Aster and The Leopards

To Kill a Furious Love

When Aster woke up the next morning, she knew she hadn't slept nearly enough to process the amount of alcohol consumed the night before but staying in bed just did not feel right. Maybe it was the way her jeans were digging at her waist, the agonizing dryness of her throat, the annoying amount of sunlight breaching the blinds, or maybe it was just her desperate need to check her phone.

Since she woke up five minutes before and refused to open her eyes, believing the hangover would lull her back to profound sleep, memories from the last 12 hours came flooding her mind and making the promise of peaceful sleep even more distant. Sometimes, Aster passionately wished to be one of the lucky bastards who had post-binge-drinking amnesia. Well, she was not one of them, but apparently she had paramnesia with a beautiful tinge of fantasy because there was some crazy dream about Finlay tucking her hair behind her ear that was running wild across the front of her drowsy brain. Aster heard her phone ringing before she found the courage to lift her torso and grab it. She groaned when she realized it was Wendy calling.

The senior editor never made phone calls, ever. Wendy would rather listen to Burnin' up by Jonas Brothers on loop forever than have to call someone ("this is what e-mails are for! Send me a fucking letter for all I care!"). So now Aster was pretty sure Wendy knew about her last adventures. How? Only God knows, and, honestly, God could very well be one of her sources.

"Hi, boss," Aster rasped to herself, testing her tired voice before actually answering the call. She sounded terrible. "Hi, boss. Hey, boss! What's up, boss?" She tried again, multiple times, between sips on the cup of stale water that was sitting on the bedside table for probably too many days. When the rasp was almost entirely gone, she ventured on answering Wendy. "Hi, boss."

"Tell me everything!"

The excitement on Wendy's voice should be an incentive, a pat on the back, a soft, warm hug from a proud mom, but it was terrifying. Obviously, Aster had been to many parties with celebrities before, and Wendy never called her asking about it the morning after – she always received a mighty demand for gossip via e-mail, though. The pièce de resistance here was, of course, Maxine Finlay's private life. Maxine Finlay's house, Maxine Finlay's friends, all the hot stuff the media's been after for years.

Dazed as Aster was by Finlay's Heathcliff-Esque hospitality and all the wine she was serving, she did not realize how unusual it was to be let into her inner circle. Mandy's words came back to her with sudden force, and she let her head fall back to the pillow. "Maxine Finlay finally fucking lost it!", Mandy had almost screamed. Did Finlay never let a journalist inside her house before? Probably not. Oh, I am so fucked.

"Aster? I'm waiting! What's going on?" Wendy sounded as impatient as ever. "Are you hungover?" Before Aster could answer, she continued: "Yes, you are. I'll give you some time to get yourself together and call me back, but you will call me." Again before she could utter a syllable, Wendy finished the call, and Aster felt sick. Her stomach was roiling, and she was pretty sure her face was turning some shade of green.

I don't know why I trust you either.

***

Every time Aster took the MBTI test it gave her a different result, but the one thing that ran through every single one of her multiple personalities was her problem-solving ability. She always had that weird soldier-like way of reacting coolly to situations that put her under pressure. It meant she never engaged in a shouting match, always knew when to excuse herself, and always met her deadlines even when it meant pulling an all-nighter or three without losing her mind to the sleep deprivation.

With that in mind, Aster was sure it would not be that difficult to solve the Finlay problem, as she unconsciously named it. Wendy was expecting an answer, and that's what she would give her, describing in detail how weirdly decorated Maxine Finlay's house was, with adorable old lady trinkets adorning the shelves, the weirdly sentimental favorite book, and the yellow flowers... Of course, that general description was innocent enough, especially without throwing one of Finlay's friends out of the closet. Wendy would hate her forever for that silly gossip about indoor design.

And somehow, even talking about the stupid book would feel like a deep betrayal of a trust she did absolutely nothing to conquer. Aster stood up in a flurry and searched her desk drawers for her Kindle. In less than 5 minutes, she already had Furious Love by Sam Kashner open, and typed "prisoner" on the search bar. That's the only word she remembered from Finlay's post-it markings, and it could not be that frequent, could it?

The first result of her search was a quote about Elizabeth Taylor. "'She was kind of a prisoner of the whole crowd because she couldn't go out in public without being molested,' but she was safe with Burton and the actors."

***

"All you have to tell me is that Finlay was reading To Kill a Mockingbird? Do you hate your job, Fares?" Wendy's voice delivered so much disappointment, it felt like Aster was being reprimanded about kicking a puppy.

"I don't know, Wendy, it felt like everything was snoopy-journalist-proofed like she was waiting for me to look around and wanted me to find nothing," she lied as well as she could. Aster knew if they were having this conversation in the office, her boss would be able to read the lie on her face. Wendy did not make senior editor by being naïve. "Everything was very minimalistic, and her friends were the usual crowd, doing the usual shit."

"You could've sent me an e-mail, then."

"Well, you told me to call."

"I thought you'd give me a scoop on Mandy Gomez, or at least tell me Finlay runs a satanic gay cult. I wasn't expecting minimalistic decoration and socially concerned literature."

With a scoff, the senior editor finished the call, and... oh, fuck, the media really is going after Gomez, huh? When she freaked out last night, Aster thought the girl was overreacting. Consumed as she was with her music column, Aster almost never had the time to focus on celebrity gossip. And almost never means she hasn't paid attention to it in literal years. Her life was deadline after deadline, and except for the occasional parties she went to in order to maintain her status and meet her sources – mostly producers, executives and Jesse –, the subject of who was snogging whom, and who was blackout drunk with vodka, was irrelevant. It never occurred to her that she was one of Wendy's sources, despite being an amateurish one.

Suddenly, it occurred to Aster to search Maxine's name and see what the gossip was, but it also felt like a betrayal. Certainly, by what Wendy had said, gay rumors and gothic bulshit – apparently Americans hadn't evolved past homophobia nor satanic panic, which was not surprising. Without overthinking what she was doing, Aster picked up her phone again and asked Jesse for Maxine's number.

At that point, she could not tell what came first: Finlay's unreasoned trust in her, or Aster's unreasoned loyalty.