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Deborah loathes LA. Everyone in LA always wants something from her, whether it’s fame, advice, or a hundred bucks. But the prospect of her own late-night show, after all these years, is too tempting to pass up. So she feeds Barry and Cora one last time, hauls herself onto the jet, and sips on a glass of extremely expensive champagne as the pilot announces they’ve crossed the state line into California.
She heads to the hotel after they arrive, wanting to freshen up before the event. It’s a dinner with network executives, not the kind of thing she's ever looked forward to and the kind she’s developed increasingly less patience for over the years. Men in their sixties and seventies, drunk on power and bad alcohol, determined to keep the world from changing. But show business is show business, ugly as it may be. If she nails this dinner, the rest of the week is just formalities.
A knock on the door interrupts her routine. Deborah sweeps the anti-wrinkle creams off the vanity and into her handbag, checking her makeup one more time before going to see who’s arrived.
She peers in the peephole, but the person on the other side isn’t someone she recognizes. Probably someone from the hotel, then, or an overeager PA looking to escort her to dinner. Deborah opens the door.
“Hello,” she says, waiting for the woman on the other side of the door to introduce herself.
“Hi,” the woman responds, a little warily. She’s a redhead, young, with all the poise of a baby giraffe. She’s wearing a navy blue dress that’s too tight in the shoulders. Around her waist, she’s tied a black sweater, and on her feet are the ugliest boots Deborah has ever seen. Probably a PA, then. “I’m with the agency?”
Deborah must look confused because the woman leans in, turning her head to look both ways down the hallway before clarifying. “The escort agency.”
Well, shit.
“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” is what Deborah manages to get out, voice an even tone that doesn’t at all match what she’s feeling inside.
Now it’s the woman’s turn to look confused, brow furrowing in a way that makes Deborah want to smooth it out with a finger and chastise her about frown lines. “You’re not Kathy Smith?”
Fuck Marcus and his insistence on fake names.
“I am, but…” Damien is about to be doubly fired, no matter how many tapestries he can get her.
It had started as a joke.
Wouldn’t it be funny, Deborah had suggested to Kiki one day, if she showed up to LA with a date half her age? What would the men she’d be meeting be able to say, with their twenty-something model girlfriends hanging off their arms?
“It super would, but where would you find a date like that?” Kiki had asked. “Not that you aren’t super hot, Deborah, because you are, but you and I both know how men think.”
“I guess I’d just have to hire one,” Deborah had said after a moment of mock consternation.
She and Kiki had been joking, but when she’d mentioned it in passing to Marcus later that day, he’d actually looked thoughtful.
“It might be a good way to drum up press,” he’d said.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it,” she’d responded, fiddling with a gaudy porcupine-shaped paperweight on his desk. She thought maybe she’d gotten it for him a couple Christmases ago.
“Only if you’re okay with it, of course. But that really might be a smart way to get attention focused on you, to show the execs that people would watch your show.”
“God forbid people should care about my talent,” Deborah had muttered, but Marcus was right and she’d known it. To get green-lit she has to prove that she could appeal to multiple demographics. What better way to do that than some good old-fashioned publicity?
“I’ll do it,” she’d announced, rising from her chair and dropping the paperweight with an unceremonious thump. “But Damien better find me the fourth Hemsworth brother. If we’re doing this, I want to do it in style.”
The woman currently standing in front of her couldn’t even be a distant cousin of Chris, Liam, and Luke. She looks like she wouldn’t know a dumbbell if one hit her in the face, and Deborah suspects she’s never been described as sun-kissed in her life.
“I requested a man,” Deborah says simply. The woman’s eyes widen in understanding. She pulls out a cell phone from her bag and waggles it at Deborah.
“Look, I’ll call the agency and try to get it sorted out. Can I come inside though?” Deborah calculates the odds that this woman is secretly a stalker/serial killer and opens the door wider. Even if she is, Deborah thinks she could probably take her.
Irritatingly, the woman makes herself immediately at home, slouching against the bureau as she holds her phone up to her ear. Her boots crush footprints into the plush carpet, and Deborah shutters to think what kind of dirt she’s just tracked in.
Not to be outdone, Deborah sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls out her own phone. She calls Marcus first, then Damien, but neither of them pick up. Across the room, the woman is having similar luck.
“What's your name?” Deborah asks after leaving a fourth voicemail. If a strange woman is going to be in her room, Deborah might as well know something about her. Besides, she’s a potential viewer , a very Marcus-like voice tells her. It wouldn’t do to come off as cold or aloof, or any of the other cardinal sins that women can commit.
“Theresa,” the woman says, after a too-long moment of hesitation. Some of the brashness she had just moments ago has disappeared.
Deborah very carefully doesn’t purse her lips. “No, too provincial. Pick again.”
The woman crosses her arms. “Excuse me?”
Deborah waves off her indignation. “I know that’s not really your name. That’s not how these things work. Now pick again.”
“Kayla?” the woman offers, sounding even less enthused than before.
“God no, I don’t want it to sound like you just got a degree in marketing at USC.”
That actually draws a laugh out of the woman. It’s not a pretty sound, but Deborah likes its realness. It’s almost a pity when it’s cut off by the ring of the woman’s phone.
“Hi, yes, it’s me, it’s Ava,” she says. Deborah doesn’t mind Ava, as far as names go. “Who else would it be? What do you mean you don’t have me saved in your phone? We have a problem. I have a client here, and she says she requested a man. What do you mean, ‘I have a boyish charm?’ Just put me on the phone with Jimmy.”
