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Chapter 1
Harlow
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“Holy shit,” I say, the words slipping out under my breath. I barely hear them myself. I swallow thickly and then wipe my sweaty palms on my plum pencil skirt. A gust of wind blowing along East Fifty-fifth Street causes my loose cream blouse to billow and sends a chill down my heated skin.
I barely feel it though, as I stand here feeling like a fraud.
I’ve always been a normal girl with a normal life. Everything happened so quickly and I just kept nodding my head in disbelief. And now I’m here. Standing outside of the St. Gerard hotel. It’s a sleek and modern building made of black glass and shiny steel. It’s full of a hustle and bustle that echoes the busy streets of New York, but with an edge and sophistication that doesn’t allow for outsiders. It’s high end and only meant for the who’s who of New York City.
And I’m expected to walk through those doors. Just a girl from the suburbs who always dreamed of getting an inch closer to the city.
My heart races thinking about holding my head up high and squaring my shoulders, pretending like I belong here. There’s only so much a person can fake and right now, I can’t even pretend to have confidence. Fake it till you make it. I say the motto over and over. It’s worked for me so far.
“I know, right?” Lydia says with a different air to her tone than mine. Not quite disbelief, more like the sound of accomplishment. The voice someone uses when they know they’ve made it and they’re damn proud.
Sometimes, I wonder at what point she went from being my first client at the agency to a friend. Since day one, only months ago, the air between us has been easy and she’s only shown me a sweet side that’s made it easy to confide in her. Today, of all days, I need someone to lean on and to ground me. I couldn’t have lucked out more.
“Like, ho-ly shit,” I say each syllable separately, thankful that she’s hell-bent on keeping me from making an utter fool of myself.
This is my first real time on set, even though I’ve been interning with one of the top talent agents in Manhattan for months. This is my first time at a real shoot. Well, maybe not today, but sometime in the next few weeks. Not that I wanted this. I never asked for it and a happy accident led me here. It’s Lydia’s fault. The bitch set me up. A smile slips onto my face at the thought.
Lydia was made to be a star, with high cheekbones and straight black hair that’s never needed a keratin blowout. She’s going to kill it in there and earn her place in this industry. She’s supposed to be here.
“We got this,” she says as she maneuvers the Louis Vuitton bag onto her shoulder and smacks her lips together, but the stain doesn’t budge on her lips.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say softly, my eyes traveling along the etched glass sign above the doorway. My gaze follows the glass elevator as it moves seamlessly up the 150-story building until my eyes can’t focus on it anymore. The glare of the sun forces me to slip my sunglasses back into place. I feel sick to my stomach.
Lydia just smiles, her bright red lips thinning as her pearly whites flash back at me. “You know those aren’t your lines, right?” she asks and then glides the tip of her tongue across her teeth and steps forward, ignoring the dozens of people hurrying to move around us as if we don’t even exist. She’s not intimidated by the building, the people, or the expectations we’re about to walk into.
Ever since high school, almost ten years ago now, I’ve thought about what it would be like to be an actress. I didn’t dare to really dream of it though. I thought I could do casting calls or learn to be an agent. Something in the industry, but I never hoped to actually participate on screen. My first summer out of college as an intern proved this industry moves fast and I need to be prepared for anything.
“Four weeks of this,” Lydia says as a woman in a chic pink Chanel tweed dress and a thin black patent leather belt around her waist walks past us. It’s hard not to notice her. Her hot pink pumps click loudly on the sidewalk, and even with the traffic and other people moving about, she stands out as a force that refuses to blend in. She walks right ahead of us, a large Dooney and Bourke purse in the crook of her arm and the doors open without hesitation, allowing her entry.
