On the fourth floor Bee disappears into a back room with two PR assistants and emerges victorious with a Gold-tier pass, the joy of her acquisition barely dimmed by seeing my Platinum version.
“Oh babes. You got Platinum. Nice. So listen, we need a game plan. If there’s something you’re not into then grab one for me anyway, okay?”
I let out a laugh. I don’t know why but I really was expecting an actual game plan. Still, there’s something refreshingly straightforward about Bee’s attitude to life that sits well with me after the last few days I’ve had. I don’t have to worry about her intentions at least, and for the next few hours I don’t have to think about Emily, or the apartment, or George, or my screen test. And with that we’re ushered past security and into the glittering belly of the beast.
17
Gifted
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
An entire floor of the five-star Sunset Tower Hotel has been taken over by super brands. Every room is filled with concession tables, each with discreet tier pass color-coding to signify who is allowed what and save our blushes.
My eyes drift through open doorways, as we glide along the corridors, taking in the glittering tables of high-end jewelers, brightly colored fashion lookbooks, designer bags, and concessions offering monthlong villa residencies, private yacht chartering, skiing vacations, and Learjet rental. There’s something almost scary about it: being surrounded by luxuries that in real life are so far beyond my pay grade.
The atmosphere from room to room is calm with quiet, discreet conversations between brand liaisons and lanyard wearers. There are faces I recognize, faces that anyone would recognize. Stars, big and small, beautiful and handsome, wander past, just living their everyday lives, as if they weren’t the people they clearly are.
“Holy shit!” Bee’s viselike grip latches onto my forearm. “Do you know who that is?” she rasps at me under her breath. Her eyes direct mine up the corridor to an incredibly tall blond actress who is laughing at a joke one of the PR liaisons has just told her. It’s clearly a rhetorical question as I’m certain half the population of the world would know who it is, and when I look back, Bee’s gaze has already moved on, scanning the milling clientele for more. “This is definitely a good one, Mia,” she adds quietly, lost in her own haze.
I lose Bee at the Cartier stand and wander on through the rooms, stopping briefly to hear a talk at a personal trainer concession. But as I listen to nutritional advice from the towering muscle-bound athlete in front of me, something catches my eye. It’s just in my peripheral vision at first, but the uncanny sense of import turns my head before my rational brain understands what I’m seeing. I turn just in time to catch sight of a sweep of chestnut hair leaving the room. Emily.
And without a word I’m following her into the next room, the bemused personal trainer left in my wake. I scan the faces in the connecting room but she is not one of them. I spin in the crowd wondering if I saw her at all.
And then, as the security guard by the door shifts, I see her. She’s bent over a jewelry concession inspecting one of their pieces closely, her focus down.
My stomach flips. It’s her, not the woman who came to my apartment two nights ago. She’s here, she’s okay. Curiosity, relief, and a twist of anger propel me forward. I approach briskly, my mind desperately trying to work out what the hell I’m going to say to her. Before I can reach her she rises, oblivious, and makes to move on. A jolt of panic shoots through me and before I can stop myself, I grab her arm.
“Emily?”
She turns and, as in a nightmare, I realize I’m firmly grasping the upper arm of an incredibly well-known A-list celebrity who is clearly not Emily Bryant. The actress looks back at me startled before the security guard next to her shifts between us and I immediately release my grip.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. God,” I babble in apology. “I thought you were someone else. A friend. Sorry-sorry-sorry.”