Thayer laughed. “Didn’t used to be,” he said. “Until I came here. Until I got into this stinking, corrupt business called media.”
“You still have your book,” Josh said. “Thayer’s going to be a great writer.”
“I doubt it,” Lola said.
“I like that you’re sleeping your way to the top,” Thayer said. “I’d do it if I could. But I don’t relish the thought of a dick up my ass.”
“It’s the metaphorical dick that counts,” Josh said.
“What do you talk to Oakland about?” Thayer asked. “He’s an old man.”
“What does any girl talk to you about?” Josh said. “I thought talking wasn’t the point.”
“As if you’d know,” Thayer said, looking at Josh in disgust.
It went on like this for a while, and then some other people showed up. One was a girl with very pale skin and dyed black hair and a face that resembled a pug’s. “I hate beauty queens,” she screamed when she saw Lola.
“Shut up, Emily. Lola’s okay,” Thayer said.
More time passed. Thayer played seventies music, and they drank the vodka and danced in weird ways, and Josh filmed it on his cell phone. Then two guys and a girl came in. They were tall and pretty, like models, but Thayer said they weren’t models, they were the rich-kid offspring of some famous New Yorkers, and if their kids didn’t look like models, they would disown them. The girl was named Francesca, and she had long, narrow hands that she moved around when she talked. “I’ve seen you before,” she said to Lola. “At that Nicole Kidman screening.”
“Yes,” Lola said loudly, over the music. “I was with my boyfriend, Philip Oakland.”
“I love Nicole.” The girl sighed.
“Do you know her?” Lola asked.
“I’ve known her my whole life. She came to my third birthday party.” Francesca took Lola into the bathroom, and they put on lipstick. The bathroom smelled of damp towels and vomit. “Philip Oakland is cool,” Francesca said. “How’d you meet him?”
“I’m his researcher,” Lola said.
“I dated my teacher when I was sixteen. I love older men.”
“Me, too,” Lola said, glancing out at Thayer and Josh, who were pretending to box each other. She rolled her eyes and decided she’d tortured Philip long enough. “I have to go,” she said.
When she got back to One Fifth, she found Philip in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Kitty,” he exclaimed. He put down the glass and immediately gave her a hug, then he tried to make out with her and put his hand on her breast. She stiffened and pulled away. “What’s wrong?” he said. “I tried to call you.”
“I was busy.”
“Really?” he asked, as if surprised that she might have something else to do. “Where were you?”
She shrugged. “With friends.” She took out a glass and poured herself some wine, taking the glass with her into the bedroom.
He waited a beat and then followed her. “Kitty?” he said, sitting next to her on the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Reading Star magazine.”
“You don’t have to be pissed off,” he said, trying to pull the magazine away.
“Stop it,” she said, swatting at his hand and pretending to concentrate on an ad for Halloween costumes. “I have to figure out what I should be for Halloween.” She paused. “I could be Lindsay Lohan or Paris Hilton, but then I don’t know what you would be. Or I could be a dominatrix. Then you could be a businessman, like that guy who lives in the penthouse. The one you hate.”
“Paul Rice?” Philip said. “A scumbag hedge-fund guy? Lola.” He stroked her leg. “I will do nearly anything for you. But I will not dress up for a child’s holiday.”
She sat up and glared at him. “It’s Halloween,” she said pointedly, as if the subject wasn’t open for discussion. “I want to go to parties. That’s what people do on Halloween. It’s the biggest holiday of the year.”
“Tell you what,” Philip said. “You can dress up however you want for me. We’ll stay home and have our own Halloween.”
“No,” Lola said. “What’s the point of dressing up if no one sees you?”