He looks at me like I’m a lunatic. “What?”
“Your arm. Did you pass kindergarten? It’s this thing.” I poke his bicep through the thick fabric of his suit jacket.
I have to admit, he looks incredible in his new outfit. Michel fitted him out in a navy tuxedo with black lapels and a matching tie. The clothes mould perfectly to his body, and the colour makes his eyes look inky-blue. Before I screamed at her, Nin did something to his hair, styling it with gel so it flops fashionably over his forehead. He’d look like the picture-perfect Hollywood boyfriend, if he wasn’t glaring daggers at me. Slowly, he offers me his elbow, and I wrap my hand around it, giving him a subtle tug towards the rose-covered archway that leads to the garden party. As we step forward, the closest journalist steps forward, pushing her microphone into my face.
“Not now,” I say through gritted teeth.
Matt frowns as we walk past her towards the entrance. Glen and Kenta follow us at a distance, melting away into the shadows. Neither of them said a word to me on the ride here. Even Glen wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Isn’t the whole point of tonight that you talk to the press?” His voice is dripping with disdain.
“Later,” I say. I need a drink before I can face that. “Let’s talk to guests, first. I need to thank them for coming.”
“I don’t have anything to say to any of these people.”
“Then scowl and ignore them all,” I mutter. “People will think we’re a match made in heaven.”
He gives me an annoyed look. I ignore it, pulling him through the archway and into the garden. I look around, admiring my work.
The event took months to perfect. I booked out a sprawling private garden on an old Tudor estate, full of plum trees and big, carved bushes. Fairy lights and streams of soft, translucent fabric are strung through the trees, giving the whole place a whimsical, dream-like effect. On a small raised stage, a string quartet is playing a classical version of Taylor Swift’sWildest Dreams.Behind them is the only evidence that tonight is a charity event: a single, tasteful poster announcing the nameHelp for the Homeless. There are a handful of Instagram models taking selfies next to it. I sigh.
Yes, I understand the irony of rich people coming together to drink thousand-dollar bottles of champagne to raise money for homeless children. Unfortunately, this is just how celebrities work. They want to beseendonating. If I just sent all the invitees a link to the GoFundMe page, it would go straight into their spam folders. This event is a spectacle. It’s a place tobe.It cost over ten grand to set up, but the tickets are fifteen hundred quid a pop, and we have hundreds of guests. Add in the donations we’ve already received, and we’re looking at over a million pounds earned in one night. Plus an immense amount of media coverage. The profit is worth it, butGod,it feels tasteless to be splashing out on caviar and ice sculptures when the kids we’re trying to help are dying on the streets.
Matt is silent as we trail through the clusters of people chattering quietly, glittering in their fancy dresses and expensive earrings. Most of them step up to speak with me, politely thanking me for the invitation and unashamedly looking Matt up and down. I nod and answer all of their questions, but I feel like I’m in a haze. My mind is back in my bedroom. I reach out to shake someone’s hand, and my silver nails sparkle under the fairy lights. Embarrassment scrunches my insides.
God. I wasawfulto that poor woman. I made hercry.
A man in a white suit passes by, holding a silver tray of canapés. He offers one to both of us, and Matt waves him away, looking irritated.
“Caviar?” He asks me. “Wouldn’t Tesco Value baked beans be more appropriate?”
“Shut up.”
“Where are all the homeless kids, exactly?” He asks loudly, looking around. “The party is supposedly for them; don’t you think they’d enjoy the canapés and the live music?”
“You think it would be better to invite some?” I mutter. “They’d be used as props for everybody’s Instagram stories. It would be dehumanising. They’re better off just getting the money.”
His mouth twists.
Irritation flicks through me. “Look, can you please just tell me what your problem with famous people is? I get that you think we’re all spoiled idiots, but we’re actually trying to do something good, here.” He doesn’t respond. I scowl. “Tell me.What was your ‘bad experience’ with a celeb? Because right now, you’re just acting like an asshole for no reason.”
He shoots me a glare. “I’macting like an asshole? That’s funny; I don’t think I’ve made any poor people cry today.”
Heat flushes to my cheeks. I ignore it.“Tell me.”
“Fine.” We float past a crowd of drunk footballers. One of them staggers towards me, and Matt puts a hand on my back, glaring at him until he walks off again. “On our last celebrity job, the girl was obsessed with seducing me. It was like her own personal challenge. She was always grabbing me, trying to sit in my lap. Do you have any idea how hard it is to escort someone through a crowd of paparazzi when they keep trying to stick their hands down your pants?”
“I’ve not personallyhad the pleasure. I’m usually the escortee.” Although I get the attempted hands down my pants pretty much every time I leave the house. A lot of people think that touching celebrity genitals is a massive achievement, consensual or not.
He nods, scanning a nearby group of actors. “She didn’t care that I didn’t actually want to sleep with her. She was used to getting whatever she wanted, and she wanted me, so she figuredshe could just take me. She thought, since she was paying me, she owned me. My opinion didn’t matter.” He glares at a guestshoving her phone into a waiter’s hand, knocking over a full tray of drinks as she asks him to take a picture of her.“That’s what I don’t like. The entitlement.”
I smile blandly at a passing acquaintance. “What happened?” I ask through gritted teeth.
He’s quiet for a second. “One night, she kissed me in the back of the limo. I’d had enough. I quit on the spot, and she was so mad I’d rejected her thatshe called her parents, whining and crying, saying I’d forced myself on her.”
My heart drops. “Oh my God, Matt.”
He nods. “Luckily, she forgot there was CCTV in the car. If there hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be here today.” He glances across at me. “You can see the tape, if you don’t believe me.”
I stop walking, gripping his arm. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him honestly. “No one should be sexually harassed at work.”
