Lunch with Jenny is more like a refueling of our bodies with caffeine—the wraps and sandwiches just help the triple-espresso shots wrapped in sugar flavoring go down. When things are really bad we’ll head around the corner to the place with the cute waiters and replace caffeine with cosmos. Today’s not that bad—but we considered it.

As we ingest caffeine/alcohol, and just enough calories to keep hunger from tipping our stress levels into breakdown territory, we bitch—about Hollywood Night, about Candace, about Carlos (the vain, sleazy host)—about the industry at large, about the pointless tasks we’re given on a daily basis that stop us from doing our jobs. Like a couple of cynical aunts we tear into the lot of them, dismantling and exposing their idiocy like a couple of witches casting spells through insults, mean nicknames, and tutting eye-rolls. We say all the things we wouldn’t even dare think inside the office, nothing that annoys us going unpunished. It’s not pretty, and anyone overhearing us would think we’re the worst people in the world, but we know it’s just for us, just so that we can save ourselves the money and bother of the therapist’s couch or the confessional booth.

Today, though, Jenny is more interested in listening than venting, and my issues aren’t work-related. I give her the story of last night, dwelling longer than I probably should on how Teo looked when he picked me up, and getting a little embarrassed when I have to describe what we were doing in the crowd later on. It’s the argument that I really want to talk about though, and Jenny leans forward, wide eyes almost filling her thick-rimmed glasses, when I tell her about the confrontation.

“…and then I just walked away. Left him there in the alleyway. Got an Uber, came home, and watched trashy television to distract me from thinking about it until I went to sleep.”

Jenny says nothing for a second, her face frowning with thought.

“I don’t get it,” she says, as if I left something out. “He left town because you wouldn’t run away with him?”

“No. I mean, yes he asked me to run away with him a ton of times, but he was supposed to meet me at prom that night—we’d talked about it for weeks. Either he was trying to play some cruel trick on me, or he isn’t telling me something… I don’t know. I just know I’m done trying to get through to him, trying to get him to explain it.”

Jenny drains the last of her coffee and shakes her head empathetically.

“Well I can see why you’re so confused. You think maybe he had someone else? Maybe he was just overwhelmed by everything? Or maybe he…you know, didn’t actually love you like that?”

I look down at my half-eaten Mediterranean wrap and sigh—I’ve asked myself all those things and more way too many times to bother doing it with Jenny.

“Like I said: I don’t care anymore.”

“You sure about that?”

I look up at Jenny with a slightly shocked expression.

“I’m sure,” I say.

Jenny holds her palms up and looks aside in a ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ pose.

“I’m just saying, it sounded like you still cared when you were describing what a good kisser he was ten seconds ago.”

I stare at her with full incredulity now, but Jenny’s unfazed.

“You must have gone on a dozen first dates since I met you, and I never heard you talk about any of them with that kind of look.”

“What look?”

“There was a look—when you talked about him.”

“There was not a ‘look.’”

Jenny nods.

“If you didn’t even know you were doing it, then that says even more.”

I fold my arms and sit back to glare at her.

“You’re supposed to have my back on this, you know? Isn’t that the third rule of Bitch Club? No devil’s advocates?”

“I am on your side—that’s why I think maybe you shouldn’t cut him off so soon. You’re clearly attracted to him, and he’s clearly still into you. I know things didn’t end well between you, but you’re both different people now…”

“Jenny!” I almost shout. “Teo broke me so hard I almost swore off men for life. You think I can make myself forget all that just so I can…screw around with him?”

She shrugs apologetically. “Maybe screwing around with him will help you forget. At the very least it might put it all into perspective—he’s just a guy, he doesn’t define who you are or what you can do. Have wild, crazy sex with him, long enough to see his flaws and realize he’s not the perfect boyfriend who exists in your head, then you can move on. Or maybe not. Maybe you’re doing the right thing, running hard and fast from this and putting it all behind you for good. I just don’t want you to have any regrets if you miss this chance.”

I try to think of a comeback, something to dismiss the logic there, to avoid actually allowing Jenny’s idea to breathe, but my phone vibrates on the table and distracts me. I pick it up and open the text message.

BRING CASUAL CLOTHES TO DOUBLETREE HOTEL. NAMES MR & MRS BORGES. ROOM 37. NOW!!!!

Jenny must notice how I slump miserably in my chair because she asks, “What is it?”

I hold the phone toward her so she can read the message. She frowns for a second until the penny drops.

“Oh,” she says, looking up. “Candace still sneaking around with Carlos?”

I roll my eyes in disgust. “Did you think they’d stopped?”

Jenny frowns. “Isn’t Carlos’ wife pregnant?”

