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Willa gave him her best side-eye.

‘Seriously, Willa.’ He leant in and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘Give me dirt. If TMZ gazumps me one more time this pretty face might not be hitting HD screens in an-y-bod-y’s home ever again.’

She looked at the bacon, the approaching waiter and then at Charlie.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she was ravenous. And angry. Did he not understand what an amazing job he had? Rocking up to five-star hotels, ‘kept waiting’ in a room filled to the brim with Michelin-level snacks so he could interview celebrities the so-called average person only dreamt of meeting?

She held out a hand and stopped the waiter. To Charlie she said, ‘Are you actually going to waste all of that bacon?’

‘It’s ick.’

‘It isn’t ick. It’s quality food.’

He snorted. ‘Willa, stop being weird. I like it when you’re nice.’ He stage-whispered, ‘Are you on right now?’

Oh, she was on alright. ‘Eat it.’

‘What? No!’

‘Eat it.’ Her voice was level. Completely calm. ‘Otherwise it will go to waste. You took it. Now eat it.’

Charlie looked over both of his shoulders in abject horror. ‘Are you shaming me?’

She supposed she was. Him. Everyone around him who’d done something similar. Herself for not appreciating how fucking lucky she was to be alive and eating rare breed, applewood-smoked bacon as she waited for Sharon Stone to arrive for a five-minute interview about a two-minute cameo. (She was excellent, so . . . worth it.)

‘Jeeee-ZUS! Take it if you want it so much.’ Charlie shoved the plate in her direction, lurching a couple of pieces on to the white tablecloth.

A hush filled the room.

Willa took it and, to the surprise of everyone around her, she looked Charlie straight in the eye and began to eat one piece, then another, and another. Then she poured some maple syrup over the rest of the pieces and ate them too. Before the hospitality service manager could stage an intervention, she began grabbing other half-eaten or abandoned plates and eating them as well. Hash browns. Grilled asparagus with lemon zest shavings and curls of parmesan. A half-eaten triangle of brioche French toast with super fruit compote.

‘She’s on,’ she could hear Charlie saying to the woman next to him. ‘She just said. And I think Ben wasn’t very nice to her. Did you know he thinks she’s from Arkansas?’

‘Willa Jenkins?’ A publicist who looked like Zac Efron appeared in the doorway. ‘Rachel’s ready for you.’

Without so much as a backward glance she rose, followed the Zac lookalike down the hall, was introduced to Rachel, exchanged hellos with the crew, the agents, got mic’ed up, and waited patiently as Rachel received a touch-up of her powder and then, when everyone had stepped into place and the room co-ordinator swept her index finger into the we’re-rolling spin, Willa opened her mouth and threw up.

‘Is there anyone you want us to call?’ Priya asked, handing Willa a washcloth soaked in cold water.

Yes. But she couldn’t pick up the phone any more.

She spat out the mouthwash one of the make-up artists had pressed into her hand with a whispered, ‘I’ve always wanted to see someone projectile vomit on a celebrity. Thank you for that.’

‘I’m alright, thanks,’ Willa assured her. ‘I’ll just head home.’

‘We’ll courier your tapes over, and Charlie’s volunteered to do your Rachel interview.’

Even in this state, Willa had to laugh. Of course he had. She got fifteen minutes to his five.

Priya dipped down to try to catch her eye. ‘Is that okay? I can get someone else to do it if you want.’

‘No, that’s fine.’ Maybe then her bosses would begin to see that she really did deserve that raise and promotion they hadn’t given her for the past three years.

Down at the valet desk, she tugged a couple of dollars out of her coin purse. It wasn’t much compared to the bills the actual clientele of the hotel stuffed into the palms of the valet staff, but she knew they appreciated the gesture.

When Jason, a forty-something surfer dude, pulled up and dropped the keys of her beloved Prius into her hand, he unexpectedly pulled her into a hug with a ‘Heard about the Barf Monster incident. Make a grilled cheese sandwich and drink a root beer. Works for me every time.’

She patted him on the shoulder in thanks, then flopped into the driver’s seat, turned left on Doheny, left on Third and headed home for another round of reading the lawyer’s letter.