Whoever invented the PowerPoint presentation needs to be shot. Seriously, this is the most sleep inducing thing I've ever endured.

It probably doesn't help that the air conditioner's broken and the room's way too hot, but mostly I blame the PowerPoint. It's the PowerPoint putting me to sleep and making me look unfocussed and lazy in the middle of a board room a.k.a the place I do not need to look lazy. I really should be more concerned about the image I'm presenting here, but damned if I care. Don't see the point, anyway.

I mean, all anybody does is read what's on the slides, so why do they need to make a song and dance of it? They read with little to no deviation from the screen, it puts me and I bet everybody else in this room to sleep, and or what? I feel like a fifth grader. Sometimes I honestly want to tell these guys that they could save us all a hell lot of time if they just handed out copies and told us to read them in our own time. I can read big girl books now.

They've drawn the blinds so tightly that it makes it look like night time, which doesn't help. The room is overly warm and the absence of too many plants or pictures or anything remotely distracting is making it hard to stay awake. There's nothing for me to fix my attention on except that narcotic presentation. If I wouldn't get reamed out for it, I'd be tempted to set my head on this nice sturdy looking table here and take a nap. Did I mention my butt is starting to go numb?

"Chels?"

And clearly I snapped back into reality at just the wrong moment because they're all looking at me and I have no idea why. Crap.

You know, she's capable of irritating the crap out of me, but sometimes Sophie Lumos -Sofia Fuentes if Daddy hadn't decided on a stage name - really can come through. She's delicately cupped a well manicured hand around her mouth and is mouthing 'when am I available' at me.

"Well…" I ought to know this one off the top of my head and I do, but it never hurts to act like she's so busy I can't keep up. "She's on the promotional tour for Devil's Ride until the beginning of June and then has some post production to do for Sam Raimi but she has a free window last week of June, beginning of July until shooting starts for Tarantino in October."

We're talking about things which are going to happen six months from now, but that's the way it works in the movie business. The one thing I've never quite figured though is how some directors like to cast real early and yet some like to make the studios sweat until the last possible second when they get their stars together. With so much money being thrown around you'd think they would plan better. You will notice how I sneakily made mention of the respected directors she's working with and a hotly anticipated summer blockbuster she's starred in. Just to remind them who they're dealing with here and that she's hot stuff.

Like anybody needs reminding. If Jennifer Lopez and Angelina Jolie got together and had an insanely hot love child, Sophie would be it.

"Who else has signed on?" Sophie asks in that well practised nonchalance of hers. Her agent loves her for this precise reason; she's a damn good actress and a freakishly canny business woman. She sounds just the right amount of bored to make them sweat here - not dismissive or obviously playing hard to get, but not too eager.

"We're looking at Orlando Bloom, Heath Ledger, Justin Timberlake and Tobey Maguire for Jonathan," the casting director pipes up.

"Interesting cross section," I mumble under my breath. I don't think she heard me, but Sophie's just caught my eye with those big old coffee ones of hers and I know she's thinking what I'm thinking.

***

"Tell me what you think, Chelsea," She asks me as we're striding across the underground parking lot. I keep telling her we can get Rob to drive her but she still insists on driving everywhere herself. I'd find it refreshingly normal if she didn't drive an expensive ass Porsche.

"I think they're scrambling," I tell her. "That weird ass mix for Jonathan's role? None of those guys have anything in common look or image wise. You ask me they're hoping to snag you and reel in a big male lead off the back of it, whoever they can get with a name."

"And that's why you're my personal assistant. You're a smart chica, mi amiga."

Sophie flashes that million dollar grin at me as she points her key and the car and unlocks it. She does that - for the most part she speaks such perfect English you forget her background, but every now and then she drops in just the tiniest bit of Español.

"Desperate studio aside, what do you think?"

My mouth twists up a little bit as I ponder this one. Even as I'm doing so we're both sinking into the car (you don't get into these low riding cars, you sink into them) and she's bringing the engine to life. I guess I ought to be flattered that she runs all her parts by me like this.

"I think that after dragon fighting fantasy and tough bitch cops and all that, you need a softer role. This one seems as good as any. I think the studio needs to get their act together but the script's solid."

"Hmm."

She taps her fingers on the steering wheel and huffs with annoyance as the paparazzi we thought we'd eluded start pouring into the car park. Unfortunately it's a public space, so all we can do is try and creep through them without running anybody's foot over until we can make a break for it. You'd think people would know better than to crowd moving vehicles, but I think they all inherited the stupid gene. Either that or they were dropped on their heads as kids.

You think that one day you'll get used to it, but it's so surreal you never do. Those flashes go off like strobe lights, there's yelling and thumping on the windows as they all try to catch her attention and it's like living in this weird bubble. A very irritating bubble. I can't imagine it's the most fulfilling life's work for them, either.

They're all crowding her window and she quietly slips on the movie star staple: a pair of oversized Chanels which hide half her face and therefore most of her expression. She might be wearing jeans and a casual tank, but with that glossy dark hair swishing as she turns to check her mirrors and those delicately chiselled cheekbones she looks every inch the goddess. It ought to be illegal to be that good looking, but she is.

That's why it always gives me such evil comfort when I see her going to the dentist for those whitening sessions or desperately trying to do damage limitation on the odd cold sore. I need regular reminders that she's human or I would seriously have to slit my wrists and get the misery of mediocrity over with.

Not a damn one of them is at my window, but they all know who I am. When the caption appears on X17 or wherever it is these particular shots will end up, my name will get added as an afterthought. They know who everybody around her is, purely because it's her. They know Enrique, her padre, Maria, her mom… and they know me, Chelsea, her PA and constant companion. We're bestest best buds don't you know?

We are so not, by the way. Well, okay, maybe I'm hers but she's not mine.

Famous people, by their very nature, are kind of self-centred. The same way Sophie this morning decided to spring herself on me at seven frickin' am and then expected me to be ready within ten minutes with no thought for the fact she kept me out until midnight. It's not always in a bad way, but they have to be focussed on themselves and their own goals to get anywhere in this business. And also, I'm on the payroll; inevitably I'm at her beck and call and she deigns to do me any favours when she feels like it. That's not a real pal.

I'm painfully aware that celebrities are fair weather friends, particularly when it comes to their employees. They expect you to ride out any storm, but if you cause them trouble you're gone in a heartbeat and they won't have trouble replacing you. She might be hurt if I said that and she'd probably deny it, but it's true. I don't blame her, it's just this game she's in; I never met a celebrity who was any other way. This industry can get nasty and they have to be ruthless sometimes to keep the boat afloat. You tolerate dead weight or loose cannons and the next thing you know you're a wreck.

"Jesus Christ will these fuckers get out of the way?" Sophie is fighting down a pout, I can see it. She knows that blasting her horn or flipping a finger will give them what they want, so she won't do it. She'll sure as hell bitch about it to me behind closed doors later, though.

"We've got a restraining order pending on hobo looking dude right there." It's of little comfort to her, but one of those guys has been intrusive and irritating and persistent enough that her lawyer's got enough ammo to file for a restraining order. Samuel Something, I think his name was. Assuming the judge grants it, that would make one down and… oh, I'd say fifteen to go from around this car right now?

Shame there'll be another fifteen immediately taking their place. I bet Sophie's glad she wore pants today or they'd be going for the crotch shot once we get out for lunch.

Apart from anything else… it's a bitch being her friend sometimes. I have to live all the shit she does but without any of the recognition. Not a damn one of the photographers would give two cents about running me over to get to her. People will fawn over her but totally blank me. Waiting staff will rush over to her every five seconds asking if she wants a refill but she actually has to prompt them to ask me. Guys don't even register my presence, except if they think that flattering me will get them closer to her -sorry boys but I'm not estupida, as Sophie would say. Actually, there's an upside; she'll insult the hell out of these guys in Spanish. They have no idea what she's saying, it's usually filthy, and they still stare at her like puppy dogs even as she's telling them they're hung like chipmunks. It's hilarious.

"Oh, I meant to say to you honey…" she flashes me the smile and the shutters go off a little more rapidly, "I had the best idea for your birthday! How'd you feel about a girl's trip to Cancun? I know the best spa down there."

Did I mention my birthday is in September and right now it's January? She's a little random with this stuff, but never let it be said she can't be thoughtful if the occasion strikes her.

"Sounds awesome."

So don't think I'm complaining. Sophie's fun (if a little high maintenance), she always snags me a couple of freebies too and my pay packet does not suck. I just try to be realistic about my position in her life and precisely how secure it is. And in the spirit of keeping my position as personal assistant to the stars, I need to make sure the studio sends over the contract for this film (whether or not she'll sign it is another question), remember to pick up her dry cleaning and her Starbucks later, and then I have to call Pedro to break up with him for her.

After I've made him sign a confidentiality agreement so she can sue the hell out of him for any kiss and tells. Do it the other way round and they're strangely un-cooperative. Can't think why.

"So… I got a question for you."

Truth be told, I just had the shit scared out of me by a midget.

Okay, Trace really isn't that short. As much as Justin Timberlake likes to tease him he really isn't that ugly either. What Trace Ayala is not, however, is the kind of guy who goes around befriending everybody and anybody on a film set. That's how you can tell a rookie PA from an old pro - rookies are so desperate to fit in and be liked and get noticed that they're hyper-friendly. The kind of friendly that's just really irritating. Any PA who's been in the game a while is civil but aloof, befriending only the necessary few.

That might sound really hard ass snooty Hollywood, but in truth it's self preservation. Even members of a star's entourage can pick up hangers on, and let me tell you those things are hard to shake. If you open yourself too wide you will find yourself doing everybody else favours and never getting anything in return while pissing off the person you're actually meant to assist because you're too busy to do your job for them. After some experimentation I have found that being civil, helpful but just distant enough is the best way to operate. Stops you becoming a bitch but also saves your hide.

Don't get me wrong, I always make a couple of good friends on set. I just don't run around like Elliot Harper's PA who is so over friendly half the guys on the set think she's hit on them. Trace, on the other hand, stands out because you know he's Justin's best pal before and above his PA. Trace doesn't need to run around impressing anybody, he's got it wired.

"And what would that be?"

"First of all can I say that you're fooling nobody with that Sidekick, I saw you slacking there," he jokes. I was staring into space and as soon as I saw him coming I pretended to be checking messages, he totally busted me. "But my actual question was how come you ain't making like the rest of them and falling over yourself to be Miss Congeniality?"

Ahh, he just exposed himself. Trace may not be a rookie to the world of the PA, but he's a rookie to the movie business.

"Here's how it goes," I tell him conspiratorially. "They're all desperate to make a big impression and make connections with a view to moving up the ladder. Being a star's PA is all well and good but studio execs have more money and are less prone to diva fits and spur of the moment firing. So they run around trying to impress the bigwigs by pretending that they're everybody's PA but pissing each other off in the process because they're running into each other's territory. You with me so far?"

"Yep." It almost cracks me up - he nods intently, like he's fascinated. Hell, maybe he is. I like to think I'm fascinating.

"Well, while they're running around making fifty times more work for themselves and having to rely on caffeine pills and Red Bull to keep on running because they were too rookie to realise they're screwing themselves over, I am sitting pretty letting them take whatever the hell they want from Sophie's to do list so long as they don't get in my way."

Trace lets out this incredibly loud guffaw, and I notice that his face looks nice when he smiles. It's a very congenial smile, and his eyes crinkle up a little at the corners. Granted, he's dressed in this horribly slouchy t-shirt which I was forced to compliment because it came from his own label and his hair is way too long, but Trace is cool. We're not best buds or anything, we just say a couple of words to each other if we're passing, but I don't mind wasting a few minutes in his company. Two weeks into this already boring shoot, I need any laughs I can get.

Oh, that's the other misconception about the movie business… everybody thinks it's glamorous and that movie shoots are exciting. Actually, they consist of a lot of waiting around and an awful lot of dull repetition. Believe me when I say that the big joke that goes into all the trailers and makes everybody laugh in theatres is really, really not funny by take thirty seven. Thankfully, Sophie's got a lot of patience for this stuff. I've seen actors who can't hack it and get really irritable (umm, why did you get into this business again?) but she manages to keep her sense of humour about it. As a PA, I am eternally grateful. Bitchy actors can be very demanding.

"So that's it. And there was me thinking you were the professional."

"Says the guy who gets paid to hang for a living."

"Oh, ouch. That hurt."

"I'm kidding." He didn't need me to tell him that, he knew. Still, in Hollywood it becomes a reflex - if you don't qualify all jokes and sarcasm with an 'I'm kidding,' they take you seriously and drama happens.

"Seriously though… I didn't picture you for this kind of gig. How'd you get into it?" He leans casually against the wall of the silver Winnebago which is home to Sophie when she's on her down time on set. She likes to read a lot in there, or just outside on the step if it's nice weather.

"Majored in business in UCLA, did some electives on film and media… thought it would combine the two," I shrug. "Truth is I was doing some running for a production company for work experience, I got thrown a PA gig because somebody quit and somebody decided I was good at it."

"You didn't? Decide?" He asks.

I grin wryly. Not all of us have multi millionaires for best friends. "For the salary jump I got? They could have decided the name of my firstborn."

Okay, I sound horribly jaded and cynical all the time don't I? I swear, it's this town; it'll do weird things to your head. Still, Trace laughs and smiles - he probably understands.

"Smoke?" He offers me a cigarette and I shake my head.

"I quit."

He holds the packet out to me with a smirk. "So did I."

I take one and go through the familiar action of placing it to my lips and accepting the lighter he offers me, lighting the thing with a speed that gives away how long it's been. I was nearly at my quitting anniversary too. Oh well, at this point if cigarettes are going to kill me it will have been the twenty a day I used to smoke rather than this one. That first demon puff is like that moment of sinking into a hot, bubbly bath: a feeling of instant relaxation.

We're in comfortable silence for a few moments, both taking a second to enjoy the nicotine. Trace is slouched against the trailer with his other hand comfortably in his pocket and I'm picking a stray strand of blonde hair off my sleeve. Come to think of it, I think my highlights need doing - I may be the only natural blonde on this set but even I have a little help. It gets less comfortable as I realise I'm not familiar enough with Trace to maintain comfortable silence for too long. Also, my contacts are stinging; I'd forgotten that used to happen when I smoked… guess I'm no longer acclimatised (I'm wearing blue ones today but my eyes are actually brown).

Yes, these are the random thoughts I have while hanging around on movie sets. Exciting, huh?

I stand up straighter when I see Sophie and Justin striding over to the trailer. The naughty school girl reaction is stupid, Sophie didn't have anything specific for me to do and what I do have to get done today can be done any old time. Even saying so, she is still my employer after all. It's natural to jump if you get caught relaxing too much on the job. They've just been shooting a scene from the middle of the movie where their characters are feuding via their newspaper columns - we may be only a couple of weeks into the shoot, but they shoot movies out of order.

I can already see how perfect they'll look on the posters. Sophie is what people perceive as typically Hispanic, very dark with that fabulous naturally olive skin tone (it's a stereotype, but she works it). She makes me look horribly pale, and the lucky wench has Renaissance statue cheekbones. Justin is just the right amount taller than her - I'm five six and she's five eight - and he has piercing blues to counteract her sultry dark eyes. They look hot together, it has to be said. I do find it a little funny though that his speaking voice actually sounds a little higher than hers. I'm sure that however they measure these things the scale would tell you he's deeper, as you'd think a man would be, but it doesn't always sound that way and it cracks me up a little.

Naturally I haven't come across Justin too often. You may think that's odd, given that I've hung with his PA and that he is on the same set I am every day, but our paths don't cross much. I don't tend to watch them shooting if I can help it, and I'm on and off set all day running errands for Sophie. There're also those times I have to barricade myself in her trailer and hash out various scheduling issues for her with her agents or deal with the latest PR issue with her publicist.

That's why I'm employed - I deal with the crap and the mundane so that Sophie can concentrate on her performance. The problem with the crap and mundane, however, is that it varies between crap and mundane. It's not the most thrilling thing in the world; though at least I get some great locations and shopping out of it. Not like I'm sat behind a desk in an office building all day. That would kill me - that's why I wanted to work in movies to begin with, the travel.

"¿Por qué es usted fumando?" Sophie exclaims. "Chelsea!"

"Busted…" I mutter.

Trace and Justin are looking utterly confused, so I elaborate. "She just asked me why I'm smoking. You can infer from her tone what she thinks about that."

She looks at me and glares a little bit, though with affection. "Do you know how long it took me to get her to quit? We were so close to the año!"

"Year." I automatically translate. She always uses more Spanish when she's ticked. Most of the time I rarely hear her utter a word of it, except to her grandparents.

"I actually knew that. Wow." Justin jokes.

Sophie's looking very stern, which is not helped by her costume. She's in a pencil skirt and shirt with her hair scraped back and she's looking very sharp. Justin's wandering around in costume too, but the wardrobe people are going to lynch him for rolling up his sleeves and undoing the tie. Stuff like that is a nightmare for continuity. They'll probably yank the shirt off his back and make him stand there for a lecture while they iron it.

I love Sophie despite her many foibles, but sometimes she forgets that she's not the boss of my entire life. And even as I'm thinking that I'm distracted by Eliot Harper's PA whose name I never remember passing by and looking suspiciously like her jealous self will come interrupt. Please God no…

"Oh shit that's my cell…" See? All English that time. "Chels honey I need to take this in private so can you play watch dog for me?"

"Sure."

I wave her off casually and she quickly nods at Trace and Justin before disappearing into the air con and closing the door behind her. Normally if she wants to take a call privately it's the latest beau on the line - on this occasion that would be Marco Leone, hot new fashion designer and the embodiment of every fiery Italian man stereotype going. Except he's not actually Italian, his name is Mark Lewis and he totally changed his name and faked a background. It's a well known secret. Nobody cares so long as the dresses are hot. Thankfully, the loss of the bigger star (well, bigger movie star anyway, and we are on a movie set so she has the chops here) puts the shark off and she scurries away… or maybe Elliot beeped her again.

Now Sophie's gone, I take a long drag of my cigarette and exhale sinfully. It's only when I open my eyes again I see Trace too has taken a call and has moved a discreet distance away - guess he must have had it on vibrate - and it's pretty much just me and Justin.

You might think it weird that I find celebrities so intimidating. Truth is, I see behind the façade with Sophie, every day I see her ups and downs. When it comes to other stars, I know better than most they must have the same old flaws but I still don't see them firsthand. It's still as odd to me when Samuel L Jackson is suddenly larger than life in front of me instead of on a flat screen as it is for you - I don't know how he drinks his coffee, or what he says when his agent has pissed him off, not like Sophie. He was cool though. Seemed to realise I was terrified and graciously let me gush like an idiot about mother fucking snakes on planes.

So, yep, Justin makes me nervous whenever I'm in his presence. I have never worked out whether it's bitchy female celebrities that make me more nervous or hot males; I just know that screwing up in front of either is not my favourite thing in the world. Don't let my cynical, jaded 'seen it all before and know the game' front fool you - I have no damn idea what I'm doing. I still feel the humiliation and my cheeks still go red when I remember how I accidentally served one of the most influential directors in the business coffee from the chain that was suing him (one of his scripts made a joke, they had no sense of humour or free advertising).

How I was not fired, I will never know.

"She ask you to do stuff like that a lot?" He asks curiously.

I return the look in kind, because it seems like a weird question coming from somebody in the entertainment business. This may not be the norm for regular folk, but in celebrity land it's practically de rigeur.

"It's what I get the dinero for."

"Hmm." He shrugs affably. He's not being unfriendly or mean, but he looks unconvinced. It's this little pursing of those long lips. "Maybe it's just that Trace has known me long enough he feels free to ream my ass out if I send him on coffee runs and shit, but he does more of the business stuff and paperwork as my PA."

"Well…" I can't do much to answer that, really, so instead I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and stub out the cigarette I'm no longer interested in. "You know. Needs must."

"Still…" he stretches his arms wide and gives me a smile. "Worse things you could be paid for, right? Sitting out in the sunshine? Wish they'd let me do that instead of press junkets."

"Right."

My laugh sounded so much more convincing in my head, really it did.

Every muscle in my back is killing me.

I'm not exaggerating. Well, okay, maybe it's not technically every muscle because I have no idea how many muscles are in my back, but it hurts. The last couple of days have been a total mother, and we're barely two weeks into shooting.

How hard can it be, they said? My previous roles were way more involved than this; this is just a rom-com, my first foray into leading man status and mainstream film. (Shrek doesn't count, I'm a voice). I mean, how hard could that possibly be? My agent puts a nice, easy looking script on my desk that I can just knock out on my down time, and finally the fans get to see me do the rom com they've apparently all been clamouring for. Hey, it's a film my younger crowd can go see because there's not so much cussing in it. I get to make out with Sophie Lumos. Really, they said, it's a no brainer.

Bastards didn't know what they were talking about, this shit is insane! These people are like a frickin' production line - okay, there's always a lot of waiting around on set but once they get going they got the momentum of a freight train. Everything always needs to have been done five minutes ago and they always seem to be behind schedule. The studio suits hang around a lot more than they ever did on the independent stuff I've done. And I get way less sleep than I ever did on any other movie set.

Oh, and now I see where the Hollywood stereotypes all come from. All my experiences on film sets were really good, so I figured it was just a myth. No. This set is the embodiment of one and while I can't say I'm having an awful time or that the script is crap or anything, it's kind of draining. Lots of backbiting and hustling for position in the hierarchy and if I may say, an awful lot of suspiciously motionless faces. Except for the camera and lighting guys who are awesome. The DP and AD are also incredibly funny guys (director of photography and assistant director, for any rookies) and my make up lady is a sweetheart. Being me I get the luxury of not having to bother, my place is pretty set, but it's pretty tiring all the same, watching everybody else hustling.

"Can I get you anything Justin?"

I'm interrupted from my thoughts and I probably look stoned. Catching me unawares is not an attractive sight. "No thanks… Dana?"

"Diana." She looks overly happy that I got her name almost right.

"Diana. Thanks anyway." I flash a smile and look back down at my Sidekick, which is the subtle Hollywood signal for 'okay, you can go now.'

Or, in my case, 'thank you but you don't know me and I'm feeling awkward and if you could take pity on me and leave I'd appreciate it.' Maybe it's like the working equivalent of summer camp or something, but people on sets seem to make friend real quick and get overly close overly quickly. My theory is that's why so many film stars hook up on set, it's like holiday romances. Not that those ever last, but as I've found to my cost neither do Hollywood relationships. This is all very well and shit, but if you're like me and have a tendency to be closed off with strangers it gets uncomfortable. (Yes, I know, obvious defence mechanism but a guy in my position needs some defence).

Various people's personal assistants are also very amusing in their scrabbling for prime position, Diana for example - except for mine and Sophie's. Mine because obviously it's Trace and he doesn't give a shit, and Sophie's because…

Okay, I don't want to sound mean, but Sophie's PA is… she seems like she really doesn't give a shit. In some ways that's kind of refreshing in this town, but in others she kind of comes off like she doesn't want to be here and she thinks she's above all this. Which, obviously, she isn't: if she was, she wouldn't be here. Anyway, that's beside the point, she doesn't run around ass kissing like the rest of them, just gets on with her job.

Sophie, however, is almost freakishly perfect. Hot looking, friendly, very well spoken and has a sense of humour often lacking in Hollywood types. That said, she does order… is it Chelsea, her PA? Whatever, she does treat her like a maid. It's probably just me not getting the usual PA/employer relationship because mine is my best pal and my mother changed his diapers as well as mine, but I find it kind of wrong. I mean, I know these people are paid to help out but it looks kind of demeaning. Heh, look at that. In one breath I'm saying I think she's stuck up and the next I'm feeling sorry for her downtrodden self.

And speak of the devil…

"Hi, Justin, sorry to disturb you but could you…"

"What?" I prompt her when she doesn't finish. There's a lightly pained expression on that rounded face of hers and she looks kind of embarrassed. I almost thought I heard her mouthing the word 'shit.'

"I'm really sorry, but…" Okay, that was an actual wince. She's obviously mortified.

"So long as you're not about to ask me to impregnate you it can't be that bad." That earned me a little smirk.

"You get that a lot?"

"More often than you'd think."

"All legal?"

I grimace and shake my head, and that actually gets a laugh. She still looks like she'd rather be doing anything else but at least she's stopped tugging at the hair that's fallen out of her bun. Instead she's yanking unnecessarily at the hem of her shirt.

"I'm trying to have a meeting with Sophie and Marco the Great keeps interrupting to yell at her about how you're apparently screwing her behind his back. I'm so sorry to sound so high school but could you please tell him he's being ridiculous?"

What? I have to go reassure Mr Pretends -to - be -Italian - but -we -all -know -he's -from -Nebraska that his girlfriend's not doing me? Yeah, she's right, this is high school. Now I know why she looks so totally humiliated. Damn straight, I would too.

"Umm…" How do I say no without being rude?

"You know what, forget I asked." She waves a hand and rolls her eyes at me. "I'll tell her I never found you."

I was seriously about to be affronted, but then I realise she's not saying that because she thinks I'm just being an ass who's refusing (even though I was about to - refuse, not be an ass). She's saying it to save my hide and she's going to take the hit so Sophie doesn't think I was refusing to help her. Romantic comedies can be awkward to shoot if the leads are pissed at each other.

That's nice of her. I'm about to say thank you but she already disappeared and Trace is on his way over.

"J."

"Trace."

"So…" he trails off.

"So."

This is why Trace is my PA. In precisely four words we've established that we're both just dandy and there's nothing to report. I can't stand people who babble for the hell of it. Well, I can, but I just wish they wouldn't do it to me. Like I said, for somebody in my line of business I can be overly reserved with other people. Does that make me shy or just anti social?

"Still tired?" Trace asks.

"Yep. Nothing a good long sleep won't cure."

"You'll be waiting until Saturday," he warns me. Saturday is the first day all week I'm not needed for shooting.

"I can live 'til then," I shrug. If a few long hours are the worst thing I have to worry about I figure I'm doing alright. They've even managed to keep the paparazzi a good distance out. It's at Sophie's behest, not mine, but you think I care as long as I catch that benefit too? A clue, no. I'm doing okay.

"Speaking of Saturday, they're looking to set up a few more meetings for those scripts we were considering."

