The Life Cycle of a Star

March 15, 2010

"We are gathered here today to pay our respects to a young man who lost his life too soon. Christopher Winston was a beloved family member and friend."

And boyfriend, Beverly Roberts thought to herself. He was her boyfriend. But she didn't dare speak up, and instead kept her eyes glued down on the polished wood of the pew in front of her.

"Chris, as he was called to those close to him, was born and raised here in Manhattan. After high school, he went to Rhode Island School of Design, where he graduated with a degree in Architecture." The minister's reedy voice was dull and lifeless, as though he couldn't bring himself to care. Beverly instantly hated him. "Those who knew Chris attest to his immense talent."

All Beverly remembered was that one room he kept sketching, the one with thick black lines like prison bars all over the walls and ceiling and floor. I can't get this out of my head, Bev, he had said to her, his bloodshot green eyes pleading with her to understand. He'd drawn this room over and over, painstakingly measuring lines with his ruler, until his own bedroom had been filled with crumbled papers all inked with the same design.

And now, Beverly couldn't erase the image from her mind, either.

"After graduating from RISD," the minster continued with his half-hearted eulogy, "Chris returned to Manhattan and began to work at an architecture firm. He made great progress within the first two years."

No, he hadn't been making great fucking progress. He hated it. Chris wanted to build libraries and museums; he wanted to create dazzling works of art. But he had been stuck in a cubicle, erasing someone else's crooked lines on a flimsy paper. I just can't do this, Bev, he'd told her in one of his few moments of clarity. I just can't do this anymore.

"Unfortunately, he lapsed into depression."

Beverly couldn't help herself; her breath caught in her throat and she let out a quiet sob. She shut her eyes tightly behind her oversized black Chanel glasses, willing herself not to tear up.

Taking a deep breath and steadying herself, she gazed out at the pews in front of her. Upper East Side's elite had turned out magnificently for the tragic occasion, filling the ornately decorated church in nothing less than the finest couture. Only a few rows ahead of her, Beverly spotted Eleanor Vanderbilt, who was busy patting her dry cheeks with a monogrammed designer handkerchief. Next to her were the twins, Cassandra and Alexandra Vanderbilt, whose pretty faces were both contorted into entirely unconvincing expressions of grief. After years of vacationing and partying together, the twins had earned frequent appearances in Beverly's show The Socialite Diaries. But despite tolerating them onscreen, Beverly knew they were about as fake as their noses, which had been reconstructed by the finest surgeon Manhattan had to offer the summer before eighth grade. Beverly hadn't spent much time with the twins since the show had ended about a year and ago. While Beverly had risen higher on Hollywood's celebrity scale and had moved tentatively to L.A., the twins had turned to ruling the Upper East Side social scene in Beverly's absence, and Beverly had no desire to catch up with them. Especially not now.

Ahead of the Vanderbilts, Beverly spotted her mother, Anne Waldorf Roberts, sitting primly with a placid expression of grief on her elegant face. Knowing vague details of Chris and Beverly's tumultuous relationship, Anne had of course been worried for her daughter after Chris' sudden death, but Beverly hadn't dared confide in her. Instead, she'd lied and told her mother that she was missing the funeral to fly to Paris for a business meeting that she regrettably couldn't reschedule. Hopefully, she would be able to escape before anyone noticed she was there.

Though her view was obstructed by the other mourners, Beverly spotted Brett Winston sitting in the very first pew. The sight of that unmistakable fiery red hair triggered a wave of guilt, which twisted up inside of her and wrapped its tendrils around the very bones of her skeleton until her senses grew numb again, and then she couldn't feel anything at all. She hadn't spoken to Brett since the day it had happened, and it didn’t take much to guess what Brett was imagining. After all, the pieces fell together like some horrible game of Clue. Beverly had been the only person with Brett’s brother when he overdosed, and by the time Brett saw her in the hospital she was still high on coke. She realized how bad it all looked from Brett’s point of view, but she just couldn’t find the words to explain to Brett what had really happened. Because, to be honest, she wasn’t so sure she had figured it out herself. And so the minute the doctors had pronounced Chris dead on arrival she had bolted, leaving her best friend behind to collapse in sobs alone.

"Please join us in a prayer for Chris," the minister concluded his eulogy.

Everyone's heads ducked down and Beverly quickly followed suit, grateful for the chance to hide her famous face. She desperately needed this to be over so she could leave before she completely lost her composure. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the same church Chris' mother's funeral service had been held in, and the twisted irony was not lost on her.

In a few minutes, her wish was granted and the service ended. The church filled with solemn voices as everyone began to stand up, but none faster than Beverly. She jumped to her feet so fast it alarmed the elderly couple sitting at the end of the alter, and they shuffled slowly to make room for her to pass. But at that exact moment, Brett Winston was just turning around to speak to her uncle, who was sitting right behind her. Somehow, her cat-like green eyes – so much like her deceased half-brother's – cut straight through the bustle and landed on Beverly. She stopped talking mid-sentence as her expression hardened.

