Meet the Benedettos, page 1
Dedication
For Jackie, again
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Lilly
Chapter Two: Will
Chapter Three: Lilly
Chapter Four: June
Chapter Five: Lilly
Chapter Six: Will
Chapter Seven: Lilly
Chapter Eight: Will
Chapter Nine: Caroline
Chapter Ten: Lilly
Chapter Eleven: Dominic
Chapter Twelve: Lilly
Chapter Thirteen: Will
Chapter Fourteen: Lilly
Chapter Fifteen: Will
Chapter Sixteen: Lilly
Chapter Seventeen: Kit
Chapter Eighteen: Lilly
Chapter Nineteen: Charlie
Chapter Twenty: Lilly
Chapter Twenty-One: Olivia
Chapter Twenty-Two: Will
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lilly
Chapter Twenty-Four: Will
Chapter Twenty-Five: Lilly
Chapter Twenty-Six: Will
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lilly
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Will
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Lilly
Chapter Thirty: Cinta
Chapter Thirty-One: Will
Chapter Thirty-Two: Georgia
Chapter Thirty-Three: Lilly
Chapter Thirty-Four: Mari
Chapter Thirty-Five: Will
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Katie Cotugno
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Lilly
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Lilly Benedetto drives the crappiest, most broken-down car in Southern California, which is how she finds herself sitting on a bench next to the valet stand outside Cecconi’s in West Hollywood late Friday afternoon, waiting for her sister to come and pick her up.
“You realize there’s a dealership like three blocks from here,” June says when she cruises to a stop at the bright yellow curb, immaculate in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a tank top cropped just enough to show a sliver of tan, flat stomach. At twenty-nine, she’s older than Lilly by two full years, though you’d never know it to look at her. She’s been using a retinol serum since she was twelve. “You literally could have walked over, tossed your hair a little, and driven something new right off the lot.”
Lilly shrugs, sliding into the passenger seat of June’s cool, quiet Audi and cranking the air-conditioning, tilting the vents up so they blow against her damp, blotchy face. It’s the end of October but still close to a hundred degrees in Los Angeles, and her stretchy black tank dress is sticking to the sweaty ridges of her spine. “My credit’s bad,” is all she says.
It’s a bullshit answer, and they both know it, but it’s a testament to June’s sweet and mollifying nature—and, probably, to the fact that Lilly is the unequivocal boss of her four sisters—that she doesn’t press. Instead she waggles her fingers at a couple of scruffy-looking photographers camped across the street as she pulls out into traffic; the guys wave back as they pack up their cameras, ambling off toward their black SUVs. “Did you call them?” June asks, nodding her curly blond head toward the window.
“Rude!” Lilly whirls on her, laughing. “What, so that they could all come down here and watch me get my shitty car towed? Of course I didn’t call them.”
June grins. “I’m just asking,” she says easily. “You know Olivia tips them off every time she leaves the house.”
“Olivia would tip them off every time she got a UTI if she thought it would get her picture in Us Weekly,” Lilly counters, “but no. They were there to take pictures of Isobel. My vehicular difficulties were just a bonus.”
“Lucky them,” June says, glancing over her shoulder as they merge onto the 101 North toward Calabasas. Lilly leans her head back against the seat. She parked on the street specifically to avoid the embarrassment of the valets hiding her ancient Honda behind the restaurant with the rest of the undesirables, only to be rewarded for her foresight by a double-decker bus full of tourists gawking at the grim spectacle of the tow truck dragging it forlornly away. Isobel and the rest of her crew had left by then, thank god—not that it matters, since Lilly knows from experience that the whole debacle is probably already trending on Twitter. If there’s one thing the internet can’t get enough of, it’s a Benedetto sister having a misadventure of any kind.
“I didn’t even realize you guys were hanging out again,” June says now, pushing her oversized sunglasses up into her hair as the late-afternoon light begins to fade. “You and Isobel, I mean.”