I never knew there was a difference between looking at scripts and considering, but this town appears to have a language of its own. If you're looking at a script, you've received it and are just reading the thing. If you're considering it, it's the next step to putting yourself up for the role and agreeing terms. Then if they have multiple actors considering then the casting people can start having fun and the studio can feel smug that they got competition going for roles in their movie. As far as I was aware this film was just a little project to keep me occupied between music stuff, but apparently not. I don't mind, but I would have appreciated it if I'd been consulted first.

"Eh."

"Postponed."

He doesn't even have to ask. I love this dude.

"Do you need anything, Justin?"

Wow, where'd the redhead come from? I think she's… no, I have no idea whose PA she is.

Trace laughs out loud. "I'm standing right here."

"Oh, umm… sorry," she mumbles before high tailing it at a speed a little too fast for her heels. As such, she takes a spectacular stumble that looks like it twists her ankle right sideways. I'm about to run over to help her up (and maybe call a paramedic) before I see her yank herself up and scurry out at the exact same speed. I'm impressed, I would've thought that would be at least a sprain if not a break but she wasn't even limping.

"Clearly a rookie - the more experienced PA will always wear flats unless necessary to impress," Trace says wisely. "And a rookie would never be stupid enough to try and work my client in front of my face."

I have to laugh at his stupid self. "Even forgetting the fact that I'm not your client, ass, how the fuck would you know about stilettos? Been giving Louboutin some custom lately?"

"Chelsea told me."

Trace has been hanging with Chelsea a lot. Okay, maybe not a lot, but enough to make me notice. He doesn't have a lot of time for Hollywood types, so I guess this means she passed muster. Actually, to be more accurate, Trace doesn't like people who act like Hollywood types. He doesn't actually care if you're famous or not, so long as you don't act like a snobby asshole. It's not a bad call.

"Oh, Chelsea's been teaching you the ropes, huh?"

"It's oddly fascinating," he tells me. "These bitches really have some political shit going on. And I can say bitches because the guys are supposedly just as bad. She was saying that she's been on a grand total of three film sets where nobody was doing it, max, and Sophie's made about twenty movies."

"Come on," I say in disbelief, "it can't all be that bad."

"I said that to her." Trace shrugs as he needlessly plays with his Zippo lighter. He always was a complete pyro, even at Scout camp when he never wanted to let anybody else start the fire. "But she just said that she used to think the same before experience taught her better. She said the actual crews aren't usually this bad but the world of the PA is a cat fight to the professional death: quote."

I'm not sure what I'm finding so funny about his wording, but it totally cracks me up. It just conjures up a 'handbags at dawn' kind of image. That said, I suppose she may have a point - at least about this set, anyway. I often wonder why everybody else's PA is asking me if I want stuff done. Call me naïve but I figured they were just being helpful. I guess I have a lot to learn about the movie industry and its quirks. Actually I know I do. I kind of figured it'd be just like music, but the game is surprisingly different.

"So how're the claws on Ms Chelsea then?"

Trace laughs derisively, a little glint in his brown eyes. Dude needs a hair cut, actually, his hair got way too shaggy. Mine's in a nice neat trim at the moment, they said that my usual (and much preferred) buzz wouldn't look right for a newspaper journalist. I don't know how many newspaper journalists these guys have met but I'd bet it's a few hundred less than I have.

"Ms Chelsea doesn't need the claws out, she don't give a shit. While they're all busy with the backstabbing she just walks right past the mob and gets on with it. If you ask me that's probably why Sophie keeps her, did you see the look she gave that chick who works for Eliot?"

This I have to nod my head at. Sophie doesn't seem too Hollywood: despite the designer boyfriend and the designer clothes and the father manager who's a bigger diva than she is. That dude scares the hell out of me, especially when he speaks Spanish.

"Yeah. She was really annoyed this morning because she said some dude kept trying to close down a store for her when she was shopping. Said that if she wanted to do some solo shopping she'd quote 'fucking well do it on the internet instead of inconveniencing other fucking people,' unquote."

Trace muses on this, his eyes shifting upwards as if looking for confirmation from the heavens on something. He purses his lips too. "Is it just me or did her righteous concern riff for the little people kinda get wrecked when she called them fucking people?"

I think about this for a second. "I can see that."

"She strikes me as one of those types who tries to stay real but can't quite get there."

I cock my head sideways at him, and I can't help kind of frowning. How'd he get that out of her swearing a little too much? Sophie seems fine to me, and believe me when I say I got radar for diva bullshit. "How'd you figure?"

"Just some stuff Chelsea said."

Before I have time to wonder if Chelsea's been bitching about Sophie behind her back, Sally starts heading towards me, brandishing her touch up kit. Did I mention that I despise wearing make up and I hate that my job requires it. It does not make me feel manly, even if it does even out my complexion and stop me looking washed out under lights.

"How we looking, Justin?" Sally peers through her pince nez at me (yes, my make up artist is old enough to have grandma hair and wear pince nez glasses).

"Like shit as usual," Trace says on my behalf. I'd like to retaliate properly but Sally is old enough to be my mother and would probably smack me down like my mother.

Sally just ignores him and starts brushing on some more base with her little sponge. "Not too bad, but how many times have I told you not to rub your face when you've been made up?"

Fuck, she can tell that? I only did it once and I didn't even do it all that hard. "Sorry, won't happen again ma'am."

She pokes me playfully and keeps working as Trace continues to give me a lecture on how girly and pathetic it is that I wear so much make up in my professional life. He suggests I might like it better if I went emo and thus had an excuse to wear eyeliner. Much as I keep him around to keep me humble and to mock me where others would kiss my ass, this is irritating. I really want to say something, but every time I do Sally tells me to quit moving my face. I'm wearing some bruises right now and she has to work carefully to maintain the continuity, she even has little polaroids of when she first did it.

And while Trace keeps on rambling, he doesn't notice her loading up her brush with some heavy amounts of blusher. One 'honestly JT you might as well go for the sex change now' later and she's swept a bright pink line of powder across his bratty little face.

I told you my make up lady was awesome.

I hate the smell of Starbucks.

This is weird since I subsist on coffee, but I despise the smell in there. Maybe it's a little too strong or something, I don't know. Possibly it's just because I associate it with standing in long lines. If I can get a little too big for my boots just for just a second, dropping Sophie's name helps me skip a lot of waiting and I'm totally spoiled. I have this rule though that I'm only allowed to drop her name if she's honestly involved (to date, I have broken it but once in the name of Birkin - I felt so guilty I wound up giving Sophie the damn thing anyway).

However, Sophie has absolutely no place in this line. It's my day off and I don't have to even think about her. Especially since I'm about to order the most fat filled and sugary latte I can get my grubby little mitts on. She and her vegetarian low fat verging on macrobiotic diet are not conducive to fat and sugar. Heck, half the time I have to remind her that fat is in fact a necessary part of a diet. I also consider chocolate a necessary part of a diet but I have more trouble convincing her - I think she's a traitor to girl kind, not liking chocolate. My punishment for that is not speaking up for her when her abuela is trying to force meat down her throat (though a small part of that may be the fact I don't like PETA's tactics and Sophie does a lot of promo for them).

Wait, didn't I say that today was not about Sophie? This is the problem with being a celebrity's PA - it's a twenty four seven job and it can kind of take over your life. If she needs to work on a weekend, so do I. Anytime she wants me I have to be there, and if she calls at three AM for something I have to jump. Thankfully she doesn't do that a lot, and when she does she (usually) has a good reason. It just makes it hard to switch off when I do get a day off. She is not allowed to call me today and if she does I have the right to tell her to fuck off - not that I would, because that's a dumb thing to say to your boss.

Why is it that whenever I get anywhere near the front of a line my phone goes off?

"Hello?"

"Hey chica."

"It's my day off."

That cute little laugh tinkles down the phone. "I know sweetie, this is a social call. What you doing?"

"Ummm, not much… just getting a drink, mooching round the mall and spending too much money."

"You went shopping without me? That's a sackable offence!"

"It's- my - day - off." I repeat with a laugh. "And aren't you with Marco anyway?"

"Apparently there was some crisis with a hemline," she grumbled. "Why he personally had to deal with it instead of the zillion people he employs, I have no idea." Then she perks up, something she has an incredible ability to do. "But that was why I was calling, you wanna go to the movies and maybe dinner tonight?"

"I can't, I already have plans. Lo siento." I always break into a little Spanish when I'm telling her something bad. Habit I picked up from her - and also I think it softens the blow, it's a home and comfort thing for her.

"Oh. What you doing?"

Ahh - I try not to tell her these things because she has a habit of inviting herself. I spend enough time with her as it is. I love her, but anybody will get annoying if you spend that much time with them. That's why I moved out of my parents' house when I was eighteen when all my friends were still at home. I love my mother but if I spend too much time with her she drives me crazy. Like, certifiably bat shit crazy.

"Just hanging with a friend. Hey, why don't you hit up some of the cast or crew or something? Have like a bonding night?"

Here's another trick for dealing with disappointed or annoyed movie stars used to getting exactly what they want - always offer a viable alternative. It does exactly what I need it to do, and she brightens right back up. She's a very sociable creature, not somebody who likes their own company - unlike me who tends to be a little bit of a lone wolf. My friendship circle is intentionally small. I always think Sophie's going to wind up getting married and punching out a huge number of kids so that she can have a house full of people, that's how she likes it best. She's actually pretty good for me in that respect, forces me to meet people instead of being an anti social bitch.

"I have Justin's number, I guess I could call him."

"Is that a good idea?" I really did not mean to say that so fast. "Given Marco's jealous bitch fit?"

"Marco Fako can get over himself, he ditched me. Besides, I'm thinking Justin probably knows a few people we can call out too, it's not like I'm planning to date the dude."

"Oh okay." Okay, I can relax now, disaster averted. So long as she's not planning to plaster pictures of what looks to be a romantic date everywhere it's all good. Any time she does that, particularly with anybody famous, it inevitably leads to a period of increased blood pressure for moi and her publicist Jenny. "Listen Soph I'm at the front of the line so I need to go, but do you want me to call you back?"

"No, chica, I got a night out to organise. You have fun with your friend and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

"Adios."

I turn back to the barista, who looks slightly annoyed at the all of ten second delay. "Sorry about that." I attempt to smile winningly but I really am not Sophie so I then just quit the stupidity and give the dude my order.

***

So I lied.

I'm not going out anywhere or with anybody. I am sat at home, in my apartment, feeling gloriously lazy. I have a great night of Dirty Dancing, Footloose and Grease ahead of me. I have a deliciously gooey and overly large pepperoni pizza due from Dominos in… it'll be 17 minutes now. My two favourite men Ben and Jerry are chilling in my freezer and I plan on doing absolutely nothing tonight.

Or, okay, sometimes I get up and dance along. Only sometimes.

I love my apartment. It's all totally mismatched because when I moved in I went crazy and bought a ton of stuff that didn't co-ordinate before I realised that it didn't. It was the thrill of finally being able to buy my own place rather than renting, it was a head rush. I returned a few things, but the rest I just had to organise so that even if they didn't go I didn't look like a totally tasteless freak. It's all mismatched but I like to think it's artfully so.

I have the most comfortable couch ever. It is chocolate brown and you just sink into it; makes it hard to get out of, but that's fine by me because I love it. I've got some colourful paintings on the wall that I picked up at a market, but I will confess that a couple are from Ikea and thus probably on about three million other walls. My coffee table is this beautiful piece of handcrafted mahogany that I paid way too much money for because it was handcrafted. My kitchen in contrast is very chrome and white (I like food preparation places to look clean) where my bedroom is more serene, I've got it painted white with blue retro bordering and everything's in sixties kind of polka dots and blue stripes.

Nothing in my apartment goes, at all. It's pretty bad really, but I was smart enough to make sure the walls and carpets are all neutral so that if I ever sell, once my furniture gets taken out it'll be a blank canvas.

It seems overly luxurious to me to spend a night at home with chick flicks and a pizza, but I think that's because Sophie's always so busy. She's a very motivated, go-getting person, and I think she's allergic to taking too much down time. I really admire that drive, but the flip side is that if she's not taking lots of down time neither am I. It's lucky for me that my friends and my parents understand about that or they'd probably accuse me of neglect. And because she's always got so many people around her it's rare that I don't.

So I am relishing this. I'm totally living the cliché - I'm in my PJs, my hair is in curlers, and I have plans for giving myself a DIY manicure and pedicure. I did also buy a mud mask but it looks kind of gross so I may wait until after the pizza guy gets here. I wish he would already, my stomach is rumbling. I was too busy spending money to think about eating at lunchtime. What can I tell you? It's hard finding the perfect jeans.

Sadly… I found them at William Rast. My butt looks great in the pair I picked out, but I may have to avoid wearing them around Trace in case he starts crowing. He can be a little cocky sometimes - so can Justin, actually. I'm not sure who is influencing who there, but it's kind of funny how the two of them have picked up a few matching mannerisms. I people watch a lot, I notice these things. Like their co-star, Elliot, he has this tendency to rub his nose any time he doesn't like something but is too polite to mention it (I figure if it's written all over his face he might as well just say it).

Hurrah! The doorbell has gone! Pizza time! I buzz the guy in and grab my purse. I'm licking my lips at the thought of all that grease, and I'm not even going to do the extra few minutes on the treadmill to make up for it tomorrow. It can stay on my hips for all I care. The knock at my door comes, I open it up with a big smile…

…which evaporates when I'm met by the sight of Justin fucking Timberlake. Words cannot describe how embarrassed I am by the way his eyebrows just shot up.

***

I'm guessing that Chelsea was expecting somebody else. Generally speaking, the only women who will knowingly answer the door to me in curlers are my mother and Rachel. Also, the fact that she's gone bright red is a dead giveaway.

"Hi there," I try to say as nicely as I can. I think it best to totally ignore how embarrassed she is to spare her any further embarrassment.

"Umm, hi." Through the crimson, her face is starting to take on a confused expression. "Umm, what can I do for you?"

Oh shit. She's totally not expecting anybody is she? I figured she was just running behind with getting ready, but she clearly has no clue why I'm at her door. Gee, thanks Sophie. 'Just swing by and pick up Chels,' she said. 'Inform her that she's being dragged out for the evening when she looks pretty much ready for bed' did not feature anywhere in her list of instructions. To add to my awkwardness, she's wearing a little pair of shorts and a skimpy strappy thing for PJs; I have nowhere to look. Don't want to meet her eye when I piss her off with the explanation but really don't want to be caught looking down either.

"Sophie… asked me to come pick you up. Didn't she tell you?"

Oh shit, I really have pissed her off. She looks mad. Not like she's about to explode, but her teeth just got gritted a little bit. "No. I haven't spoken to Sophie since this morning when I told her I had plans tonight."

"Oh, I'm really sorry…" Yeah, sorry Sophie put my ass in this situation. It's a little presumptuous of her considering she's known me for like two weeks.

"No, it's not your fault," she sighs with the look of somebody used to this. "What precisely did she send you over here for? She's organised some night out or something?"

"Yeah, she invited me and Trace and Elliot out to Nobu and then we were gonna go hit a bar or something. She asked me to pick you up on my way and I just figured that, well…"

"I was actually aware she'd made plans for me?"

I have to nod because I have no idea what to say and she really does seem pissed off. I don't know Chelsea too well, she seems kind of standoffish to me most of the time and I feel really uncomfortable being put in this situation where I'm the messenger and she looks in a shooting mood. That shit is bad enough when you actually know the person in question.

"Look, Justin…" she's clearly reaching for something to say. I can see that fight going on in her face between what she wants to say and what she thinks is best for me (or maybe Sophie) to hear. I see that look a lot; it's a hazard of working in an industry of yes men.

"Maybe I could just look innocent and tell her you weren't home?"

Wow, that was the fastest change of expression I ever saw. She looks so grateful that it's swelling my manly ego; it's definitely a lot more fun being the knight in shining armour than the bearer of unwelcome news. It makes her face look a hell of a lot softer too, she should try relaxing a little more often.

"Dude, you rock. Thank you."

"I just didn't want to wait on you to get changed. This is all about me," I joke. Was it just me or did I get a little hint of a smile out of that?

And then suddenly a guy from Dominos turns up at the door, and he looks mightily surprised to see me standing here. Shit, I can just bet he's going to go score a few bucks off US or Star or somebody telling them I was standing at a barely dressed woman's door. Oh well, it's not like anybody ever believes those rags anyway. Chelsea, God bless her, immediately recognises the situation and manages to simultaneously pay him and shoo him away at incredible speed. Clearly she's well practised.

Then she opens the box and I get a fantastic whiff of pepperoni. Mmm… what time is our reservation again? I'm fucking starving.

"Slice of pizza for your trouble?"

Ahh. Rescue a damsel in distress from a night out she clearly can't be assed with, receive free pizza. See, good deeds do get rewarded.

"Thanks." She doesn't need to ask twice, I've already pulled out a slice and have taken a big old bite. I didn't take the biggest piece though, that would just be rude. Though even if I had, that's a pretty big pizza for one person… wow, she must have a stomach and a half on her. Good for her, women with a good appetite get the thumbs up from me.

"Well, I guess I'll get going. Thanks for the slice," I say.

"Thanks for the cover."

"S'okay. Next time Sophie asks me out and I don't wanna go I'll expect you to come up with my alibi."

Hmm, those words felt kind of funny coming out of my mouth, Sophie asking me out. It's not like she's trying to date me or anything - and if I was going on a date I would certainly not take Trace. I learned very early in life that double dating with him was a bad idea.

"Done." I even got a little wink. Maybe there is some warmth in the ice maiden after all. "Night, Justin."

"Night." I raise my pizza in a salute and then turn to head back down the stairs, trying to think how best to form my story for Sophie.

I'm a little pissed off with myself right now. I'm not giving my best. I could tell you it was because it's too hot today and under these lights it ain't any cooler. I could tell you it's because I had a fight with my most recent ex girlfriend a few days ago (over who gets our non refundable trip to St Lucia, if you must know). I could tell you it's because Enrique Fuentes is hanging around like a bad smell instead of spending time with his daughter. I could even tell you it's because of the paparazzi lurking at the perimeter.

None of this would matter if I could concentrate. It's amazing what you can block out when you're concentrating. Sadly, the skill eludes me today.

"Cut!" The director Craig yells that immortal word for what feels like the fiftieth time. Actually, we're only up to take sixteen. He looks a little frustrated too, and when he starts walking over to us I know it's not good.

It's worse when he reaches me and Elliot and slings an arm over both our shoulders. He's going to tell us in quiet, confidential tones that we suck. I say "we," but that's a little unfair to Elliot who is actually on this planet with everybody else today.

"Guys…" he drawls slowly, carefully, trying not to bruise our delicate star egos, "this isn't working."

I want to reply with something on the lines of 'no shit Sherlock,' but I hear it's dumb to say that shit to the man in charge.

"This scene is the crucial part of Jonathan and Ben's relationship in this movie," he says. I knew that already, but fine. "This scene sets the tone. You guys are arch rivals, but you're not doing this the usual way. This isn't about macho pissing contests or squaring off for the big fight, this is subterfuge. Ben smells a threat and Jonathan sees an obstacle."

"But didn't you say that Jonathan at this point isn't looking at Lucy as anything but a pain in the ass?" Lucy is Sophie's character, by the way. The two of them start this big feud in their newspaper columns; much hilarity ensues until finally they hook up. "So why would he see Ben as an obstacle?"

Apparently I asked a dumb question, because Craig immediately starts talking to me like he's trying to explain that two and two make four. "Like we discussed with Sophie earlier, at this point the sexual attraction is subconscious. He might not be thinking about it and if you asked him he'd never call Ben an obstacle, but it's there in the back of his head. You need to play that without making it obvious you're playing that, you get me?"

I really don't get him, but it's unwise to clue him in on what a space cadet I'm being today. Instead I just smile and nod, letting him clap me on the back in relief that the child has finally come through and we can go onto adding some bigger numbers, like ten and everything.

Thankfully, he decides that the best thing we can all do is take a break. He wants to readjust the lighting anyway, says that the acting's not the only thing wrong with the scene. Elliot and I shared a mutual wince at that, but I guess you have to take the criticism if you're going to learn. I honestly can't dispute it either because I am not on my game today.

It doesn't help having Enrique hovering around like a big Spanish bat, either. It's weird; he's Sophie's manager and Sophie's father, but is he spending time with Sophie? No, he's hanging around the set schmoozing and watching the rest of us with narrowed eyes. The more cynical part of me thinks he's looking for a weak link in the chain, anybody who might drag the film down and thus harm baby girl's career in even the slightest way. The guy is like a fucking pit bull, I wouldn't dare to breathe wrong near his daughter if he's around. He looks like an older and uglier version of Antonio Banderas too, it's very off putting.

Actually, that's an insult to Antonio so I gotta take that back. I really like that dude and I really do not like Sophie's… I wanna say padre. Isn't that the word they use in Zorro for the priest and stuff? So father, padre, that'd make sense wouldn't it? Unless there's a different word for that in Spanish… whatever, I don't like him and he makes me nervous so I've been trying to steer clear of Sophie except in scenes.

I've also been steering clear of Sophie for other reasons. You know those paparazzi I mentioned? Even on set I can see them in the background and their lenses are focussed on Sophie and Chelsea. The two of them are sitting out enjoying the sun, ignoring the AD's warning to everybody that at high noon we should be avoiding the sun wherever possible. They got their director's chairs out in front of Sophie's trailer, though only hers gets a name on the back, and Sophie has Chelsea's foot propped in her lap. I can't see what colour she's painting the toenails, but it makes a great photo for the rodents.

Sophie has been bending over backwards to be nice to Chelsea for the last week. I wasn't there on set that day, but I hear Chelsea really chewed her out for that whole stunt she pulled with me. Actually, Sophie's been a little quieter than usual ever since. I mean, I don't know her well enough to be sure so it could be something else, but I think it really bothered her having Chelsea angry at her. I can kind of understand - in this business there's so few decent people you can pull around yourself, and Sophie does rely on Chelsea a heck of a lot. She'd probably be lost without her. Or heck, maybe it was that loser boyfriend of hers. He was hanging around like a bad smell yesterday the way Enrique is now but today he's absent, probably because of Enrique.

Hey, maybe women do pick men like their fathers.

I guess it's kind of cute though. The two of them are giggling away over somethin' or other and Sophie's doing an admirable job of ignoring the flashes. Wish I could say the same but if I see anybody come near me… well, the mood I'm in I can't be held responsible for what my middle finger might do.

Speaking of which… my mother's walking over with that lip chewing expression she gets when she's the bearer of bad news. Oh boy, just what I need.

"Hey baby, can I steal you a second?"

"Sure," I ask like she really needed to hear me say it. She knows she's always got my time.

It's when she pulls me right away from the crew and towards my trailer that I really start worrying. When she opens the door and walks into it, then I know I'm in serious shit. This is clearly a conversation that she doesn't want overheard; the non existent walls still manage to have ears on film locations. Once I finally climb in and shut the door after me, she's pouring herself a glass of water. She's also messing with her sun visor the way I fiddle with my baseball caps when I'm nervous - constantly pulling it off and on. I guess more things are genetic than you might think.

"What's up Momma?" I ask her straight.

"You remember that time you and Monica had that… incident?"

What my mother can't bring herself to be more specific about is the fight that broke me and aforementioned most recent ex up. Monica and I had an extremely tempestuous relationship - it was full of heat, but it was also full of drama. I've never been a particularly confrontational guy, but she and I used to get into some real blow out fights. She's not a bad person and I like to think I'm not either, but we brought out the worst in each other. We also had a tendency to be overdramatic and throw shit around when we fought…

…The time that actually broke us up, I accidentally hit her with a pretty heavy hardback book and it bruised the fuck out of her eye.

Now, Monica will be the first person to tell you I did NOT mean to hit her. She moved when I didn't expect her to. It ended the fight pretty quickly because I was so busy freaking and apologising, but she was actually really cool about it. She even managed to joke that it was amazing one of us hadn't managed to accidentally concuss the other before. Still, it was that little accident that convinced us both that splitting up was a good idea.

Why my mother is bringing this up three months later, I'm not sure. It cannot be good, because she's still fairly ashamed of me for my behaviour. I can't tell you how much that stings that she's disappointed in me, but I guess that's life. I can't be the perfect son or actor or whatever, much as I might like to be. I'm pretty un-perfect today.

"Vividly," I answer. "Why?"

Mom takes a sip of water with one hand and rummages in her bag with the other. She tosses out a gossip rag, and I curse a blue streak at the heading. It's a picture of Monica with the bruise, and below it is a wonderfully sensational headline about the possibility of me being a woman beater. Her eye looks terrible, and I suspect they may even have altered the picture to make the colours pop even more. It didn't need altering, I can tell you - she looked awful. (May I please take this moment to repeat how horribly wrong I still feel about that?)

"Shit." My hands kind of lock together at the back of my head; it's like they have a will of their own. They will not leave my face; they're either rubbing it or hovering over my mouth or scratching at it in horror. "This is so much bullshit."

"Unfortunately, it's bullshit we're going to have a hard time countering," my mother says quietly with a worried expression. "Monica's denied it, but they give her all of a sentence to do it and then they just say she's too scared of you to admit it."

"Why we gonna have a hard time countering?" I ask. She's really got my attention now. I mean this is awful and it's a pain in the ass and some idiots will believe anything they read, but why's she thinking this is worse than any other rumour? "Did you speak to Ken?"

That would be Ken Sunshine, my publicist, and she nods. "The problem is baby that people will read guilt into whatever you say or don't say about it. Like I said, if Monica denies it they say she's just scared, if you keep quiet it's an admission of guilt, you claim you didn't do it you're just lying…"

"And the actual truth sounds like a real crappy tall tale of the 'walked into a door' variety," I finish for her. All she can do is nod at me with this real grim fear in her eyes. Then something else occurs to me. "Shit, are the police gonna ask questions about this?"

It wouldn't be the first time the police have come knocking because of tabloid crap, but Momma thankfully shakes her head. "Not unless Monica wanted to press charges, and you know she wouldn't."

Then, inevitably, I hear the 'Justin Timberlake to set' call over the tannoy and the conversation is cut short. I'm in even less of a mood to go do this now than I was before, but I can't let anybody know I'm rattled. It'll make me look like I have something to hide. Instead I kiss my momma's cheek, whisper that it'll work itself out and head back to the grindstone.