The woman– Ava rolls her eyes at Deborah, inviting her into a shared confidence. Deborah is surprised to find herself more than willing to accept. Despite her frankly terrible sartorial choices, there’s something intriguing about Ava. The beginnings of a plan are forming in her mind, one that’s sure to drive Marcus up the wall.
“Hi, Jimmy. Yeah, Kayla fucked– messed up again.” She glances over at Deborah, as if gauging if the word fuck has offended her. Deborah’s much more hurt by the implication that she looks like someone who would hold that view. “I have the client right here. Do you want me to put her on?”
Ava holds out the phone to her. She has absolutely massive hands, almost swallowing the phone in their enormity. Deborah takes the phone from her gingerly (who knows what kinds of undiscovered germs millennials have?) and puts it to her ear.
“This is Deb– Kathy,” she says, though she doesn’t even know if this Jimmy person knows who she is. He probably has middle managers to do all this shit.
“Kathy, I am so, so sorry, we will have someone else over there as soon as possible–”
She cuts him off. “Actually, I think we’ll be fine.”
They want publicity; she can do them one better. She can give them scandal.
Across the room, she can see Ava staring at her like she’s just grown wings (or wrinkles).
“Are you sure? Someone can be there in ten minutes, or we can give you a discount...” Usually Deborah is in favor of people groveling before her, but right now she’s not in the mood.
“We’ll be fine,” she repeats, then hands the phone back to Ava, ignoring the looks she’s still shooting at Deborah.
Ava talks a little longer to Jimmy, but Deborah’s not really listening. Instead, she’s trying to figure out what clothes of hers might fit Ava in a pinch. The boots in particular have got to go. She wants scandal, not total disgrace.
Deborah waits until Ava hangs up to speak. “Ava will do.”
“Good, because it’s my real name.”
“That’s a bonus, then. What shoe size are you?”
Ava doesn’t seem to immediately follow the change in topic, mouthing the words to herself once before she answers. Thankfully, her massive hands don’t seem to correlate to the rest of her body. Deborah thinks she probably has a pair of flats lying around that Ava can wear without tripping over herself.
“Sit on the bed,” Deborah says, heading towards her suitcase of shoes.
Her back is to Ava, but she can hear her moving through the room and the sound of the bed sinking.
“Take off your boots,” she instructs once the sound has stopped, just in case Ava is actually as idiotic as many members of her generation seem to be. “Put them somewhere I can’t see them. Preferably the trash can.”
The shoes she has in mind are somewhere near the bottom of the suitcase, since Deborah had expected to have to wear heels the whole trip. Comfort was not something that factored in when something as important as a show was on the line.
“What the hell do you need all these shoes for?” Deborah starts at the sound of Ava’s voice, too close behind her. She turns around to find Ava looming over her, peering into the case.
“It’s called fashion.” She sniffs as she gives Ava a purposeful once-over. “Not that you would know anything about that.”
“Hey, this is my nicest dress!” Deborah doesn’t want to know what that implies about the rest of them.
“Put these on,” she says, holding out a pair of sparkly silver kitten heels. Not quite flats, but they’ll do.
Ava slips them on and straightens up, presenting herself to Deborah for inspection. The shoes clash with the rest of her outfit, but she looks a little less conspicuously normal.
Deborah nods her approval.
“I’ll do?” Ava asks. It’s a little more biting than it probably should be, given that Deborah is paying for her time.
“You will.” She reaches for Ava’s waist and unties the sweater. Ava watches Deborah carefully as she drapes it around Ava’s shoulders, tying it in a loose knot. “There. Now you look like every other Beverly Hills country club girl you’ll meet tonight.”
Ava laughs again. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment, Kathy.”
“Deborah,” she says firmly. She doesn’t need to hear her sister’s name again tonight. “My name is Deborah.”
“God, and after you gave me all that shit for using fake names?”
“That was different.”
“If you say so.” Once again, Deborah gets the sense that Ava probably isn’t supposed to offer this much pushback, but she doesn’t mind. It’s certainly much more entertaining than some male wannabe-model who can barely string three words together.
Ava opens her mouth to say something else when the phone rings again. It’s Deborah’s this time. She picks it up, hoping it’s not Marcus having somehow figured out Deborah’s last minute switch. To her relief, it’s just the car service, informing her that the car will be pulling up shortly.
“Come on then,” she says, motioning Ava towards her. “It’s time to go.”
Ava squares her shoulders, letting a little more confidence bleed back into her posture. Deborah offers Ava her arm, telling herself that it’s just to ensure she doesn’t go sprawling in the middle of the lobby.
Deborah glances at them in the full-length mirror as they pass it by on their way to the door. She looks good, glamorous but not intimidating. Ava still looks a little uncomfortable, but there’s no denying she’s young and pretty. That’s all she needs to be tonight.
Ava almost trips over her own dress while stepping into the elevator, but the two of them make it to the car without any other incidents. She looks faintly surprised when there’s a chauffeur waiting for them, but slips into the backseat without saying anything.
Deborah waits until the car has started moving before she finally breathes. Despite her insistence on visiting LA as little as possible, she still knows too many people here. Getting manhandled into unnecessary conversation with Ava by her side is something she wants to avoid at all costs.
“So,” Ava says, crossing her legs with the lanky uneasiness of a teenage boy. “Where are we going?”
“They don’t tell you?”
Ava shrugs. “I’m supposed to say that we’re all about discretion, but I think Kayla just tells me that to avoid doing more work. Either way, I only know what you tell me.”
