Page 43 of The Unraveling

“No,” I said, honestly.

“No. Exactly. Go put on your sneakers, we’re going to the club.”

“What? Now?”

“Now. Let’s go.”

The club is a health club. We go and I run on the treadmill or use the light weight machines. But never like this. Never as punishment. Never on a Friday night.

I thought I was going to have a fun girls’ night and instead, I’m going to the gym.

“Now!” she screamed.

Ten minutes later we were in the car. Ten minutes after that, we were at the gym.

I was on the treadmill, running, and my mom was at the counter, talking to some guy.

After half an hour of running, my mom came over with the guy and said, “Honey,” in a sweet, girlish voice, “this is Mateo. He’s a personal trainer, and he has just agreed to take you on as a client!”

She opened her mouth wide like this was the best surprise ever.

“Hi, Jocelyn. We’ll keep you in shape no problem.”

He sounded like a moron.

“Okay, honey, back on the treadmill. I’m going to go discuss payment options with Mateo.”

The two of them left, going in the direction of the locker rooms. I ran and ran.

Chapter Fourteen

“Iput an outfit on the bed for you, wear it, it’s perfect for the Holliday Club.” Arabella says this to me, then, “Cynthia! Calm down, fucking hell!”

Cynthia is clearly still not over the other night. I don’t really blame her. I tried to apologize as I hadn’t really understood they were together together, but she waved me off. I hear her saying, “You want to talk, let’s talk, but chill the fuck out. She has a meeting with the Cavendishes—she can’t be dealing with all this shit before that.”

Cynthia’s rage pauses as she looks at me. “The Cavendishes? Clementine and Alistair?”

I nod.

Cynthia gives Arabella a meaningful look. Maybe Cynthia is one of the friends Arabella mentioned the other night.

“I’m going to get ready,” I say.

“Go,” says Arabella. The two of them start yelling again in Spanish.

I go into Arabella’s room. I see the outfit she’s picked out.

It’s a nude bodice dress from Dolce & Gabbana. The shoes are strappy, also nude, Stuart Weitzman. Beside it is a dark camel coat, wool and oversized. It’s as if she’s setting me up to say, I am a blank slate. I can be anything.

Which she probably is. And which I am. I have to be. Arabella is a bit like a fairy godmother to me right now. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

I blow-dry my hair—Cynthia and Arabella yelling so loudly I can hear them over the speaker and the blow-dryer. I do my makeup in a simple way that matches the look. I do just a light layer of mascara on my top lashes, brush Urban Decay’s Space Cowboy eyeshadow on my lids, and line and dress my lips in a dark nude.

I look in the massive mirror she has against her bedroom wall. I look fucking good. I’ve already lost a few pounds thanks to being back in the studio every day and Arabella’s somewhat batshit rule of no food in the apartment. There’s even a little flush in my cheeks that makes me look healthy and glowing. Thanks for that, too, Arabella.

It’s time for me to go, and so I walk out into the living room and see that Arabella and Cynthia are now crowding around a phone screen cackling at some video.

Guess they made up, then?

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