Think of me when you're out, when you're out there
I'll beg you nice from my knees
And when the world treats you way too fairly
Well, it's a shame, I'm a dream
"Shit!" Claire Lyons growled as her phone slipped and fell. She finished tying her long light blonde hair into a bun and bent down to pick up the outdated iphone. She bit her tongue to prevent another swear when she saw the screen was cracked—her agent had recently given her a lecture about swearing freely at the stage door now that young, impressionable theatre students had begun lining up late into the night for her.
"Oh, Claire. Did you crack it?" asked the smooth male voice on the other hand.
Claire wiped her hands on a stained Anthropologie dish towel and pressed the cracked screen tightly between her damp hand and face as she finished packing her lunch. "I should have known I'm not coordinated enough to do the whole holding-the-phone-with-your-shoulder thing."
"I could have told you that. My dishwasher still gets stuck closed half the time from the last time you tangled with it."
"John!" Claire froze and looked over her shoulder, even though she lived alone in her studio. She had forgotten about the dishwasher. She had never thought in a million years, even after she had moved to Manhattan, that she would be the kind of girl to damage someone else's property during sex. "You said it was worth it!"
"It was, it was. I'm sorry."
Claire sighed at the tone of his voice. Not exasperated, exactly, but used to it. He sounded Used To It a lot lately. When did they become used to each other, not excited?
She had vaguely known John through coworkers and friend for a year. They would shake hands and reintroduce themselves, both too shy and awkward to admit they were vaguely familiar, until an after party for a show she had understudied for. She was bitter over lack of work, and a little tipsy considering the sun was still out (the closing performance was a matinee). She lost decorum for a moment and said to him,
"You know, we just introduced ourselves, but I'm pretty sure this is the third time we met. You've worked with Layne like a million times, right?" Layne Abeley, her old Westchester friend, was her roommate at the time and a budding talent as a fight choreographer for the stage.
John raised his eyebrows. At the time, his hairline had not receded, and matched his thick brows. "You're definitely right, and I'm impressed with your boldness for just saying it. I would have introduced myself another ten times to avoid the awkwardness."
Claire blushed. She started stuttering some explanation of how being drunk once did not mean she could not show up on time for rehearsals, but he cut her off.
"You know, I'll see your boldness and raise you one."
She giggled. "Go for it. This couldn't get any more awkward, I guess."
"It could." Now it was his turn to blush. "I think you're just adorable. I can't stop watching you."
She gasped, then giggled again. "Even when I knocked over Layne's beer?"
"Especially then."
"Are you spacing again? Kuh-laire! I'm still here!"
Claire tipped back her head and laughed, just like he did every time that he insisted on using her middle school nickname. It came up when Massie had added her on Facebook in the wee hours of one morning, leaving Claire to spend an entire pillow talk session with John describing their escapades. He was fascinated with the whole concept of the Pretty Committee, but not judgmental about Claire's desperation to get in and stay in. Her love was cemented that night. "That reminds me! She messaged me."
"Massie Block messaged you?! Is she gonna fly over and kick you out of New York?"
"Maybe!" Claire stuffed her lunch with a gym outfit and rehearsal supplies into a Trader Joe's reusable grocery bag.
"Ha. Seriously, what did she say?"
"I don't know. I didn't read it yet."
"What? When did she message you?"
"A week ago."
"Come on. You have to say something. She's probably coming into the city."
"Yeah, right. She's dominating from London." Claire messed with the multiple locks on her door. Between the creaky knob and the stubborn deadbolt, it usually took a solid minute to lock. And then as she made the trek down her dark (probably moldy) stairwell, phone in hand, the stairs creaked and protested beneath her. She wondered if Massie ever had to deal with anything except a slow doorman to push the buttons to get her to whatever amazing view of London she had.