“Well, we’re going to a business dinner. I’m trying to make a deal, and I need this dinner to go well for it to happen.” Deborah feels strangely hesitant to tell Ava what exactly the deal is about, though logically Ava needs to know. Deborah has handled her fair share of snide comments about the fact that she’s still chasing the same dreams she had when she was twenty, but she suspects that Ava’s judgement would still sting anyway.
“What’s the deal about?” Ava turns to face her, looking genuinely interested. Deborah feels the beginnings of a headache coming on.
“Enough questions about me,” she says, aware that her tone is too sharp. “What do you do when you’re not barging into strange women’s rooms dressed like a 1990s Winona Ryder-knockoff?”
“You invited me in!” Ava splutters. “And I was— am a comedy writer.”
Deborah feels her stomach come out from under her. She reasons through her options, her years of practice the only thing ensuring that her face remains blank.
If this were a scheme from the network, she wouldn’t have told Deborah the truth. Then again, maybe she’s not a writer at all, and this is just a subtle way of telling her that the network knows what she’s up to. Still, she’d hope a plant would be doing a better job than Ava currently is.
So probably not a formal thing, but Ava could have an ulterior motive. Well, if she somehow got this job in the hope it would score her a writing job, she’s in for a disappointment.
If this is a scheme from Marcus to get her to hire Ava… well, the consequences don’t even bear thinking about.
“Dee, you okay there?”
Deborah realizes she’s been blank for too long. “I’m great. And don’t call me that.”
“Have it your way, Deborah. What were you thinking about? It looked like the wheels were really churning in there.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Ava doesn’t even pause before responding this time, obviously having accepted that rapid subject changes are just going to be a feature of tonight.
“I know your name is Deborah, but that’s about it. Unless that’s also a fake name, of course.”
Her words sound genuine, and Deborah feels some of the worry slide off of her shoulders. Still, she doesn't relax completely. It’s possible Ava is just the next Meryl Streep; you can never be too careful in LA.
“What, they don’t tell you who you’re working for?” Even with the fake name, Deborah figured that someone had checked her out before clearing her to be a customer. She certainly hopes that’s how it works, for the escorts’ sake if nothing else.
“Sometimes, but I usually don’t bother searching their names up. I only want to know things about you that you want to tell me. That’s how a real relationship would work.”
It’s hard to argue with that, though it’s been years since Deborah had to develop a relationship with someone from scratch. She’s not even sure she remembers how. Even her audience is familiar with her at this point, ready to shout out the punchlines of every joke she tells.
“Well, I guess we’d better start now. My name is Deborah Vance. I’m a comedian.”
After a moment, Ava speaks, each word carefully sounded out. “I’ve heard of you.”
“You’ve heard of me?” Deborah raises an eyebrow, parroting Ava’s cautious tone, searching for any hint of a lie.
“You had a TV show in the 70s, didn’t you?”
“A sitcom, yes, but you’re much too young to have seen it.” It’s a horribly suspicious thing for Ava to know about her.
“I took a class called 20th Century Women in Comedy my first semester at college. We watched a bunch of old shows, movies, stuff like that.” Deborah’s not sure whether to be flattered that she’s included in a class like that or offended that she’s apparently a woman of the 1900s. Still, the explanation seems niche enough to be plausible.
“Did you like the show?”
“I don’t remember. I wasn’t having a great time at college, to be honest, and most of it was a blur.” Ava’s shoulders hunch a little, and she shuts her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she seems to shake off whatever memories were haunting her. “A comedy writer and a comedian, what a coincidence.”
Deborah takes a deep breath, accepting Ava’s words. “Yeah, a coincidence. Well, it’s a good way for us to say we met.”
Ava hums her approval. “We can say that we met in LA at an industry party somewhere.”
“Las Vegas,” Deborah corrects. “I’m only in LA for the week.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in Las Vegas, but I guess it’s a good enough story for one dinner.” Maybe it’s just her homesickness, but Deborah can’t help thinking that she’d love to show Ava all the wonderful sides of Las Vegas that the tourists never see. “You can tell me what the dinner’s for now, right?”
“I’m trying to sell a TV show to a bunch of people who wouldn’t know comedy if it bit them in the ass.” Ava actually cackles at that, though it wasn’t meant to be a joke.
“How long until we get there?” Deborah calls to the driver once Ava’s laughter has subsided. Another thing she hates about LA: the traffic. The answer is less than she’d expected, but long enough that they’ve still got time to hash out the rest of the details of their fake relationship. By the time they turn onto the right street, Deborah actually feels like her scheme might work.
They pull up to the dinner right on time. It’s taking place in the mansion of one of the executives, a white marble thing decorated so inoffensively as to render it an eyesore. Deborah offers Ava her arm again as they step out of the car and walk towards the front door.
A woman who she thinks might be the current girlfriend of the house’s owner opens the door at the first knock. She’s dressed in a gold sheath dress that barely conceals anything, a bold red swipe of color staining her lips and a white sweater tied (ha!) around her shoulders.
“Deborah!” she says, though Deborah’s pretty sure they’ve never met before. She points to one of the many arches adorning the entranceway. “They’re through there.”
Deborah takes her time walking over, anything but eager. Beside her, Ava smoothes her hair self-consciously with one hand, tucking it back by her side quickly when she notices that Deborah is watching.
The game starts as soon as they’re spotted. One of the executives, who she’s fairly certain is named Charles, rises from his chair and approaches them. He leans in and greets her with a kiss on the cheek. Deborah humors him, though his breath already smells faintly of fish.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Deborah,” he says, then seemingly sees Ava for the first time. “And who might this be?”
It’s the kind of tone a person might use when referring to a child, and Deborah feels Ava’s hand stiffen in her own. Almost instinctively, she squeezes once, hoping to soften whatever Ava’s about to say.
