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“It can’t be easy for Liisa,” JJ mutters, staring at the tabletop. “My calling is to throw fabulous parties and raise a fortune for charity. People expect me to be a raging alcoholic. ‘Real Housewives of Laguna.’ But a therapist in therapy? And for addiction, no less. That must suck.”
“Coming clean on my sex addiction hasn’t exactly been my crowning glory,” Simon says. As soon as the words leave his lips, he’s inspired by an idea for a song. But the thought fizzles almost as quickly as it formed. Jeremy would have known how to work the concept into beautifully ironic lyrics, and Simon would have found a complementary melody. But since Simon lost his songwriting partner, his own creative output has dried up. Worse, he knows in his heart that more recent compositions have become derivative and clichéd. He’s a caricature of the talent he once was.
Salvador motions from Simon to JJ. “Lovely as it is to see you two darlings, I have final fittings for my show all week. Five of me couldn’t get everything done that I need to.” He turns to JJ. “What’s with the urgent rendezvous?”
JJ shakes her head as if confused by the question. “Elaine is dead.”
Salvador giggles in that anxious way of his. “Not exactly a news flash, love.”
“Doesn’t it worry you?”
His nose wrinkles. “That needle wasn’t in my arm.”
Before JJ can respond, the bald guy in the blue glasses steps up to their table. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But I’m such a fan! I can’t even tell you!”
“Thank you,” Simon says. “But we’re in the middle of a meeting here.”
“Of course,” the man says, looking over to Salvador with starry eyes. “I’m a buyer for Saks. And I just have to tell you, Salvador, that your spring collection absolutely blew my mind!”
“Jesus,” Simon grumbles. I’m now overshadowed by this second-rate Vera Wang?
Salvador lays a hand on his chest. “How sweet. Just what I needed to hear today. I’m touched. And you are…?”
“Brody… Brody Stevens.” He extends his hand toward Salvador.
Simon pushes the man’s arm down. “We’re busy here, Brody. Would you be an absolute dear and fuck off?”
Brody spins on his heels and mutters something as he walks off, but the only words Simon can make out are “overrated has-been.”
Salvador frowns at him. “Was that necessary?”
“Maybe not necessary, but quite satisfying.”
Salvador turns to JJ again. “We’re all saddened by Elaine’s loss. But she was an addict.”
“We’re all addicts,” JJ points out.
“Yes, but her crutch was opioids. That’s night-and-day different.”
“Is it though?”
“Absolutely!” Simon interjects. “Say you fell off the wagon, JJ…”
“What if I did?”
“Then you’d get blackout drunk and likely end up God knows where after some poor decision.” Simon motions to Salvador. “And if he did, he’d go on some all-night pill and powder bender. And if I did, I’d get laid. Repeatedly. We’d all wake up the next day full of shame and self-loathing. But the key difference is that we would wake up.”
“It’s true.” Salvador nods. “With downers—and let’s face it, it’s basically nothing but fentanyl these days—it’s Russian roulette every single time. Especially if you use alone.”
“It’s like an occupational hazard in my world,” Simon says. “I couldn’t tell you how many friends I’ve lost over the years to heroin and now fentanyl.”
Salvador shudders. “I lost my Misha to the needle only last year. My absolute fave. Nobody—I mean nobody—could rock a runway like her. But that same attitude put her underground at just twenty-two.” He raises a palm skyward. “Misha might’ve been the love of my life.”
“Hang on.” Simon grimaces. “You’re straight?”
“I don’t do labels, Simon.”
JJ rolls her eyes, showing no patience for their digression. “Elaine didn’t use needles!”