Massie used earnings from a high corporate position in her father's company to launch her own makeup/makeover line, Block Cosmetics. The products were cleverly named, luxuriously packaged, and high sellers. They were what Cosmopolitan called "blatantly corrective", what Vogue called "the most effective concealors in the market", and what some of the world's leading psychologists called "harmful to self-esteem on a global scale." Massie gained popularity running an Instagram and Tumblr under the URL BlockItOut; women (and open-minded men) from the age of 18-90 were known to submit their photos to Massie to get a full rundown of everything they needed to fix and how to go about it (or rather, what to buy from her). She was brutally honest but always spot-on, and if someone saw through the tears to get the recommended products, rave reviews followed.
The brutal honesty was a little too much for some people to take. She used to have children and adolescents messaging her as well (it wasn't always just eighteen and up), but after telling a seven year old how to cover up her birthmark, she landed herself on panels across national news networks, defending her products as follows:
"Puh-lease. It's what the people want and need. It's nawt my fault some people want the honest-to-gawd truth. No one else is willing to give it to them."
She ended up with restrictions on every social media platform (and a full ban from Twitter for a later semi-unrelated public spat with Demi Lovato about fixing her cleft chin). But if anything, it just gave her more attention and more desperate converts.
In short, she was a very busy woman who may have somehow made herself Too Cool For NYC.
"No one's too cool for NYC."
Claire hadn't realized she said the last part out loud.
"Not even us superstars. I just realized there's a hole in the armpit of this shirt."
Claire cackled. "You're too charming. I have to go, I somehow have to be at rehearsal in twenty minutes and you know how much maintenance the C train-"
"You walk to rehearsal. It takes you ten minutes on a bad day. You're probably halfway there. Don't try to distract from the issue here."
"Alright! You caught me! I'm getting a Dunkaccino on the way. Again."
"No, I meant you have to promise me you're gonna message this friend back. You know you want to. Layne and your family are the only people you talk to from before college, but they're definitely not the only people you talk about."
Claire felt that pinch behind her eyes. It always happened when John was right and she was wrong, or when John showed how much he cared in no uncertain terms. So right then it was a double pinch. Her vision blurred. She walked into someone right in front of the glass doors leading to the building where Miranda Studios were located. She heard a coffee spill. "Oh, sorry!"
John continued. "Look at it this way. If you don't have a magical connection, and she turns out to be like a super alpha bitch or something, at least you'll know why she contacted you."
Claire stared at the woman whose coffee she had just knocked over. "… I'm pretty sure I'm about to know why." The reason was standing in front of her, wearing a perfectly tailored magenta DKNY suit (with super trendy shorts instead of dress pants) over a perfectly slouchy vintage tank and black riding boots, and it was a total nine-eight.
"Shut up, shut up! We're gonna get in trouble!" Massie giggled in an out-of-breath stage-whisper. She stumbled her way across the marble flooring of the Block estate. Claire was on the floor completely, rolling around in total hysterics on the reflective white stone. Apparently Massie trying to make her way across polished floors in five-inch Marc Jacobs stiletto booties was the hottest thing in stand-up. Or it would be, if Massie could fully stand up.
Claire wiped her streaking glitter eyeliner as she sat up and attempted to whisper a request for makeup remover. Something about her starting to whisper with a pink Urban Decay glitter streak now spreading to her temple made Massie laugh even harder than Claire had been. Massie collapsed next to her on the ground.
After a good thirty seconds, Claire managed, "Our parents are all in Palm Beach, remember?"
"Oh yeah. Then why are we still whispering?"
"I.D.K."
"Did you really say I.D.K. just now?"
"I.D.K. my B.F.F. Claire?"
Claire snorted. Massie cackled. She grabbed Claire's forearm, as if to beg for mercy. "We might be too drunk."
Claire grabbed Massie's hand on her forearm. "Not as drunk as Derrington tonight."
"Derrington was just the most twisted I've ever seen him."
"He cannot get cross-faded. What a loser."
"What a total dip."
"What's a dip?"
"He is!"
More giggles.
Finally, Massie started to pull herself up, yanking Claire with her. "Come on. We were on our way to my parents' bar."
"Won't they notice some of it is gone?"
"My father doesn't notice shit."