“I’m Ava,” Ava says, extending her other hand for a handshake. He takes it cautiously, as if he doens’t usually shake hands with women half his age. He probably doesn’t.
“And you two are...?” Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by another man coming up behind him and clapping him on the back.
“Charles, don’t hoard the beautiful women,” he says, flashing a smile that can’t be described as anything but sleazy. Perhaps inappropriately, Deborah relaxes; these are the kind of men she knows how to deal with.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Deborah suggests. “I’m sure everyone wants a chance to get a piece of me.”
The second man laughs, transparently artificial, almost the inverse of Ava. Deborah knows which laugh she prefers.
She and Ava sit next to each other, a small mercy. On Deborah’s other side is a man named Robert, a vice president of something-or-other. An unforeseen advantage of having Ava with her is that everyone introduces themselves again. Deborah does her best to commit their names to memory this time. Marcus will want a full rundown on the dinner, and he won’t be amused if she has to resort to nicknames to tell them all apart.
The conversation is terrible, which doesn’t surprise her. Everyone else at the table is the kind of person who thinks they’re much smarter than they actually are, a bunch of people who got their start coasting off of Mommy and Daddy’s money. If Deborah has to hear about another trip to Paris, she’s going to say something they’ll all regret.
Ava is decidedly not terrible. She schmoozes well enough, though she’s probably used to parties that are significantly less fancy than this affair. Deborah is pretty sure she’s the only one who can see how ridiculous Ava finds the whole thing.
During the appetizer course, a woman starts talking about the process of choosing the perfect kindergarten to ensure that her child has adequate socioemotional care. Ava coughs slightly, raising her napkin to her face in a perfect mimic of proper etiquette.
What the fuck? she mouths in Deborah’s direction. Deborah just raises her eyebrows in response and occupies herself by wondering if she can file the wrinkle treatment she’ll need as a result of this dinner as a business expense.
At least the food is good, though Deborah limits herself to just a few bites of everything, She’s just taken a forkful of crab cake when Camille turns to her.
Camille is that rare woman who’s there of her own accord, head of marketing at the young age of forty-five. She’s clearly smart and reasonably competent, able to hold her own among these men. Deborah’s always found her insufferable.
“I was so sorry to hear about Frank,” Camille says, and Deborah’s glad the crab cake is on her fork instead of in her mouth.
“Me too,” Deborah says, trying to make it sound like the truth.
“I used to love your sitcom, the way you two played off each other… it was just magical.” It had been, as long as Deborah made sure she was second to him. “I completely understand if you’d rather not talk about that though.”
“It’s alright.” It has to be.
“Bet you were glad they ruled it natural causes, huh Deborah?” This is from Jeff, a hawkish man on Ava’s right.
“Excuse me?” This is Ava, too loud and too forthright. Deborah wants to tell her to shut up, to let the joke play out like variations of it have a hundred times.
“Well, you know, two fires would have been suspicious. Deb’s a smart woman, she knows she’s gotta go with something less noticeable.”
“Are you trying to say that Deborah killed her husband?”Ava’s fingers tighten around her fork. Deborah puts one hand covertly on Ava’s knee, but it doesn’t seem to calm her down.
Jeff doesn’t quite seem to grasp that Ava isn’t finding this funny. “I mean, we all know she had it out for him. In fact, I’d say to stay away from flammable objects, just in case she turns on you too.”
“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” Ava asks, looking like she wants to strangle him. “She just lost her husband, and you want to make jokes about it? Didn’t anyone ever teach you about time and place?”
“Ava…” Deborah doesn’t need Ava to protect her. Not laughing along will only alienate these people.
“What?” Ava turns to her sharply.
“It’s just a joke. I don’t mind.” She’s said this particular lie so many times it hardly even feels false anymore. Ava looks like she wants to argue, but thankfully doesn’t press the issue.
Everyone else at the table politely ignores the outburst, though Deborah knows this is a mark against her. Still, she can’t bring herself to be totally upset, not when she can still feel the warmth that rose in her from the certainty that someone cared.
In between entrees and desserts, Ava excuses herself to go to the bathroom, taking her purse with her as she leaves the room. Deborah follows her, desperate for a break.
The bathroom is the main hallway, a nondescript white door in a sea of nondescript white doors. Deborah pushes lightly on the door; she suspects Ava’s not really going to the bathroom. Sure enough, the door swings open, revealing Ava leaning out the open window.
She turns around, clearly ready to offer excuses when she realizes who it is. “Fuck, I thought I locked that. Thank god it’s only you.”
“Trying to find a way to escape?” Deborah reaches behind her and locks the door. She doesn’t need anyone walking in on them together. She’s already worked so hard to make sure that these men see her as more than a sex object.
Ava sheepishly holds something out in front of her. “Vaping. I’m trying to quit.”
“I see,” Deborah says, though she’s not sure she does. She thinks maybe Kiki has explained vaping to her once or twice, but it still doesn’t make any sense. If she’s going to destroy her lungs, she’d much rather have an old-fashioned cigarette. “Mind if I join you?”
They stand side-by-side for a minute before Ava speaks. “I’m sorry about your husband.”
The words sound better from her than Camille, probably since she’s not playing an angle or fishing for a reaction. It lets Deborah say the things she’s not supposed to. “ Ex -husband. We hadn’t spoken in decades. He was a bastard.”
“Still. I know what it’s like to lose someone.” Deborah politely doesn’t ask. “And you didn’t deserve the fucking inane shit Josh or whatever his name is was saying.”
“Jeff. What do you think of the rest of the party?”