“Oh, we’re not,” Lilly corrects. “It was just a brunch to launch her line of ugly purses, that’s all. She only invited me like twenty minutes before it started, which means somebody must have gotten mouth herpes or something and she needed a seat filler.”
June shakes her head, full lips twisting. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“That’s very loving of you, Junie,” Lilly says, sliding her sandals off and propping her feet up on the dashboard. “Unfortunately, your optimism is undermined by the fact that my complimentary belt bag party favor was monogrammed for Addison Rae.”
By the time they make it back to Pemberly Grove it’s almost dusk, the sun slanting warm and pink and golden over the hills. They wave to Edgar, the octogenarian gate attendant, then follow the winding streets of the development past the long-shuttered clubhouse and the algae-covered pond before finally pulling into the long, curving driveway of their parents’ sprawling faux colonial.
“You and your hobo wagon are already on the Sinclair,” Olivia reports when Lilly and June muscle open the rusting gate into the backyard, fishing her phone out of her cleavage and waving it accusingly in Lilly’s direction. She and Kit are draped across an enormous unicorn inflatable in the middle of the bean-shaped pool, the two of them wearing matching Valentino sunglasses and sky-high Louboutins. Their gangly, moribund friend Tony, who does all their photography—in exchange, so far as Lilly can tell, for the pleasure of their company rather than monetary compensation of any kind—snaps busily away. “Photos and everything.”
Lilly bites back a grimace. That was fast, even for Hollywood’s most notoriously salacious gossip blog; she supposes you’ve gotta be quick these days if you don’t want to get scooped by a thirteen-year-old with an iPhone and a window seat on the star tour. “Just another day of breathless, fawning coverage, I’m sure.”
“Shockingly, no.” Kit reaches out with one intricately tattooed arm and plucks the phone from Olivia’s hand, squinting down at the post. Of the five of them, Olivia and Kit are the two youngest and the ones with the most social media cachet, perpetually toasting each other with cronut-flavored vodka or filming cheery videos about how much they love their knockoff Vitamix. If their nascent careers as influencers haven’t yet proven to be terribly lucrative in terms of actual American dollars, at the very least neither one of them will ever need to purchase their own flat-tummy tea ever again. “‘Did Somebody Call for an Uber?’” Kit reads now, her plump, painted lips curling in dark amusement. “‘Lilly B’s Busted Beater Breaks Down Again.’”
“That’s . . . alliterative.” Lilly winces. “Sorry,” she says, more to June than anyone else. She stopped caring what the Sinclair or anyone else had to say about her or the Honda a long time ago. Still, she doesn’t like to embarrass her sisters.
“Don’t worry about it.” June sits down on one of the wobbly lounge chairs lined up on the patio. Then, suddenly realizing it’s covered with a creeping fur of neon-green mildew, she sits on another one instead. “Could be worse.”
“Could be better!” Olivia counters indignantly. “What is that, like, the third time in the last two months? Can you please just nut up and get a new car already? People are going to think we don’t have the money to replace it.”
“I mean, we don’t have the money to replace it,” Lilly reminds her. “Just ask Dad.”
“It’s not funny!” Olivia protests, though Lilly wasn’t actually kidding. “Your whole”—she waves a hand in Lilly’s direction—“situation is really dragging us down.”
“Are you sure that’s not the staggering weight of your fake eyelashes?” Kit posits sweetly. Olivia flips her the bird in reply.
“Dinner’s here,” Marianne announces then, sliding the patio door open and poking her pale, sullen face outside. At twenty-four she’s the middleborn Benedetto, floating ominously at the center of their family like a haunted island in the middle of the sea. A couple of months ago she turned up in a supporting role in some random Lena Dunham mumblecore project none of the rest of them had the foggiest idea she was doing; if it turned out she was also breeding heritage pigs or running a high-stakes poker game out of the pool house, Lilly would not be the slightest bit surprised. “Mom says come inside if you want to eat.”
Olivia sighs, dropping her head back so it’s nestled in the crook of the unicorn’s graceful white neck. She’s got the same dark, wavy hair as Lilly, long enough that the ends of it are wet from trailing through the bleachy blue water. “Somebody needs to tow us in,” she announces imperiously.