I nod my head gravely.

“Shit,” Jenny whispers. “How can they not have been caught by now?”

“Caught? It’s not like there’s anybody in the office who doesn’t know.”

“Yeah, but his wife doesn’t.”

I look at Jenny with the look of someone sharing something secret.

“She does.”

Jenny leans forward, knowing there’s more.

“About three or four months ago—when I heard she was pregnant—I couldn’t live with myself anymore, knowing that I was helping both of them cover it up. I sent her an anonymous email that told her everything.”

“She didn’t do anything?”

I shrug.

“I don’t think so. Just last week she visited him in the studio, all happy smiles and cheek kisses.”

“Wow. Makes you wonder how someone could just…not care.”

I let out a sad sigh.

“Who knows? I’m sure she’s got her reasons. Maybe she tolerates it to keep her family together. Maybe she’s afraid of breaking away from him, and the paychecks. Maybe she still loves him enough to put up with it. Shit—maybe she just didn’t get the email.”

I look up and see Jenny smiling.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says, still smiling. “I just think it’s funny how much easier it is to give the benefit of the doubt when we’re not involved. Maybe you should cut Teo that kind of slack. At least for now. You can always run away again later.”

“That’s it,” I say playfully, standing up and putting on my jacket. “You’re paying.”

Forty minutes later, after a quick stop at the studio to grab Carlos’ clothes, I’m at the Doubletree hotel. After telling the concierge that Mr. and Mrs. Borges are expecting me, he directs me to room thirty-seven. I make my way up to the expensive suite and knock at the door with the ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging from the handle.

“Who is it?” I hear Candace’s voice clearly, her sharp, abrasive tones slicing through the door, impossible to insulate against.

“It’s me, Ash.”

“You took your sweet fucking time! Get in here already!”

Bracing myself for the mental and emotional fatigue every interaction with Candace brings, I push open the door and enter the suite.

If I didn’t know what they had done in this suite last night, I would have assumed a group of about twenty rock stars had spent the night partying here.

The place is a mess. There are sheets and clothes crumpled up across the entire floor, so that I have to pick my steps carefully as I also try to wince away the smell of day-old seafood, too-strong perfume, and the strongest sex smell I’ve ever encountered. There are plates on the bed carrying a smashed lobster shell and a series of sugary treats—all tasted, none finished. I accidentally kick over a bottle of wine and look down to find a dark stain on the hotel carpet.

“Careful!” Candace scolds from the corner of the room, where I see that she’s applying make-up with the focus of a safecracker, pausing only to swig quickly from yet another wine bottle.

I shriek suddenly at the sight of the tall, half-naked man approaching me from the side in a hurry. I look, see that it’s Carlos, shower water flinging off him like a shaking dog as he ruffles himself with his towel, knowing his cock is hanging there just a few feet away from me, then look away, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the rug. Still, I see Candace glare at me with a sense of possessiveness you wouldn’t really expect from a mistress.

“Those my clothes?” Carlos says.

“Uh…yeah,” I say, holding them out to him while looking the other way still.

“Great,” Carlos says, over the sound of him still vigorously scrubbing himself dry with the towel.

When he takes them from me, he says, “We’ve got a problem.”

I look up, and finally feel comfortable enough to look at Carlos now that he’s pulling underwear on. The host of Hollywood Night might look warm on camera, but in reality he looks too clean, too creepily perfect to be human. As if he were created by aliens to emulate humans—except these particular aliens only ever saw humans in toothpaste, fake tan, and hair gel commercials.

“What problem?” I ask.

“Did you see a guy down there, about five-nine, brownish hair, blue suit—looks a bit like Anderson Cooper?”

I pretend to really think about it.

“I don’t know. There are quite a lot of people in the lobby.”

Carlos groans with disappointment as he pulls on his shirt.

“That’s my agent. He’s here. Nearly bumped into him when I tried to leave this morning. He already suspects something. If he catches me here now, he’s gonna find out about us for sure.”

I nod as if I understand perfectly, though I still ask, “What’s wrong if he knows? I mean, he’s your agent. What does he care?”

Candace groans this time from the peanut gallery and I hear her mutter to herself in the mirror, still applying make-up.

“Just when you think one of them has a brain, they always prove you wrong.”

“Anne,” Carlos says, calling me by the wrong name as usual, leaning forward now and holding his palms together like he’s explaining something to a child, “I’m Carlos King.”

He says his name as if it’s supposed to explain everything, and though I wait for more, there’s nothing but an uncomfortable silence. Just as I open my mouth to say something, however, he continues.

“I guarantee you a certain demographic wherever you put me—a Broadway musical, a game show, a primetime sitcom, and you know why that is?”