“You’re great,” Ava says, and there’s that warm feeling again. “The rest of them are awful.”
“Better than your usual crowd?” Ava is probably one of those millennials who makes it a badge of honor to only drink subpar alcohol in shabby lofts.
“I haven’t been to a party in a while.” Looking a little self-conscious, Ava leans back out the window, bringing the vape to her lips.
“Why not?”
A puff of vapor rises from Ava’s mouth, and she doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Got in trouble, got fired. I’m not exactly a hot commodity right now.”
“I see,” Deborah says again. “Is that why you’re doing… this?”
“Working as an escort, you mean? You can say it out loud.”
Deborah’s never one to back down from a challenge, and she doesn’t want Ava to think she’s a prude. “Yes, being an escort. You didn’t answer the question.”
“Yeah, I started after I got fired. Some girl I dated referred me. It’s definitely not the worst job I’ve ever had.” She takes another puff, and some of the vapor drifts back into the bathroom. It smells faintly like fruit, though Deborah couldn’t name any particular one.
Deborah leans against the sink, away from the smell. “And what job was that?”
“Sunglasses kiosk at the mall when I was sixteen. Every man above thirty in Boston tried to hit on me that summer.” They both shudder. “Escorting is probably one of the better jobs I’ve had, honestly. The hours are pretty flexible, and I like connecting with people, really getting to know them.”
Her curiosity sated, Deborah still doesn’t want to go back to the table. She permits herself another question. “How’d you get fired?”
“You know Twitter?” Ava doesn’t even turn around to see Deborah’s response. “I made a joke on there about a senator and they decided it wasn’t funny. Homophobic, even. I’m bisexual, for fuck’s sake.”
“And that was enough?”
This time, Ava’s laugh is a bad kind of harsh. “It’s the game. You should know something about that.”
Deborah is blindsided by the attack. “What?”
When Ava turns around, Deborah feels stupidly cornered, the bathroom suddenly seeming much too small for the two of them. She puts a hand down on the sink behind her to steady herself, watching as Ava gestures at her.
“You let them treat you like shit. You know they’re laughing at you but you just laugh along.”
A terrible silence descends on the room, and Ava looks like she’s seriously considering the window escape route. Finally, Deborah speaks.
“What was the most you ever wanted something, Ava?” Her words are a staccato burst, quiet but dangerous, and she doesn’t give Ava the chance to respond. “Could you feel it eating you up inside? Did you know you’d never be satisfied until you got it?”
Ava nods minutely, smartly avoiding words.
“That’s what this is to me. This is what I’ve been working for my whole damn life. If I have to get naked in the middle of Sunset Boulevard to get this show, I’ll do it. Believe me, I know I’m being played. I’m not an idiot. But it’s worth it.” Without noticing, Deborah has closed in on Ava, almost pressing her against the windowsill. She steps back.
“Wow, Deborah,” Ava says. “Fuck, I’m… I’m sorry.”
She reaches a hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingertips grazing Deborah’s body on their way up. The accidental touch is electric.
“Don’t be sorry, that’s not useful. If you want to be useful, just help me make sure that I get this show.”
Ava looks like she wants to ask something else, but thinks better of it. “Still, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You didn’t know.” Deborah hasn’t told anyone just how much she wants this, though she’s pretty sure Marcus and DJ can tell. It feels different, this want, like an electric current running through her. “Let’s just get back to snooze-a-palooza.”
She exits the bathroom first, slipping back into her seat and cluing herself back into the table’s conversation. Ava follows her a minute later, brushing her hand across Deborah’s shoulder as she passes her. Deborah doesn’t think that touch was accidental.
“So Ava, what do you do for a living?” Deborah hears someone say about halfway into the dessert course, the first actual question anyone’s bothered to ask her all night. Nodding along to a story Robert is telling about his second knee replacement, Deborah covertly listens for Ava’s response.
“I’m a comedy writer. That’s how Deborah and I met,” Ava says. The lie sounds smooth in her voice. “We were at the same party, she choked on a shrimp cocktail, and I graciously came to her rescue.”
Ava’s conversation partner laughs at the embellishment. Deborah suspects it would be more likely to happen the other way, but she still cracks a smile at the mental image. What would she have done, if they had really met that way? Probably cursed Ava out for trying to help her; she doesn’t do well with being offered assistance.
“Deborah?” Robert is trying to catch her attention, apparently having realized that her attention has wandered.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Finish telling me about your knees.”
“Actually, I was talking about my ranch,” he says, and Deborah hears Ava snicker next to her. Asshole. “But I could go back and catch you up on the knee replacements if you’d like?”
“No need, Robert. I don’t want to bore the rest of the table just because I’m heading into early senility.” Maybe it’s the wrong joke to crack when she’s trying to get them to put her on TV, but then again, people have always loved to watch her make fun of herself.
Ava lays a hand on Deborah’s arm. “Don’t worry, Dee, I’ll push your wheelchair around.”
Deborah knows she should laugh, but Ava’s words leave a sour taste in her mouth. It’s not fair, not when she asked Ava to play the game, but it makes Deborah a little bitter nevertheless.
As the party is breaking up, Charles pulls her aside. Deborah lets herself be separated from Ava, following him out another door onto a porch. Overhead, a crescent moon is shining, but the rest of the night sky is blotted out by light pollution.
Deborah waits for Charles to speak first. “So, Deborah, I think this was a very successful dinner.”
She doesn’t know what qualifies a dinner as successful but nods anyway. “I certainly thought we all got along well.”
He kindly (or smartly) doesn’t correct that statement. “But obviously this wasn’t just a dinner for fun, no matter how much we enjoy seeing you.”
