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“Con!” Lucia groaned. “Was there not a single picture of you and Tara Marie looking elegant and ready for a night out, toasting with champagne instead of her pouring bubbles down your trousers?”
“The brief was simple.” I shrugged. The photos were really good. Tara looked incredible, and the one where my tongue was suggestively licking down her cleavage as she poured champagne into my mouth was actually pretty clever. Not real champagne, of course. Sparkling water. They added the colour post-production. After all, we couldn’t ruin the clothes, and most of the shots had been done with an empty bottle. The end result was…well…I wouldn’t call it porn, but…
“The brief was a sexy look at today’s up-and-coming stars of stage and screen. Tara’s first movie is out in a month, and this—”
“Will sell,” I interrupted. “The click rate will be through the roof.”
I wasn’t born yesterday, and I did understand some of what Lucia was saying. The photos were truly scandalous and would either break us both or my social media following would shoot up like a rocket.
“Oh, Con.” Lucia slumped onto a chair, her head in her hands. “It’s a massive risk. I’m not sure.”
“There are already rumours of me and Tara dating. There were those pap photos of us buying coffee, and yes, I know you hired him. Sneaky. Same guy you used last time.”
Lucia glanced up but said nothing while I rambled on.
“And we’ll be at the Gucci party next week. This is just the natural follow through. These pictures invite the public into our imaginary bedroom. End of. Then you can have the fun job of announcing that we’rejust good friendsand that our commitments are keeping us apart. Some bullshit like that. You’re good at those trivial little lies.”
“Tara is queer, a very outspoken, proud lesbian,” Lucia pointed out. “Her publicist has done a fine job of curating her image, and Tara’s team is keen to get these photos approved to broaden her appeal.”
“Does that matter? No,” I answered for her. I was so sick of all of this. The expectations. The branding. The image. The perception people had to have of me. Lucia wasn’t done, though, and she continued to lecture me when all I wanted to do was forget all of this existed.
“I know you’re not keen on having those kinds of personal statements about yourself out in the public eye. But if you need me to put anything out there, you know I will always support you.”
“I still don’t feel it’s something I have to…explain,” I said quietly, finally allowing myself to breathe. I’d toed that line since my teens. My sexuality wasn’t something that had been shoved down my throat despite the rest of my life having been micromanaged and scripted. I’d just beenthatkid. The one who was too scared to figure things out. I liked girls. I really liked girls. I’d kissed my first boy in a soap role at seventeen. He’d been gay, and I’d been so bloody green. Our on-screen chemistry had been off the charts, everyone said, and he still kept in touch. George, his name was. Nice guy. Had a boyfriend.
He’d been a good kisser and had taught me some tricks. I’d never been so embarrassed in my life, but they’d been good tips. I was a good kisser now too and rarely needed choreography to adjust my moves. I liked kissing. I liked when things felt good. Not that I ever allowed myself to think that way because it was all work. Nothing was real. Ever.
“Approve them,” I said quietly. “The photographer was very professional. He knew exactly what he was doing, and these shots are scorching. I think, if anything, the magazine will face any backlash. We’re just actors.”
“The public don’t see it that way,” Lucia argued.
“I don’t care.” I was tired. Really, really tired.
“This one,” I said, pointing at the photo where Tara looked like she was in the throes of orgasmic bliss and my hands were up her skirt. “This one should go on my social media. Tag Tara. It’ll make her laugh.”
“Seriously, Con. You’ll be the death of me. The US will take a step back. It’s too much.”
“It’s pure filth,” I agreed.
“Not the image we are trying to portray.”
“Well, that’s all I know how to do. I can get into fights and run and roll in the mud all I want, but that’s not what people remember. And we already have the play. Ties in nicely. Then we’ll start filming that BBC period drama afterwards, right? That’s still on the cards. I have a varied schedule coming up. If the US pull out, then so be it.”
“Ambition, Con. We’re not aiming for mediocre here,” Lucia scolded. “I’m still not sure if you should sign up for the BBC drama. It’s not…quite you. And I have another client in mind.” She managed some huge names. I was lucky to have her, and I certainly didn’t want to piss her off or turn down her advice or whatever she was offering, but I just wasn’t feeling it today. I wasn’t feeling anything.
I was driven back to my hotel, the plain room greeting me with its usual dullness. I had all my stuff spread messily over the table. The bed was unmade. The cleaner came in every Friday to change my sheets, but the rest of the time, I slobbed around in a state of slight chaos. I didn’t care. I didn’t spend enough time here anyway, and once I started rehearsal forLA Boys, I’d move all this crap to a different hotel closer to where I needed to be. This one was just a short hop from the current set; hence, this was currently home.
Home. I laughed bitterly to myself and flopped down on the bed, grabbing my phone.
Matt. I still hadn’t answered his text. I had no idea what to say. This was definitely not a date. Nope. Absolutely not. We were just going to hang out and have dinner. A quick bite. A brief, cheerful conversation. Behave like normal people because Mattwasnormal. I needed to learn how to be that too.
I sent a text to Tara, gingerly asking if she’d seen the photos.
She replied with a string of fiery emojis. She was happy. That was all good then. Had she not been, I would readily have gone with Lucia and vetoed the shit out of them.
I tried to nap. Tried to look at next week’s scripts. Scrolled back to Instagram where, for the umpteenth time, I stared at Matthew Winston.
I couldn’t help it.