Lilly frowns as Tony sets his camera down and shuffles over to the skimmer, casting it into the pool like a fishing line so Olivia can grab hold. “What are you guys even advertising?” Lilly asks, holding her hand out to pull Junie to her feet.
“Nothi ng,” Olivia replies, boosting herself neatly up onto the pool deck, heels and all. “We just look particularly good today, don’t you think?”
They say their goodbyes to Tony and head inside the house, where their mother is standing at the kitchen island dressed head to toe in snow-white athleisure, pulling various Chinese food containers from a massive paper bag. “No, really, don’t bother helping,” she says, holding one manicured hand up dramatically. “I’m all set here.”
“Sorry,” Olivia says, leaning over to kiss her on one round cheek. “Were you slaving away over a hot stove all day long?”
Lilly nudges her mother gently out of the way, opening up the tubs and boxes. June rummages through the untidy cupboards, setting out plates and napkins as their father strides in from the pool house, where, following a massive heart attack a couple of years ago, he now spends the better part of his days listening to the This Is: Billy Joel playlist on Spotify and pedaling his recumbent bicycle. Whenever he comes upon all five of his daughters in the wild there’s always a moment when his expression is the slightest bit befuddled, like they sautéed his vegetables in butter instead of olive oil at Spago and he’s trying to recalculate the macros in his head.
Now he looks from the take-out cartons to Lilly’s mother, then back again, frown lines furrowing his crispy forehead. “I thought you were going to cook.”
Cinta shrugs. “I thought I was going to marry Mark Harmon,” she tells him, thrusting a container of noodles into his hands and shooing him away from the island. “Looks like we were both wrong.”
Her father catches Lilly’s eye across the kitchen, raising his voluminous brows in exaggerated forbearance. Lilly winks at him in reply before grabbing a can of seltzer out of the fridge and following June into the dining room. They literally never ate together before the show started filming, when the network mandated a once-weekly family dinner in an attempt to maximize every available opportunity to get all seven of them in the shot—and, presumably, for somebody to say or do something inflammatory or offensive, though that was never explicitly mentioned in the production notes. In the end, the ritual outlasted the three seasons that Meet the Benedettos ran on cable, and they still wind up gathered around the table almost every Friday night.
“I’m serious, Cinta,” their father says now, the light from the reproduction art deco chandelier bouncing off his head at the far end of the table. A few months ago he fired their housekeeper as a cost-cutting measure and signed them up for a meal delivery service instead, only he didn’t realize it was the kind where you had to cook the food yourself, and since then the insulated cardboard boxes have begun to pile up in the pantry like a cursed tower of Pisa while their mother happily patronizes every take-out establishment in Los Angeles County, and a couple in San Bernardino besides. “We can’t just be ordering dinner for seven people every night of the goddamn we—”
“It’s rice, Dominic.” Their mother waves him off. “I know that to hear you talk about it we’re one order of General Tso’s away from a life of penury on Skid Row, but I certainly think we can afford ri—”
“It’s not just the rice,” Dominic interrupts. “You know that. It’s the rice, the house, the clothes—”
“On top of which, if you want someone to cook those damn meal kits so badly—”
“—not to mention the spa trips to Malibu—”
“—I seem to recall that there’s someone in this family who loves to talk about how he went to culinary school—”
“—and the collagen injections—”
“—though I don’t know that the certificate program at DeVry University is precisely what Escoffier had in mind—”
“Hey!” Lilly interrupts brightly, plucking a dumpling from its white paper carton as June casts her a grateful look across the table. “Here’s a hard conversational swerve. Did you guys see somebody moved in next door to the Lucases?”
“About time,” their mother sniffs. There are probably a dozen vacant properties in Pemberly Grove these days. The one on Netherfield Place has been empty for over a year, before which it was occupied by a couple of thirtysomething guys with slick haircuts who Cinta was convinced were using it as a set for adult films. “How do you know what the sets for adult films look like, exactly?” Olivia asked her once; Cinta’s eyes narrowed before she huffed off to the aesthetician without condescending to reply.