Strangely, Deborah feels a little angry, remembering how eager they’d all been to laugh at her. It must be something about Ava rubbing off on her because she’s long since gotten used to being treated like that. She controls her tone carefully as she responds. “Of course. You have something to say about business, then?”
They’d carefully avoided the subject all evening, just another part of the dance. It’s gauche to mention the deal out loud when all the details are being hammered out behind-the-scenes. This dinner was just about winning the executives over with her personality.
He leans close, like they’re best friends about to share a secret. A muscle in Deborah’s face jumps, but she doesn’t move as he whispers in her ear. “Well, I can’t say anything for certain or we both know the lawyers will be on my ass, but I have to say that it looks very promising. If I were a betting man, I’d be inclined to bet on you.”
Deborah swears she feels her heart grow ten sizes, or however that story about the green idiot went. That story was supposed to be about being nice, though, she vaguely remembers, and this feeling is bone-deep satisfaction. She’s done it. She’s really done it, and anyone who doubted her can go fuck themselves, Frank very much included.
“Well, that’s great news,” she says, trying to hide the fact that she suddenly has all the giddiness of a twelve-year-old girl. “I’m very happy to hear that.”
“Of course, Deborah. Well, I’ll be seeing you around and seeing you on TV!” Charles claps her on the shoulder and heads back into the house, leaving her alone on the balcony. She’s not sure she could walk right now even if she wanted to. As it is, she’s happy to have a little time to herself.
She’s not sure how long she’s been outside when there’s a light knock behind her. Deborah turns around to see Ava lurking on the threshold. She’s got Deborah’s coat draped over her arm. Deborah hadn’t even realized that it was chilly, her success providing all the warmth she needed.
“The car’s outside,” Ava says, a small smile gracing her face. She holds out the coat to Deborah, who crosses the deck to take it from her.
Deborah’s fingers fumble with the buttons, the temperature and adrenaline making her shake.
“Here, let me.” Ava takes the coat back from Deborah, nimbly undoing the buttons and holding it out by the collar. Deborah slots her arms into the sleeves, pulling the coat tight as it slips around her.
“Thank you, Ava,” Deborah says, and she doesn’t just mean for the coat.
Deborah can feel Ava’s body heat hovering behind her, knows that they’d be almost pressed against each other if she turned around. Instead, she steps forward before turning to face Ava. Silently, Ava offers Deborah her arm. Deborah takes it, letting Ava lead her out of the house, making sure to wave and say her goodbyes, still in something of a daze.
In the car, Ava looks like she’s going to burst, legs twitching as she glances periodically at Deborah. Deborah lets her stew for a couple minutes, enjoying the anticipation. She occupies herself by looking out the window at the city lights flying past, the traffic thankfully having gotten lighter.
“Ask whatever you’re going to ask,” Deborah says finally. The words have no bite to them.
“What did he say to you?”
“Who?” Deborah asks, though they both know what conversation Ava’s talking about.
“The guy who smelled like fish,” Ava says. Deborah snorts. “I forgot all their names the moment they introduced themselves.”
Deborah takes pity on her.
“Charles? He said I was getting the show.” Deborah lets the smile she’s been suppressing spread onto her face. She doesn’t have to be grateful or gracious right now, just real.
“Holy shit, Deborah, that’s incredible! You’re going to be fucking amazing.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Deborah says lightly. “I’m not paying you to kiss my ass.”
At that, Ava’s face turns serious. “Actually, I was wondering, and I know Jimmy will probably fire me for asking this if he ever finds out, but why did you say yes to me?”
Deborah feels some of her excitement dissipate. “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve had a man at your door in ten minutes. But you said yes to me anyways. Why?”
She can’t tell Ava it was a business decision. Given everything they’ve shared this evening, that’s guaranteed to hurt Ava for real, or at least piss her off. And at some point this evening, she’s realized that she doesn’t want to ruin whatever connection they’ve formed. So instead, Deborah tells Ava the rest of the truth.
“You seemed interesting. Everyone in LA thinks they’re interesting, but you actually are. I wanted to get to know you.”
Ava flushes, painfully obvious against her pale skin. “Oh. I, uh, I didn’t realize you thought I was that special.”
Deborah is saved from having to decide whether to respond to Ava’s attempt at flirtation by the driver’s announcement that they’ve arrived at the hotel. She steps back out into the night air, grateful for the way the chill steadies her. Ava clambers out after her, catching up to Deborah quickly and reaching one arm around Deborah’s waist.
“You have massive hands,” Deborah mutters, but she leans into Ava’s warmth.
“I do not!” Ava protests.
Deborah turns to face Ava, and she’s about to say something when she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. It’s only years of experience that let her identify what it is: a paparazzo lurking near one of the trees on the sidewalk, probably hoping to capture celebrities’ nighttime dalliances. Maybe Marcus has even tipped him off, hoping to generate more publicity.
As she watches him, he raises his camera, aiming it squarely at her. Well, Deborah can give him something to photograph.
“You do,” she says, then leans in to kiss Ava. Ava makes a surprised noise, then kisses her back, her other hand coming to rest on Deborah’s shoulder.
It’s a good kiss. Deborah tries not to think about that fact, but it’s hard not to when Ava is pressing her tongue against Deborah’s teeth, trying to deepen the kiss as she pulls Deborah closer.
As she grants Ava access into her mouth, Deborah stops thinking about why she kissed Ava, about why she said yes to begin with. Nothing remains except the feeling of Ava. Her warmth is encircling Deborah now; it feels familiar, comfortable, though Deborah can’t remember the last time she was kissed like this.
