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Eliza checked in with the maître d’ of Beverly Hills’ hottest new restaurant, taking care to select a small table near the window that would fit her prospective client’s taste. This lunch had to be perfect, and Eliza was prepared to cater to every strange whim and quirky desire.
She knew Marguerite Hill hated to sit outside (too sunny) and hated to sit in a booth (too sticky) and hated to sit near the restrooms (for obvious reasons). Finally, Eliza located a table that seemed to fit the bill all around and promptly sat, ordering a bottle of Marguerite’s favorite white wine to be waiting, chilled.
With a minute to spare, Eliza daintily touched up her hair and makeup. She sped through a few emails on her phone, forcing herself to stay busy, busy, busy so her mind didn’t wander to less-than-pleasant topics. Such as the state of her relationship with her husband.
Eliza put her phone down when she caught sight of the familiar, frizzled hairstyle signaling Marguerite Hill’s arrival. Marguerite, bestselling self-help author of the past year, was a hot commodity in the publishing industry. And if Eliza’s luck held, today would be the day she swooped Ms. Hill out from under Harold’s nose and secured her as a client. It would put Eliza Tate PR on the map with a sparkling splash and the pop of a champagne cork.
The server showed Marguerite to her seat. Eliza stood, taking in the woman’s aura—the entire charade that had become famous along with Marguerite herself. The author was young, in her early forties, but she kept up a carefully groomed image that gave her the impression of being much wiser than her years.
Her blond hair was dyed with streaks of silvery-gray—a strange style that interns assured Eliza was completely en vogue. The spiral curls had been teased into a frizzy mane that appeared to bloom from the very roots of Marguerite’s scalp, twisting away like blackberry vines, barely contained with a floral scarf in bright shades of pinks and greens and blues.
Marguerite wore a bright-orange sheer kimono draped over her shoulders. Beneath, a simple white bodysuit disappeared into high-waisted jeans that exposed a trim figure, one kept in great shape thanks to a diet of earthy greens, plant-based proteins, and weeklong fasts. The whole outfit was topped by a pair of god-awful sandals wedged onto bare feet.
Ironically, this version of Marguerite Hill was not the one Eliza had first met several years before. That Marguerite Hill had flaunted her slim figure in tight designer dresses and sky-high heels. Her hair had been dyed jet-black and straightened until it shone like a glittering veil. Her eye makeup had been heavy and dark, her mascara thick and voluminous. She had been picture-perfect.
Then her book had skyrocketed to success. Her Instagram account had gained hundreds of thousands of followers overnight. She’d begun posting inspirational quotes from her first book, Take Charge, followed by images of her new, raw-food diet. She’d steadily begun to post photos of herself and her new look.
Soon enough, she’d secured a slew of sponsors—everyone from natural makeup companies to organic clothing lines to free-range chicken farms wanted to be linked to success. Everyone wanted to hitch their wagon to Marguerite’s. The smell of money burned strong in the air.
Eliza had watched, amused, as the author traded cute pumps for leather sandals and tight dresses for baggy overalls. Her smoky eye shadow had evaporated, only to be replaced by expensive (and invisible) antiaging creams and lotions. Her hair had gone from black to gray in the snap of a finger. Overnight, Marguerite Hill had become the most popular guru in America with the bohemian lifestyle to prove it.
Marguerite’s fans loved her new vibe. A vibe that, as Eliza well knew, was the result of a carefully curated collection of social media photos. It was all bullshit. But to Eliza’s great surprise, Marguerite’s fans gobbled the bullshit out of her (expensively moisturized) palm.
“Hello, darling,” Marguerite said in a slightly clipped, almost-accented voice. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me for tea.”
Eliza didn’t bother to correct her about the fact that this wasn’t a tea party. Marguerite had been born in Louisiana and was about as British as Tony Soprano, but that hadn’t stopped her from perfecting a lilt to her speech that was faintly reminiscent of an obscure European country.
As an immigrant who had spent endless hours trying to eradicate any trace of accent from her speech, Eliza found this practice baffling. Then again, Roman let people think he was as Italian as his name, which was a total fabrication of his true heritage. Apparently, Eliza surrounded herself with people who preferred to be anyone other than themselves.
“Absolutely,” Eliza said. “I hope this restaurant will suffice. They have the sashimi platter that we both adore.”
Marguerite winced. “Actually, dear, I’ve gone vegan.”
“I hadn’t seen the news.”
“I decided to go completely vegan about two hours ago.” Marguerite put a hand over her heart and let out a tinkling laugh. “But as I always say, one must seize the day! Why wait until tomorrow when we can start today?”
“Take charge!” Eliza echoed weakly, wondering why Marguerite couldn’t have waited until tomorrow to go vegan. The sashimi platter at this place was worth breaking a fast over. Wasn’t pescatarian in these days?
“Surely you haven’t given up wine,” Eliza said quickly. “I have a bottle of your favorite chilling.”
Marguerite made a sucking sound through her teeth. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about it. I sort of like the idea of being a complete teetotaler.”
“I’ve always thought there was something a bit romantic about authors and alcohol,” Eliza said, grasping at straws. “Having a glass of sparkling wine late at night, sitting at the computer, tap-tap-tapping away at your next piece of genius.”
Marguerite rested a pale, manicured fingernail to her lips. “You know, I think you’re right. Fuck, I’m glad I didn’t post that I’d given up alcohol online, or I’d have to turn down this glorious bottle of wine! Screw it. I can always be booze-free tomorrow.”
“Absolutely.” Eliza hurriedly gestured for the server, announcing as he arrived, “We’re ready for the wine. And a bit of the complimentary bread whenever you’re ready.”
“Bread is out,” Marguerite said when the basket arrived on the table. “I’ve always loved a good hunk of warm gluten, but I’m thinking I might have to abstain soon. Gluten-free is big. What a drag.”
“Tell me about it,” Eliza said, grabbing her newly filled glass of wine and taking a swig, forcing herself not to touch the delicious, steaming basket of bread on the table or the artisan garlic butter. “Speaking of, I have some ideas that I think could be fabulous for your image.”
“Is that so?”
“I have an entire proposal if you’d like to see it.” Eliza removed a binder, placed it tantalizingly on the table. “But I think we should order first. If, of course, there’s something here that works for you?”
Marguerite crooked her eyebrow, leaned forward. “Let’s cut to the chase, Eliza. You and I both know I’d really love to have the rack of ribs, but just in case someone’s watching, I’ve got to stick to my vegan shtick.” She flicked the menu open and scanned it with a frown. “Which of these would look best in a photo?”