The heat's baking and I'm pretty much staring at my sneakers as I walk. I'm sure I got enough lines in my forehead to make me look fifty but I can't keep the frown off my face. I hear a few catcalls from the paparazzi as I pass by Sophie and Chelsea, but I ignore them. Earlier I might have made good on that middle finger promise, but right now I'm going to have to swallow it. They'll be looking to provoke me and make me do something that'll look real violent in pictures.

My gaze strays over to the two girls and I see Sophie's reading the offending article with a slightly open mouth. I pray to God she's looking so stunned for a pro-Justin reason. I really hope she's thinking 'these people are full of shit' and not 'oh my God I'm working with an abuser.' Chelsea spots me and my eye flicks quickly to the paparazzi she has her back to.

Then she mouths 'ignore them' at me with a not entirely unsympathetic expression; at least me doing her a good deed won me a little credibility. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.

*** "Holy mierda," Sophie breathes quietly as Justin continues on his way to the set. Her eyes are glued to that article like it was directions to a ninety nine percent off Manolo sale. You can bet she wouldn't dare to swear like that if Daddy wasn't a nice safe hundred feet away. "Can you believe this?"

"Is that a rhetorical question or do you want my actual opinion?" I mutter. Those jerk paparazzi guys threw the magazine over the barricade in our direction and suggested Sophie get to know her co-stars a little better.

"Well you can give me your opinion but if you say yes I'm gonna have to fire you for being so damn stupid."

Privately I think to myself that for all we know, it might not be such a stupid suggestion. We've been on set for three weeks, nearly a month now, and Sophie's hung out with Justin socially a couple of times but I've barely even seen him in passing. We don't know this guy. That said, this is clearly shoddy and sensationalist journalism and they don't have a shred of proof. His ex girlfriend denied the whole thing, though they managed to bury that at the end of the article and make it look insignificant.

"I was gonna have to go with no. This rag is better used as toilet paper."

It's a shame that we have to mutter so much. It's particularly so because my 'likes to turn the car stereo up way too loud' self is practically deaf, but we can't afford to have those assholes hear us. Sophie, ever the consummate professional, is managing to speak audibly whilst barely moving her lips - there'll be no lip reading for them. If she could throw her voice a little further she'd be a great ventriloquist.

"Poor Justin…" she clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "And Monica, they'll be hounding her ass too. You know I met her once at an award show? She was so sweet to me."

I have to smile at that. Sophie's always saying that so-and-so was "so sweet" to her; I don't have the heart to tell her that a good number of them are just kissing up. I doubt it of Monica Greenwood though, because she was super nice to me too. The ass kissers don't know I exist, but you know you got a genuine nice one when they bother to extend the same courtesy to the hired help. Sophie, God love her… for someone so canny about the business and how to progress her career, she can be a little naïve about plain old people.

"Well today's headlines are tomorrow's trash. They got nothing," I tell her. We both know that's not necessarily true and that mud sticks, but we hope for the best.

"Hmm. So, we definitely on for Thai tonight?"

She looks so hopeful; I can't bear to say no. She knows that her father makes me uncomfortable, but I'm often useful as a buffer between them; they have very different ideas on how her career should be run. Enrique's a very… uhh… forceful character. He's bossy as all hell too and he doesn't understand the concept that I am Sophie's friend as well as her PA. To his mind I don't need to be treated any better than dirt, but thankfully Sophie likes me a little better than that.

But, this is what friends do. After last week she's doing me the courtesy of asking and giving me a choice; she's giving me a choice despite the fact that I am on call and technically she could just order me. So, I go. I refuse to drive though because I will need to consume some vodka.

"Fine by me." I nod and she brings out that money making smile.

Much as I'm green with envy, she is stunning. She has this long, elegant face with these perfect high cheekbones and she's got this life behind her eyes that you just can't pay a plastic surgeon for. She's even one of those bitches who can look stunning without a smudge of make up on. Wench. How come I can never master that little trick?

Even as I'm peering at my split ends thinking I need to go have my hair done again (and if I could possibly trade in my entire body while I'm at it), Sophie's chewing on her lip and starting to look thoughtful. I can see the cogs ticking over in her brain but know better than to interrupt. It's far too easy to make this woman lose her thought track. Occasionally, if you do it via confectionary or baked goods, it's also very entertaining.

"You think it would be helpful if maybe we all made a point of going out with Justin?" She asks.

You might not see what she's getting at, but I immediately do. A lot of times when you see stars partying or meeting up by 'coincidence' at the same restaurant, it's all a total set up. Their publicists or managers or whoever arrange for them to be seen together to boost their respective images. Hell, sometimes entire relationships are totally fabricated. Sophie's not normally one to put up with that bullshit, she's passionate to Christina Aguilera level about being judged solely on her talent, but I can see what kind of favour she's trying to do for Justin here. Not to do anything for her PR, but to help his - to let people know he's well liked and respected and people don't believe the worst of him.

God love her, she's trying to help, but her dad will have an aneurysm. He's real funny about her being seen with any guy she's not known to be dating anyway, but an accused woman beater? He'll throw a bitch fit. She doesn't need that and I honestly don't think it'll help Justin too much. People already know he's well liked; that's why accusations that he's a woman beater are so juicy for the press.

"I think…" How can I put this delicately and without discouraging her from being nice? I mentioned before how self centred she can unwittingly be sometimes, so I don't like to squash her more altruistic moments. "He'll need private rather than public support, I think. And I think he'd probably just feel bad if he thought we were being seen with him just to do a good deed."

She chews on a pink lip for the moment, thinking about this before nodding her head. "True. He'd probably feel like it was pity or something." She shakes her head out, and then looks at her watch. "It's coffee time but I have a feeling they're gonna want me soon. Would you please do the coffee run sweetie?"

"Sure." I ease out of my chair and shove my feet back into my flip flops, wiggling my newly pink toes. Sophie gives the best pedicures.

"Oh and… maybe you could ask if Justin and Trace want anything? But like, real subtly?"

It really is funny how in moments like last week I want to strangle this woman but at times like this I kind of want to throw my arms around her and tell her she's beautiful. I might, if she wouldn't think I'd gone loopy.

You know what really sucks about movie sets? Night shoots. Any time you're on a movie set there's lots of waiting and annoying shit and it's really not that glamorous, but night shoots are the worst. Cold, dark, boring, and did I mention I'm yawning every other sentence?

Still, this isn't so bad, and I'll tell you why. It's because Kennedy is here. Kennedy is my best friend in the whole world despite the fact that I'm a lousy friend who is never around when needed. I don't deserve her or her uncanny ability to know exactly what kind of junk food I need at exactly what moment, but still she's mine and has been since we were about eight years old. I never used to be a crappy friend, but being at Sophie's command twenty four seven I've had to cancel on Kennedy at the last second or run out on her in the middle of things more times than I can count. Kennedy, being the awesome piece of awesomeness that she is, forgives me every single time.

We clink our Corona bottles together in a silent toast, and then huddle a little closer under the blanket. It'd be warmer in the trailer, but there's something a little more interesting about sitting under the stars with our little portable heater. Sophie has a long and involved scene to do with Justin tonight where they're meeting up with some journo source in a remote spot on a huge story, but don't realise he's meeting them both at once to create a little bidding war between them for his services. This is why I needed Ken here, this shit is boring and I have trouble staying awake.

"So, come on, you slept with any of 'em yet?" Kennedy nudges me with a grin. She means hot celebrity men, and she asks me this about once a week just because she knows it's irritating.

"Not my type," I smirk before taking a swig.

"Weirdo. Can't say I'd kick that Elliot out of bed, I bet you he's got a six pack under there…"

Elliot doesn't do a lot of shirtless shots, leading the tabloids to wonder whether it's shyness, artistic integrity or some hideous deformity. "Well if you're after a guaranteed six pack I can introduce you to Justin," I tell her.

"Eh," she makes a comedy out of blowing a piece of hair out of her face; it makes her look like a puffer fish and I have to giggle. "Not my type. Besides, I saw Miss Lumos over there getting her flirt on, she'll have ditched the designer in the month and started boning him I guarantee it."

Did that seem overly catty to you? Well, thing is…

The flip side of that whole being so saint like with me about my schedule thing is that if she doesn't blame me for never being around she has to blame Sophie - hence they don't get along too well. They think they're real subtle and adult about it, but they really aren't. Whenever Sophie gets brought up or comes into the vicinity Ken kind of bristles, like she just goes a little more rigid. Sophie's nervous tick whenever Ken gets brought up is this little pursing of her lips and a twitch in her eye, like she's trying to stop from rolling them.

It has been put to me by my mother in one of her less annoying and more insightful moments that they're in competition for my affections. Mom's theory is that Ken does it by vying for confidant status and then flaunting it and our history in front of Sophie. On the other hand, Sophie does it by taking up my time and hammering it home that I'll always drop whatever I'm doing with Kennedy for her. I see a very big flaw in this scenario. Naturally I confide in Sophie and Kennedy about totally different stuff so that doesn't work, and it doesn't work Sophie trying to assert importance via my time either because she's paying me to be at her call. That doesn't automatically mean I'd go if I wasn't being paid and Ken knows that.

Of course the other big flaw in the scenario is that it's dumb as all hell.

"I don't see it," I shake my head. "She's flirty with everybody and besides, Marco Fako is the shit in her book. Don't ask me why."

"Money?"

"She's got plenty of it herself."

"Good looks?"

"Hell, her business manager is better looking than him AND probably has more money. You really think he's good looking?"

"No, just theorising that she does. Well hung and or good in the sack?"

"I never want to know."

Kennedy chuckles and kind of tips the side of her head against mine. We probably look like the Bobbsey twins, except for the fact that she's got bright red hair and I'm blonde. We're both in jeans and flip flops, both got little beanies on our heads - hers is black and mine is pink - and when I went to pick her up today she had to change out of her PCD hoodie because otherwise we really would have looked like we did it on purpose. You know how you see those thirteen year olds around the mall trying to be fashionable but too young to honestly have their own sense of style? You know how they all wear practically identical outfits because that's what they saw in Cosmo Girl that week? When you look like that at our age, it's time to rethink the ensemble.

(Yeah, about that… we have stupid teenybopper love for the Pussycat Dolls, alright? And is it our fault that Nicole's Don't Cha hoodie rocks and we both wanted one after the show?)

"Seriously though honey…" She kind of does this weird smacking motion with her mouth, like she just put lipstick on. "I did kind of notice you and that guy earlier at the catering table."

"Me and what…" I don't need to finish that sentence, I remember. Holy shit she means Trace. Trace! "Wait, Trace? Justin's friend? What the hell do you think is going on between me and Trace?"

That would have been a high pitched scream if I had wanted to be overheard. Since I don't, it came out as more of a high pitched hamster squeak. I sound stupid, and this is making Kennedy do that evil Wicked With of the West laugh she does - seriously, she cackles and she sounds just like a witch. It's true; it's just her natural laugh. She got ferociously teased for it in high school because even when she was giving a totally innocent little chuckle she sounded like she was up to something. It meant she was always the teachers' first suspect if shit happened and all because of that laugh.

"You just seemed friendlier than I've seen you be with a guy since…" she deepens her voice and does a Darth Vader impression, "the dick wad."

I hate it when she does that. She can't refer to him by name and she always does that stupid voice. "Ken, we've been through this. Will is not a dick wad."

"Yes, I am firmly aware that you still think he's a good guy despite him leading you to think that he was going to propose and then breaking up with you instead. I still think you're stupid. I love you, but you're stupid."

Will is a cop. Will was my high school and college sweetheart. I'd had boyfriends before him but he was my first love. Everybody fully expected us to get married, including me. Then one day in a scene totally out of Legally Blonde he takes me to an expensive restaurant, starts making speeches about our future and then drops the bombshell that it's actually his future and I don't feature. The difference being he's not an asshole like Warner and he was a little gentler about it. It wasn't like he was smooching me all the way there like nothing was wrong. People grow apart, it happens, why do I have to hate him?

"Whatever," I huff, wanting off of this subject and immediately. "There is nothing with me and Trace. He's more fun to talk to than the other personal assistants around here and the crew always have shit that I shouldn't be interrupting. I can only read so much Janet Evanovich, you know."

"You can never read too much of Janet. See, you need to date Morelli."

Did I mention Morelli is the fictional boyfriend of the fictional Stephanie Plum? This might make it hard to date him. "I always preferred Ranger: more mysterious, less Italian."

"What's wrong with Italian?"

"I'm sorry, have you MET Marco?"

"He doesn't count, he's faking!"

"He is actually like an eighth Italian."

Okay, I have to agree with her on the eye roll there because I didn't realise how stupid that sounded until I actually said it.

"Whatever."

She tilts her head back and sighs. She takes a long gulp of her beer, and then with the neck of the bottle still pressed to her lips she starts looking around the set. There are the world's bright floodlights everywhere, but at this moment they've been dimmed so they don't mess with the lighting on set. I actually had a vaguely interesting chat with the DP about that, he was telling me about the different gels and tones they use to get various effects. He was saying that light even from the surrounding buildings and stuff can mess with what comes out on film if it's in the wrong place or too bright and stuff. At night they have to be particularly careful because obviously once the sun starts to come out you lose the dark very quickly and even just the pre dawn lightening of the sky can mess it up.

That was a tangent. The point was Kennedy starting to get twitchy, and sure enough she opens her mouth to complain. "This place blows, sweetie. Your job has ruined all my Hollywood illusions."

"Mine too," I respond dryly.

Then she gets this little glint in her eye and she shifts suddenly in her seat to face me, making her half of the blanket drop and a rush of cool air flow into mine. The sudden change in temperature makes me shiver.

"This place blows but I know somewhere that doesn't…" She says tantalisingly.

"No. NO!" I repeat with a little more force. "You know I can't leave."

"No, I know you won't leave. Can't and won't, two very different concepts, Chelsea." Then she tries the whining tack. "Come on, it'll be so much more fun than this!"

"What will?" I ask suspiciously.

"You, me, cocktails and a lil' late night getting our groove on."

Actually, she has a point. Kennedy is a dancer; she does some music videos and very occasionally a tour, but she's based with a studio in LA where she gives hip hop and street lessons. She's also ballet trained. The girl can never keep off the floor for too long and happens to know where every decent club in California is - she swears blind that she once got a compliment off Carmit from the Pussycat Dolls, and this is an extremely big deal for her because Carmit was originally in the dance troupe PCD before they became a band. I'm not entirely sure I believe her, though. Especially since she would have called me on the spot and told me to get my ass down there if she'd seen a Doll in a club.

That was yet another tangent, but to be serious for a second Kennedy is THE girl to go clubbing with. She might not be able to get you into VIP everywhere like Sophie but she can always get you through the door and usually without a cover charge, and she knows where's good to go. It really would be fun, even if I'm a little underdressed (which would be made better if I exchanged the flip flops for the heels I left in my car last night - might give me some blisters though).

"I can't," I whimper. "I have to be here and if I'm not and she needs me she'll go ape shit."

"Are you her employee or her dog?" Kennedy asks me while doing her best to put her hands on her hips and look menacing. It's harder sitting down. "You don't have to come running every time she tells you to heel, babe."

It's hard to argue with that, because if I do I look like a total wimp who can't do anything without Sophie's say-so. I look down at my watch and even though I know this is a stupid idea I feel myself start to waver. She can't send me on the usual errands at this time of night and it's not like she's even spoken to me in the last two hours. Would it hurt? Really? If all goes to plan shooting will be over soon anyway.

"Fine." I huff a little. "Only if we can run back to your place and do a little emergency make up though."

I would just sneak into the trailer and use Sophie's but it's totally the wrong colouring for me and Ken.

***

Some girls dance with women knowing that it gets them attention, according to JC Chasez. Well, I don't do that. I do it because Kennedy's a much better dancer than me and she makes me look good. Plus, it's kind of fun because she's so crazy. This kind of dancing might be more suited for a guy and a girl (or at least two people with a sexual thing going on, I make no discriminations) but I could never be this comfortable with a guy. Put it this way, Kennedy has seen me in my comfortable underwear; guys are never allowed to see me in anything less than my 'this isn't wholly unacceptable if I have male company' underwear if not my sex underwear.

Kennedy offered me a change of clothes but I only swapped my jeans for a skirt - the hoodie's kind of fun to wear clubbing, guys keep coming over to confirm that either they do wish their girlfriend was hot like me or to that there's no girlfriend and no issue with me being hot. Okay, I'm a great big skank purposely out for attention but it's a hoot. Occasionally I need to feel sexy and worthy of admiration, and if a cheap stunt with a hoodie gets me there that's fine by me. It's better and less slutty than wearing my skirt so short it doesn't cover my ass.

Come to think of it, what we're up to is kind of skankalicious. I know if I saw two girls doing this I would be a big old hypocrite and mentally accuse them both of being a total ho. Kennedy doesn't have to try too hard to look good doing this since she's trained and all, but I can guarantee you every guy in this club would be watching if she really turned it out. Half the girls would be too, in either awe or envy. Don't get me wrong - Kennedy is not the prettiest most fantastic girl around and it's not like every guy anywhere will fall at her feet, but dancing she rocks at.

Me, I rock at… well, still haven't worked that out actually.

"Do you want a drink?"

Kennedy yells in my ear over the pounding beat. Somebody messed with the bass too much, I can literally feel it through my chest with every thump. I nod and she takes my hand and pulls me to the bar. You have to do the whole hand holding thing in clubs or you get separated before you can breathe.

It's really hot in this club. It's smaller than most, so everybody's crowded into one place. There's one big dance floor, and at either end is a set of stairs to a bar and some seats. One is VIP; one is for the common folk. If you want seats you either have to be VIP (who are so exclusive there's never a shortage) or really fast on your feet. Everything but everything is painted black, although the seats and bars are decked out in cherry wood and white trimming. Any colour in this place comes from the people or the lights; I guess that's their idea of decoration. As far as decoration goes it's certainly cost effective, because they were always going to have lights and customers anyway.

While Kennedy takes evil amusement in ordering up Sex on the Beach for herself and a Long Island for me, I'm scanning the floor, people watching. We miraculously managed to pick a relatively quiet moment at the bar so it only took a few minutes to get served and I got some room to peer out over the dance floor. I like people watching. I especially like doing it in places which aren't movie related, since that seems to be my life at the moment. I still have that producer dream in the pipeline somewhere, but my dues have to be paid first as does my rent. I'd be stupid to pass up my current salary to go broke trying to get in with the executives; I need a little more experience first.

Oh well, in the meantime I'm having some fun, about to get some alcohol down me (it's okay, we got a cab from Kennedy's place and I'll just crash there), and life is… damnation, hell and holy shit.

I can't honestly describe how cold my blood is running, but spotting Sophie at the other bar has certainly dialled down the temperature (I told you it was a small club, this room is not long). I probably look like a pet bunny faced with the neighbourhood cat. This cannot be happening. I do ONE frickin' thing I shouldn't and I'm about to get caught? How is this fair?

The thoughts are running through my head at light speed and it along with that damn bass are bringing on a headache. The biggie is naturally an impending feeling of doom, but an important afterthought is 'what the hell is Sophie doing in a club like this?' It's small, it's not an 'it' club and there's minimal sitting/talking/schmoozing space - this is not her scene at all. She goes clubbing to be social, not to dance. I'm amazed she's clubbing at all, given how late the finish was tonight and that she's back on set tomorrow.

"Holy shit what's she doing here?" Kennedy nudges me nonchalantly as she hands me her drink. The tone and the swearing don't really mesh, she clearly doesn't give a crap.

"I'm asking myself the same thing," I breathe. "Shit!"

The only thing I can figure is that we'll have to stay this side of the room and try to blend in with the crowd. By her usual track record, Sophie should stay up there and not mingle too much. It suddenly occurs to me to check my Sidekick… and I have a bunch of missed calls. Hell.

"HAH!" Kennedy suddenly slaps the railing and points at Sophie with a shit eating grin on her face. "I so called it!"

I look up and I realise that what she's talking about is Justin, standing next to Sophie and chatting away. My stomach twists in an uncomfortable knot as I watch them there. They're standing too close.

You might tell me that it's none of my business, and on the personal level you'd be right. This isn't personal, however, it's business. This will get photographed. If somebody doesn't tip off the paparazzi and get them in here, they'll take the picture themselves on a cell. And then Marco will hear of it and he'll get all pissed off and then that'll get in the tabloids too and I'll have to clear up the mess. It'll be the love triangle of the year, I'm sure. They seem to like his love life even more than hers.

I knew I should have stayed at the stupid set. I could have prevented this. Stupid Kennedy and her fun club plan. I'm feeling physically sick watching the pair of them. Only thing that could make this night better would be Enrique, Marco or Will showing up. Or better yet, all damn three of 'em.

I'm now torn between leaving before I get caught or marching over there and doing damage control. Ay yi yi.

I'm starting to think that something's up with Sophie.

When she concocted this little plan to go to a club and Trace said he had some pals coming here, I figured I might as well. I'm sure they'd have had a great time without me, but it's not like I'm needed for shooting tomorrow and my meeting with management isn't until three. I can sleep all morning and still be perky for the suits so long as I'm smart enough to watch my hooch intake. That's me though - it never occurred to me that Sophie is required on set tomorrow and that she's seriously setting herself up for punishment.

And she's… okay, maybe this is some Spanish or European attitude to alcohol and I'm just being a naïve American, but she seems to be putting away a lot of red wine. She still seems coherent, but I'm starting to see her eyes glaze over. She's not wobbling even on those killer stilettos and it's not like she looks obviously drunk, it's just… she really has sunk a lot of wine. Her voice is getting progressively louder as the evening goes on, too, although to be fair she has got a lot of competition from the really overdone bass. I'm half tempted to run along to the DJ booth and fix his levels for him.

Ahh, I'm probably just being paranoid, is all. The club's pretty cool. It's all one big open space, no sequestered little room for VIP or whatever. Normally I like my privacy when I'm out so I make a beeline for those rooms, but I actually kind of like this now I'm here. Feels like you got a lot of space even though the place is rammed. My eagle eye thinks it got a little extra rammed after me and Sophie got here but maybe that's just me being a cocky son of a bitch. I am listening to Sophie and actively participating in the conversation, but I'm also people watching. I like people watching, especially in clubs - drunk people can be kind of funny.

"…So I made the mistake of saying the only place anybody would ever get me to do that would be SNL, and lo and behold me and my big mouth caught their attention and next thing you know…"

Wait, did I say I was paying attention? I must have been lying because I missed that entire story.

"So Justin, did you say you were going back on tour soon?"

"Oh, yeah," I respond. Thanks God for making her change subject and not showing me up as non-listening guy. She just talks real fast - but then I think that is a Spanish thing. When she and Enrique are talking I swear I don't hear them draw breath, ever. "After shooting's done."

Shooting which on my part will actually be done in a month. It's scary how fast time goes on a movie set, I swear I only just got here. Normally I don't like to mix music and movies, I focus on one at a time, but it was basically to keep the suits off my back for a while. They wanted an album with all the promo and touring shebang that goes with it, I've given them a little club tour. It'll take a month of my time to buy me at least six more to chill a little and do the next album at my own pace, so I'll make the sacrifice. The thing you learn about this business is when to push your own agenda and when to cut a deal.

"Sounds exciting, I'd love to come see it," she smiles at me. She really is a very attractive woman. Some girls can look really hot but still like they'd bite you in the balls if you came anywhere near them, but Sophie has a very approachable quality to her; I think that's her secret. "Chelsea and I will swing by."

"Sounds good," I respond honestly.

I don't know them so well even after being on set with them a while, but they seem like cool women. Obviously I speak to Sophie a lot more than her girl there, but both of them seem about as un-Hollywood as it ever gets in Hollywood. Everybody's always got a touch of it, even me, but there's a point at which you stop being real and just become Hollywood. Sophie and Chelsea haven't crossed it far as I can tell and that makes them alright by me. Sophie's a lot of fun to talk to, actually, she always seems to have a funny story about somebody and she even knows a decent amount about basketball. It remains for me to educate her on golf though.

"So where is your Girl Friday, anyway?" I ask. She looks confused at the reference, but clearly she still knows I'm talking about Chelsea because she's just given a little huff and her lips have pursed.

"She brought her friend Kennedy onto the set today and they disappeared at some point, but when… yo no sé."

"Huh?"

"I don't know," she clarifies. Then she gives a little angry shudder of some kind, and I'm suspecting there's past beef on this issue. That kind of pissed does not happen on a first offence. That's an odd thought to me actually; Chelsea seems ever present and ever ready. She strikes me as hyper-organised and the conscientious type. "Whenever that bruja shows up I seem to lose my assistant for a few hours."

I look blank again, but when she doesn't offer a translation I have to assume whatever she just called this Kennedy girl wasn't good. I guess Kennedy is probably the red head I saw Chelsea with earlier.

Then she magically brightens up, smiles at me again and changes the subject. She has this uncanny ability to do that, change mood at will, and to be honest I find it kind of unnerving. It's good I guess that she can just get over it so quick, but on the other hand I'm forced to wonder if she's gone in actress mode again. She certainly did it at the bar - flirting with the guys behind there, pushing those corseted breasts out a little and getting her drinks totally free. It'd almost make me wish I was a woman if I didn't find the idea of hitting on dudes and having periods so totally gross.

Trace bounds up the stairs towards me, congenial smile on his face and we do our secret little handshake. It looks like the general greeting most guys do but it has our secret little knack to it. It's lame and we probably should have stopped doing it a good ten years ago, but old habits die hard. He's been hanging with his boys; since he's been working on William Rast rather than being my PA, he's got a whole new crowd of guys that I'm friendly with but not so into. It's great for him, he really feels like he's got his direction now. He's only my PA right now as a cover for Rachael who has some stuff going on.

"Dude, Señora."

"Señorita, actually," she corrects him. "I'm not married."

I give him the look which tells him not to burst into my song if he knows what's good for him. Trace just grins and swipes my Bud, taking a long gulp that's practically half the bottle. Jerk off needs to go buy his own drink, I pay him enough.

"So how come you guys aren't dancing with Chelsea? You didn't have your groove on?"

Oh shit. Sophie's turning purple. It's making her a lot less attractive and she starts ranting in Spanish. That 'bruja' word comes up again, the only one I recognise and Trace looks kind of shocked. He leans into me and mouths 'why did she just call Chelsea a witch and a slut?' Huh, would you look at that - I didn't know the words and he didn't know it was aimed at Kennedy, but together we have decoded the entire insult.

