I’m sure The Sketch can afford it. Seen anyone else famous yet?
I’m about to text back No, but all of a sudden that’s not true anymore.
Leah Brown walks into the backstage area, her hair pulled into a ponytail, her face makeup free. In fact, the only thing that marks her as an internationally super-famous pop star is the fact that about a dozen people are trailing after her, struggling to keep up with her long-legged strides. Leah looks down at the tablet one of her minions is holding.
“Ugh, I hate that. Weren’t there any better pictures than that one? Tell Frankie P. we might need to do another shoot if that’s the best he can come up with.”
I want a hole to open up and swallow me. If I look away she might not notice me, but I can’t stop staring at her. Even before she gets all her hair and makeup done, she’s beautiful, like a magnet that draws all eyes her way. I think this is what people mean when they say someone has star quality, the X factor. Her presence changes the air, makes everything feel more electric.
Elliot would call it a certain je ne sais quoi.
Megan would be jealous.
Ollie would be drooling.
I get the shivers.
I don’t understand how Noah could have been in a “fake” relationship with this girl. How could any straight guy spend time in her presence and not fall in love with her?
Even though I’m making a fool out of myself by staring like a lunatic, Leah and her posse walk straight past me without stopping—with the exception of the girl who’s been told to contact Frankie P. She grabs one of the other girls and I can hear her mutter, “Tell François-Pierre Nouveau that he has to redo this shoot? How am I supposed to do that?” Her face is white with panic and the ends of her sentences rise into a high-pitched squeal. I’ve heard of François-Pierre Nouveau—he’s one of the most famous photographers in the world. I can’t believe I’m in the presence of someone who has had a photo shoot with François-Pierre—or, rather, someone who is rejecting the work of François-Pierre and calls him Frankie P.
“You’ll have to figure it out,” the other girl says. “This is LB’s album cover we’re talking about. If she’s not happy . . .”
“I’m going to die. I’m officially going to die.”
This time they see me staring and they both shoot me dark looks. I keep moving, stammering an apology.
“Penny?”
I turn round reluctantly. Leah is standing with one hand on her hip, and the rest of her group is looking at me like I’ve grown another head. I nod, and swallow hard. “Hi, Leah.”
She walks towards me, and it feels more like a predator approaching prey than someone coming over to say hello.
“So you’re Penny Porter.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that, so I just nod again.
“You were the one that gave me so much trouble last year,” she says, her drawn-out LA accent touched with a hint of her Southern roots. She looks me up and down, and I feel her entire group judging my outfit. I haven’t exactly made an effort today. I’m dressed to ride in a tour bus, so I’m in my comfy jeans and a zip-up sweater. I fold my arms protectively across my chest but stand tall.
“Well, I guess I owe you a thanks for the song inspiration. Sweet camera. See you around,” she says with a little wave, before turning back to her group.
Leah had used the media storm that exploded around her fake breakup with Noah to launch her latest number-one internationally bestselling single “Bad Boy.” Leah writes a lot of her own music, and this one had been primed and ready in case of any eventuality—in this case, using her breakup with Noah to her advantage. I’m sure there were songs about how deeply in love they were too, in case things had continued to be smooth sailing.
As she walks away, I feel like I could faint with relief. I need to speak to Elliot. Stat.
Chapter Sixteen
From: Elliot Wentworth
To: Penny Porter
Subject: THE ELLIOT REPORT
Dear Pennylicious, aka Ocean Strong,
You’ve been gone ONE DAY and already I’m in a conundrum. Just HOW am I going to suffer through the next two weeks without you? Things have gone from bad to worse in this seaside town. I didn’t tell you over text, but my dad is back. He’s insisting on taking me to dinner. Something his therapist told him to do so he can “come to terms” with my “sexuality.” He’s staying in the house with Mum’s permission, but they keep having these mega blow-up arguments whenever they’re in the same room together. There’s been more emotion in this house over the past day than I’ve seen in sixteen years.
Anyway, Mum’s decided she doesn’t want to see him. She hasn’t even come home this evening—instead, she’s putting in even more hours at work. Sometimes I wonder if she doesn’t even want to see me either? Ugh, why is family drama so hard? I think I preferred it when my parents just ignored me and let me get on with life.
Speaking of life, my internship with CHIC magazine started EARLY! They wanted me in today, even though it’s a Friday—ARGH. But it was so amazing. I got to work with a stylist and she actually complimented my blazer—you know the one I sewed those crazy buttons on? OK, so it’s a lot of getting coffee and detangling about a million necklaces from an unholy knot but it’s REAL FASHION WORK.
But enough about me and my monotonous life. How are things with you?
What’s your hotel like?