Just as Deborah closes her eyes, the camera flashes, bright even against her closed eyelids. Ava pulls away abruptly, her hands dropping from Deborah’s body. Deborah opens her eyes to see Ava whirling around, searching for the source of the flash.
“Ava, don’t bother,” she says, once again to no avail.
“Where is he?” Ava’s fury is a thing to behold, for all Deborah wants to make it disappear.
The photographer has dropped back into darkness, but Deborah can still make out his shadow. She doesn’t tell Ava that, instead reaching for Ava’s shoulder with a tentative hand.
“It’s fine. It’s just another part of the game.” Ava stiffens against her.
“What, having photos of us kissing in Page Six?” When Deborah doesn’t respond, Ava steps away, her voice turning stony. “Is that it?”
To omit the rest of the truth now would be unforgivable.
“When I first thought about hiring an escort, I was thinking about it as a way of marketing myself,” she admits. “I wanted to convince people that I was someone they wanted to see on TV. You were a surprise, but I figured if I wanted attention, you’d do just fine.”
“Jesus, Deborah.” Ava’s fury is turned on her now. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you think it’s still the nineties or something? Because news flash: playing gay wasn’t cool when those Russian girls did it, and it sure isn’t cool now.”
Deborah can’t deal with Ava’s high horse, not right now, not when she can still feel the ghost of Ava’s lips on her own. “Oh, come on. You’re not really mad about that. You’re just upset because you thought that kiss meant something.”
It’s the absolute worst thing for her to say, because before Deborah even gets a chance to open her mouth again, Ava’s taken off. She practically bounds away from Deborah and whirls through the revolving door of the lobby like a hurricane.
“Ava, wait,” she calls, but Ava is already behind the glass, out of earshot.
Deborah follows her, though not quite as fast, her feet already protesting from a night in heels. She walks briskly through the non-revolving side door, spying Ava approaching the bank of elevators.
“Ava, please,” she calls again, not caring that everyone in the lobby can hear her.
Ava whirls around, probably intent on chewing Deborah out again, but her heel catches on something as she spins, and Deborah can only watch in muted horror as Ava sprawls face-first to the ground. She rushes over, feet be damned, joining a small crowd that has already gathered around Ava.
“No, I’m totally good,” Ava is telling someone as she approaches, but the wince when she tries to stand tells another story. “I probably just sprained it. No big deal.”
“Is there someone we can call?” a woman asks, but Deborah is already muscling her way to the front.
“I’m with her,” Deborah says.
Everyone looks to Ava to confirm the truth of Deborah’s statement, though Deborah can’t imagine why they think she would lie about this. For a second, Deborah thinks that Ava’s going to say no, but instead she just nods and extends her arm upwards.
Deborah takes her hand, and Ava pulls herself up, transferring her weight almost immediately to one leg. Deborah wraps one arm around Ava’s shoulder, letting her lean her weight against Deborah. Ava’s arm comes around to Deborah’s shoulder as well, pressing them hip-to-hip.
“Alright, let’s get back to my room,” Deborah says, once Ava’s gotten mostly stable. She looks pointedly at the spectators. “Clear the way.”
The crowd parts obligingly, allowing Ava and Deborah a clear path to the elevators. Ava hops the distance, squeezing Deborah to her with every step.
Once they’re in the elevator, Ava’s facade falls. She lets go of Deborah as soon as the doors close and leans back on the handrail, supporting herself on her good foot. When Deborah reaches forward to push the floor button, she swears she can feel Ava’s glare boring a hole in the back of her head. Deborah ignores her, letting the silence hang as the elevator ascends.
When the doors open, Ava ignores Deborah’s arm and limp-walks into the hallway. She makes it farther than Deborah would’ve expected, probably out of sheer stubbornness, but a wrong step about twenty feet from Deborah’s door puts her on the verge of falling again.
This time, Deborah is prepared. She swoops in behind Ava, supporting her under both arms as Ava staggers. Deborah’s not one to miss a fitness session, but Ava is still heavy. When Ava manages to steady herself with a hand on one wall, Deborah pulls her arms away, resolutely ignoring the way they brush against Ava’s minimal cleavage.
“Just lean against me, okay? It won’t make you any more of a traitor to the gays.” Ava’s lips quirk upward, but she suppresses the reaction quickly, sighing as she slings her arm back over Deborah’s body.
When they get into the room, Deborah leads Ava to the bed, gesturing for her to swing her legs up on the covers. Carefully, she removes both of Ava’s heels, noting the way her right ankle is already swelling. Definitely a sprain, though how bad, it’s hard to say.
Deborah bustles around the room, gathering a hand towel from the bathroom and the ice bucket from the desk. Ava props herself up on one elbow to watch as Deborah dumps some of the ice onto the towel, lifting the corners and twisting it to keep it at least a little secure.
“Here,” she says, handing the bundle to Ava. She doesn’t know if Ava wants Deborah to touch her.
Ava takes the ice and presses it to her ankle, letting out a soft hiss as it makes contact. Deborah bends down to remove her own shoes and sits next to Ava on the bed. She lets Ava ice her ankle in silence for a minute before she speaks.
“I was going to say that it meant something to me,” she says. Ava looks up from where she’s been gently prodding the skin of her ankle.
“What?” She doesn’t sound furious anymore. Instead, the word comes out subdued, a little resigned.
“The kiss,” Deborah clarifies. “It did matter.”
“Oh.” Ava tucks a loose strand of hair behind her own ear, then focuses her attention back down on her foot. “So, um, does that mean it wasn’t for the cameras at all?”