Then she does that freakish mood change thing again. It's even creepier this time, because I can still kind of see the fire in her eyes. Did I mention that she's had a lot to drink, too? This may not be fun. She's kind of pushed Trace ahead of her, nearly making him fall ass over feet down those stairs, and she's dragging me behind. Oh boy.

***

Okay, you know I said Sophie could be creepy? Now I'm leaning back to drunk.

The blow out that Trace and I expected didn't happen. She came down and did the air kiss thing, even with the 'bruja.' If I wasn't so poised and ready for the sting in Sophie's tail, I'd have actually found the whole thing funny. Chelsea went about as white as it's possible to get, and after a whispered conversation with her Trace informs me that she spotted us in VIP earlier and has been hiding ever since. She would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for that snooping kid…

Please excuse my lame Scooby Doo reference there. Point is that Sophie has been charm itself. This Kennedy chick, who very politely introduced herself to me and Trace… well, she's clearly not buying it. She's just doing her thing (clearly this girl's a trained dancer - believe me, I can spot 'em a mile off) but she's eyeing Sophie the way you would a rattlesnake. Bitch fights and intrigue, I'm actually kind of curious as to what this is about. From that little disappearing assistant comment Sophie made, I'm guessing there's some kind of power struggle going on here.

That might explain why Chelsea's head keeps whipping back and forth between the two of them like she's watching a tennis match. She's dancing with Trace and she's not too shabby on the floor herself, but she looks kind of afraid. Call it a wild guess but I'm thinking she was expecting to get her own ass chewed out by Sophie, but instead she's got the scene unfolding before us now. A scene out of a really lame teen flick, I might add. She too seems to have noticed what I've noticed.

Wait, what does Chelsea's hoodie say? Is she really wearing PCD?

Sorry, distracted - what Chelsea and I have both noticed is that Sophie's drunk self seems to be attempting to compete with Kennedy via dance. It's not exactly a dance off or anything that lame, but clearly the pair of them are trying to outdo each other. I expect that any bystanders who are unaware of the loathing wouldn't spot it, but me knowing that Sophie thinks this girl is a slut and a witch I can see what she's up to. It's a little case of 'anything you can do I can do better.' I'm just kind of shuffling around by myself, Trace is behind Chelsea with an arm around her waist and they're getting down (I think he likes her), but Sophie…

I'm kind of embarrassed for her, actually. I don't want to tell her, but it's purely her celebrity keeping her afloat here because this friend of Chelsea's while less attractive than her is about ten fucking times the dancer she is. She's fully aware of it too, you can tell by the smirk. I have worn that smirk myself, I know that smirk. It's the look of somebody who's barely even trying, still winning by a mile and knows it. I may have to consider using her for my next video actually, that confidence comes off well in performance even if it pisses people off in real life.

Still, this is all looking fairly harmless for the moment so I'm keeping my overly large and ugly nose out of it. I know better than to get in the middle of a bitch fight.

At least until I'm pulled into one by Sophie using me as a stripper pole. Shit, now bystanders really are looking. Kennedy has this disgusted 'you whore' expression on her face and I'm trying to stay deadpan. I really wish she wasn't doing this, I do NOT need more press attention right now and this is a gossip column gold nugget right here. I also really wish she wasn't grinding into my crotch because this could get me into an embarrassing situation here, especially given that she's got a boyfriend.

Oh shit, what if her father gets wind of this…

…or her boyfriend who just swung for me. Huh. Where'd he come from?

***

Oh hell. Marco Fako's in the building and going for Justin. Oh fucking shit.

My first instinct is to grab Sophie out of there and pull her out of the way. What with her rubbing up on Justin like a bitch on heat she was directly in the line of fire. God only knows what she had to have been drinking to be pulling that hoochie dance crap, she doesn't even like dancing. I practically throw her back behind me; Kennedy catches her and Sophie looks disgusted about that but I'm not too interested. Trace has immediately jumped into the fray to protect his buddy, and there's a gathering crowd of onlookers.

Shit, I see cell phones pointed our way… just fucking great. What's Marco doing here? What are any of these famous people doing here? Why the hell did I have to get myself caught up with famous people? It's nothing but drama. Why did I let Kennedy talk me into coming out here in the first place?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

"Asshole!"

"Bastardo!"

"Piece of shit…"

"¡Hijo de puta!" That one was Sophie and I refuse to translate it.

All three of the guys are throwing insults and I'm thinking it's a good thing that even if cell phones can take film or photos of this whole sorry incident the music should be too loud for them to pick up sound.

Trace and Justin finally manage to shove Marco backwards and away from themselves. After taking a stumble he rights himself, manages to get steady on his feet. I almost have to laugh actually, because he is totally wearing Justin's outfit only his pants and waistcoat are pinstripe. Collar shirts, waistcoat, suit pants and statement belts - it'd almost be funny if I wasn't afraid he was going to charge for Justin again. Where the fuck are the club bouncers? Neither of them is likely to back down so it'd be easier to split them up if one of them got kicked out… more tabloid worthy too but right now I'm more concerned about faces being smashed in.

Then Marco decides to round on Sophie instead, firing off at her in Italian. Italian and Spanish aren't the same language, but they're both rooted in Latin and enough is the same that if you know one you can get the gist of the other. You might not be able to translate exactly, but you can catch the meaning. I'm not good enough at either to get what he's saying but Sophie is and now she's yelling at the top of her lungs in Spanish. I'm guessing that whatever he just called her it wasn't nice.

I don't like it when they have these bi-lingual conversations at the best of times. I only get half of what she's saying and none of what he's saying. This is bad enough when they're just talking (they need a lot of mediation and if I don't know what they've said it's difficult). When they're yelling like this and I suspect punches might get thrown again it's downright dangerous.

"Ken we need to get her out of here!" Did I mention I'm panicking?

My best friend doesn't help with the evil grin she's wearing. She loves this far too much. "It's her own problem, honey. She's the one dry humping a dude who's not her boyfriend."

Then Marco's had enough of Sophie and tries to charge for Justin again. The two of them are now actually on the floor. If I weren't so terrified of cops and tabloids and losing my job, I'd be walking away in disgust. This is pathetic. I know the Italian Impostor started it but does Justin need to be getting quite so into trying to beat the crap out of him? Though I would like somebody to beat the crap of him so on balance…

Sophie's being useless, Trace is trying to help but having difficulty getting between them when they're on the floor like that, and me and Ken make the colossal mistake of trying to help Trace pull Marco off him - he had a lucky break and now has Justin pinned. Clearly the little reprobate has done this before.

Why is it a mistake, you ask? Marco kind of rears back to shake us both off and in the process sends Kennedy flying, her head smacking the floor with a sickening thud. As for me, I get his elbow smashed into my nose and I see stars. Then I taste blood.

***

That bastard just practically KO'd Kennedy. Fucking asshole, you don't do that to a woman! She's sitting up, which is a good sign, but she's gone from sober to looking like she's been sinking tequila all night in the space of five seconds. That's not good, she might have a concussion or a head injury or something and where were those fucking bouncers when he started this shit on me? It's not my fault his girlfriend was having a jealousy fit over Chelsea! Well, his girlfriend's taking care of him right now, yelling and slapping and generally going ape shit. He's too busy to worry about the fact he just assaulted two women who were only trying to calm his crazy ass down.

Shit, two women… why do I only see one? Where the fuck did Chelsea go? I saw her take that hit and she should not be running off anywhere alone right now, how the fuck did she get out of this circle of vultures round us and where the fuck did she go?

"You okay with her?" I shout to Trace who is by Kennedy's side and asking her to tell him how many fingers he's holding up and who's President.

"I think she needs an ambulance!" He yells back. I think he's right - she seems to be slumping back down again, having a hard time sitting up. Thankfully, I see a couple of the people who were taking pictures on their cell phones actually doing something useful and dialling 911 on them.

"I'm going to find Chelsea!" I yell at him even as I've jumped to my feet. Nobody else seems to be thinking about her. I imagine Kennedy would be if she hadn't just had her head thrown into the floor so she gets a reprieve, but Sophie seems more concerned with bitching out her loser boyfriend.

It's hard trying to push my way out through the crowd, and I'm being pretty rude and aggressive about it. There's a group of girls who seem disinclined to let me through, like they think this is my fault and I need my ass arrested, and then there's another group of girls who are equally disinclined like they think I should spend some time with them instead. I'm taking a wild stab in the dark here, but if I were Chelsea I'd want air and space so I'm headed for the door.

Sure enough, I burst through the back door with its conspicuous lack of bouncer and she's slumped against the wall. Her hands and her previously white hoodie are covered in blood and all I can think is "oh shit." Her nose looks nasty and I'm thinking she'll need the hospital too - I suspect it's broken. Her breathing's all shaky and her eyes are wild. She might be going into shock, too. Shit, why didn't I take that first aid class at camp instead of opting to go kayaking?

"Chelsea?" I kneel down next to her and gently pull her hands away from her face - it'll only hurt more if she keeps touching it.

"Oww," she whimpers, tears rolling down her face. She looks scared as all hell and I really want to go finish pounding the living daylights out of Marco Lame-o in there. It's bad enough injuring one woman like that but two? He didn't even attempt to say sorry to either of them!

"Are you dizzy?" I ask her. "Can you see alright?"

"My nose really hurts."

"Yeah, I think maybe I ought to drive you to the hospital." I help pull her up to her feet, and she's really unsteady on them. I wonder how much she drank before this happened; it can't be helping and I'll probably need to warn the docs in the ER.

"Did I mention I'm having a shitty night?"

I almost had to laugh at that, but I can't quite do it. I've got my arm around her back and she's clinging onto me like she thinks she's going to fall down if she doesn't. I'm worried this is a realistic possibility, and I'm also worried because she seems so scared by all this. I can feel her shaking and it makes me tighten my grip, draw her closer. Well, at least my car's close by and I only had half a beer before Trace stole it. I'll be okay to drive.

"You and me both but on balance I think you take the prize for shittiest. My car's just in the lot, you okay to walk?" Preferably as fast as possible because the paparazzi have to be racing here at seriously illegal speeds?

She nods, but then she kind of straightens up and turns to go back in the club. "Oh my God, Kennedy…"

"Is with Trace, he's getting her to the hospital too. We'll meet them there. It's better for her if we get me out here before the tabloids show up so they don't crowd her trying to get to me."

That's actually a good point now I think of it, but it's not my true reason at all. I just don't think it wise to tell her right now that I think paramedics ought to be driving Kennedy there rather than me. In fact, now it crosses my mind they ought to bustle Sophie out of there too, so I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and give Trace a quick call with instructions to do just that. Being the tabloid veteran that he is, he's already ordered their asses out of there. I'm not comfortable with the idea of Marco taking Sophie home, but then she does seem to be the only woman he didn't hit this evening.

Chelsea still seems like she's wavering, like she wants to go back in after Kennedy, but I firmly steer her towards the car and eventually she acquiesces, sinking into my side in defeat. I hear a couple of sniffles and then a wince of pain as she realises that broken noses and sniffing lead to ouch. She's wiping blood off her face but is only succeeding in smearing it, though at least it seems to have slowed.

"So you got plans for tomorrow?" She's trying to distract herself.

"Got a meeting with my management about my tour, though I guess now it'll be about bar fights, too." It's my turn to wince. This shit will be everywhere.

"I knew it was a bad idea her going out with you," Chelsea comments. She sounds a little dazed, actually, and I try to concentrate on this being not great medically rather than her suggesting this is my fault. But hey, if she's dazed then she can't know what she's saying so I'll forgive her.

"Why's that?"

"Tabloid dream even before Marco Fako decided to start woman beating. I bet one of them called him and told him."

Oh. Actually, she has a point. She's bleeding and in shock and even she managed to realise before I did that this evening was asking for trouble. Shit, now I feel really fucking stupid.

"Sevens?"

"Go Fish."

Trace looks utterly confused; clearly he was convinced I had sevens. For somebody who claims he rules at this game, he really kind of sucks. Justin, on the other hand, readily admits to sucking and from there the only way is up.

Yes, I am hanging out with Justin and Trace. I have been hanging out with Justin and Trace a lot for the past week, mostly on account of me being totally furious with Sophie and her lame ass still-not-ex boyfriend. I get more furious ever time I look in a mirror at my purple nose or I call Kennedy. To be honest, I kind of wish I'd done this earlier (not the injuries, just the hanging) because Trace is awesome. I already liked the dude, but he is truly awesome. Justin is also extremely pleasant company, though sometimes I still feel a tad uncomfortable when he's around. It's taking me a little while longer with him - it's the celebrity thing, I still get a little star struck sometimes. I really feel like I should have befriended these guys earlier.

"What time is my call for tomorrow?" Justin idly asks Trace as he stares at his cards, wondering what to do with his move. I get the competitive impression from him. It's not like he cares that much over a game of Go Fish, but sometimes you just see a little of it stirring behind the eyes.

"Umm…" Trace is thinking too hard about this. "Umm… I think it's six."

"It's got to be more like five," I correct him. They look up at me in surprise and it almost makes me roll my eyes a little. Justin's been on a few sets now, he should know the drill. "Justin's on the same shooting schedule as Sophie tomorrow and her call is six, but with those cuts and bruises they'll need to do at least an hour's worth of effects make up on Justin first. There's no way they'll have the same call time."

Justin reaches out and gives him an affectionate smack around the head. "See, she knows my shit better than you do, ass."

"Whatever, butt- munch," Trace replies. "I'll double check the call sheet."

"Kings, Chelsea?" Justin finally takes his move and begrudgingly I hand him over the three Kings I collected. Damn it, I hate it when that happens.

"Hey, how's Kennedy?"

"She's okay, yeah, her mom's thinking of going home tomorrow and I know she wouldn't go if anything still looked wrong."

Trace asks this at least once a day, another reason I like him. I have to say, both of these guys seriously raised themselves in my estimations after that hospital saga. I'm still mildly ticked at Justin for participating in that fight, but he was really great with me on the way to the hospital and everything. If he hadn't come out there and found me I probably would have had a full scale panic attack; I'm a total wuss with blood, particularly my own. I can be around horror movie sets or watch movies with tons of fake blood splashed everywhere, but only because I know it's not the real thing.

Trace rode with Kennedy in the ambulance, and he sat outside her room waiting for news then rushed through to my cubicle to update me with it. Justin sat with me through the whole painful examination, and the guys even went to x ray with me while they ascertained that my nose wasn't broken (yeah, my nose was so swollen the doctor wasn't actually sure, and he said normally he can tell straight off). Ken had a pretty nasty concussion so they kept her for observation overnight, but the doctors said she'd pretty much recover on her own; her mom just came to stay to keep an eye on her and be there to dial the hospital if there was any dizziness or bad signs like that.

"Nobody's been anywhere near her looking for quotes, have they?" Justin chews his lip nervously. "Fours, Trace."

I shake my head as Trace hands over his solitary four of clubs. "No. There was one guy but Ken's mom lied her ass off and said she was the new tenant, Ken had just moved."

"Shit. I'll give her a call later and say sorry."

That was the other thing the guys did. They took both our home and cell numbers and for the first couple of days when I was off set and not there to give updates, they religiously checked on us.

"It's not necessary Justin; she knows the deal and her mom got rid of the guy anyway."

Justin sets his jaw and I know he'll call anyway, but at least I tried. I feel horrible for him over this whole thing, actually. Of all the extra scandals to pop up on top of that woman beating crap, he had to get into a fight which reinforced this 'mad, bad and violent' image. Trace swore me to secrecy on what actually happened with Monica, and if somebody hadn't got injured I would have laughed my head off. It sounds so soap opera.

The paparazzi have descended on the set in hordes and the studio has actually taken on extra security to keep them back. It's also cost them a bundle to rent more space - they don't need it for filming, but it keeps the vultures further back. Sophie's drama cost them a lot of money, and they're not particularly pleased with her right now. Justin only got back into their good graces after offering to let them take it out of his fee.

"So, you actually speaking to Sophie yet?" Trace asks.

"Nope," I say through gritted teeth.

"You probably should, she feels horrible," Justin says.

"So she fucking well should." I bristle at his defence of her. She doesn't fucking deserve it.

Her lame ass boyfriend went psycho and seriously injured both me and Kennedy and did he say sorry? No. Did she say sorry? Yes, but in the way of 'oh I'm sorry but you're not going to press charges are you' so I really don't think it counts. I nearly hit the roof. He put my best friend into a hospital bed, she was being checked for possible brain damage and Sophie is more worried about her precious Marco than Kennedy or even me who she claims is her best friend?

So, my relationship with Sophie has currently deteriorated to 'strictly business.' I don't talk to her unless I'm asking or answering work questions. Even when she asks me to do the coffee run I just get up and go do it without speaking. I know this is childish and if I'm honest it's hard work, but I would like a real apology from her first. I also think I deserve one from her bastard of a boyfriend (who still blames her and Justin for this, can you believe it) but that'll happen the day the dinosaurs make a comeback.

"Threes, Trace." Okay, for somebody who claims he sucks why is Justin winning so easily? "Yeah, I know she should Chels but she really does. You're the only thing she talks about and if I'm honest, I'd like you to forgive her purely so she'll shut up. If I have to give my opinion on what kind of sorry present she should give you one more time I'm gonna have to throw some shit."

Present? I haven't seen any gifts, what is she…

Wait, no, righteous indignation here, focus on that Chelsea. She's still screwing the asshole that hospitalised you and your best friend. Actually, that's the thing I really would be telling her if I was still speaking to her. He was a total asshole to her as well as being a violent freak. He was jealous, paranoid, jumped to ridiculous conclusions, he made a total scene of her in public knowing that she's a total tabloid magnet and as far as I'm aware I'm not the only one missing an apology from the son of a bitch.

"And also… twos, Chelsea?"

"Go Fish," I tell him.

He picks up a card, licks his lips and then speaks again. "Have you ever noticed when she gets upset she speaks Spanish a lot?"

"It's come to my attention." I have been working for her for four years, dumb ass. I know her considerably better than you do, even if she has got her flirt on.

"Yeah, I didn't take Spanish, I took French and I sucked at that too. I like it when she talks like a normal person."

"Because Spanish people aren't normal, moron?" Trace takes the words right out of my mouth.

"You know what I mean."

"I'll take your suffering into consideration next time I look in the mirror and see how my nose is now only twice as big as normal instead of like five times."

Okay, I was being kind of bitchy and I was doing the glare that normally scares all men far away from me, but instead he just reaches out and ruffles my hair. "I appreciate that."

I have no idea what to say to that, so instead I play with the beads around my neck and stare at my cards. Normally I'm good at this game but the change in topic has totally rid my mind of all my careful strategising. I don't particularly want to talk or even think about Sophie right now. I feel really betrayed, to be honest. Like… intellectually, I knew I was an employee and that I wasn't as important to her as she makes out. Hell, I told you that myself. It's… now I feel like she's only gone and proven how little I matter.

"Queens, Trace?" I finally manage to speak and he willingly hands over one. "Same, Justin?"

"Damn it." He hands his last one over and look at that, I made another nice tidy little set for my pile.

"Umm… tens, Trace?"

"Go Fish." He shakes his head at me and then ponders his own set of cards. "So what delights has Miss Chelsea got in store tonight? You going to go get in more club brawls?"

I ignore the inappropriate joke. "Kennedy and I were going to go see a movie and have dinner but she's still really tired. I'll probably order pizza and watch Bones."

"Well hey, so long as you weren't going to some chick flick we could go," he suggests. Justin's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline at this suggestion, and I can't see why. It didn't feel like a date invitation. "JT here has schmoozing to do and I'm not invited."

"Hey!" Justin smacks his arm. "It's not like I want to go to the stupid thing."

"This that thing Sophie has tonight at the studio?" I ask. Justin nods in the affirmative. It's very exclusive, VIP only. The little people don't count. I just hope Marco's not considered important enough to be let in or I foresee another smack down. Mostly because Marco's an asshole and Justin's still kind of pissed about last time - I like to think a little of that is on my and Kennedy's behalf.

"What do you say, Chelsea, wanna save me from some boredom?"

I'm not so sure I want to be saved from staring at David Boreanaz for an hour, but I still say "sure."

***

She thinks I don't know, but I do.

If Sophie wants to improve on her stealth I suggest she cuts out the little breathy sighs. I'd also recommend she didn't shuffle her feet so loud. Because as it is, I am well aware that she's been hovering behind me for the last five minutes and it's starting to irritate me. She's irritated me quite enough for one lifetime so she needs to stop. On the one hand, I don't want to talk to her. On the other, I'd really like her to quit it and it might be easier if I let her know the jig's up.

"Chelsea?" Oh, no, points for showing some guts finally.

"Hmm?" You notice my non-committal response there. It's not talking but it's not ignoring my employer either. I have far too much practice at the silent treatment - used to give it my mother all the time before I moved out.

"You gonna talk to me some time this año?"

I give an equally non-committal shrug and she sighs again, sitting down next to me on the trailer steps. They're not really wide enough for my fat butt and her skinny one, but she just about manages to perch. She stares at her nails, picking at her French manicure like that'll tell her how to fix this. A sheet of glossy dark hair falls at the side of her face and I'm sure that if this were on film it'd look dazzling.

Well it's not and it sucks.

"Look, I'm really sorry. And I know I can't make what that hijo de puta did right and I can't fix you or Kennedy but I miss you. I bought you a present…"

I'm about to turn around and start ranting at how throwing Prada or Crème de la Mer at me won't fix anything, but she's actually pulled out a gift certificate for the local Cineplex and a slip of paper with a time and an address scribbled on it. I recognise the name on the address - it's a little family pizza place me and Kennedy frequent but Sophie won't set foot in. It's that stupid diet of hers, she says pizza is junk. And also she told me how in Italy it originated as a way to use up old leftovers.

Did I mention I'm somewhat confused by this?

"Justin told me that you and Trace were going out tonight, so I thought…" She blushes, and I'm not sure why. Is she nervous?

"This gift certificate is way too much for two tickets." That's pretty much all I can think to say. Sophie blushes even deeper then, and something that I think is shame passes over her face.

"I figured I owed Kennedy too but Justin said she was still too sick to come out. Is she going to be okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. She's just tired and the doctor told her to take it easy."

"Bueno," she says. Nice to know she doesn't hate Kennedy that much, I guess. "I broke it off with him. Marco," she clarifies like she'd be talking about anybody else. I'm surprised - even if she hadn't told me I'd have thought her publicist would have mentioned it. "You were right, he's an asshole."

"Hmm." I'm back to evasive. I'm a little blindsided, to be honest. The second Justin told me she'd been thinking presents I started thinking she was going to throw expensive shit at me. This, much as I hate to admit it, was actually thoughtful… though I could have used some more perfume. I'm running out and it's Sophie's fault I'm hooked on Dior in the first place.

"I was too," she admits in a surprising moment of candour. "Getting drunk, getting into that stupid… whatever that was with your friend, dragging Justin into it. Not standing up for you better. Not dumping him on the spot. Bastardo estupido."

"I can't say I disagree," I let out a huff, but then she turns those big doe eyes on me.

"I really am sorry."

"You should be. You were really irresponsible, you caused yet more media trouble for Justin, you've had two sets of publicists working over time, and that asshole put two people in hospital and you were more worried about him than us. Oh, and your father chewed me out like it was my fucking fault and you said nothing. You really pissed me off, Soph."

"I know. I really am sorry. Forgive me?"

I let out one more sigh, plucking at the beaded bracelet on my wrist. Funnily enough, now I've actually let that all off my chest it seems… well, not like it doesn't matter any more, but just like it's more energy than it's worth to stay mad. "Eh, you had me at dumping Marco."

She throws an arm around my shoulder and plants a big kiss on my cheek, her smile bright. I can't say I'm smiling and I can't say that I'm going to have immediate fluffy bunny feelings for her again, but I appreciate the apology. Also, I really hated Marco even before he trashed my nose so that's a huge bright spot in my day. You may have got that impression by the way I consistently call him Marco Fako. In fact Trace and I had a really amusing conversation in which we came up with many unrepeatable variations on said nickname.

"So what's with dating Trace?"

Wow, she wastes no time.

"It's not a date."

"Oh." Wow, she looks kind of disappointed. I bet she was dying for gossip.

Then Justin decides to mosey on by - Sophie's on break right now so I'm guessing he's just been let off for his - and he smiles and nods at me. I have a sneaking suspicion he thinks I actually listened to him earlier. I really, really didn't. I had every intention on being mad at her for at least another two days. Maybe three if her father so much breathed anywhere near my good self in the meantime… and it would have been a week if Marco had shown up.

"Ladies."

"Justin," Sophie smiles. "Ready for tonight?"

He rolls up his sweater sleeves like wardrobe aren't constantly yelling at him for it and groans. "I think I might be washing my hair."

"Huh. I was planning a family emergency." She crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out, a sign of precisely how little she wants to go to this studio shindig tonight.

"That's a better excuse."

"Back off, I had it first."

"Now, now, children, more than one family is allowed emergencies at a time. Just don't make up medical conditions that don't exist, people do check. What?" I ask as they look at me strangely. So I made up a virus one time, big deal.

Justin shakes his head out as if to say 'whatever.' "Oh, Sophie, can I ask you a Spanish question?"

"Sí," she answers. Apparently he at least knows enough to know she said yes.

"What exactly does 'tuves una piña amohedo' mean?"

Now both of us are staring at him bug eyed. This isn't even because his accent is atrocious and he totally mangled that sentence (I'm not even sure it's grammatically correct or that tuves is a word but that's more a Sophie question). I'm really not sure I heard what I think I just did. Who the hell told him that piece of weirdness?

"Who told you that?" She asks.

"Trace. He told me to say that to your deranged ex next time I saw him…." Wait, she told Justin before me? Didn't know they were that close. "Why, what does it mean?"

Sophie laughs and shakes her head before finally telling him. "It means 'you're a mouldy pineapple.' You better be glad you got the translation first or you'd have sounded really stupid."

I'm trying not to laugh but… come on, this is hilarious. Trace told him to walk up to a guy and call him a mouldy fruit. We're both biting our lips and trying not to crease up at his expense but it's somewhat painful keeping this kind of belly laugh in.

"Right." Justin blinks for a moment and then cracks his knuckles. "Excuse me, ladies. Chelsea, I apologise but Trace might not show up for your date tonight, since I'm planning on killing him and tossing him in the marina and all. Later."

