The Unraveling of Cassidy Holmes

We arrived at the Savoy, hiding behind our purses again until we were in the lobby. The other girls wanted to stay at a normal hotel, but I talked them into swinging the Savoy. The studio financing Lunch at Midnight had given us a per diem for the promo, but it was pitifully small. I told the others that they should use some of their Cherry Cola money to cover the rest—or, in Merry’s case, to just pull out her black Amex.

Emily shepherded us into a waiting elevator and we stood silently as we ascended to our floor. Yumi’s and Meredith’s eyes were unfocused and staring off into the distance, and I imagined that their brains were clicking and whirring, measuring up what had happened with Cassidy—plucking thoughts of obscure, bygone days, mentally profiling any number of stalkers, wondering if maybe she’d fallen down a rabbit hole of painkillers. I stared ahead at the double doors, mentally patting down my appearance and taking inventory of what might be published in tonight’s online gossip rags: neat face, no mascara smearing, just a composed countenance. Soft leather jacket, hair in honeyed curls, ring on a necklace hidden under my crew neck, nice designer jeans that flatter my ass, good heels. My purse matched my shoes, but not too obviously so.

“I’ll change your flights,” Emily said, leaning back into her role as assistant to all of us. “Get packed and meet me back at this elevator in fifteen minutes.”

The elevator dinged and the golden doors slid open. Merry and Yumi, nearest the doors, slowly emerged from their thoughts and exited. As I made to follow, Emily caught my elbow. Stunned, I snatched my arm back and glared at her.

We shared eye contact for just a moment, then she dropped her gaze.

I went left; she moved off to the right, to the opposite end of the hall.

Upon entering my darkened suite, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the edge of the mauve bedspread. The entire room was glazed in warm pink, and with the curtains drawn there was only a slice of blue light making a line across the carpet. The bureau had a shadow where the television had been removed, per my usual request the day I checked in. My throat hurt, and I could feel the dry swallow ripple down my curved spine. I let my eyes lose focus on the white sliver on the ground and dabbed a dented toe into the soft nap.

God. Cass was dead. She was not coming back. And even though we barely heard from her anymore—no one did—we’d been through so much together that it was like feeling a part of my distant family had disappeared.

A hiccupping sob tore out of my body and I brought a hand to my mouth to stifle it. I could feel the pain of her death shivering upward, from the base of my hip bones toward my neck. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I bit down the tears and stood up, casting my eyes quickly around the room. Pack.

I was the closest one in the group to Cass. I was allowed to take a moment to mourn.

I needed to know more, but did I really want to hear it? Could I just imagine that maybe, for a little while, Cass was just fine? I itched to look at my phone but resisted.

Without any regard for organization, I dumped armfuls of clothes into my suitcase. My hands trembled, and when I touched my face they were ice-cold. I applied pressure to my eyes with my chilled fingertips, checking for wetness and dabbing at my eyelashes to keep any mascara from smearing.

I needed a drink. But the minibar had been cleared out by strict request. I touched the ring on the chain and said an affirmation: I do not need a drink.

Taking a deep breath, I slung the suitcase to the floor and sat on it to zip it up. I jammed my sunglasses on, did a once-over of the room, and hauled myself to my feet.

Emily was waiting with the other two. We wordlessly filed into the elevator, and Em had had the foresight to ask the hotel for additional security as we rolled our bags to the car and headed for Heathrow.

In the VIP lounge at the airport, I slipped away from the other girls to the bar for a glass of seltzer water, but asked the bartender to throw in a thimbleful of gin. Just a taste, not even a full shot, just enough to warm my sternum when it went down. I didn’t need to get drunk, or even tipsy; I only wanted my insides to stop shivering.

It was impossible to avoid televisions in airports; but surprisingly, Cassidy’s death wasn’t making a big splash. Her body had been found only hours earlier. Conjecture is always thrown about in these types of cases; I imagined that we’d hear all sorts of nonsense before the truth came out—if it came out at all. One of the screens nearest to the bar shared a snippet of news.

