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“Yeah, Mum, and you and Aunt Trish willnotbe coming to see it.”
“Of course we will! I already emailed Lucia for tickets. She said the whole run is sold out, and they haven’t even officially started promo.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. The pressure was on. I’d done small, backstreet plays before, and this was…still a small backstreet theatre, but the hype had been insane, and Lucia—my agent—was once again begging me to take an interest in my social media, which would only mean more sleepless nights worrying if I could actually pull this off.
“It’s a good play,” I said. “I’m excited about doing something new. Different.”
“Yes, and then as soon as that wraps, you’ll go off to America again to meet with another round of casting agents, and then you’ll be on another project before you’ve even got a splash of sunshine on those cheeks. You do realise that everyone will have seen those cheeks?”
“Everyone has already seen these fine cheeks, and anyway, I’ll be getting a spray tan for theLA Boysrun. It’s set in Los Angeles, and I can’t be looking all pale like this.”
“You’ll be brilliant.” Mum smiled, for a minute stopping and grabbing my hand. “But you need to take care of yourself too. Look after your needs. Hang out with your friends. Get yourself laid. Meet some new people. Find that special girl. Or boy. A friend. Person.”
That was Mum in a nutshell, always choosing her words carefully, ensuring she wouldn’t offend. The fact was, I had no friends. I hadn’t seen the people I’d gone to school with for years, and yeah.
“You know, Mum, it’s not real what you see on TV. That’s not me.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. I’m your mum, and I understand these things. But you need to be happy, and right now, there’s something lacking in your life. Something quite important. I can’t be there to hold your hand and tuck you into bed anymore.”
“Mum,” I groaned, and she laughed.
“Think about it, yeah? You need someone special. Someone who will look after you. You can’t just work and not live.”
“Idolive, and I will have some time off…at some point.” I wouldn’t. What the hell was I supposed to do? Go off on a singles tour of India and learn to meditate? Lucia would have my balls on a plate, and I kind of knew it. I loved her and knew she always had my back, but I was pushing this as much as she was. She’d offered time off, even forced me to take a few days a couple of months back, then we’d both agreed to cancel them when the booking for the cover forELLEhad landed, and instead I’d spent three days in some fancy studio with a supermodel called Tara. Who was nice enough, but…
“I hate photoshoots.” Random, but so was my mum, and she would know where my thoughts had gone.
“I hated that cover you did,” she said. “What was the magazine again?Masculine? That was it. It didn’t even look like you. What did they do? Cut your head off and pasted it on someone else’s body?”
“It’s called Photoshop, Mum.”
“I know about Photoshop, sweetie,” she replied snarkily as her phone went off with a shrill, loud tone that broke our peace and quiet.
I grabbed my cup and phone and went out in the garden, flopped onto one of the garden chairs and scrolled through my pathetic Instagram account and grinned at pictures of people I no longer knew.
The photo I’d taken the other day popped up, and I suddenly had a thought. Hmm. I wonder…
It was perfectly acceptable to look up people on Instagram. Lucia did it all the time, showed me the glossy accounts of up-and-coming influential names, pretty faces in fake situations. I’d done those too; they were plastered all over my own verified Lucia-controlled Actor Connor Telford account. I’d be carted off to stylists, who’d dress me like a paper doll, and then I’d get wheeled out to events so people could take photos. I didn’t mind when I went with Caroline, but she was now dating another actor, and now the two of them got carted out together, usually in matching outfits. Ties to match handbags. I sighed to myself.
I was booked in for an event next week with Tara. The supermodel. She was very nice and had actually spoken to me like I was a human being and not just a prop. We’d even snuck out for coffee, and I’d very briefly met her girlfriend. At the time, I’d gladly agreed to be Tara’s date for next week’s Gucci event. I regretted that now, but Lucia would have my head on a plate—again—if I dared to cancel.
His name was Matt. Matt Winston. I remembered. I popped it into the search bar on Instagram and got loads of hits but nobody that looked anything like him. Yes, I feel you, Matt. If I was a teacher, I wouldn’t have public social media either.
In case I’d misheard, I tried Matt Waters. Walton. Window.
Nope.
Next, I tried Matthew, and there he was. Matthew Winston, from Maidenhead. His profile picture was sleek, well dressed. He looked younger on there.
I pressed follow. Private account. Of course. But I could message him.
What the fuck was I doing?
Message.
Matthew Winston.
Hell.