I don't even have time to protest that it's not a date before he walks off. I don't even have time to reiterate it to Sophie because the second he's out of earshot we've both collapsed into each other in the kind of giggles that don't quit for a good ten minutes. The kind of giggles that are set back off the minute you even remember having them.

See, this is why Trace is awesome.

You know what I've had a surprising yen for of late? A man.

See, you might not think this is surprising but it truly is. It's surprising because I haven't felt any particular need for a man since the day that Will stopped by and told me he'd found somebody new (this day, coincidentally, was about two weeks after he finished with me). It's been pretty empowering, actually, I've found an independence being on my own. It's an incredible improvement on my previous co-dependence and pitiful following him around, I can tell you. My theme song since our break up has been 'I Don't Need A Man.' Well, okay, me and Will split up before PCD came out with that song but that's not the point.

The point is that I have been fine with being single. I only stopped being fine with being single after that stupid non-date with Trace. It started out in a not so great way with me turning up at Justin's palatial home to pick him up and Justin making a great big slip about me not having made much of an effort (gee, thanks Timberlake). By the way, I was in jeans and a vest and I looked casually hot; he's just blind. Anyway, it continued in a very non-date like manner with Trace and I just chilling out. We had the food, we saw the movie, and we talked; he talked about some girl he's got a huge crush on and asked me for lots of girl advice. Yet after that evening I suddenly wanted a man, completely out of nowhere.

Don't get me wrong, it's not Trace. It's male company. It's having that somebody to sit and talk and hang with, and knowing you've always got a date.

"Jake, don't push your brother!"

"They're just playing," I tell her.

"Oh you're so naïve. This is exactly how it starts. Just wait 'til you have kids and you'll see what I mean."

My sister Lisa is simultaneously passing juice off to her eldest, Rebecca, keeping a watchful eye on her twins who are playing soccer and spoiling for a fight, and rummaging through the nappy bag for Abby's bottle. Abby would be the bundle of cuteness sitting in proud Auntie Chelsea's lap. Lisa's ten years older than me, hence she's managed to have so many rug rats. Our age gap actually worked out well for us because we were never in competition for anything at the same time, and she was a good alternate mom for when ours was driving me nuts.

"After hearing about your hormones and your stitches and how many hours? Never," I proclaim.

She smiles and pinches my cheek before rubbing Abby's. "Just you wait. The right guy will come along and you will."

See, even my family are making the guy craving worse. I had this really sad fantasy last night. I've had various boyfriend type yearnings for the last few days after our little excursion, but this is the one that's getting to me. It starts with me having a particularly crappy day and coming home to find Mr Right waiting for me. He takes one look at me, knows he needs to leave me alone for five minutes and he runs me a bath. This isn't a regular deal but he's just being especially nice because he can see I'm in bitch mode. He makes sure my towels are all nice and warm and he's there to take advantage of me when I get out and I'm all wet and naked and feeling more like a person.

Do you see? Too much detail - clearly I'm turning into a sad old woman who can't get real dates and has to resort to dreaming.

"Hmm," I reply sardonically before I catch Abby putting a big chocolate hand print all over Sophie's schedule for tomorrow. "Abby!"

"Don't try to wipe it, it'll just smear," Mommy dearest says wisely. "See, this is why I told you to leave the work at home. It's your day off."

"Not it's not."

Lisa frowns, not getting it. "Then how come you're here?"

"I'm on call," I explain. "On an actual day off she's not allowed to ask me to do anything and if she does I can say no. If I'm on call, she may or may not want me but I have to be ready to jump the second she does."

Oh great, I can see that expression coming onto Lisa's face. Lisa doesn't hate Sophie the way Kennedy does, but she really disapproves of my job. My parents disapprove of it too, to be honest, but they unlike Lisa have bought the whole 'it's necessary experience and better money than being a runner' rationale. She asked me out on a picnic today with the kids, but I brought along a list of interview requests that I'm pre-screening for Sophie. I then go through her schedule and work out precisely when she's got free slots to do them.

"Honey…" she begins.

"We're not having this conversation again."

She purses her lips, clearly trying to find a new route of attack. We have had the most circular arguments about this, but she always resists my attempts to be adult and remind her that the discussions always end up in yelling.

"Honey, I know you said this was good experience but how long ago was that and you're still running around to her every bratty whim? She treats you like a slave."

I could point out that said treatment is the job description and exactly what I signed on for, but I decide not to bother. I'm also going to withhold any information about Sophie's great new suggestion of moving me into her guest house, yet another idea she's picked up off of the great Justin Timberlake. Those two are spending too much time together and she's starting to act like him. I don't care if his cousin is his PA and lives in his guest house, she's family and I bet she doesn't have to spend nearly as much time with him as I do Sophie.

"I have to pay my dues, Lisa," I state firmly. "And this is by far the best paid way to do it. Sophie is fine and if it was that terrible I'd quit, so will you please back off? We were having a nice afternoon."

"Hmm. Don't see how nice it could be on that rabbit food," she sniffs, trying to tease me.

"Hey, you've had four kids; you have an excuse to be carrying a little extra around the hips. I got nothing."

Actually, I just wanted a salad. Lisa got in some sandwiches and juice and chips for the kids -though she insisted it would be fruit and not chocolate for dessert, that's the compromise - but I felt like a salad. I would have made up for it with cookies for dessert if it wouldn't have set the kids off whining. Lisa has also claimed in the past that Sophie's (quote) "malnutrition diet" has rubbed off on me, but she's wise enough not to do so today. I'm the first woman to dig into a burger and fries if I want one, but today I'm in the mood for greens. I think it's because I've been eating McDonalds on the run for the last three nights and it's started to make me feel sluggish; detoxifying is the order of the day.

"Are you trying to tell me I'm fat?"

"Are you driving me home?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

She's about to fire back something witty, but I start smelling something funny in the air and I'm immediately handing Abby back to her. I love my nieces and nephews, I do, but I do not deal with number twos. I will change wet diapers only, not dirty ones. I guess that would make me a pretty crappy babysitter, if I wasn't always too busy babysitting Sophie.

Just as Lisa is pulling off the really nasty diaper, somebody's cell phone starts blasting SexyBack. I'm about to ask Lisa why the hell she's got Justin Timberlake as her ring tone, but then to my horror I realise it's mine. Who the hell changed it? I was rocking Maroon 5 and was perfectly happy about it. My bet's on Trace or Sophie.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Hi, Chelsea, it's Trace."

"Umm, hi." Does somebody want to tell me how the guy got this number? I didn't give it to him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you and everything but, umm…"

"Umm what?"

"Marco sold an interview to US and Sophie's going schizo. I don't think she's spoken a word of English in the past twenty minutes and nobody can get near her because she's throwing shit around her trailer."

"Hold on, Trace… Lisa give me your US Weekly."

"What makes you think I…" I give her the look and she stops even trying. "Oh okay it's in the diaper bag."

You can always count on my sister to keep up with the gossip. We spend half our time in my family teasing her about being a sixteen year old in disguise. Half the time she's the first one to give me the heads up on Sophie's unexpected coverage, but I guess she's been too busy to read it yet. (I say unexpected, because you'd be surprised how many rumours and sightings have actually been fed to the media by somebody or other in our camp - never me, I hasten to add).

"No wonder," I say to Trace as I do a quick skim read. "Have you seen it? He's claiming she and Justin have been screwing for months behind his back."

Lisa covers Rebecca's ears, throwing an evil expression at me for that little slip up. My attention is drawn away as I see some pictures I don't recognise. They're not on set, and they're not from the three occasions I've known Sophie to have been out with Justin. She's in a little black dress, the kind she wears when she takes huge concern in her appearance but wants to look like it took her five minutes, and he's in his shirt and waistcoat get up only with actual suit pants instead of jeans. They do look kind of like they're on a date, and he's all leaning into her and stuff. When did this happen and why didn't she tell me?

With a feeling of gnawing concern in the pit of my stomach, I flip the magazine shut and toss it back into Lisa's bag. "I'll be there as soon as I can get a cab."

***

You could say I'm having a bad day.

As if the tabloids and this bitch fit of Sophie's weren't bad enough, Enrique showed up about ten minutes ago and started chewing me out like it's my fault they're painting me and Sophie out to be red hot lovers or whatever. How come he never blames anything on his daughter? If I really had slept with her she'd be an equal participant, after all. See, whoever had the smart idea of getting Chelsea down here, that dude I can get on board with. Whichever dumb ass called Enrique needs to get his head examined - that kind of masochism requires psychiatric counselling.

I find that over the weeks, Chelsea's slowly built up some respect with me. She has this real quiet way of just getting shit done, and her patience with Sophie is nigh on incredible. We all ran out of that trailer in fear of our lives; Enrique managed about five minutes of yelling at her in Spanish before storming out to bitch at the AD like it's his fault. She just strolled right in, yanked whatever Sophie was about to throw out of her hands and calmly managed to tell her how stupid she was being and got her to relax. How I'm not sure, but me and Trace are in awe.

It almost makes me wonder why nothing else happened with her and Trace. They went on that one date which Trace keeps telling me was not a date, but they're still all flirty and shit. Every time they pass each other something has to be said, and they're always cracking each other up. She has this way of standing there talking with me and him but without actually talking to me. Even though I'm participating and she'll answer me if I ask her something, I always feel like a third wheel.

Chelsea finally skips down the steps of the trailer, ignoring everybody who asks her a thing about Sophie. She starts walking off in the direction of catering, and I follow. I have a couple of awkward questions to ask about the coverage and about Sophie's PR machine; I wouldn't feel great about asking them to Sophie at the best of times given that I'm about to accuse her camp of leaking photos and stuff. Right now I'm too scared shitless to suggest anything of the sort to Sophie, but given how cynical Chelsea seems to be about Hollywood I'm reckoning on getting a straight answer out of her.

Plus, catering - they might have brownies.

Her phone goes off and I'm a little flushed when I hear the tone is SexyBack. I didn't know Chelsea listened to my album. She stops to answer it and for a moment I'm caught by this little chocolate handprint on the back of her previously white halter. Does she have kids? I've never heard her mention any.

"Hello?" She answers it and I hang back. I'll give her a second to finish before I interrupt her.

"Hey, Will." She goes to the nearest table and perches herself on it. If I might say so, I'm a little intrigued by the shock on her face. I start paying a little more attention - don't judge me, you know you would too.

"Umm, no, it's fine, I just… it's been a while, I wasn't expecting a call. So how you been?"

Call me nosy (others have) but I really want to know who this Will guy is now. Normally I'd be hanging around tapping my foot and desperate for her to get off the phone so I could get my business done, but this is very interesting. I'm totally eavesdropping and if my mom was on set today she'd be smacking me upside her head, but she's not.

"Yeah, I'm fine, still working with Sophie." A pained expression passes over her face and she gives a forced laugh, like he made a joke that's either not funny or she's not sure it was a joke. "I don't get premiere tickets; I just have to make sure her ass turns up. So, what's up, Will? I mean why the call?"

Clearly she did not expect this guy to be calling (am I Sherlock or what?), and given how awkward this all seems I'm guessing that they did not part on good terms. Maybe he's an ex boyfriend? The way she's playing with her hair and constantly pushing it back behind her ears definitely screams 'uncomfortable.'

Oh, and so does the way the blood just drained from her face and she looks like she just got sucker punched.

"Umm… wow. Congratulations, that's great. You picked a date yet?"

OUCH. Her ex-boyfriend just called her up to tell her he's getting married. That's a total assumption, but I'm pretty sure I'm right. I'm not so sure about the rest of the scenario in my head which involves him marrying the woman he cheated on her with, that might just be my imagination doing overtime.

"No, no. I mean, I appreciate you taking the time to let me know personally but it really wasn't necessary Will. I mean why would that be a problem?"

Now she's gritting her teeth and she looks pissed. She also looks oddly like she wants to cry. Again I'm making lots of assumptions that I really don't know Chelsea well enough to be making, but she just seems really on edge. Though I'd probably have been on edge if Britney had felt it necessary to call me up and announce she was getting married - I had to read it in People like everybody else. That said, when I read it I wasn't half as irritated as Chelsea looks. I was too busy laughing at how I'm a frog (long story, you had to have read the article). Whether she's irritated with him or with herself for her own reaction is a different question, I guess.

"To be honest Will Sophie's booked solid for a while, but I'll definitely try and make it. I'll look out for the invite."

Okay, possibly this should have occurred to me earlier but as I watch her give her excuses and hang up, I feel like I shouldn't be standing here. Her eyes look glassy and I think maybe she's actually upset rather than pissed off. I mean, if my wild conjecture is actually right then it has to be a little bit of a kick in the balls for her… well, if she had balls, which I'm thinking she doesn't because she looks very woman shaped. She quickly dials another number, and about thirty seconds go by before she starts speaking.

"Hey Ken, it's me. Can you give me a call as soon as you get this?" Ahh, she's got voicemail. "You know that guy you said was an asshole because he let me think he'd marry me and then dumped me and hooked up with Michelle Laurel two weeks later? You were right, the asshole just called to tell me he's marrying her. Call me."

Okay, now I REALLY feel guilty. Shit. And I have to go ask her awkward questions now. This sucks.

Though, umm… if he led her on, dumped her and hooked up with some other bitch within seconds, how come there was a question over whether or not he was an asshole? I don't get women.

I have decided that my life sucks right now. Between this movie, the tabloids, and existence in general, my life sucks. That makes no sense, I'm Justin fucking Timberlake. My life is supposed to vary between pretty darn okay and awesome.

We're on yet another late night shoot with me and Sophie doing our sneaky journalist thing, and it's cold. It's fucking California and it is cold, how does that work? Well actually I know how that works - it's all the wind and rain machines they got going. I'm soaked to the bone and they don't even heat the water. They just throw cold water at you and then yell at you if you have the temerity to shiver during a take. Shooting wraps in a week and I'm really grateful because this experience has not been great for me.

I feel ungrateful even saying that. This is my first big budget movie and my first shot as a leading man, I should be grateful. I'm being paid a not small amount of money (though not as much as Sophie or Elliot since they're more established than me). It's just… it has totally sucked! Even without all the tabloid drama and shit, I really haven't felt too great about this shoot. The dailies are all coming out fine so it's not like the movie itself is turning out bad, but I have just hated this experience. I haven't made any real friends on set, except maybe Sophie and at a stretch Chelsea, I really haven't been getting on with the director and everything has just felt like this huge effort. I need like two dozen takes to get anything right according to him and it can't be good for my reputation. Like, when I was on set for Alpha Dog it was a hard hitting movie and a real nasty subject but I had a blast with everybody and Nick loved me as an actor. This time around I'll be happy to quit.

Though then I have to do this frickin' club tour. I'm bone tired and I am so not in that zone, but I really don't have as much push with the label as people think I do. It's now extra difficult because Trace has just turned around and told me he can't go with me. There are some issues going on with William Rast and that's his primary project now, he was only reprising his assistant role as a personal favour. I get it and I'm letting him go without a fuss. He's my best friend; I wouldn't pull any diva crap on him. But it's awkward because I promised Rachel the time off and she's knee deep in crap at the moment, I can't be the asshole who makes shit more complicated for her.

Trace isn't even here tonight so I'm pretty much alone during takes. I was going to hover around Sophie like a bad smell (or a big old loser who has nobody else to hang with) but she seems to have disappeared. So I'm crowded around a portable heater in front of my trailer, wrapped in a blanket and feeling pretty sorry for myself. The tabloids ran yet more speculation about my woman beating self today. They think I was cheating on Monica with Sophie and that I hit her because she found out. That's so dumb - I won't even walk down red carpets with my girlfriends these days, why the fuck would I do a major movie with one? Oh, and also, I'm not a woman beating bastard.

I look up at the stars for a moment, sighing, and when I look back Chelsea is walking over to me. I'm seriously coveting the big fleece jacket she's wearing, but it probably wouldn't fit me anyway. She's in glasses, which I've never seen her wear before, and her hair is all on top of her head in one of those messy buns. She's also carrying a clipboard, so I'm guessing this is about business. Oh joy - I love business.

"Hey Justin." She gives me a weak smile and pulls up a seat next to me. "How're you doing?"

"I'm freezing. You?"

"Exhausted. I hate night shoots."

Chelsea and I are beyond pleasantries at this point. It's not because we're close or anything; we've kind of come to this mutual understanding that we're not really friends but we're in the same boat here. I guess you could say we're more comrades. In a way it's kind of nice that I can be around her and the two of us can just say whatever we're honestly thinking. We're never going to spill our innermost thoughts but if I feel bitchy I don't have to hide it in front of her. In a weird way, the fact that she's so disinterested makes me trust her - unlike the other personal assistant types around here who are all way too interested. Makes me think they want something out of me.

"Oh well, only another zillion takes to go."

She gives me a critical looking over which makes me fidget. "Do you need another blanket? That one's gotta be getting soaked."

"No, I'm fine," I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. "So what's up?"

"Actually Trace passed me some papers for your tour and asked me to go over them with you," she tells me to my surprise. "He's been on the phone to fashion people all evening, he said he wasn't going to be around any more?"

She looks kind of disappointed by that. I'm oddly narked by this, I have to say. I mean, he tells her what's going on with my fashion label and forgets to mention it to me? Well, okay, our fashion label, but still… I'm a part of it and she's not. On another note, I'm intrigued that she seems disappointed by his absence. Especially so after that whole wedding conversation I listened in on. It was actually pretty funny, when the invitation arrived it was a day she'd brought her mail to set with her and thus when she opened it there were witnesses; she gave me and Trace the Cliff Notes version of the story. Next Trace announced we were going to have a bonfire - he threw the fucker in an ashtray and flamed it. Seemed to cheer Chelsea up.

"Yeah, some shit's come up and he needs to be there so I'll be without a PA for a while."

"Can't you just hire someone as a stop gap?" She asks as she starts rifling through, looking for where to start.

"Well I could, but… I like to have people I know," I finally say after a pause. I don't want to go into spiels about not hiring strangers when that's exactly what she was to Sophie when she was hired.

She actually surprises me when she nods and looks like she thinks that's wise. "Understandable, especially right now. Still, it'll be a pain in the ass I imagine."

"Fuck yeah," I run my hand over my slightly too stubbly for my current role cheek. I can't wait to get off this set so I can buzz my head. "Especially on tour, I need somebody to organise my schedule and shit. I guess I'll just have to ask my mom. I don't normally like to though because she's got all the management crap to do."

She nods again, and a little strand of hair flops into her eyes. I notice they're brown - huh. I thought they were blue. Guess her contacts were coloured.

"C'est la vie." The lucky bitch is warm enough that she actually unzips her jacket. A pair of dog tags dangles loose and they actually look genuine instead of those diamante encrusted fashion type ones. "You'll manage though. Your cousin's due back soon, right?"

Not right actually, Rachel will still be away for a while, but I'm more interested in the tags and I reach out to pick them up. Thankfully they're hanging low enough that my hand doesn't brush her boob or anything awkward like that, and I read the name 'Johnson.'

"You were in the Forces?" I ask.

"Do I look elderly to you?"

Oh - the date of birth on these is 1924. Oops. "Ahh, sorry. Grandfather?"

"Yep," she replies. "He joined up in '42. He was actually a year too young at the time but he lied about his age."

See, this is probably the deepest thing I know about Chelsea, bar that overheard conversation with her ex. "You close?"

"We were," she nods. "He dies when I was fifteen and my grandma gave me these and my sister his medals."

"You got a sister?" I ask.

"Lisa. Ten years older than me and current baby making machine. You?"

I was about to make a James Brown Sex Machine joke, but then I decide it'd be inappropriate so I just answer the question. "Only child. My father remarried though and I got two half brothers."

"Cool." Then, all business as ever, she pulls out the piece of paper she wants. "So, if I read all this stuff right, you got two weeks to rehearse with the band and hash out a set list with them for the show. Do you not work it out in advance?"

"For the bigger tours, sure. We have to because there's so much choreography and staging to work out," I tell her. "For these little club gigs it's just me and them and a mike, so we just work out what we feel like playing."

"See that sounds cool, like you can just do whatever it is you feel right now instead of planning out all the time."

I'm interested by what she just said for two reasons. One is that it's an opinion on something, not something I get from her a lot, and the second is that she sounded a little bit… bitter, maybe? I'm not sure; I really can't read this girl at all. It's weird that I can't, I'm normally pretty good at that. It's weirder when you compare her to Sophie who I have got down pat (and by the way, I think she wants me - Sophie, not Chelsea). Also, I kind of agree with her, much as I love my big arena tours.

"Anyway, back to the point." She starts looking back through the notes. "Trace has booked you two days off before rehearsals start and if you're anything like Sophie you'll spend them asleep… then you have the rehearsals and there'll be a couple of magazine interviews for you but they'll just stop by rehearsals so it won't require moving you around or anything. You start the tour in Anaheim and you're confirmed for Vegas, Orlando, New York and Chicago and another couple of shows pending. There'll be local radio to do in each town and your manager guy…"

"Johnny," I inform her.

"Right, Johnny is looking into doing that whole Best Buy thing that you apparently did last tour, only as more of a meet and greet than the album preview. I'm guessing you just turned up at the store, said a little bit and smiled?"

"Pretty much, plus a little Q and A session." I tried not to groan out loud, but I hate meet and greets.

It's not that I'm ungrateful and don't want to see my fans, it's just… I always feel like I let them down. I mean, it's just me. I'm there and I scrawl my name and I say hello. That's it. When I perform I feel like I'm giving them an experience, at these meet and greets I'm just some dude who happens to be there. I know that's all they want, just to meet me and say hi, but I can never think of a decent response to all the stuff they say to me. They plot and plan what they're going to say if they ever meet me for years, and I can't think of anything better than 'thanks' to say back.

I think Chelsea caught that, but she doesn't mention it. "I have a note here to go through your rider with you, ask if there's anything you want changed."

"Okay," I nod. Thankfully some feeling is starting to come back into my feet (thank you thermal socks) and I keep flexing them as she begins.

"Sodas, candies, chips, fruit, water, Grey Goose vodka, Jack Daniels, sofas for eight, TV, coffee table, X-Box and games…"

Okay, why when she starts listing all those things at that lightning speed does it sound like I'm a spoilt brat? Believe it or not, I have one of the less demanding riders in the business. I like my creature comforts, sure, but I don't insist on freebies for an entourage of thirty. I knew one starlet who shall remain nameless who never needed to buy any expensive make up or face stuff because she insisted on a full stash being supplied everywhere she went. Sad thing is people only make these demands because they know some sucker will supply.

But yeah, back to my point, how come Trace and Rachel do this with me all the time and they never make it sound like she does? I bet Sophie's rider is just as bad. Now she's finished the list (which sounds much lengthier than it ever has before) and she's looking at me expectantly.

"Umm… nix the X-Box. I don't need it." I have some new shit I can plug into the TV anyway, I'll never miss it.

She makes a mark with her pen and then hands it to me. "You also just need to sign off on those. Trace said they're just about that meeting you guys went to last week, your lawyer checked them and said they were solid."

You may think it naïve to sign off on something you haven't read, but I was in the meeting where we hashed this all out. Once that's done, it gets put into legalese and my lawyer just checks it over to make sure nobody has snuck anything in there that I didn't agree to. You can always tell all is well when I get the papers this quick; when there's an issue my guy can spend weeks thrashing it out. So I scribble my name by the marked points and hand them back to her.

"Oh, and he gave me the list of friend and family tickets to be saved." Chelsea passes that to me, her wonderfully warm fingers brushing my still cold ones.

I chuckle when I see it. "I see you took the liberty of adding you and Sophie to Anaheim."

She smirks. "Sophie took the liberty via me."

"Didn't have you down as a JT fan," I tease her. She doesn't rise to the bait though, as usual all her attention is on those papers as she puts them back in order and then stands up.

"I don't really listen to you. Anyway, that was all for now but if he sends me any more packages I'll let you know."

"Okay, thanks Chelsea."

"Sure."

She waves me off without even looking at me and I'm sitting here feeling oddly deflated. I was hoping she'd stick around; I didn't want to be on my own again. Chelsea can be awkward company but right now I'll take that over none at all. That said, she has miraculously managed to make me feel about two inches tall without even attempting to. Maybe I'm just being paranoid because of the tabloid shit; it's making me read insults into everything.

I just… ugh. When did I become the guy nobody likes? Normally when rumours like this come up it lasts all of a few days because people don't believe that of me. Heck, sometimes that's got me off the hook for things I did do wrong. So why when I'm being accused of some of the nastier shit I've ever been accused of are people looking to believe it? Nobody seems to want to be around me lately, the few who do can't be around me right now because they got other problems and I'm left here to sit and brood. I don't brood well. Some guys look all tortured and dark when they brood and chicks dig it - I look pre-adolescent.

I'm a woman beating hack actor whose director doesn't like him that can't even hold onto a PA. This whomps.

This borders on self pity, it really does. Actually, this IS self pity. I am currently residing in the town of Loserville, Self Pity. I have a sneaking suspicion I'm the only one in these here parts, but I currently don't give a shit.

Now I think about it maybe I shouldn't have cracked open the wine, what with alcohol being a depressant and all. I just wanted a little something to take the edge off as I finally get around to cleansing my life of Mr Rat Bastard and there was no chocolate immediately available. Will's not really a rat bastard and I know it, but calling him names makes me feel better. It's a total ex girlfriend cliché, but I figure that years later it's time for me to finally embrace it - if only so I can move the hell on already.

Having this box here made me feel oddly better for a while, too. I kind of felt like if I had the mementoes of our relationship then I could prove that it really did happen, and that Will couldn't sweep it under the rug as easily as picking up with some other woman all of three seconds later. I've always shot Kennedy down when she claims that he must have cheated with her, but I'd be lying if I haven't wondered. I've done some real fierce wondering about that but since I can't prove anything I figure what's the difference?

It's just that Will was my first… well, pretty much everything except kiss, slow dance and hand holding. That was Jimmy Dawson when we were thirteen and then it was purely because if you hadn't done those things by the end of the school year you got tagged as gay for the rest of your life. School kids are both stupid and harsh. Oddly enough Jimmy did turn out to be gay, but he has politely told me that I was the only girl he ever kissed in his 'am I or aren't I' period that he even vaguely liked. He was probably attempting to spare my feelings but hell, I'll take it.

My cell rings as I'm rummaging through some snaps of us on Spring Break in Miami Beach, and I flip it open then cradle it between my shoulder and ear. I'm probably giving myself future arthritis but never mind.