“Not just somebody,” Kit says now, reaching for the kung pao with the self-satisfied smile of a person who knows something. “It’s Charlie Bingley.”
Right away, everyone except their father whirls to look at her. “Charlie Bingley?” Olivia’s eyes are wide.
“Like, Charlie Bingley Charlie Bingley?” Lilly is intrigued in spite of herself. In the last couple of years Charlie Bingley has transitioned seemingly effortlessly from second banana in a series of teenage gross-out flicks to a bona fide A-lister, the muscly star of a forthcoming comic book trilogy called Major Fantastic that promises to be both extremely loud and incredibly lucrative. People magazine recently declared him the nicest guy in Hollywood—a former high school football star turned Juilliard grad whose devotion to his mom back in Chicago is eclipsed only by how much he loves his rescue dog. Lilly has lived in LA long enough to know it’s probably only a matter of time until he’s unmasked as a pervert or a cannibal or, worst of all, a Scientologist. Still, it’s not like she’d turn her nose up at the opportunity to get a gander at him washing his car in the driveway. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Excuse me,” their mother counters immediately, the threat implicit in her voice. “This is a very exclusive neighborhood.”
“Is it, though?” Kit tilts her head to the side.
“You’re welcome to move out anytime, Katrina,” their father reminds her, barely glancing up from the mountain of steamed vegetables heaped onto his plate. “Encouraged, even.”
“There’s another guy living there, too,” Mari informs them, reaching for the carton of chicken and broccoli. “I saw him the other night.”
“Through your telescope?” Kit asks immediately.
“What do you mean, another guy?” Their mother’s eyes narrow. “A boyfriend?”
“If Charlie Bingley is gay I will literally fling myself into the ocean,” Olivia announces.
“You should ring his doorbell and tell him that,” Lilly advises, helping herself to another dumpling. “I’m sure he’d be happy to stop dating men for you.”
“You should ring his doorbell regardless!” Cinta exclaims. “Honestly, I can’t believe none of you have invited him over already. He’s going to think we’re all a bunch of low-rent inconsequentials with no manners.”
“Oh,” Marianne replies, “I’m sure we can all agree he probably thinks that already.”
Their mother shoots her a murderous look, and Lilly ducks her head to hide a grin. After all, it’s not like Mari is wrong: their family is steeped in the kind of cultural notoriety normally reserved for disgraced politicians or the emcees of beloved children’s shows who later get caught masturbating in movie theaters. Lilly’s father made a not-insignificant fortune a decade ago, rising to a campy sort of local celebrity with commercials for his small chain of red-sauce Italian restaurants, the Meatball King. They still run, occasionally—every once in a while Lilly will be flipping channels late at night and catch sight of her dad mugging like Luigi from Mario Kart in front of an enormous brick oven, crowing the King’s iconic slogan: “You won’t believe the balls on us!”
The business grew; they moved from a modest house in the Valley to Pemberly Grove when Lilly was sixteen. Cinta enrolled them all in a tony private school, where Lilly took AP Literature and Composition and also wrote the occasional paper for Isobel DesRoche, the famous hotelier’s fashion model daughter. Isobel took her out to the clubs on Hollywood and Sunset; Lilly brought June, who caught the attention of the second-most-handsome member of a screamingly popular boy band, and suddenly there they were in their party dresses on the blogs and in the magazines, photographers snapping pictures while they drank their iced lattes at Starbucks and a camera crew running cables through their living room for the first season of Meet the Benedettos. Cinta hired a ghostwriter to pen a glossy paperback about parenting socialite daughters. Kit and Olivia launched a juniors’ line at Kohl’s. Their father licensed the Meatball King as a franchise, and if, all these years later, neither the restaurants nor their family’s alleged celebrity—not to mention Lilly’s friendship with Isobel—are exactly what one might call thriving, their mother still carries herself like a deposed queen stubbornly awaiting her golden jubilee.