“Do you really want to hear the answer to that?”
“You understand why that makes me feel shitty, right?” Ava mumbles.
Deborah reaches out and touches Ava lightly under her chin, bringing her eyes to meet Deborah’s own. “I do, but I already told you what I’m willing to do to win. I’m not a kind person, Ava.”
“Jeez, Dee, I know I’m angry at you right now, but I still think that’s being a little harsh on yourself.”
Deborah shakes her head. “I’m not kidding. Just ask my daughter. She likes to say I don’t have a “nurturing spirit,” whatever the hell that means.”
“Wow, she sounds great.” Deborah frowns at the obvious sarcasm. Insulting DJ is strictly her job.
“She is,” Deborah says firmly, “but that’s not the point. The point is that yes, I kissed you because there were cameras, but I also kissed you because I wanted to.”
“And how am I supposed to trust you?” It’s a fair point, Deborah supposes, so she leans in and kisses Ava again.
For a long moment, Ava is still against her, and Deborah is certain she’s ruined everything. Maybe Ava didn’t really want Deborah to kiss her after all. Maybe Deborah had misread the signs. Maybe that’s why Ava had been running away. Maybe…
Then Ava is kissing her back. Deborah allows herself a sigh of relief as she pushes them both lightly back against the headboard. It fills her with all the same warmth as the first time, but this isn’t a kiss that would play well to a camera, the angles all wrong.
Eventually, Deborah sits back up and pulls away from Ava. She feels sated already, no urgent need in her to do anything more. She presses a kiss to Ava’s temple and picks the ice bundle up from where it had fallen out of Ava’s slack grasp.
As she presses the ice back on Ava’s ankle, Ava reaches toward her purse, which is lying on the bedside table. Deborah slides it towards her and watches as Ava pulls out her phone. She turns it on, moving the screen away from Deborah when she leans in to look.
“You better not be taking pictures of me,” Deborah says. She’s sure she looks awful, and she doesn’t need photos like this ending up on some gossip site when Ava needs money in three months.
“But I thought you needed a camera to get you going,” Ava teases. Deborah swats lightly at the closest part of Ava, which happens to be her hip. “Just kidding. Actually, I thought I should probably take a picture of my ankle so I can monitor the swelling.”
“How very responsible of you. I thought you millennials were supposed to be terrible with-- what is it you all call it?”
“Adulting?” Ava prompts. “I am, but twenty years of being an absolute klutz means you pick up a thing or two.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about your ankle.” Deborah knows Ava doesn’t mean to guilt her, but she still feels it nonetheless.
Ava shrugs. “I’m the one who ran away. Though, you did give me those heels, so maybe I’ll call my insurance guy after all.”
“I knew that photo had an ulterior motive. I bet you’ve never followed proper medical procedure in your life.”
“Not true!” Ava protests, completely unconvincingly. When I had my tonsils removed, the doctor was smoking hot. I followed her instructions to the letter.”
“Good to know all we need to do to fix the healthcare system is send out-of-work porn actors to medical school.” It’s not her best joke, but it makes Ava cackle. She doubles in two as her body shakes, her head coming to rest on her knees.
“Maybe not the best plan because she wasn’t interested in me, but she did try and hit on my girlfriend,” Ava manages to get out, through peals of laughter.
“Oh god,” Deborah says, and then she’s laughing too, picturing Ava coming around from anesthesia to find her doctor flirting with her girlfriend. It’s all too plausible.
She realizes then that, though they’ve been drawing laughs from each other all evening, this is the first time they’ve laughed together. It feels so natural, like they’ve already done it a thousand times.
“Have you ever been to Las Vegas?” Deborah asks impulsively. For the second time tonight, she has the beginnings of a terrible plan in her head.
“No. I’ve been to Nevada once, in high school, but we went to Reno.”
Deborah shudders. “Why would you ever go to Reno? Never mind, don’t answer that. But would you? Go to Las Vegas, that is.”
“I don’t know,” Ava says. “Why, are you offering?”
“Yes,” Deborah responds confidently, as if this isn’t just something she’s decided in the last thirty seconds. Truth be told, she can see seeds of her idea scattered throughout the whole evening, but they haven’t sprouted until just now. “But I don’t just mean for a visit.”
Ava laughs awkwardly. “This is a joke, right? You’re not asking me to uproot my life just because you haven’t been kissed in twenty years.”
“No, I’m offering you a job. Writing for me, for my show.” Deborah spares a moment to think about how surreal it feels to hear the words my show come out of her mouth.
Ava freezes. “This isn’t pity, right? Because you think you can Pretty Woman me or something?”
“No, it’s because I think you’re talented. I would never waste my time on a charity case.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me all evening,” Ava says, a real smile gracing her face.
“Nicer than when I kissed you?” Deborah takes one of Ava’s hands in hers, letting a thumb drift along her wrist.
“What can I say? I value my craft above all,” Ava jokes. “And I wouldn’t say there was much talking happening during that kiss.”
Deborah shrugs. They’ve gotten off track. “So, do you want the job?”
“Are you sure it can’t be in LA?” Ava’s pleading face, cute as it is, is not going to overcome decades of resentment.
“Very. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to.” Just because there’s a spark between them doesn’t mean they have to work together. It just means that Deborah knows what she wants Ava’s answer to be.
“Ah, what the hell?” Ava mutters, seemingly to herself, before raising her voice. “Yes. I’ll write for you.”
And there are a million other things they’ll need to sort out, and Ava might still back out, and Marcus is absolutely going to kill her, but between this and the show, Deborah can’t help but feel a little unstoppable.