"Hello?"

"Hey honey," Kennedy sings into the phone. "You didn't check caller ID?"

"Nope," I shrug. I knew it'd be her or Trace calling me anyway so who needs to? "What's up?"

"Just wanted to tell you I'm going to be late tonight, so can we make it eight thirty instead?"

I glance up at the clock and immediately agree with her. Mostly because the original time we picked was seven and it's half six now - I'd have had a hell of a time rushing to pack all this up before Kennedy saw it, she's always ten minutes early for everything. It's a habit she picked up for auditions, said it leaves a 'punctual and enthusiastic' impression.

"Oh, and I promised Trace I'd drop something off for him at the studio for Justin," I say idly to Kennedy, "so can we take a detour on our way out? It'll be like five minutes, tops."

"You sure do a lot for Trace," she remarks innocently. Well, she's trying to be innocent - I know what she means.

We quickly sign off from the conversation and I start crawling around on the floor, picking up all the letters and postcards and photos that got splayed everywhere while I was going through the box. I probably should have done this a long time ago, but as I look at them I actually let myself hate him for once. I never did, not once. I was trying to be reasonable and adult about it, and people complimented me on that a lot. They patted me on the back or shoulder and told me just how well I was taking it. Of course I wasn't taking it well, I loved that bastard and gave him everything and I had the fucking wedding planned. Still, I didn't want to be the hysterical witch who screams and cries and stamps and gets labelled a psycho so I developed a good game face. Not for the first time in our relationship, I sat back quietly and refused to stand up for myself.

Hence I have this box out now. He's getting married. I don't know what closure I was looking for exactly, but holding onto all this stuff isn't helping. Whatever it is I need, he's not going to provide it so I'll have to do it myself - again, not the first time in our relationship. I've been with guys since, don't get me wrong, it's just… he was my first love and he skipped out on me with no warning. Even looking back, I can't see all those warning signs the girls in the magazines talk about. You read their true life stories and they talk about all the indicators and hints they saw in hindsight, but I look back and just get more confused. He was acting just like always.

Oh fuck. Does that mean that he was always capable of doing that at a moment's notice? Yikes, this may be a necessary cleansing but it's a killer for my ego.

The whole Will thing was a killer for my ego at the time, too. I've mentioned how I have a somewhat stormy relationship with my mother who I love but drives me completely nutso, and Lisa and I are at two different stages in our lives. We love but don't necessarily understand each other. My dad isn't a particularly affectionate man and Kennedy while fabulous isn't really the person I go to when I want to be loved. That's a family or boyfriend thing, and I never felt able to go to my family for that. If I was homeless and destitute or under indictment my parents would be all over that shit, but plain old comfort and affection isn't something we do well.

So I always went to Will. When he left, I felt not only like I had nobody left to love but that I didn't deserve it. That had to have been why he went away, in my mind, because I wasn't worthy. That's dumb and I know it, but insecurity and logic don't exactly go hand in hand. Will left because Will was going in a different direction. Whether that was selfish or just wise of him I'm not sure, but it really is time for me to quit with the moping. It's not even like I want him back; I haven't wanted him back for a really long time. I guess I was just looking for an answer I won't get. I want to know how I didn't see it coming.

Never mind. I'll stuff this in a trash bag and toss it; it's about time. Trace gave me the idea when I realised how oddly cathartic him torching the wedding invitation was.

Oh, and may I say, the ones I mentally picked out were so much nicer. That thing was supremely tacky - Sophie said the same, too. She's always been pretty scathing when it comes to Will, she can be extremely protective of people she cares about. I bumped into Will one time because the cops were keeping check on the crowd at a somewhat controversial premiere (fur, PETA, bad combination) and Sophie totally snubbed him. She was nice to every cop in that place except him; she either ignored or just glared at him while holding my hand and making a show of being my friend.

So immature of her, but it ranks even above that time she got shown into Galliano's showroom and used one of her two freebies to get me the most awesome shift dress ever seen.

***

"Excuse me, this is a closed rehearsal…"

Eric's already in Chelsea's face before I can wave it off, so it forces me to yell out. "She's cool, man!"

"I come on behalf of the short and stinky one," she adds helpfully and Eric immediately relaxes.

"Well why didn't you say you were here for Trace lil' lady?"

I can't help it; I let out a pretty sharp laugh. I just love the way she said 'short and stinky' and nobody had to question who she was referring to. It's a good thing Trace isn't here to bear witness to that or he'd throw a bitch fit. You'd think that years later he would have accepted that we rag on him about his height just as they rag on me for ever being in a boy band, but no. I've learnt to just remind them how I pay their salary out of that boy band and that I scored a ton of chicks from it - Trace, however, has yet to think up a decent comeback for the short thing.

She's striding across the floor in my direction now, Kennedy trailing behind. It's only the second time I've seen Kennedy since that Marco Lame-o thing, but she doesn't look like she's suffering any after effects. That's good. The two of them look oddly cheery - or oddly for Chelsea, at least, I wouldn't know about Kennedy. Kennedy's in this little blue dress that shows up her hair colour and Chelsea's looking just about the most dressed down I've ever seen her in this little white gypsy thing and a pair of denim shorts. I also think it's the first time I've seen Chelsea without make up (except for that whole answering the door in hair curlers incident). She's got a pretty large package in her arms.

"Hey," she says with a smile. Man, she's chirpy. I wish I could say the same but they're screwing with the lights and I'm sweating like a pig. I should do what the rest of the band do and just wear black, it wouldn't show so much.

"Hey. So what's Trace offloaded on you this time?"

I'm joking, but not without a little edge. I'm still kind of pissed off that he's using her as his substitute. That's partly because I don't need a middle man between me and my best friend, and partly because it's pretty unfair on Chelsea. It's not like Sophie leaves the woman with nothing to do all day. That said… she seems pretty cool with doing all his shit for him. Maybe I ought to just take it at face value and quit bothering with it.

"Oh, this…" She taps on it with a pink manicured hand. I notice that she has what looks like a red Kabbalah bracelet on, but if you look closer you can see it's a pretty clumsy braid - one of those nieces or nephews she mentioned, maybe? "He said it was a book of fabric swatches and sketches for that emergency rethink for your t-shirt range? He's marked off the ones he thinks will work but he said you needed to agree it first."

"Okay," I say, taking the packet from her and feeling a little placated. At least the dude's not making these decisions without me. "Thanks, I'll take a look at it later. So where are you two ladies off to?"

Kennedy smiles lazily at me, flicking her hair back. "Food and then to a gallery opening. My friend set up the display so I said I'd go. Chels is just coming to save me from boredom."

"Well you guys are welcome to hang out here for a while if you want," I offer. "Watch the rehearsal."

The last day of filming was a week ago, and I feel like it's been a while since I've seen either of them. That's true of Kennedy but not so much Chelsea - she did kind of disappear for the last few days of filming though. The couple of times I did see her in passing she had a phone clamped to her ear. Sophie was bitching about it to me, apparently her flights and hotels all got screwed up and her poor PA got stuck trying to fix it all while Papa Enrique hung back and glowered.

Yeah, he was on the set for the whole of the last week. Are you surprised that I made myself scarce?

Kennedy looks like she wants to take me up on that and Chelsea looks a little uncomfortable. It's all in the fidgeting, you can tell it from the way she does that. One hand went up to her hair to push it behind her ear and the other's gripping her purse. Her head ducked a little too. I however only have a second to notice that before I see my mom coming down the stairs from the top floor (where the VIP area will be) with Sophie and Ken Sunshine. Shit, that's never good.

They reach us where I'm sitting on the stage next to the forgotten swatch book and Chelsea looks extremely confused by Sophie's presence as she throws an arm around her shoulders and says something to her in Spanish. She called me earlier and kind of… well, no, she didn't invite herself along, more like I politely suggested she drop by sometime and she took it to mean instantaneously. To be honest I think she's one of those who gets bored when she's not working, craves company; she never takes too long to reply to any text messages I send her.

Ken makes the coughing noise he makes when he wants me to shoo people away, but fuck that. "It's fine, Ken, you can talk in front of them." Heck, Sophie and Chelsea are in the business too, they get it.

My mother, ever the Southern lady, quickly introduces herself to Kennedy - obviously she knew the other girls from the set. Ken kind of pulls himself together, straightens up so he's standing a little taller, and then begins.

"Bad news, son."

"Oh what now?" I sound like a petulant child, but I really despise the fact that I'm seeing him so much lately. Normally all is good and we can just talk over the phone, but he always comes personally when shit happens.

Ken ignores my bratty mood (he's used to it) and pulls out yet another tabloid masterpiece. This one isn't ostensibly about me, so I don't quite get it. I'm looking at a picture of Britney, what the fuck is this to do with me?

My mom, ever the mind reader, quietly lets me in on the secret. "It's an article about her troubles, sweetie. It pretty much blames you for all of them."

"What else is new?" I ask boldly. "Why the concern?"

Chelsea must have been reading over my arm, because she gives me the answer. "There's allegations that you hit her too." Then she realises how that just sounded and struggles to backtrack. "Not that you hit anybody else, but…"

"Don't worry, I get what you meant." I brush a quick hand to her shoulder, my little 'I'm not mad' signal.

I mean, I am mad, just not at Chelsea. For fuck's sake, I got mad and I threw some shit and Monica got in the way, it was a fucking accident. I am not a woman beater. And Britney… okay, maybe I wasn't exactly the world's greatest gentleman to her after we broke up but she broke my fucking heart and I was 21. I was a kid who got hurt and lashed out, like hurt kids do - like she did too. I am not to blame for her life getting screwed up and I sure as fuck didn't hit her.

Excuse me for dropping the f bomb so much, but I just fucking hate the way that I am not allowed to make a mistake, ever. Whatever I do it always gets blown up fifty times bigger than it ever really was, and then the next time I make a mistake all the newspaper reports will bring the first one back up. Like, nobody mentions the Superbowl thing normally in their reports on me, but if I say or do something else that gets their panties in a bunch you can bet they'll bring up that, all those drug comments that got pulled out of context, all my failed relationships… the whole damn shebang. Every less than perfect thing I do gets replayed fifty million times and it's really fucking boring for me who has actually moved on from them. I mean, fuck, I'm the guy this shit happened to so if I've moved on why can't they?

"It's not the actual report that worries me, Justin," Ken explains. "It's the fact that the media really seems to have picked up on this domestic violence angle. I'm worried that this is going to be a witch hunt."

Kennedy looks confused, but Sophie and Chelsea look at me with grim understanding. They put you up on that pedestal to tear you down, and when they find a decent hook they will never let up. Take Britney, since we already mentioned her. That whole 'white trash terrible mother' thing they had going on with her is the same kind of deal Ken's talking about. I mean, for now it's just a handful of articles. But if they really get going then they will find liars who claim I hit them, they will find 'sources' to claim I hit every girlfriend I ever had…

"Shit." I rub my face in my hands and try not to panic. Well this has screwed the rehearsal now; I can't even remember the lyrics to my own damn song right now.

"Well… it's only been a few weeks." Surprisingly, Chelsea has piped up. "And it's been a few weeks where he hasn't really been visible, work wise. They have to talk about something. My guess is that Monica will just deny the whole thing again, they'll get distracted because Justin's on tour and they have that to write about, and then Paris Hilton will fall out of another nightclub or get herself arrested or something and they'll forget it. I mean, I know it sucks in the meantime but you could probably just wait it out. Likely if you respond it'll just make them see they rattled your cage and encourage them."

Mom's nodding emphatically. "I agree, honey. They've got nothing, and you can see just by who's printing this stuff that they've got nothing."

"That's true," Ken says slowly, like this hadn't occurred to him earlier. "Mainstream are pretty much ignoring it for the time being. Clearly there's a lot of people not putting any stock in this right now."

"So we just… wait it out?" Great. Nothing like sitting on my ass to make me feel impotent. In a non sexual sense, I mean. There's nothing wrong with Justin Junior.

"It's probably better, Justin, don't rise to it" Sophie says. Kennedy looks pained to nod her head in agreement.

"I just… ugh. Where's Trace and Rachel when I need them?" I bitch. "I need a PA."

This may seem like an odd tangent, but it's usually my PA who does all the running around for this stuff. My PA is the one who keeps a check on the stories and liaises with Ken, who calms me down when I want to hit something (or runs out to pick me up some comfort food). Trace is also particularly good at sending a few anonymous sources out with the real story, kind of dilutes the coverage a little.

"Take Chelsea."

"What?" As my voice rings out I realise that me, Chelsea AND Kennedy all just said that. I wish Chelsea didn't look quite so horrified at the thought.

"Mi padre is coming out on the press junkets with me anyway, the travel is all booked and I don't need her. You can take her for a few weeks, I don't mind."

Sophie may not mind, but I have the distinct feeling Chelsea does. For a moment I see a scary little fire light behind her eyes and she draws breath to say something; then, unexpectedly, she lets it out quietly and her shoulders sink back down, her gaze going to the floor. To be fair, the way Sophie just put it she sounded like she was loaning out a CD or something rather than a person. I don't know if she's considered the possibility that Chelsea may not want to up sticks and go on tour with a bunch of people she's never met. It's not like Trace will be around to keep her company like he did on set.

Oh, and Kennedy looks like she wants to slap Sophie - really hard. She keeps looking at Chelsea like 'are you going to just take that,' but Chelsea's not meeting her eye. My mom and Ken are too busy chatting about minimising further coverage to pay attention.

"Well..." I say awkwardly. This is bad - I could totally let Chelsea off the hook here and refuse, but then I do need a PA and she's good from what I can tell. Or would she take offence if I made out like I was refusing her services, like she wasn't good enough? (Yes I know she doesn't want to go anyway, but women can be touchy).

"I mean, whatever you guys want," Chelsea says meekly. Boy, Kennedy's scary when she's pissed off; she looks like her head's about to do an Exorcist.

"Then it's settled!" Sophie beams brightly and I guess the deal has been made, with or without my or Chelsea's approval.

Shit, this could get awkward. Possibly one of those mistakes I mentioned has just been made, though I doubt the press will take much interest in this one unless Chelsea turns up with a black eye.

I am doing what I always do the night before a trip. I was going to be doing it anyway, just a week later. I'm in my pyjamas ready for an early night. The paraphernalia for my contacts has all been packed already so I'm rocking my glasses for now. I'm sitting on my bed with my list in my hand and my suitcase sat next to me, and I am checking off all the items I need and trying to think of any I missed. No matter what happens there's always one thing that I forget to put on my list but I get most of the stuff I need packed.

I'm not usually so pissed off while I'm doing it, but never mind. I have three sets of pyjamas in there; I have plenty of jeans, pants and shorts; I have some smart shirts, some t-shirts and some going out tops; I have skirts; I have shoes which range from sensible to utterly impractical. I was forewarned by Trace that as Justin's PA I am expected to hang with him, do business with him and party with him as well. His exact words were "normally I tell women that they pack too much shit but working for him you'd better be dressed for all occasions."

Ugh, I hate packing. Just when I think I'm prepared I realise all the stuff I forgot. I love my suitcase though - it's hot pink. I am such a great big girl, but I love my suitcase. Also, I never have any trouble identifying my luggage. Umm, I think I have everything. I have my make up and toiletries and stuff, and in a fit of wishful thinking I've brought along a couple of books in case I get some down time. It doesn't sound like I will though; normally Sophie's pretty much done with press stuff by early evening but Justin's on promo all day and then his gigs are at night.

I'm pissed, too. I just got into Trudi Canavan's Black Magician trilogy. I finished the first, I made two shiny new Barnes and Noble purchases so I could finish out the three while I was away, and I'm not going to get the time.

Okay, alright, I'm not pissed about the books and we all know it. I'm fucking livid that Sophie fucking Lumos thinks she can loan me out like I'm a fucking handbag. Though actually, I think she'd be pickier about precisely whom she loans her precious handbags to. She just stood there and told me he could take me, she didn't mind. WELL I DAMN WELL DO! When did it become her prerogative to do that? Since when does she get to make major decisions about what I'm going to be doing with my life without actually running it past me first?

I just really don't feel like she considered me at all here. I know that in her little Sophie head she's probably figured that I'll just be doing what I do for her and that it won't make a difference if I'm doing it for her or the Queen of England. That is hideously oversimplifying it. Justin is not about to go on a movie press junket, a thing with which I am very familiar. He's about to go on a club concert tour which is something I have no knowledge of. I don't even listen to the charts too much to be honest, I only get to know new songs if somebody mentions them to me or if I see them on the video channels while I'm TV surfing. All in all, I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to pull off being Justin Timberlake's PA. It's one thing dropping off a package for Trace, it's another actually being his right hand man… or girl.

Oh, and you know what really burns me? She had the damn nerve to come up to me after and… my God, I can barely even put words to it. She wants me to spy on Justin and report back to her. Of course that's not how she meant it and I'm being a drama queen (she just wanted me to feel him out a little to see if he likes her which I've done a million times for Kennedy), but that's what it feels like. I feel like I'm some two faced enemy spy. I feel like she dumped me in this totally alien situation without a single familiar face -Justin doesn't count- just so she could play that whole 'my friend might like you' shit. I'm sorry, I left high school already. I don't want to go back there either; it sucked if you weren't on the dance squad (a.k.a popular).

Oh, that's my phone going. I took SexyBack off (Sophie's doing, again) and I've replaced it with Gnarls Barkley. I feel crazy right now, it's appropriate.

"Hello?" I ask as I crawl off the bed and head over to the bathroom. I have a sneaking suspicion I didn't pack my hair serum or my straightening irons. If you'd seen the naturally frizzy state of my hair, you would understand how crucial those items are.

"Hello is this Chelsea?" It's some unfamiliar dude with a very nice sounding voice. It's very smooth. Doesn't stop him being a potential weirdo though… I have an unlisted number so I get nervous when strangers call me.

"Yes," I answer cautiously, clearly having seen that everything I need from my bathroom has been packed and so padding back into my bedroom.

"Hi, this is Johnny Wright, I'm Justin's manager. How're you doing?"

"Oh, hi there. I'm good, thank you. You?" Stupid me, I should have figured it'd be somebody like that.

"I'm very well, thank you."

He sounds nice. I have no basis for this whatsoever, but he sounds nice. That's mildly encouraging considering how much I'm dreading this. "What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to let you know we've arranged for the car to be there for you at eight in the morning," he says. "It'll then take you over to Justin's, and I'm going to bet that he won't be ready so I hope you're good at packing."

"Sure, no problem." I look over at my suitcase as I lie through my teeth.

"Did you get the itineraries I sent?" He asks me.

They're sitting on top of my travel bag - it's the largest shoulder bag I own, and I can fit all kinds of crap in there. "Yes I did."

"Well, rest assured my staff will be phoning you fifty times a day with last minute changes," he chuckles. "Did you have time to look through?"

"Oh yeah, I got it covered. I can go through it with Justin in the car on the way to the airport. Though can I ask what it means by the 'PI' you've marked next to some of these interviews?"

He just laughed again - at it or me I'm not sure. "Potential instigator. It's those journalists we suspect might try to get a rise out of Justin. Any time he goes into one of those it's your job to warn him to keep his cool and to make sure you have a member of the PR team prepped and in the room with him."

"Oh, okay," I quickly scribble that down in the notepad that's on my nightstand; I always make notes to prep for the publicity whirlwind. It's weird - I never need to look at them, but somehow if I don't make them I forget stuff. It's the same with the packing list. "Umm… there's a lot of them."

This time I get a sigh instead of a chuckle. "Normally there's a lot fewer, but in our experience some people that we'd normally consider reasonable get a whiff of blood like this woman beater scandal and they do a temporary turn."

See, this is weird to me. As much as I'm pissed off with her, the press loves Sophie. She's a very charming person, and she has a knack of managing to be interesting but not too controversial. Of course it also helps that she is, as I've mentioned before, painfully beautiful. She's not quite America's sweetheart, she's made enough naughty comments to save herself from that stereotype and the expectations that come with it, but she keeps her nose clean. Occasionally she'll make a film that they don't like yet she always seems to come out with her image unscathed. As much as I hate to credit him for anything, Enrique's overzealous approach to protecting her reputation is probably why.

"Precisely how much of a…" oh, wait, I was about to say 'how much of a bitch do you want me to be,' which I can say to Sophie but not him. "How fierce do you want me to be about people approaching that subject?"

"Polite but firm," he immediately says. "You come on too strong and they'll think we've got something to hide."

"Got you." I make another note.

"We really appreciate you stepping in at the last moment like this, Chelsea," he tells me. "You're really helping us out here."

"Well don't thank me thank Sophie." Since it was her who gave up my time and all… shit, I shouldn't have said that. I'd rather he didn't realise just how much I don't want to do this.

You may wonder why I didn't put up a fight, and the answer is simple. Part of it is because it'd make life with Sophie hell. She's already a handful when she's not raging mad and trying to piss me off, I don't need to set my employer against me. She is, after all, paying my salary, and I need to keep her happy. The whole point of me being her PA is so I can take a glowing and influential recommendation to those bigwigs I eventually want to work with - this means making her happy at all costs.

The other part is this… it's something that's even truer in Hollywood than it is in the real world. The people you step on while you're on your way up? They're going to be the people you need to crawl to on the way down. Heck, you may find that even on your way up you unexpectedly need them at a later date. Justin's more singer than actor right now but he seems to me like a guy who's taking over the world one step at a time. It will not surprise me one bit if one of these days he's a big player in movies as well as music, so I want to keep him and his posse onside.

Hence why I'd prefer it if Johnny Wright didn't realise that I resent every second of this. I know I sound like a ruthless bitch, and I don't mean it badly or like I'm out to just get what I need from him, but professionally it'd be dumb of me to leave these people with a bad impression. Not to mention if I screw up Sophie's chances I will never hear the end of it.

"Okay," he says, "I need to run but if you have any more questions or you need anything, just give us a call. We're on a later flight than you but we'll see you at the hotel."

(In case you're wondering, there was a last minute change of plan and the first show is now in Chicago).

"Great, thanks, Johnny."

We say our goodbyes and I flip my phone shut, just glad he didn't seem to pick up on my bitterness. Sometimes I really do have to question my worth in this job. It's like… I don't get how Sophie can be so inconsiderate. She's amazing at getting me little gifts and making sure the studios put me up nicely as well as her when we're in hotels, but when it comes to the basic human level she kind of sucks. I don't see her treating anybody else like that and it makes me wonder what I'm doing wrong.

It's also made me fight with Kennedy. She reamed me a new one for not telling Sophie no, and she doesn't understand why I have to just suck it up and do it anyway. They just get along so badly, she doesn't see why I can't just tell Sophie to go fuck herself. It's not that's simple, I need this job. It sucks and so often I think about just quitting and seeing what I can do by myself, but I know that's a stupid risk which is why I haven't done it. I need more experience and I can't pass up the money. Despite her more annoying character traits Sophie is genuinely my friend. Kennedy refuses to see that. She also refused to come along on the tour when Justin asked, which is really stupid considering how many helpful contacts she could make on it; I happen to know for a fact that Marty Kudelka is attending at least one show.

Yuck. And oh, will that phone shut up? No, scratch that, I hope it's Kennedy. I reach for it and… not Kennedy. It's an unknown number.

"Hello?" I'm using my best phone voice in case it's somebody else like Johnny.

"Hey Chelsea, it's Justin."

"Oh, hi." I forgot he still had my number after that whole club incident, from when he and Trace were checking up on me. "What's up?"

"You are aware that as my PA you are subject to absolute confidentiality and nothing I say to you is to be repeated to anyone anywhere?"

Okay, he just kind of scared me. What the heck can he be about to say? On the bright side, that may be a good excuse for Sophie when I need to explain why I haven't been playing James Bond for her. "Umm, sure."

"Good, because this is mightily embarrassing. I insisted on doing my own laundry for my stage shirts to prove to my mother that I wasn't totally spoiled, but I accidentally left some socks in there and they're, like, tie dyed or something. So now that's a couple of thousand dollars worth of designer shit that looks like some hippie leftover."

I'm trying not laugh, I'm trying not laugh… "Give me your address."

"How's that going to help?" he sounds so totally bewildered, I really want to crack up. I'm biting my lip but my mouth's still spread in this grin and my hand is twitching.

"Because I'm going to drive over there with the best stain remover ever." It is actually, it's this 'back to white' stuff that magically removes dye. It may just be bleach in disguise, but whatever works. If worst comes to worst, I know a ton of store owners from Sophie's credit card exploits and I bet they could get me a bunch of shirts in the morning.

"Thank you…" He's audibly relieved, and he gives me the address. It's going to take a while out of my time when I really wanted to get an early night, but whatever. This is my job. "You're a lifesaver. Umm… you also realise that confidentiality includes not telling Trace?"

"Sure."

"Great, I'll see you in a while. And thank you for waiting until I'm off the line to laugh at me, I appreciate that."

He hangs up and sure enough, I quickly have a stitch from laughing. I have to rummage through my closet for what little I didn't pack, but I quickly decide that I don't give a shit if he sees me in a sweater and jeans. I quickly discard my Pjs and slip into my favourite slob outfit: my well worn in UCLA sweatshirt and my favourite pair of 'totally past it but too comfortable to give up' track suit bottoms. Then I hear my phone go again for about the third time in half an hour, and looking at the caller ID I see the same unknown number from last time. Note to self: if it's his cell then I ought to save it in my phone book.

"Justin?"

"Wow, she already knows me. I can tell you're going to be good at this job… are you packed?"

"Just finished, why?"

"It just occurred to me that it's late and it's dumb for you to come all the way out here and then go all the way back when you're only going to come pick me up in the morning anyway, so you might as well stay here. I got plenty of guest rooms - just bring your stuff and I'll tell them to come straight here tomorrow."

Great - my last night in my beautiful comfy bed gone. I'd put up a fight if he didn't have such a good point. Even travelling there is going to take a couple of hours, plus the time I spend there fixing his laundry… it'd be obscenely late by the time I got in. Being sensible has to win out.

"Okay," I tell him. "I'll see you in a while."

***

Clearly I did not give Justin enough credit for his laundry skills. I think this forgivable, since he did call me to say he'd wrecked some very expensive shirts, but when I got here I expected his laundry room to look like a bomb hit it. Actually, the rest of his laundry has all gone swimmingly. He's done his darks and his colours properly, he's separated out what could go in the dryer from what can't, and what's ready to be folded has all been nicely folded… it's just this rogue pair of socks that's done him in.

