It niggled him. Still, he was very happy to be back in Manhattan, spending a night at home together, making a delizioso lasagna.
While she showered, Clay popped in his wireless earbuds and returned a call to Dave. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he told his manager, hunting around for a bottle of wine. “Zia and I have been… catching up.”
Dave chuckled. “Good for you, man.” Then, after a slightly awkward pause, “That’s kind of what I was calling about.”
Clay paused, one hand on a dusty bottle at the back of the pantry. “Meaning?”
“You want the good news or the bad?”
“The bad.” Always. Zia, the eternal optimist, would have opted for the former.
“Michelle’s book is coming out.”
“What? What about the army of lawyers? A bloodbath, with billable hours?”
“Freedom of speech, man. And she never signed an NDA, so…”
Clay groaned. His knees buckled, and he sank to the kitchen floor. He could see the tabloid covers now. CLAY BEGGED MICHELLE TO MAKE HIM HER SEX SLAVE!
“I know, man,” Dave sighed. “It sucks.”
It didn’t just suck. It was a colossal violation. As his star rose over the years, Clay had spent a lot of time musing about personhood and celebrity. The more famous he got, the less the rules of society applied to him. Often that worked in his favor—his outsize paycheck, the access he could expect, the best seat in every restaurant, concert, first class, whatever. But it also worked against him. He was more an idea than a person. Something to be used: for power, for money, for a laugh. His identity, and thus his worth, was determined by a scrim around him that was in part created by his actions, and in part created by the culture, and its oscillating tastes and values. Michelle’s book would change how society saw him and thus change him, without him taking any action at all. There was something deeply frightening about that reality. That ultimately there were two Clays. The real Clay, and the Clay invented by the desires of others: Illusion Clay. And he was never quite sure which one was in charge of his life.
“What’s the good news?”
“Excellent question. The good news is there is a lot of interest in your mysterious new woman.”
The jerk of panic propelled his head back up. “What? How does anyone even know?”
“Russo, c’mon. New York’s a big small town. You can’t keep this stuff secret forever.”
“Yes, I can.” Even to his own ears, he sounded whiny.
“All I’m saying is, Lana”—his publicist—“and I think a well-timed announcement would take a lot of eyeballs away from Michelle’s book, and onto you. What story would you rather read: the one about the bitter, bitchy ex, or the one about the happy, hot new love?”
“Neither.” Jesus, didn’t everyone have better things to do than read about people they didn’t even know?
“Well, most people prefer the happy, hot new love. We get you papped, then you bring her to a red carpet. Maybe a spread for People—”
“No!”
“You’re right: Vogue. No, Vanity Fair—”
“No, no.” Clay was back on his feet, checking the shower was still running. He lowered his voice. “I’m not ready. We’re still getting to know each other. She’s not even my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, cool.”
He could all but hear Dave rolling his eyes.
“How long’s it been?” Dave asked.
“Three months.” That wasn’t long. Was it?
Dave went on, sounding annoyingly casual, “And you’re not seeing anyone else, you spend all your free time with her, and when you’re not with her you kind of talk about her nonstop.”
“I don’t talk about her—”
“Dude,” Dave interrupted. “You do.”
The old Clay would’ve done it. Not parade Zia around like a sideshow, but make things more official. Be seen in public. Tell the truth about his feelings to his family and inner circle. But the new Clay was cautious. There was still that fear, as groundless as it was, that Zia didn’t like the real Clay. That she’d fallen for Illusion Clay, the one he had no control over, the one most people genuinely believed him to be. That she’d start to want what that Clay could give her, further erasing the real Clay from the world. He pressed his lips together, willing the strength to trust her. Love her, like she deserved to be loved. But it wasn’t there.
And then, there was the other concern. The darker one.
“Say we do it,” Clay said flatly. “Would she get hate mail? Twitter trolls? Death threats?”
These were, of course, rhetorical questions.
Dave was silent for a beat. “You have a lot of very supportive fans.”
“But it’s different for women. Different for people of color. Different if you’re not used to it.”
And there was no way optimistic, kindhearted Zia Ruiz would be able to handle the tsunami of hatred, of overt racism and sexism, that would try to drown her if they were to go public. It would threaten her faith in humanity. Clay left the house every morning knowing that tens of thousands of people hated him, for no good reason at all. He didn’t like it, but it went with the territory. But he couldn’t do that to Zia.
“Of course it’s a concern,” Dave said carefully. “But are you sure worrying about that is not just an excuse?”
He wasn’t sure. But he needed more time to figure it all out. He wilted forward in defeat. “We’re not ready.”
Dave sighed. “We’ll work something else out. And, Clay?”
“What?”
His manager’s words were tactful. But they were also a warning. “Zia’s a pretty cool chick. She won’t live in the shadows forever.”
46
Liv suggested Vanessa keep her father in the loop about all the wedding preparations: the menu, the ceremony, the guest list, the dress. “The more he knows about the day, the more connected he’ll feel to it,” Liv said. “Hopefully.”
But despite Vanessa’s efforts, her line of communication was decidedly one-way. Liv’s polite voice mails and emails also went unanswered. As the day of the wedding dawned, hazy and humid, Liv felt equally ashamed and angry that her logistical powers weren’t enough to guarantee Vanessa’s key bridal wish. Weddings were a space outside of normal life. A space where dreams could come true and magic could happen. Liv was determined to create that magic for Vanessa. Intent on proving to herself and her client that she hadn’t lost her touch.
The ceremony was set for 6:00 p.m., with doors open to guests a half hour prior. Liv and Savannah arrived at midday to oversee setup: unpacking personal decor, running through the timeline with the vendors, double-checking the floor plans. It wasn’t exactly a modern venue. As Liv put it to Savannah, it was a clubhouse where rich white men could fanboy about late-stage capitalism over a bottle of American bourbon.
The venue’s mounted animal heads—including one of an elephant—appeared as earnest odes to colonialism. Better days, the deceased beasts seemed to signify. Better days.
At exactly 5:30 p.m., General Fitzpatrick was one of the first to arrive, in his service dress uniform. Instead of mingling with Lenny and Vanessa’s friends, he loitered in a far corner, a drink in hand.