started setting up for another shoot. Even the makeup artist had a different woman in her chair. Margarita showed herself out. She was waiting for the elevator when she heard Ollie running down the hall.
“I asked about the check for you,” he said. “You were paid half on signing. It should have been deposited into your account a while ago. You get the rest after they green-light the clip.”
Margarita did her best to cover her shock. She had blown through the money already, hadn’t even noticed when it came in. It might be weeks until she got the rest, if she ever did. She thanked Ollie and left.
She had an hour before her business meeting with Celeste, but she wanted to squeeze in another post first. It was lunchtime. She wandered until she found a café with outdoor seating, an empty bistro table where someone had left a paid bill and an unfinished plate of risotto. Margarita sat down swiftly, discarded the squeezed lemon, ground pepper over the plate. She took pictures of the table, herself, the view of the street. She uploaded them and promised more food content later in the day.
She and Celeste were making another recipe video this afternoon, although Margarita’s agent thought they were a waste of time. But Celeste said that if people liked you, then brands liked you, and that was all that mattered, more than your reel. Margarita had seen it work for other people. Why couldn’t it work for her?
She closed her eyes. They would make a good video today. They would get fourteen thousand likes. She’d get tapped for a sponsored post for nontoxic moisturizer or smoothie home delivery, then move to West Hollywood or Silver Lake. Fuck it—to Venice. She’d go to Black Bear, and run into the director at the bar, order Sazerac. She would know what he wanted, pull him into the bathroom, an expensive candle burning on a shelf. He’d slip his hands in her underwear, stand her up on the toilet. She’d brace herself against the ceiling while his tongue split her apart.
She could see it all; she could see her problems flitting away. A server tapped her on the shoulder and told her to move along.
They filmed themselves in Celeste’s kitchen, in short, halting clips, as they drank sake and assembled the cold ramen. They wore cutoffs and swimsuits to show off Celeste’s rib tattoos and the large bells of Margarita’s breasts. They spiralized squash and soft boiled eggs, Celeste chopped tomatoes and swung her hips, and Margarita placed a bonito flake on her tongue, squeezed her eyes at the sharp taste. At the end, they bowed.
They went back and forth about whose account should host the video. In the end, Celeste won because she’d bought the ingredients, and they were in her house. Margarita could repost it on @Margot_doez_LA, but it wasn’t the same as being the originator of the content.
“What are you complaining about?” Celeste said. “You’re already going to look prettier than me.” She was referring to the professional makeup, but even she didn’t seem to believe it. Celeste was blond and brown eyed with golden skin for a white girl. She had bleached teeth, a flesh-colored mole on her cheek that added interest, long jawbones, and a tiny, rounded chin (diamond).
They had locked Celeste’s grubby Maltese, Annelise, in the bathroom while they were filming. They let her out and went to the yard with the vape and a bottle of whiskey. It was sunset, a magic hour in Venice. They sat under the lime tree, and Margarita stroked the dog between the ears.