He's amusing when he's feeling sheepish, he goes all quiet and he smiles a lot. The smile being a subliminal defence tactic - poor naïve fool thinks that if he smiles and looks cute enough people will forget his flub ups. To be fair I bet it probably works a lot of the time, but I'm not a screaming fan girl and am thus immune. In further concession though, he didn't just give up and leave the rest of the laundry for me to do when I got here which is exactly what Sophie would have done in his situation. Not that Sophie would ever get herself in this situation since she regularly does her own laundry, but I'd bet that's what she would do.

"You all set for tomorrow?" I ask Justin.

"I'm never set for these things," he chuckles. "You'll be able to sit there and watch me make a ton of mistakes on stage."

"I meant with the packing," I elaborate. This is me fishing. Given Johnny's comment, I want to know how much work is ahead of me.

"Yeah, my mom was over for dinner and she helped me out because she said if she didn't some poor helpless PA would have to."

Lynn Harless just became my favourite lady, I swear. "Cool. Oh, and I've got the itineraries and stuff to go over with you if you want."

"Chelsea…" Jesus Christ what did he do to my name? I don't recall my name ever sounding so… weird like that. It's like he made it a sigh. "You might be in my house but you're not on the clock, aight?"

Ugh, I hate people saying 'aight.' That is not a real word. I pretty much don't know what to say to that so I just smile nicely at him, though it probably didn't reach my eyes. Poor naive boy - his PA might be friend and or family and thus get treated better than the rest of us, but in the real world a celebrity's PA is always on the damn clock. Sophie is contractually entitled to call me twenty four seven unless I'm officially on a day or few days off.

Best I can do is try to play it off. "If we don't do it now we'll only have to do it tomorrow…" I sing song in fake chirpiness.

"Then we'll do it tomorrow," he shrugs. "You'll have a nice long car journey and flight to go over it until I'm blue in the face."

"Don't you mean until I'm blue in the face?"

"No, I definitely meant me," he pulls a cross-eyed expression, "because Lord knows I hate that shit. What normal person knows what they're going to be doing at nine forty seven exactly? One of these days I fully expect them to schedule my bathroom breaks."

My mouth is going like a fish here - I keep opening it to say something and then closing it because I got nothing. It's really attractive, I'm sure. Then again, I wasn't exactly going for attractive with the slob outfit so now I think about it, what's the difference? On the bright side, Mr Timberlake is wearing a pretty grubby looking pair of sweatpants himself so it's not like I'm underdressed.

Actually, now I look at him, I have just realised that he shaved his head again. Wow, I'm so observant; I've only been here forty five minutes. It's weird, he spent half the shoot saying he couldn't wait to do that but now he has and I'm surprised. He looks extremely different without hair… older, I guess. Not in a bad way, when you're only twenty something looking a little older doesn't make too big an impact, but it's weird how much it alters his face. It looks rounder, somehow, a little wider. That's pretty weird, now I think of it, how can hair on top of you head make your cheeks look slimmer? Gah, and now I sound like I'm calling him chubby cheeks or something. Best to get off this thought track.

I'm saved by the washer, which pings to let me know that now is the moment of truth. These shirts will either be pristine white or they'll be fodder for the garbage can. Justin pops the lid, reaches in and pulls out a shirt… hurrah, it is white once more! My stain remover rocks, I didn't fancy a last minute scramble to bag shirts for Justin.

"Chelsea, you're a miracle worker," he says in awe. Believe me awe is necessary because those shirts looked awful. When he said tie dye hippie cast off, he was right on the money - they offended my eyes.

"No, this amazing stain remover is the miracle!" I put on my best game show host impression and hold the box to my face like I'm in an infomercial. "All for the bargain price of nine ninety five plus tax!"

Justin chuckles at me, shaking his head. "That was lame."

"Not half as lame as what you did to those poor innocent shirts in the first place. You need to treat clothing with a little more respect." I'm pulling the other shirts out of the washer and I toss one at his head.

"Hey, it could happen to any one alright?"

"You keep telling yourself that." I pat him condescendingly on the arm. "Right, can you work the dryer without causing yet more indignity to the fashion industry?"

"What, aren't you going to help?"

"Hey," I shrug, "you're the one who said I was off the clock. I'm going to bed."

And do I feel even a little bit guilty about leaving him to finish all this folding? Not the slightest little bit.

I'm exhausted. We were up so damn early this morning, we've been travelling all day, and they expect me to do this show tonight. I'm not sure I have the brain capacity to remember my own name right now, let alone an entire set list. Now we're pulling up to the hotel and already I can see a crowd of fans and photographers. That's just great. I wish people wouldn't camp outside these places; it makes coming and going a real pain in the ass. I don't need this shit when I'm already exhausted, and when I have to rush past all these fans are going to think I'm an ungrateful ass who's blanking them.

Great.

"Is he already checked in?" Chelsea asks Tiny.

"Yeah, we're good to go. Eric's in the lobby waiting with the key, room 2245," he tells her.

I don't check into hotels myself. It's not something I particularly miss doing, but on principle I wish I could stand in a lobby for as long as it would take to get it done without causing a stampede. Usually somebody gets there ahead of me and checks me in so that I can sweep straight through and just check into my room. Johnny likes to send somebody as instantly forgettable looking as possible so that no bystander works out they're doing it for me. It figures Chelsea would know about this stuff, she probably does it for Sophie.

Not that I mean she's forgettable looking… fuck, it's a good thing I don't say half the shit I think in my head out loud. Like my foot doesn't already have permanent residence in my mouth.

Speak of the devil, Chelsea shifts in her seat and turns to face me. "We're already running way behind schedule Justin, so I'm thinking that down time we had planned for you will have to be just shower, change and go. You gonna be okay with that?"

Not really, but it's not like I have a choice. Even when all is seemingly running on time I'm always late out for these club shows (not something my tour manager would ever let me get away with in arenas), so if we're already late then I'm just going to have to move my ass. I shift my backpack onto my shoulder in readiness, and I just nod at her in response. We've pulled to a total stop now, and Tiny is already opening up my door for me. I step out to some screams and a lot of flashes. I never understand why these girls will just scream in the middle of a street. The hotel has thoughtfully put up some barriers so at least I've got a clear run through, though. The photographers are all yelling at me to look their way, but I just keep my head down and eyes fixed to the floor. I feel like sticking a finger up, but I don't want any fans getting the impression it's aimed at them.

I almost forget there's anything but the door in front of me until I hear one dude yell out "Chelsea! Where's Sophie?"

You know, for a moment I'd almost forgotten she was Sophie Lumos's personal assistant and not mine. Being Ms Professional it took her all of five seconds to get up to speed - with a few helpful phone calls from Trace - so nobody's really batted an eyelid at her up until now, my security all know her from the set anyway. It really hadn't occurred to me when I thanked Sophie for the favour (I thanked Chelsea more) that people do actually know who Chelsea is and who she works for. I never considered the repercussions of that. Now there's a rumble in the rest of the crowd as they all recognise her too and suddenly the yelling increases threefold. They're all screaming out: asking where Sophie is and is she travelling with me, or did Chelsea quit, did I poach her. The fans are all turning to each other and speculating that I'm boning Sophie.

Shit. I really should have thought of that earlier. Chelsea being Chelsea is just keeping her head down and ignoring them, and soon enough we've been hustled into the safe harbour of the hotel. I've stayed at Hotel 71 in Chicago before, and any time I'm here they immediately set guys on the doors. They won't let anybody in without a room key, unless they're obviously checking in. I've known them insist on visitors having to prove that they know somebody staying in the hotel, which has led to some very irate customers storming down to the lobby to verify that somebody's there to see them.

"Shit," I say quietly to Sophie as we're hustled straight through to the incredibly slow elevators (one thing I do despise about this hotel). "I hadn't thought of that."

"It doesn't matter," she replies, pulling her ponytail out and redoing it as Tiny and Eric stand at the doors and quietly dissuade a couple of girls from getting in with us via glaring. "Once they realise that Sophie's nowhere near her the sex rumours will fizzle out, and there's no way Enrique will let anybody think his daughter got ditched for JT. Don't worry about it."

How is she always so calm? You know, apart from that Marco incident where she nearly got her nose broken, I've never seen this girl anywhere even close to panic. It's freakish and unnatural.

"How much time have I got to shower and everything?" I ask.

She looks at her watch and purses her lips. "I'd say we got forty five minutes. Will you be alright if I go to my room and do the same?"

"Sure," I say. I know that sounded like she was suggesting she had to help me shower or something, but some people do insist on their PA waiting around for them to finish everything.

"Where is my room?" She asks Eric.

"Next door to Justin's, 2247. We already sent your bags up there."

She looks mildly surprised by that, I wonder why. "Thanks," she says as we get out onto the right floor. "You guys meeting us back up here in forty five?"

"Sharp," Tiny winks at us. "Five bucks says JT is late."

"Not on my watch." She winks back at him and Tiny chuckles, passing her a room key. The sound of Gnarls Barkley fills the elevator and immediately she's answering her phone. "Hello?"

There's silence for a moment as the person on the other end gives what must be a very lengthy greeting, and then she laughs. "No, ass. You know in fact he says that five minutes with me showed him just how much of a waste of space you are."

Oh shit, why did she have to tell Trace I said that? I was only kidding, but the ass won't let it go for at least a week. In fact he hasn't called me once today so how come she merits a call? Best friend my ass. She goes quiet for a while, so clearly he's giving some speech. With an evil smirk as we trundle down the hall to our rooms, she quietly puts the phone on loudspeaker and lets me listen in.

"I mean, I'm not calling him a whore or anything but just don't let him bring anything too skank looking home, alright? Those girls are just ripe for kiss and tell and we don't want a repeat of the crab catching incident. Oh, and if his crack dealer shows up…"

"Hey asshole," I yell into the speaker and Trace lets out a yelp which sounds a lot like 'fuck.'

"You bitch you weren't supposed to put him on speaker!"

Chelsea's cackling like a banshee and I've never seen her laughing so hard. Clearly Trace was just calling to yank her chain (or maybe he was just exacting some payback for the 'waste of space' comment) but clearly he didn't want me hearing that either.

"You short ass freak," I tell him affectionately as Chelsea kindly holds the phone between us. "So were you calling just to convince her I'm a total sleaze or did you have a point?"

"Actually just calling to get the address for your New York hotel because I need to send you some more samples," he says. "By the time it gets out to you I think you'll be there."

"I don't have it on me this second but I'll give you a call back as soon as I get to the room and grab it."

"Cool, I'll talk to you in a second."

They both sign off and Chelsea's still giggling as we reach our respective doors. So she has a sense of humour after all… that's good. She'll need one working for me. Tonight's going to be insane… better start getting my game face on now. I find the shower oddly good for that.

***

Okay, what the fuck did I get myself into here?

I mean, I thought I'd seen it all with Sophie. I think I said she was like the love child of J-Lo and Angelina before, right? Well, add that to insanely famous and you can imagine that she gets an awful lot of attention. A lot of people come up to her and crowd her, and she once told me she thinks the only people in Hollywood who get followed more than her are Angelina and Britney. This isn't Sophie being immodest - it's a pretty accurate observation. If anything, she probably is followed as much as Angelina so she's actually underestimating herself a little. Press junkets and signings and stuff with her are always hectic and there are always too many people to move her through.

But this… my God, the club told us that a few girls have been there overnight. The line for the club is stretched out right the way around the block, and people in their cars are actually slowing down as they pass to yell at those in line and ask what it's for. The scalpers are patrolling the street, offering tickets (which I find dumb because clearly the people in line they're yelling at already have them). We actually stopped along the way so that Justin, Lynn and I could switch into a less obvious car to drive around the back in - the Escalades are a dead giveaway.

Justin did a quick sound check with the band, and I will admit that they sounded good even if I wasn't familiar with the song. I guess I'll be over-familiar with it by the time this tour ends. I'm now hustling around his dressing room helping his stylist. There was a slight accident with his shirt and I'm now frantically sewing buttons back on - the poor thing, like it hadn't already gone through the horrors of being tie-dyed. Justin's protesting as she's messing with his pants; he wants to wear them lower but she's glaring and telling him that he will not be wearing Valentino like he's some high school kid wearing his jeans halfway down his ass. I decided it would be unwise to tell her what happened with the laundry.

Come to think of it, I'm amazed the shirts were even left with Justin to begin with. How'd she let that happen?

"Chelsea, where's my mom?" Justin asks me.

"She's up in VIP meeting and greeting folk," I tell him.

"Oh, okay." He breathes in, and I can see his temper starting to get a little frayed. I'm wondering whether it's nerves or if he's just had enough of this day. I must confess I'm yawning a lot myself.

I also keep getting a lot of text messages from Sophie, like I don't have enough on my plate. Some are asking stupid questions that her father really ought to know the answer to in my stead, seeing as they so kindly packed me off on tour with JT without my consent. The others are all bugging me about Justin. I feel like replying and telling her that I've only been here for like five minutes, I'm too damn busy to interrogate him on his idea of the perfect date or whatever, and that she needs to go jump. I won't, naturally, but imagining it helps too.

I'm also imagining a pair of nice comfy flip flops, but that isn't helping. I was quietly informed by Tiny that it's clubbing gear for these performances; anybody who'll be visible to the public is supposed to dress up like we're all just here to party. Except security, of course, they all just wear black and look intimidating. They already tossed one guy out on his ass for trying to push through to the front. It was kind of funny, actually, the DJ had a spotlight on him and everything and the entire room was chanting "out, out" at him. Back to the point, I'm in heels and they're starting to hurt. I stayed as comfortable as I could get away with, jeans and a nice top, but I wasn't allowed to wear the flip flops and I couldn't find my flats in time to hustle out the door.

I'm finally done with the shirt now, and while the buttons aren't perfect they'll do until his stylist can sit down tomorrow morning and fix them properly. She's handily disappeared, so I just toss the shirt at him and he quickly whips it on over his vest. The plan was for him to go on in a suit, but he's not even buttoning it up and he's ignoring the jacket and fedora that have been laid out for him.

"The guys are all expecting me to go out after," he groans at me. Sometimes he does this, just lets out a little complaint like this. He doesn't usually expect an answer, doesn't seem to care if I respond. I think he just needs to vent.

"I seriously advise against it," I tell him, picking up his jacket and giving him the look that says 'come on you know you have to.' Begrudgingly he starts doing up his shirt. "You're already tired and I'm guessing you'll be wrecked after the show."

"The show's not too bad, at least I get the adrenalin going," he explains. "So normally I'm all for going to a bar after. It's by the time we get there I start to crash and wish I'd said no."

"Well that's what I'm here for," I wink. "I'm the bitch so you don't have to be."

"You have to be a bitch for Sophie a lot?" He jokes. I can't help the wry, annoyed smile that passes over my lips. It's more at Enrique's insistence than hers because he wants her reputation maintained, but I have had to do some less than great things on her behalf.

Instead of answering I hold out his jacket for him to slip into, which he duly does. "Okay, they said your call is in five minutes."

"Cool," he nods, taking another deep breath and seeming to mentally gear himself up. "Thanks again for doing this, Chels. This day would have been a lot crappier without your help."

"Eh," I wave it off. "You saved me from three weeks of Enrique's company. I ought to be thanking you."

He laughs. "How do you put up with that guy? He scares the shit out of me."

"Mostly I try to ignore him." I shrug. "For what they're paying me, I can deal with him."

He gives me this oddly penetrating look, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say something. I imagine he's made a lot of people squirm with that expression - it's very uncomfortable being on its receiving end.

"Still, I do appreciate you being here. Thanks, kiddo."

Justin gives me a quick squeeze around the shoulders and gives me a friendly kiss on the top of my head. I can't help going a little stiff - the only other person who's ever done that to me is Will, not even my Dad did it when I was a kid. It was just a nice gesture and if it had been the cheek I'd have thought nothing of it, but that was such a Will thing to do and it's kind of weird that somebody else did it.

"Welcome." I shrug it off and give him a smile before gently guiding him out of the door. If he's not out by the stage in about thirty seconds people will start yelling.

There's lots of lighting guys hustling around, and one of his band members is tuning Justin's guitar for him. Johnny Wright is in the corner having a quick word with somebody who I think is with the venue, and Justin's AWOL stylist is actually helping his drummer out with a last second clothing issue.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself. Justin turns around and grins at me, and I realise he heard that.

"Welcome to the asylum, kid."

"That'd be right," I breathe, staring wide eyed at the pandemonium. Sophie's never done anything like this, even award shows don't look this hectic… or maybe that's just because the space is so small. "How the fuck do you get through all this and then get out on stage like it's nothing?"

He chuckles at that, and shrugs at me. "That's what they pay me for."

The stage manager then comes over and practically yanks Justin off, looking very harassed as he does so. He yells at me to go to my right and the stairs will take me up to the VIP level where apparently Lynn is waiting for me. I can't imagine what his mom wants me for, but away I will go.

Because that's what they pay me for.

You know, I expected to hate this whole thing a lot more than I do. Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to be eternally angry with Sophie for just springing it on me (or, okay, at least for a few weeks) but this doesn't suck as much as I anticipated.

The schedule's crazy, a lot crazier than it would have been with Sophie, but oddly enough I seem to be adjusting. My body clock's a little out of whack but nothing I can't work my way through with a little caffeine. Speaking of, may I say how refreshing it is to be around people who don't give a shit what I eat? Sophie, God bless her, is always worried about my intestinal health and what all the caffeine and sugar I consume will do to my internal organs and blah, blah, blah. Last night at dinner was great - Justin looked at me like I had two heads when I tried to order just a salad, and Lynn Harless (I love this woman so much) said I needed fattening up.

Do you know when the last time somebody said that to me was? I'll give you a hint; my grandpa was still alive. Everybody else always looks at me next to Sophie - a.k.a she who might as well have been carved from marble by Michelangelo - and then they call me chubby. I know it's only because Hollywood standards are not in tune with that little place we call reality, but it's still really insulting. Yet there was that wonderful, wonderful woman, telling me I looked skinny. Hah, I love Justin's mom almost as much as I hate Sophie's dad; this ought to tell you something because I really do loathe that man. She's awesome. Bet she doesn't drive Justin bat shit crazy like my momma does me.

In a lot of ways it's not entirely dissimilar to what I do with Sophie. We're zipping around a lot more places in a much shorter space of time, but I can do this whole travelling thing. The paparazzi are pretty much the same, although they're being pretty vicious with him right now. To his credit, he's hiding behind his shades and keeping his head down. Sure, the glowering isn't too attractive, but the main thing is he's not acting out. We're currently walking along the street to this diner they like to go to when in Chicago (yay, junk food!) and are being followed by a couple of particularly obnoxious creeps. There's about ten of them following us, but it's just those two who are really trying to goad him.

"Chelsea sweetie?" Lynn calls to me - she and Justin are walking behind me and Tiny.

"Yes Lynn?" I twist my head around and try to keep my eyes on her and on where I'm going. It's difficult, to say the least.

"How long have we got for lunch?"

"Hour and a half and then we need to be back on the road to get to BB." That stands for Best Buy, by the way. I abbreviated it in vain hope that these idiots don't already have their mitts on Justin's schedule and won't understand me.

"Have I got time to change?" Justin asks.

"We haven't got time to go back to the hotel," I shake my head, "so only if you're happy with those shirts you just picked up."

Justin stares into his bag for a moment, pondering this. He just had to stop along the way, like he doesn't already have a wardrobe three times the size of my apartment. For a guy who claims to hate shopping he does a lot of it.

"Eh, that'll work."

My newly changed ring tone - Coldplay's Clocks - goes off and I immediately pull my cell out of my purse. I was hoping it was Kennedy, but it's Sophie. Ken finally seems inclined to return my messages but we're playing voicemail tag and it's irritating. One of these days I will manage to call her at the right time.

"Hey Soph," I answer. Lord I hope this isn't another dumb question.

"Hey chica!" Her bubbly voice sounds down the line and for a moment I feel a pang of loneliness.

I know I complain about her a lot but she is my friend and I do miss her. Everybody here is cool and everything but it's not the same. Sophie is familiar, whenever I'm with her I know exactly what I'm doing. This little assignment JT's got me on isn't sucking as much as I thought, but I still feel out of my depth a lot. If it weren't for Trace being at the other end of the phone constantly I have a feeling I'd be screwing up left and right. Not to mention that I just… I don't feel close enough to anybody around here to really talk to them. People are friendly, don't get me wrong; I can find a conversation easily enough but it's trivial and when all is said and done, fleeting. I couldn't have a really good talk with anybody here - I have to phone home for that. Or at least I would if Kennedy wasn't always away from her phone at the crucial moment.

"So, oh my God, I just had to call you because you are never going to believe this. You are never going to believe who showed up at the signing today."

"Who?"

"Benny."

"Oh my God, are you serious? I thought he'd disappeared!"

"Mmmhmm. He fell on top of the table and the whole thing collapsed. I'm still amazed I got my legs out from under in time."

Let me give you the history here - Benny would be classified as a stalker if he wasn't so utterly harmless. He's married, has kids, but Sophie is his hero and he tries to meet her every chance he can. I met his long suffering wife once who said at least it wasn't a porn star he was obsessing over. Sophie jokes that she wishes it was because then his accident prone self would be causing a ruckus at somebody else's events. I think he just gets flustered or something, but one time he managed to accidentally dump a full cup of coffee all over a nice pile of shiny new 'making of' books she was signing. He's a lovely guy, really, very sweet, but he is the world's biggest klutz. I fear for my safety every time he gets near. But he's been AWOL for the last six months and Sophie and I figured he'd latched onto somebody else.

"Jesus. How many injured?"

"Well, he had to pay the store about fifty bucks for wrecked posters because they all got creased and scratched and stuff, but by his standards that's not too bad. No human casualties. So anyway how are you babe? I miss you, Dad is driving me nuts."

I swallow down the sarcastic comment about being more careful with giving me away so easily. "I miss you too, I'm surrounded by boys."

"You say that like it's a bad thing!" I can just see the gleam in her eye. She can be a dreadful flirt sometimes. "Seriously though, is everything going okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine," I shrug like she can see me. "Little manic but I'm coping."

"Bueno. So long as they're looking after you. So how's Justin?" She asks. "Any gossip for me?"

Ahh. I was hoping we could skip this part. I try to resist the urge to glance back, and Tiny's presence at my side suddenly becomes oppressive. In my head I know none of them can hear her, but I'm irrationally paranoid. Of all times to ask this question, she had to pick one when he was around - though, to be fair, what with being his PA he is around me a lot.

"Umm… not really." I try to keep my voice light and to be as vague as I can. That's partly to put her off a little, I confess (I mentioned before how uncomfortable spying makes me, right?) but mostly it's because I do not want him getting even the slightest little inkling of what I'm talking about. "Not much I could tell you that you don't already know."

"Honestly, you're useless," she teases, though thankfully seems to let it go. "Well, as a spy anyway, I tell you I really wish I had you back right now. My father seems to think I'm still cinco."

"What's he doing?" I try to hide the sigh, knowing that she's about to start bitching.

"What isn't the bastardo doing? I swear he pisses off every journalist who comes to speak to me before they even get in the room with me, and last night when we were…"

I zone out as Tiny turns towards what I'm guessing is our diner of choice. She can keep talking for long after I stop listening, and usually response is redundant. I keep telling her to do some Shakespeare - soliloquies are never going to be an issue.

I wake back up when somebody's grabbed my phone from me. I yelp and look up expecting to see a mugger, but instead Justin is holding my phone as he automatically holds the door for his momma… and I guess me.

"Sophie, Justin. How are you?"

"I'm not so good actually; it's about Chelsea."

Oh shit. What did I do? I bet it's about that wake up call I nearly missed this morning, I was up too late reading…

"Yeah, I'm not happy that you keep calling and monopolising my assistant. She's on my time now Señorita; it's not my fault if you were fool enough to give her up. You know, I'm not so sure I'm going to be handing her back either, I might just have to keep her..."

Oh thank God. Shit that was not funny - well, maybe Sophie's laughing at the other end of the line but he nearly gave me a damn heart attack. I swear I could physically feel the blood leaving my face. He shouldn't do that to me, I'm too young to die.

***

Sometimes I feel sorry for Tiny and my guards. I get to sit down and eat and they get to stand around glaring at folk who dare come near me. I would have told him to either sit with us or do his own thing for an hour if it hadn't been for the photographers crowding the entrance. The restaurant has managed to keep them out, but it can't stop them from paying people who come in to take pictures on their phones. Tiny's doing what they all do at my shows - keeping an eagle eye out for phones so he can threaten to smash the things if they don't delete the pictures. It might seem heavy handed and it probably is, but sad experience has taught me that if you give people an inch they take a mile.

This would be the discussion I'm quietly having with my mother right now - people who take advantage and namely press people who take advantage. I wish we were talking about Grandma and what she baked today. Though, come to think of it, that always puts me off dessert because I start hankering for cobbler or crunch cake and then nothing else will do.

I pop another cheese fry in my mouth, take a swig of Coke and nod my head at what Mom is saying.

"I mean, I think baby that we just have to ride this out. I know you hate feeling like you can't do or say something but I think we need to give them time to forget about it first."

"Respond once they've already got bored and headed onto the next scandal?"

"Exactly," she says. "And it's good that you're on tour right now. I know we didn't want you to go but at least they're too busy with the reviews right now."

"But… God." I try not to throw my fork on my plate. "I hate this. They're like pre-school children that need to be distracted."

"I know honey," she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, blonde curls going everywhere. "But on the bright side, Chelsea seems to be doing a pretty good job scaring them off."

"She works for Enrique Fuentes, enough said," I snort before taking a big bite out of my burger and chomping as I speak. "That guy wrote the book on how to intimidate the shit out of reporters, that's why Sophie never gets any bad press."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she scolds me. "Still…" Mom has that look on her face like she's contemplating something seriously. "I wonder how wise that is. When I saw him on set I couldn't help thinking that one of these days he's going to slip up and all those people he's been rude to are going to take great delight in dragging Sophie down to get back at him."

"That's probably true," I have to agree with her. It's the way Hollywood works - build 'em up, knock 'em down. The trick is to keep getting back up. "I felt like telling her to do a Janet and ditch Daddy Dearest from the payroll, but I thought she'd get pissed at me."

