Alessandra takes a seat at the table and Edie sits next to her, thinking, I’m going to have to beg her to stay, and how twisted is that?
“You blackmailed that woman’s husband!” Edie says. She’s proud of herself for not completely buckling.
“I did,” Alessandra says. “In my defense—and, honestly, Edie, there is no defense for what I did—Michael told me he and his wife were taking time apart, so I thought it was open season.” She shakes her head. “I figured out he was lying pretty much right away but that was his sin, not mine. And then, when his wife was about to arrive for the summer, I had…bargaining power, and I cashed in on it.”
Edie blinks. “And then you planted stuff from the neighbors’ house?”
Alessandra sighs. “I did. At that point, it was like a game. I took her eye shadow, her shoes…that was probably good enough. I knew Michael would never realize that his wife wore Bobbi Brown and the neighbor wore Chanel or that his wife wore a size eight and the neighbor a size six. But then I found a positive pregnancy test in their bathroom trash, so I threw that gasoline on the fire.”
“Gah!”
Alessandra touches Edie’s arm. “This is why I didn’t want us to be friends. I’m a horrible person. I’m ruined and rotten straight through.”
Now it makes sense. Edie should not be friends with Alessandra. She should not look up to her at all. But even now, at this low moment, Alessandra has effortless style. Her hair is back in a ponytail, her makeup from that morning has faded, the eye crystals have fallen off, but even so, she looks chic in a pair of faded jeans, an old Dave Matthews T-shirt （the Shoreline Amphitheater, 2000, before Edie was even born）， and the one gold bangle Edie knows will never come off, the Cartier love bracelet. Someone had once cared enough about Alessandra to give her that.
“Then I started sleeping with guests at the hotel in exchange for them mentioning me in their reviews.” Alessandra leans forward and slaps her palms on the table. “That’s how I won the four grand. I prostituted myself for it. I was trying to get the money and I only stopped because…”
“Because you realized someone else should have a chance to win the money?”
Alessandra scoffs. “No! I stopped because of that douchebag with the Corvette Stingray in three ten—remember him?”
“Ugh,” Edie says. “Yes.”
“He took me to dinner at Topper’s,” Alessandra says. “Talked all about himself, but whatever, I wasn’t there for the conversation. Then when we got back to the hotel, he shoved me onto the bed, ripped up my dress, and pinned me down. He would have raped me if I hadn’t thrown him off.”
“Oh my God,” Edie says. “I can’t believe you threw him off you. That dude was all muscle.”
“As bad as that experience was, it was also a wake-up call. I stopped targeting men and just focused on doing my job.” She pauses. “But then when Xavier showed up, I thought, He’s wealthy and single, why not go after him?”
“Ew,” Edie says. “He’s, like, seventy years old.”
“Didn’t matter, he wasn’t interested in me. So I texted Michael those photos I’d been saving in case of emergency.” She gives Edie a direct gaze. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again. I knew you’d been on the other side of that, and I did it anyway.”
“Yeah,” Edie whispers.
“I didn’t have parents like yours growing up,” Alessandra says. “Parents who led by example and showed me how to do things correctly. I didn’t grow up in a nurturing community where everyone called me ‘Sweet Alessandra’ and had my back. I mean, that’s no excuse, I know right from wrong and I consistently choose wrong. Heidi Bick should press charges, she should want to see me fired—”
“She’s not doing any of that,” Edie says. “As long as you stay away from them.”
“I will,” Alessandra says. She gives Edie a weary smile. “Sometimes I wish men weren’t so predictable.”
It’s this statement more than anything else that illustrates their age difference, Edie thinks. Men are predictable to Alessandra, but to Edie, they’re still a mystery.
“I want you to stay,” Edie says. “I’m upset about what you did, but I can’t bear to think of finishing up the season without you. Who would I complain to about Mr. Ianucci?”
“Ianucci,” Alessandra says. “I’m telling you, that guy’s a cop.”