Tupper’s home Macaw footage had revealed a meowing display of feline excitement—Catsy adored Elizabeth. His work Macaw footage had shown Elizabeth raiding his studio. At home, he’d found a “body” in the bath, which was full of red paint. Elizabeth had staged her own death, her jokey way of announcing that she’d finally come home.

He went around the bar and poured a pint of Guinness. “Only on camera, through the Macaw. She’s teasing me,” he added miserably. “She hates surveillance.”

“Sorry, mate,” Roy said. It must be difficult to be married to an artist.

“Shy, the girl babysitting Ted right now. She’s his daughter,” Stuart whispered in Mandy’s ear. “The English writer dude, not the freaky one in the suit.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Mandy whispered back. She felt a little left out. Stuart knew all these people, and she knew no one. But that’s what you got for pretending to have MS and hiding in your house with boxes of other people’s food and a whole lot of weed.

Stuart put his arm around her. “You look so beautiful tonight. No one would know you were sick.”

I’m not, fuckwad, Mandy thought, feeling suddenly defiant. Maybe this was part of the problem. She was tired of being Stu’s useless, wifey ornament. She was like one of those decorative hedges outside the mansions in the Hamptons. All she ever needed was pruning and watering and she made the mansion look awesome. Except now she had a disease. “I feel totally normal,” she said. As if that were a normal thing to say.

“Really?” Stu pulled away and eyed her up and down. “That’s great. Maybe something’s working. Maybe it’s going into remission. Maybe we should get you some more tests.”

“Yeah,” Mandy said. “I think for now I’m just going to drink some wine.”

“You’re both a size extra small,” Trey, the manager of Sublime, chucked a black $850 zip-up hoodie at Liam and a $1,200 baby-blue down parka at Ryan. He was huge, with bleached, gelled hair and a black goatee. “We like them tight, so they don’t puff out when they’re unzipped. Take everything off on top and put those on.” He pointed at Liam. “We’re getting you some other pants and some decent shoes.” He sneered at Liam’s stained gray Urban Outfitters jeans and the too-small, navy-blue Converse sneakers he’d been wearing since the beginning of tenth grade. “Those are fine.” He nodded appreciatively at Ryan’s skinny black Champion sweatpants and red Adidas EQTs.

“You want me to wear a parka with nothing on underneath?” Ryan asked.

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you?”

Trey’s assistant appeared from downstairs with a folded-up pair of orange camouflage pants and a hideous pair of size eleven Nike AF1s in purple and silver patent leather. “Try these,” he said breathlessly, and handed them to Liam.