Page 1 of Famous for a Living

Chapter 1

The Launch

One doesn’t intentionally wear itchy, viridian-green jumpsuits to match the elaborate wainscoting on the walls around oneself.

Did I know it would match?

Of course.

Was I aware it would look fantastic in pictures?

Naturally.

But to actually pick out my birthday-party-turned-surprise-launch-party ensemble for the sake of matching the walls? That’d be ridiculous.

I did it to match Bobby.

More specifically, I did it because viridian green is Bobby Braswell’s personal color of choice for the year.

And when your birthday-party-turned-surprise-launch-party partner is the Bobby Braswell, designer and partner of Club, the social media app forecasted to, as Bobby liked to say, “make Instagram and Facebook a distant and unsettling memory,” you dress accordingly.

“Cat’s turning thirty. She doesn’t need to broadcast it with a thousand candles.” Serena hip checks Kiel, one of the most renowned caterers in the city (who also happens to be a foot taller and a solid hundred pounds heavier than Serena), out of the way.

“The icing!” Kiel protests, as Serena begins plucking the glittering golden candles out one by one as though defeathering a dead chicken.

She doesn’t budge.

And, just as this scenario has gone between them the past three catering events, he throws his hands in the air.

As Kiel shuffles down the spiral staircase of the loft overlooking my living room, muttering the same murderous phrases he always does in his thick German accent, Serena works.

Her auburn hair curls around her shoulders, pushed back just enough from her face to highlight a delicate jawline leading to lips that, instead of being artificially plumped to one degree shy of clown-sized proportions—as was the way of 99 percent of the forgettable faces walking the streets of Manhattan these days—are magnificently thin. On her head is perched a silky cream top hat, matching a cream pantsuit and four-inch heels, and on her ears twinkle Daddy’s latest little trinket: a six-thousand-dollar pair of earrings he spotted in a shop window on the way to a business lunch, dropped in, and purchased, all because he thought they would look nice on his little princess.

And they do.

Simply put, Serena Whitman is my best friend. Has been since that very first day we met at a fundraising event for childhood diabetes when, upon hearing my name, she lost that vague my-manager-said-I-should-be-here expression in favor of an enthusiastic handshake.

I couldn’t shake her that evening.

Or the next.

And eventually, I gave up trying.

And while her interest in becoming an influencer has long passed, our friendship—nearer to sisterhood level at this point—stuck.

Serena blows a strand of hair from her eyes as she plucks the three-tier cake with surgical-level intensity. “Bobby’s still missing.”

“He’ll be here.” While my words come in a breezy haze, I’m well aware my heart is pounding twice as fast as the seconds ticking on the countdown clock on the wall opposite. And that my business partner—the one who thought of this whole plan to reveal the release of Club at the most extravagant birthday party I’ve ever thrown—is still nowhere to be seen. And that the guests are flowing into the living room below, the room now bobbing in a sea of ruched bodices and dark satin.

Gold and viridian-green balloons hover overhead in their net, ready with a pull of a string to be dispensed on the many guests below. The new long, white sectionals quickly fill with glossy legs exposed by the deep slits of cocktail dresses.

Everywhere there are cameras.

Cameras aimed at oneself as guests grin, chins raised for the best angle.

Cameras panning the room, taking in the scene.

Cameras aimed at others—even a few, I notice as I pull my shoulders back and give my public smile, trying to capture me.