"Excuse me," Beverly mumbled tersely, pushing past dawdling mourners. She mentally cursed herself for her stupidity; it had been a terrible idea to come to the funeral. Had she really thought that she would be able to completely avoid Brett?

Outside in the cold, she allowed herself a few shaky deep breaths as she scanned the long line of black cars waiting outside. Where the fuck is the goddamn car? She whipped out her phone and was about to speed-dial her driver when she heard her name.

"Beverly, is that you?"

Beverly cursed under her breath before turning around slowly. Standing in front of here were the Vanderbilt twins, wearing almost identical black Oscar de la Renta dresses under their peacoats. The two seemed shocked to see her. But Cassandra, who was only distinguishable due to the faint chicken pox scar above her left eye, recovered first.

She swooped over and gave Beverly the customary Upper East Side cheek kiss. "Bev, I had no idea you were still in town!" she exclaimed. "Your mom told us you were in Paris."

"Yeah, well, I decided to stay." Beverly squirmed uncomfortably. "Couldn't miss it, you know." She cast a nervous glance at the church entrance; she needed to escape before Brett came out.

"This must be so awful for you," Alexandra breathed, her brown eyes wide with fake sympathy. "I mean, with your history with Chris and all…"

"Yeah," Beverly responded coolly. Then, unable to help herself, she asked, "How's Brett doing?"

The two glanced around conspiratorially and then scooted closer to her. "Not so well," Cassandra said, her mournful tone at odds with her poorly-disguised glee at sharing some gossip. "Did you know Chris was at his mom's old apartment when he died?"

"Really," was all Beverly could manage.

"Yeah." Alexandra nodded vigorously. "And," she lowered her voice, "someone else was with him."

Beverly felt a curious sensation, as though her insides were shriveling. "What do you mean?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Someone was there to call the ambulance. But they completely disappeared. Now no one can tell if it was suicide or an accident."

Beverly breathed a little easier. Of course Brett hadn't told anyone it had been Beverly. Brett was calculated in that way; her rage always quiet and understated.

"Speak of the devil," Cassandra said in an undertone, her eyes focusing behind Beverly.
Beverly glanced behind her and her worst fears were confirmed – Brett was storming out of the church doors. She caught sight of Beverly standing with the Vanderbilts, and the expression on her face turned violent.

"Nice seeing you, Bev," the twins chimed in unison, before hastily turning away. Brett's temper was notorious; everyone knew to stay out of her way when she was angry.

The crowd seemed to disperse as Brett stomped over to her. "Shit," Beverly muttered to herself nervously. She wasn't ready for this confrontation.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brett hissed as she drew closer, each word sharper than a knife thrown at Beverly's back. Brett's face was turning as red as her hair. It wasn't pretty.

"I just want to get out of here," Beverly said wearily. "Please don't make a scene."

These were the wrong words to say. Brett broke out in derisive laughter. "Oh, of course," she said scathingly. "Of course Beverly fucking Roberts doesn't want to make a scene. Oh, anything to keep your goddamn name out of the fucking tabloids, right? You don't want anyone finding out about this, now do you?"

"Brett, please." Beverly glanced around, hoping that no one was listening. But as much as it pained her to admit it, Brett was right. The last thing she wanted was a story in the tabloids connecting Beverly with Chris' death. It would ruin her. "Just lower your voice."

Brett's gaze could cut diamonds. "I can't believe you would even show up. That you would even dare to show your fucking face around here."

"Brett, you know what he meant to me!" Beverly couldn't contain her frustration.

"Oh, sure," Brett sneered. "Funny how you only start caring about him after he's dead."

This left Beverly speechless. For a moment, something like triumph danced over Brett's features, but then Beverly blinked, and it was gone. Beverly thought she imagined it. "That's – that's not true," she stammered. Right at that moment, she spotted her chauffeur pulling the car up to the curb, and relief flooded her. "I was just leaving, anyway," she added with as much composure as possible.

Brett grabbed her arm and steered her towards her, so Beverly was forced to look straight at her. There was a wild, animalistic look in her eyes, one that was completely unfamiliar to Beverly in spite of their twenty years of friendship. And then she hissed, so low that not even the eavesdropping Vanderbilt twins could hear, "I will never forgive you for killing my brother."

Blood rushed to Beverly's head; she felt dizzy and clammy. "It wasn't my fault," she said faintly. The sidewalk blurred before her vision for a moment.

Brett dropped her arm and took a step back. "Thank you for being here, Bev," she said loudly, flashing a sweet smile. "My family and I really appreciate your support right now."

Beverly pulled herself together. "I'm so sorry, Brett," she whispered, before turning on her black Christian Louboutin heels and collapsing into her waiting black Mercedes.