Colette sighs and pulls out a company-issue briefing file: a black folder with the Angel Security logo embossed in gold. She flips it open, showing us an A4-sized photograph. It’s a paparazzi shot of a woman getting out of a car. Glen stiffens next to me.
“This is Briar Saint,” she says. “Twenty-eight years old. Former child star, rose to fame when she was thirteen and starred in the TV sitcom Hollywood House. Now she does blockbuster movies.”
Kenta leans forward, examining the picture. “She looks familiar.”
I nod. She does. I could swear I’ve seen her before, but I can’t put my finger on where.
I certainly doubt I’d forget her face. She’s stunning. Honey-coloured hair, soft, tight body, tanned skin. In the picture, she’s dressed in an icy white fur dress like Cruella De Ville, and her lips are painted shocking red. She’s pouting at the camera like a fashion model.
“You’ve probably seen her before,” Colette says. “She’s got a very impressive IMDb page. She’s been in ads, music videos, TV shows. Plus, the posters for her new movie are plastered all over the tube.” She flips the page, showing us a close-up headshot. I take in her high cheekbones and perfectly sculpted lips. She has the most striking eyes I’ve ever seen, a bright turquoise colour, framed with long, fluttery lashes.
The picture has probably been edited in post, I remind myself. I doubt she actually looks this good in real life. No human could.
Glen tugs the photograph closer. “What’s wrong wi’ the lass?” He asks, his Scottish accent thickened by tiredness. “Someone hasslin’ her?”
Colette shrugs, reaching into her purse for her compact. “I got a call from her PR manager an hour ago, begging for us to come and protect her client. She said it was an emergency.” She flips the mirror open and checks her lipstick.
Even though it’s the crack-ass of dawn, our boss is still perfectly turned out, in a full face of makeup and a pale pink dress that matches her nails. Just looking at her, you’d never guess this pretty, doll-sized woman has spent half of her life defusing landmines in Mozambique.
“What kind of emergency?” Kenta prods, when she doesn’t expand.
Colette sighs, snapping the mirror shut again. “She wouldn’t say. Said that it’s ‘confidential information’。 She wants to meet so she can have you sign an NDA and tell you in person.”
I groan. I hate celebrities. What, does she think we’re going to sell her private details to the press? We’re a security company, for God’s sake.
Colette purses her lips. “If I had to guess, I’d say Miss Saint has found herself an enemy. Her behaviour is… controversial.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
Colette flips to a new tab full of media cuttings. My eyes widen as I take in the headlines.
Briar Saint Leaves ‘Emma’ Cast Mid-Way Through Shooting, Calls Director an ‘Absolute C*nt’。
Star Actress Briar Saint Told This Enthusiastic Fan to ‘F*ck Himself.’
Mean Girl: Ex-Friend Describes Briar Saint as a ‘Reincarnated Regina George’
Bratty Diva Briar Saint Called ‘Ungrateful, Rude, and Condescending’ By Ex-Manager.
I look up at Colette, incredulous. “You want us to work with her? She looks like a nightmare.”
“Who’s Regina George?” Glen asks. “Is she famous?”
Colette rolls her eyes.
I flip through some more press clippings, scanning over the photographs of Briar scowling at the camera. Yes, she might be beautiful, but in most of these photos, she’s sneering at the camera like she’s just smelled something bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so openly snobby.
I glance over another article. “Hey, there’s one about her previous security guard. Apparently, she fired him a few days ago for using the bathroom whilst he was on shift,” I read. “Wow. She sounds delightful.”
Colette gives me a flat look and pulls the file back. “Matt, this is tabloid trash. There’s a good chance it’s all just made up so magazines can make money off the girl.”
“And if her security guard sold a story to a gossip rag, he was clearly shit at his job anyway,” Kenta points out.
I shake my head. “I don’t care. I told you. I’m not working for another celebrity. Especially not one with a reputation of acting like a spoiled child.”
Our last celebrity gig was a total nightmare. The girl was a seventeen-year-old Instagram model who spent all day snorting drugs and trying to stick her hands down my pants. When we finally dumped her in rehab, I swore I’d never touch another celebrity case again.