A talking head spoke. “The body of Cassidy Holmes . . . ex-member of the once-chart-topping girl group Gloss . . . humanitarian . . . found just a few short hours ago . . . other three members of the Gloss girls . . . not reachable for comment . . . they have tweeted that they are . . . by this unexpected loss. There is no word from the Los Angeles medical examiner as to the reason . . . death. We’ll keep you updated, here . . . BBC One.” The scene switched to the London Eye for another story.

I got off the barstool and rejoined the others, slumping in a lounge chair. Merry put a hand on my arm.

“Rose, you okay?”

Had I told the bartender to splash a thimbleful of gin in that glass? Or had he seen past the sunglasses and sympathetically poured a long shot? My neck was loosening, swinging as if on a light hinge. My back felt pleasantly numb, a far cry from its usual twinging. I remembered now why I relied on alcohol so much—all pain, emotional and physical, dulled. I pulled the bridge of my sunglasses down on my nose and squinted at Merry through one eye. “Mm-hmm.”

“Come on,” said Emily, as she clasped my forearm and hauled me to my feet. “First class is boarding.”

Yumi tucked me into my seat and then sat down next to me. “Hey, should I be worried?”

“Chill, I’m fine.” I wanted to snarl that Yumi didn’t know me—all she knew were rumors, and rumors can be wrong. I accepted a glass of champagne from a flight attendant. I’d already slipped a little bit today—but it was not a normal day, and champagne didn’t really count. Yumi didn’t say anything else.

The tarmac grumbled beneath us as we rolled down the runway. It magnified in my bones as a warm rattle, massaging me from the inside out. I buried my face in a pillow and dozed off. My dreams were nondescript: black, quick, dissipating like incense. At one point I woke up and saw Merry across the aisle watching a free movie on the seat-back screen, and Yumi dozing next to me. I finished the last of my flat champagne before settling back into my recliner.

Twelve hours later, we touched down in Los Angeles. I didn’t wake until we were at the gate. I could sense the residue of the alcohol on the inside of my mind, like a window fogged with grease. My mouth tasted sour and my eyes felt sticky, like they’d been closed for too long.

The monitors in front of us were streaming the red CNN banner as the plane rustled with the sounds of disembarkation: the puckering noise of all seat belts releasing, people standing in the aisle to reach for overhead bins.

I fiddled with the ring on my necklace as I jammed on my shoes. Yumi clutched my arm suddenly, and I flinched away. But she wasn’t looking at my jewelry. “Rose,” she said, pointing at the seat-back screen.

Though we couldn’t hear the sound, it was obvious that the subject of the news story was Cassidy. A photo of Cass from the shoulders up, taken a decade before, popped up in a box next to the newscaster’s head. Most people, when they are relegated to a photo box on CNN, have the indignity of a driver’s license photo, but this was an old professional picture from the height of Gloss. Head shot. World tour. Short blunt bangs and honeyed highlights, glossy pink lips. The anchorwoman looked very serious as she spoke, but our eyes were drawn to the caption below Cassidy’s photo.

Cassidy Holmes: suspected suicide.

*

November 16, 1999

Cassidy

I’ve never felt more alive. The crowd is eating out of my hand. My teeth are glittering, my eyes are shining, my voice is strong. Once the initial jitteriness passed and I got out onto that stage, my confidence ballooned up inside me. I can feel the energy quivering off my body; I can almost visualize the rays moving outward and settling like a stupefying mist on the audience.

I can win this.

The final notes of Madonna’s “Frozen” linger in the air as I take a flourishing bow. As I unbend, I can see the audience on their feet, clapping and cheering, and the judges look pleased as well.

Matilda is beaming. “Wow!” she exclaims. “What do you think, Jenna?”

Jenna Kaulfield says, “It was splendid. You were splendid, dear.”

Jonah, Emma, Thomas, Marsha: their words are a blur. I can register that my mouth hurts from my ever-widening smile, and Marsha’s last words: “If it were based on this performance alone, I would offer you a contract in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat,” she repeats, as the crowd continues to whoop.

I am ushered off the stage to find Anna near tears. “You were so good,” she whispers, as she takes the microphone.