Again the uncomfortably long silence that he only breaks when I open my mouth to say something.

“Because I’m clean. Straight. Pure as a priest. No skeletons in the closet, no blemishes on my record. I’m Teflon. My clothes don’t crease; my shit don’t smell. I’m a family man. I don’t curse, I don’t drink, I don’t take drugs, I don’t get angry. I always stop for fans, I reply to every letter with a signed photo. I’m primetime. Mainstream. I’m the guy your mother imagines when she thinks about you getting married. What I don’t do,” Carlos says, getting a little more aggressive now, “is fuck around on my pregnant wife. You getting the picture now, Anne?”

“Ash.”

“Huh?”

“My name’s Ash.”

Carlos sighs heavily and continues pulling his pants on.

“Whatever,” he says. “Point is, I need you to find out where my agent is and keep a lookout so I can get the hell out of this place without him noticing. Can you do that, Ash?”

I nod.

“You staying here, Candy?”

Candace turns around and smiles at him, and suddenly it feels like I’m not even in the room.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” she says slowly, as he approaches her. “Still need to recover.”

“Planning next time, more like,” Carlos says as he takes her around the waist and pulls her to him.

I try not to look as they kiss, in case I cringe so hard I develop a skin condition. But there’s something almost horrific about seeing these two together—something that could make a person a very successful horror director if they could figure out what it was.

“I’m not gonna forget last night for a while,” Candace gurgles in a creepy, babyish tone.

“Neither am I, considering those nails of yours left marks all over my body. If my wife sees them…”

Candace tries what I think is meant as a childish giggle, but comes out more as a throaty cackle.

“Better keep yourself away from her then.”

I knew they were having sex, but now that they’ve got their hands on each other, and are puckering up to each other’s lips noisily, the actual imagery of it forces itself into my mind. I’m gonna need the mental equivalent of bleach to feel clean again. Candace with the icy stiffness of a prototype waxwork, and Carlos with his hard vanity that ensures he’s never less than three feet away from anything which could mess up his hair, and never more than three feet away from a reflective surface. I’ve seen shop mannequins placed too close together that had more natural chemistry between them than these two.

“So…should I go look for the agent?” I say, if only to halt the possibility of them fucking right there in front of me.

“Yeah, hold up and I’ll show you a picture of him,” Carlos says, breaking away to grab his phone and show me. Candace glares at me like I’ve just spoiled her party.

About a half hour later I’ve successfully led Carlos out to a waiting cab, away from the agent who I discovered having a business meeting in the hotel restaurant. Now I’m standing beside Candace as we wait for a car ourselves, feeling so uncomfortable around her I genuinely wonder if she emits toxic radiation.

“You know,” I begin, feeling like if I can’t make this work now, I never will, “I’m not supposed to be doing stuff like this.”

Candace looks me up and down like I just emerged from a hole and asked her for a dollar.

“You’re a producer—it’s your job to make things run smoothly.”

“Yeah, with the show.”

“Honey, Carlos and I are the show.”

“Still,” I say, “I work really hard. I mean…all this. I don’t complain about it. But it sometimes feel like I have so much responsibility without any of the freedom.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” Candace says, her voice suddenly a directed hiss.

“What? No!”

“You’re talking about your segment, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, sure… But I’m not trying to… I’m just saying I think I deserve at least a chance—just a chance. I’ve been working for you for years now, and—”

“Listen, sugar,” Candace says, with fully patronizing dismissiveness. “You don’t need a segment—you need a man, clear and simple. Look at you. Perky tits, tight little body. That annoyingly straight nose, ugh. You make me sick! You know how many divorces and lies and years of hard work it took to look this good? And there you are completely oblivious to how quickly you’re gonna get old, and all you can fucking talk about is a ten-minute segment on a dumb gossip show. Don’t you dare get all self-righteous on me. You’re just sexually repressed.”

“My personal life has nothing to do—”

“Oh Christ, you’re annoying,” Candace says, turning away to show she’s not listening. “The only way I can tolerate you is thinking of what you’ll be like a decade from now—God, that’s funny!”

The car stops neatly in front of us, Candace moving toward it with perfect timing.

“Do us both a favor, Ash,” she says, as she slides into the back seat, “get laid.”

I move to follow her but Candace shuts the door before I can get close. I’m surprised for just long enough that she can tell the driver to go, leaving me standing there without a ride.

I hate Candace with the force of an entire social media mob, the kind of hatred most people reserve for politicians and rival football teams. But when both your enemy and your friends are telling you that you need to get a man, it gets pretty hard to keep on assuming that they’re all wrong.