"You know I still wonder why Chelsea sticks around with them," she says idly as she pushed pasta around her plate.

I nearly choked when she said that. She said it so nonchalantly, like she was just musing that she needs to do laundry when she gets home. Chelsea, I might add, is in the bathroom and has been for some time. With some people in Hollywood I might suspect they were snorting something, but with Chelsea I'm guessing her phone's gone off. That thing never stops ringing. One of these days I'm going to throw it out of a window - I was only half kidding with Sophie when I said her calls were annoying me. I feel like telling her that if she reassigns her assistant to cover somebody else, she shouldn't then keep calling her and giving her double the workload. It stops her doing all the crap I need her to do when the whole point is that she's working for me not Sophie right now.

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"Well…" she takes a sip of her water. Mom and Chelsea were relatively good, they got water and pasta; I went straight for the cholesterol. "She just seems so… sad all the time, don't you think?"

"How so?"

"Oh, I'm probably being silly," she smiles at me. "I don't know… she just seems like she could be doing so much better. I mean she's a bright young woman, or at least she seems, and bright young women don't generally lack ambition. She just seems to be very stuck, I get the feeling there's something she'd rather be doing."

"Oh, she told Trace she only got into being a PA because they offered her a shit load of cash." I'm purposely ignoring the look she gave me for swearing. I am a grown man, damn it, my mother cannot tell me not to swear.

"Hmm. What else has she told Trace?" My mother asks.

"I think he mentioned something about her going into film production eventually… I don't know," I shrug. "We were kind of busy at the time laughing about how Elliot's PA totally stuck her foot in it with Sophie because she took Chelsea's to do list, decided to do it for her to score points with Sophie and proceeded to royally screw it all up."

"You notice how compliant she always is?" Mom says thoughtfully.

"Well yeah," I swallow another fry. "Isn't that the point of a PA?"

"Hmm. I just wonder when she ever says no to anybody. Oh well, just a thought."

She shrugs and like that, the topic is done. Sometimes I can't work my mother out. She seems to have some weird intuitive thing going on that really isn't genetic, because I never get what the hell she's thinking. Nine times out of ten she's right, but damned if I know how. And now she's got me wondering if I was just taking advantage of Chelsea's inability to say no, seeing as I could clearly tell she was not thrilled by Sophie's magnanimous little gesture in 'lending' her to me.

Eh. I can't be working her as bad as Enrique would. That man runs his daughter's entourage like Hitler ran Germany - or should that be how Franco ran Spain? (Hey, sometimes I know stuff alright?)

Oh, wait… now I see why Mom abruptly changed the subject, Chelsea's sitting back down, giving an apologetic smile and saying something about Kennedy. I had my back to her and couldn't see her coming. I did offer to bring Kennedy out on tour with us to keep her company but apparently she was busy or something. Mom, lying through her teeth, says we were just talking about my grandparents and asks about Chelsea's family. I vaguely remember that she has a sister, nieces and nephews and a mom who drives her "bat shit crazy" (direct quote), so I zone out a little.

Or at least I zone out until Tiny quietly leans into my ear and speaks.

"The horde outside's getting bigger," he tells me quietly. "I'm thinking I should go bring the car to you - walking down the street in that is not going to be pretty."

"Shit." I run my hand over my face, trying to keep from wincing. "How many?"

"Hostess is telling me at least twenty."

"You think they'll get nasty?"

"I took a quiet look out the window." Tiny shakes his head with an inscrutable expression. "The two who were bugging you on the way in got some buddies along for the ride. The rest of them I could go either way but I don't trust those assholes."

"Okay." I can't do anything but agree with him. When it comes to my safety, I put everything into my security's hands. They rarely lead me astray. It happens, but that's the name of the game. In this business you have to be prepared for shit to happen at any given moment. Tiny nods and immediately heads for the door, only stopping to ask the waitress if she'll get our bill.

Sometimes I wonder if this is all worth it. I don't tell too many people that. I always tell them that music and doing what I love makes up for all of it and this is just a minor distraction. The truth is that sometimes I'm kept awake at night considering whether it's really worth continuing all this when I've made my money and I could probably just slip into obscurity and do some producing behind the scenes and stuff, away from the spotlight. It's got to be easier than this.

"No, I hate to admit it but I was pretty impressed. I thought it was cool just having him and the piano," Chelsea is saying to my mother when I finally manage to start paying attention to my fellow diners.

"That was pretty much how he learnt," Mom tells her. "Just him and a piano. Most of the music we listened to was like that too, either country with just a guitar and a vocal or blues with the piano."

"Are my ears burning?" I joke lamely. I'm guessing Chelsea was talking about the show last night, she said she'd never seen my stuff before and she's one of the few I believe when she says it. Mostly because you can't fake that kind of disinterest. People do try sometimes, but I see through it in about… oh, two seconds.

"I was just saying to Chelsea that we'll make a Justin Timberlake fan out of her yet."

"Hmm. I always preferred the Backstreet Boys," she jokes.

You know, all of a sudden I see what my mother means. She cracks jokes, and she smiles and laughs, but I'm not entirely sure I believe her all the time. That's far too much psychoanalysis for a girl I don't know too well, but then Dad always said if I hadn't been a musician my nosy self would have had to be a psychiatrist or something. I responded by saying that all shrinks had something wrong in the head themselves, and he just said he didn't see how that disqualified me.

Hmm… what might have been? Not that it matters, I'm currently more concerned about what will be - and specifically about what will be in the next ten minutes or so because Tiny wasn't kidding when he said that crowd of paparazzi had got larger. Ay.

You know, after a week of touring with Justin Timberlake, I know him a little better than I did on the set. Mostly that's because I didn't pay him much attention while we were there. In any normal situation it would have stayed that way, but the thing with being somebody's PA is that it speeds up the whole process of acquainting yourselves. Being attached to somebody's ass twenty four seven, you know more than you ever needed to know faster than you ever needed to know it.

I know that Justin's stylist also buys his underwear. I also know from the order forms that she doesn't buy a lot of it, which begs a question I don't think I want answered. I know he can create burps that register on the Richter and I also know that he gets upset if he doesn't pour the perfect amount of milk on his cereal. I think either he has a touch of OCD or he's a complete freak, because I've seen him toss out the entire bowl and start again. Oh, and I also know that he totally reeks after a show. I don't know why his fans all want to run after him once it's over because… eww. Sweat and grossness.

I have also learnt that the bastard cannot just be. He has to be doing something. I am extremely good at just being with me and loving it, so his incessant need for activity and company is somewhat grating. To be fair, it's not the company so much as the activity I object to (I'm wicked and I'm lazy), but either way I wish he could be on his own for five minutes. He claims he craves solitude, what with always having so many people around, but then every time he gets any privacy he's knocking on my door. Sometimes I want to read my book or watch my girly films in peace without him complaining that Die Hard would be a better choice.

Nobody puts Swayze in the corner or takes him out of the DVD player, capische?

Like right now… I had big plans for a bath and a book, because I'm tired. We just got to New York and beautifully we had the afternoon and the evening off because his show isn't until tomorrow. I immediately cut out with his masseuse, Tasha (he claims he has a back problem, I claim he's a pampered pop star) and we went out. There wasn't a lot of time for sight seeing, but we managed to fit in a quick peek at the Statue of Liberty. We wondered about maybe going to the Guggenheim before giving up all pretence at culture and hitting Bloomingdales. I also… I can't believe I let her talk me into it… we went into Tiffany's window shopping and she actually talked me into buying a bracelet I can scarcely afford. I think she was living vicariously through me…

Anyway, I'm tired and my feet want some TLC - they need a soak and a pedicure. Not least because my polish is chipping. But no, this is not on Mr Timberlake's agenda. He has invited himself into my room, set up camp on my bed in front of the TV and… well, actually he's not doing a lot. He doesn't seem to expect me to talk to him. Keeps looking at his watch a lot like he's bored to be here, so why he still is I have no idea. I just know I'd like him to leave.

My brand new I Don't Need A Man ring tone sounds and I know it's Kennedy. Yes, we are sad enough to have matching personalised PCD tones - hers for me is Beep. Justin rolls his eyes, and I want to tell him to put a sock in it. I would if it weren't for a small technicality (him never opening his mouth). He seems to think my phone goes off too much; I just told him that he ought to start taking his own calls, which shut him up real fast. I wonder if he gave Trace or Rachael this much grief.

"Hey babe," I say. "What's up?"

"Not a lot. What you doing?"

"Glaring at the humungous lump on my bed that won't leave me be," I joke for Justin's benefit. His eyes are shut, but he still smiles and swivels a finger in my direction. Charming. I can see why all the girls swoon.

"Huh?"

"Justin's spoiling my plans for me and a big bubble bath," I explain.

"Well hey, if you wanna get naked don't let me stop you."

Kennedy laughs - clearly she heard that. "Tell him down boy."

"Hmm." No, I won't be telling him that. I make it a rule never to repeat anything that I think an innuendo could be made out of. "So how did your audition go honey?"

"Eh," she sighs. "She thinks I need a little more work. She did give me the number of somebody who runs classes at Millennium though, so I'm hoping that was a hint to come back to her after some work."

"Sounds like it."

"Oh well, next time. It could be worse; I could be sinking to the depths of Search."

That, if you didn't get it, was a reference to that blasphemous reality attempt to find a new Pussycat Doll. Neither I nor Kennedy will acknowledge Asia as a Doll; Kennedy would give her right arm to be in the dance troupe (she has no interest in singing and believe me my eardrums are glad) but she swears if she ever has to go on a reality show to win an audition she will shoot herself. I told her I'd shoot her first. Enrique's still pissed at me for being the one who talked Sophie out of one for CW, but I think those things are career killers.

"Hmm. So what are you up to tonight?"

"Not a lot. I did send you a present though."

See now she's perked me right up. "Present?"

As if on cue, there's a knock at the door. It's an instant buzz kill. Most people would be excited, but I'm immediately suspicious. I'm not overly fond of surprises at the best of times, but when things are too conveniently and perfectly set up like this I just know something's amiss. Call me a paranoid freak if you want, but… actually there is no but there, just call me a paranoid freak. My mom says she's given up surprising me for my birthday because I always look more afraid than delighted.

"Kennedy what did you do?" I'm eyeing the door like it's a rattlesnake, and Justin's now peering at me through the slits of his barely opened eyes.

"Open it."

"I don't wanna."

"Open it bitch or I'm not talking to you again."

"Fine," I sigh, going to the door and placing my hand on the knob. Taking a deep breath in, I open the door.

And may I say holy shit? It's Trace freaking Ayala. Isn't he supposed to be in some warehouse hemming shirts or something? Heck, isn't my whole presence on this tour based on the fact that he is NOT supposed to be here? Since when do he and Kennedy conspire against me? I don't know what the hell Ken thinks she's doing, but Trace Ayala is standing at my door with… my God, I can barely say it…And oh shit he's opening his mouth to sing.

"One! Cut a hole in the box…"

There's a loud thump behind me and when I look around Justin has actually fallen off the bed in out of control laughter. His face is red with hysteria and he looks like he can barely breathe; I'm the same but it's out of humiliation. I expect I'm the same colour as that bow on the blue box he's stuck to his crotch. Now he's caught sight of Justin he seems a little more self conscious, but still he keeps going.

"Two! Put your junk in that box!"

Does he have to be so freaking LOUD? Half the hotel's going to be in this corridor in a second!

"Three!"

"I am not opening that box Ayala so get your ass in here and shut up!" I yank him through the door and slam it while he and Justin laugh their nasty male butts off at me.

"I didn't… think…" Justin's having a hard time getting sentences out. "Kennedy… such a small gift…"

Trace just punched him in the arm for that little snipe. Justin punches him back and before you know it they're rolling around on the floor pounding the hell out of each other. In my room. In my room where I had planned a nice quiet and non-humiliating evening in which nobody was going to sing Dick In A Box at the top of their lungs. Did I mention that I don't do well with public embarrassment? I was not built for it, I blush too easy.

"Ken…" I finally remember she's still on the phone, "I hate you."

"Huh. You should be honoured." Trace sniffs at me as he pulls the box off his jeans - thankfully it was stuck to the front and he hadn't actually put anything in there. "It's not every woman I offer Trace Junior to."

I shudder, but then remember he could have called it worse and I should thank Heaven for small mercies.

"Well I guess you're too pissed to let me in then, huh?"

***

There goes my peaceful evening. Justin seemed more than happy for Kennedy and Trace to drag us both out, but I really wanted my quiet night in. Oh well, c'est la vie. They flew all this way so I guess the least I can do is attempt to be sociable. I did plan to sulk for at least a little bit at first (and I did while I was putting on my make up and my dress), but get me into a Japanese restaurant and I'm easily bought. Justin and Kennedy were on sushi, Trace was digging into ramen and I was happily sitting there stuffing my face with katsu curry. Well, I say happily, I wish it wasn't one of those authentic places where they insist you sit on the floor. My butt got real numb.

On the bright side it gave my feet a rest because Kennedy put me in some real stupid shoes. They're zebra striped and so pretty but they are not sensible. That's exactly why we've now gone dancing in them - because I am clearly some kind of masochist. She's crowing because she wore flats, the bitch. First she humiliates me in public and then she straps me into these torturous things - this must be payback for something.

Though I also think Trace and Justin must have angered her in some way because she's taken us to this real dive club where they play the weirdest and possibly cheesiest selection of music either. One minute they were playing Elvis Presley, then it was Panic At The Disco, and then it was the Spice Girls. That's just plain weird. It's oddly fun though, it's like one minute you're at a high school prom and then the next you're in a mosh pit. The guys hate it. Justin keeps trying to talk us into going to Pure instead, but Kennedy and I are turning a deaf ear (not hard to feign in this deafening roar). They've pretty much given up and have decided the way to cope is to keep buying more shots.

That's the other reason these shoes were a bad idea. They bought us a ton of cocktails in the restaurant and now they keep passing me shots too. I do have to work tomorrow. On the bright side, since Marco Fako isn't here at least I can guarantee neither I nor Kennedy will be hospitalised this time - so long as we quit the shots soon. Otherwise I can't discount the possibility of alcohol poisoning.

"If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home!" Trace yells in my ear as he jumps over to us, despite the fact we're not at this part of the song. Apparently what Wham couldn't do, Fergie can (I told you the music in here was weird). He slings an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. "What up, ladies?"

Kennedy just grins and continues doing the silly butt popping dance she always does to Glamorous. She likes to make up stupid dances to songs, says it reminds her to lighten up. I guess dancing for a living could take the fun out of it if you didn't goof off once in a while.

"Nothing." I shrug. "You?"

"Still thinking JT had the right idea," he says as the man in question trails over with yet another round of beers. "This place is lame."

"This place is only lame if you're too lame to drop the pretentious shit and rock out," Kennedy replies loudly. I have to laugh at that, not least because she's got a point.

Trace shakes his head for a minute before giving up and bouncing over to her. They look incredibly ridiculous - she's doing a kind of exaggerated street ho thing and he's jumping up and down like a five year old on a trampoline. For a moment I wonder how he managed to put his arm back around me from way over there, and then I realise its Justin who has hooked my neck in his elbow. It's a particularly stupid mix up given how much taller he is than Trace, too.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to a real club?" He yells in my ear. I turn around to yell back, and even in hells I have to stand on tiptoe.

"You dragged me out, suffer the consequences."

"Oh well, if you can't beat 'em…" He shrugs, gulps back half his beer bottle and then swallows in time to sing along with Trace, letting go of me. "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home!"

He, Trace and Kennedy are all waving a hand in the air with the rest of the club, and I'm just standing here looking at them with what must be the oddest grin on my face. This whole thing is so surreal. Weird happenings, weird music, my friends being nutty… and I actually kind of like it. Sophie and I never do this; we tend to frequent more upscale clubs. I can't imagine her ever jumping around like she was at a festival. We always have a blast, but it's cool that this is different.

But if anybody asks, I'd still rather be in bed with the book.

There's a tight little squeeze around my neck from Trace, who has taken Justin's place and is looking at me in disapproval because I'm not bouncing with the rest of them. The footwear is not a great choice for this but I figure that if I break my ankle at least I'll have had fun while I'm at it. I'm not exactly going to be leaping around but a little bouncing never hurt anybody did it? Kennedy in her nice comfy flats (bitch) jumps on over and flings her arm around my neck as well. They're cutting off my air a little bit, but whatever. I'm having fun anyway.

We jump around and goof off to song after song - the guys seem to have given up on what they call "real music" coming on. Trace tried to pole dance around Kennedy to Dirrty and then around me to Rihanna - the four of us have been running around like lunatics. Even Justin's totally making fun of himself, and he actually did all the moves to MC Hammer. The only line that was drawn was the Macarena, to which we all retreated to the bar until some much safer Aerosmith came on. It's nice to finally have been taught the words to Walk This Way, because I could never make them out.

It's less entertaining when some random guy who's been trying to grind up on everything in a skirt tries it with me, but it winds up being kind of funny anyway. Before I know what's happened Justin has grabbed my wrist and in one swift movement has managed to pull me backwards and loop our joint arms around my waist. He gives him the Timberlake Glare O' Death and it sends the dude packing. Kennedy and I just bust out laughing - it was the look on the guy's face. Apparently he didn't count on having to square up to a pop star (I think he was under the impression I was Justin's date or something). I nearly had that ankle breaking moment but it was worth it for the laugh. Justin is particularly scary when he's glaring, it's the way his eyes just go steel.

"Thanks," I pat Justin's arm as a let go signal as soon as I'm sure the guy is well and truly gone to try his luck elsewhere.

"Anytime." He gives me a wink and then flings an arm around Kennedy's shoulders, jumping up and down with her in time to Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Trace is eyeing me critically - it's probably the way I'm wincing at every step. "You ready to go home Chelsea?"

I look at my watch and realise it's two in the morning. Did I mention that Justin's call is for nine on top of my feet burning? I may just have to walk around in my slippers for the day. "Shit, we'd better. We gotta be up tomorrow… or today."

Being the chivalrous sort that would give a lady his dick in a box, he also gives me a piggy back out to the taxi rank.

I really wish I wasn't sat in another club right now. It's necessary since I'm performing here tonight, but after all that alcohol I don't want to see the inside of another bar for a month. Oh well, tough shit - you're gonna have to suck it up JT.

Thankfully I have Trace to remind me how much worse it could be. He's supposed to be flying back home after the show tonight but I doubt he's going to even get himself out of bed for that, let alone make it cross country. He and I drank about the same, but he's a lot smaller than me and he's got less flesh to soak up the booze. The girls are in a pretty bad state too, but because they weren't mixing their drinks as much as me and the munchkin they're doing a little better. It also helps that with being girls they can pile on the concealer, so the bags under their eyes aren't so obvious.

My mom didn't have a lot of sympathy; she said it was self-inflicted and unprofessional of me. I tried to blame the girls but she just glared at me and asked me if I thought she'd been born yesterday. She knew full well that it was me and T basically pouring the drinks down their throats. Kennedy's doing okay but Chelsea looks a little green. Lucky for her she's usually quiet anyway so nobody's noticing the difference, whereas when Trace and I are quiet they know we're hung over. I keep getting crew members coming up to me and slapping me a little too hard on the back and talking a little too loud at me. They all know I'm suffering; they're doing it on purpose.

Well, I'm sorry, but after the movie I didn't really want to do and this club tour I didn't really want to do either, I deserve to let loose. I know they were both necessary evils, but Lord if it doesn't piss me off. All these years later, you'd think I'd be a little more in control of my own affairs. I'm certainly doing better than a lot of people in my position, but it's still kind of galling that I've managed to get this big and I still don't have the sway I need to get some time off when I want some without having to sell myself out first.

That said the tour's a lot easier to deal with than the movie because at least I'm enjoying this. It is awkward as hell being on a movie set where your director is making you doubt that you talk realistically in real life, let alone that you can do it while trying to act. Touring… okay, I'm tired and I wanted the break, but this is the place where I rock my shit. I rule at this, and nobody can tell me otherwise. As a result, I can relax into myself a lot more. That and at least when I'm on tour I'm in charge and I can pick the people around me, not like a movie set.

I'm hung over and I wish I had a little more time for a nap, but things are still mostly looking up. I can deal with that.

"So does that make any kind of sense?" Chelsea asks me before taking a sip of her iced mocha.

I have to shake my head out a little, as if to clear the cobwebs. "I'd be lying if I said yes."

"Eh, me too." She rolls her eyes at herself and then winces as if her head feels a little too sore for such effort. I gulp down my own latte (my third today - whoever said caffeine gets you sober is a liar) and I point at the call sheet she has printed out for me.

"So what time am I expected at the radio station?"

"Twelve," she tells me. "We've got another forty minutes here before we need to leave, in which time we've got a couple of journalists stopping in to see you… as soon as I've let Hannah at you," she refers to the make up artist. Guess I'm getting some concealer after all. "Then we'll pick up some lunch, head on down to Best Buy and then you got a couple of hours free to rest up before the show."

"Do you feel like Italian?" I ask her.

"Do I feel like an Italian? Why would I feel like an Italian I'm from San Francisco," she asks me quizzically. I have to laugh.

"Italian food. I was thinking we could all go to Destino's tonight."

"Oh." She blushes a little. "Sorry, I think I left my brain in the bottom of that last daiquiri last night. Sounds good, I'll call and get a table. How many?" She scribbles a note in her 'to do' notebook. I notice her recent lists have been much shorter than her Sophie lists.

"Well, you girls and me and Trace, so that's four, Momma five… hey Marty!" I yell over to where he's deep in conversation with Kennedy. I'm glad she's taking the opportunity to schmooze, considering that was half the reason I invited the dude.

"Yeah?" he yells back.

"You eating with us tonight bro?"

"Count me in!"

"Six," I tell Chelsea as I turn back to my call sheet.

"Cool. Anything else you need me to do on my travels?"

Chelsea doesn't actually spend all day with me, despite being my PA. It's kind of pointless to have somebody to do all the errands you don't have time for if you insist on being attached at the hip at all times. One thing I have learnt about her, from our time on set and now, is that she is the world's speediest when it comes to said errands. It's fantastic, I ask her to do some stuff and it's rare she's gone more than an hour unless the list is really in depth or traffic is bad. She's really efficient (though less so when hung over). If she worked for Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada she'd never be all stressed and running everywhere like that English chick, she'd have everything done in half the time.

I did not just admit to watching that flick.

"Uhh… remind me what you're doing again?" I ask like she hasn't already repeated this three times today. My brain isn't working.

Chelsea shakes her head at me and messy blonde curls bounce around her head as she does. I think everybody's doing the 'just rolled out of bed' image today because we didn't have the energy to do much else, but it suits her. Might I add that Kennedy and Chelsea's respective versions of 'just got out of bed' are a hell of a lot more successful than mine - this doesn't seem right, considering that I don't even have hair to worry about. Maybe I should have shaved this morning…

"I'm stopping in at Jive to pick up those papers for you to sign, picking up a fresh supply of Advil, booking that table at Destino's and I'm going to run into Nike and pick up those shoes you're not supposed to have yet."

What? So I got a pair of sneakers a couple of months before the general public will, big whoop. There has to be some compensation for becoming public property!

"Justin!"

Oh, my mother's calling me and she sounds annoyed. I hope she didn't hear about me flipping off that paparazzo on the way home last night. I can't see her from here; Chelsea and I are tucked into a little alcove at the back of the club. It was Chelsea's choice, mostly because she had to try for twenty straight minutes to get my full attention. People do like to interrupt me a lot, it's a thing. Finally she got fed up and marched me over there where we were out of the way - I get the impression she's used to it though.

"Yeah?" I yell back and then wish I hadn't. My head still kind of hurts.

"Could you two come over here please?"

Damn it, I was hoping it'd just be a quick question and answer. Now I have to get up. Wearily Chelsea flips her folder shut and shoves it into her shoulder bag, grabbing her phone off the table as we both get up and start walking the Green Mile over to my mother for whatever lecture we're going to get now. I pull a quick face at Chelsea and she pulls one back as we trudge over there.

Until Chelsea goes rigid, loses all blood to her face and ducks behind me.

"Oh God. Hide me."

I look over and my mom is standing over there with a couple of cops and some other guy I'm guessing is probably a plain clothes cop. This is odd - I don't recall having done anything illegal lately. I mean, okay, last week I might have sparked up a joint or two with a couple of guys from the band but that was in an entirely different state. Why's Chelsea so afraid? Is there an APB out on her that she's neglected to mention?

"Uhh, why?" I mutter as I keep walking over there and she keeps trying to hide.

"That's Will."

"Will? Who's Will?"

"Ex boyfriend Will."

"Ex boyfriend Will?"

"Ex boyfriend Will who got married last week and I didn't actually bother to RSVP on account of you pyromaniacs torching the invite with the return address on it."

"Oh. That Will."

Well fuck this is going to be awkward. It should be pretty entertaining for me but I bet Chelsea wants the ground to swallow her up right now.

"You didn't mention he lived in New York," I tell her. I figured he would be in California, since she said she's always lived there.

"Well I had no plans on being anywhere near him so it didn't seem pertinent," she hisses at me as we reach the group and she's still standing behind me. The hiding is pretty stupid, but heck she might actually get away with it. I am pretty tall.

"What's up Mom? Officers," I smile at them nicely while wondering whether it's one of the guys in uniform or the guy in jeans and a blazer. I have no idea what kind of taste Chelsea has in men so I wouldn't hazard the guess.

"The good officers would like to talk to you about the noise level in rehearsal this morning. Apparently there have been complaints."

A rookie would think my mother was being all sweetness and light, but I know her too well. She's annoyed; I can see it in her face. At a guess, I think it's because they have no reason at all to be talking to me about this. It's the venue they need to speak to because any noise violations will be through their sound proofing or them violating their approved hours by letting us in too early or whatever (which I didn't think they had). At worst, they might need to have a quick word with one of my managers - hence talking to my mom they can get away with. But insisting on talking to me? That's totally unnecessary. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time officers of the law have abused a little power so that they can have a good story to tell their buddies over the jelly doughnuts.

"Complaints?" I ask.

"From the neighbours. It's a little early for this kind of volume, Mr Timberlake. May I ask what you were doing?"

That was the plain clothes guy. I am now assuming he is Will because already I don't like him. This is a widely publicised gig, it's a night club, and there's a pile of state of the art music equipment on stage. What the fuck does he think I was doing, drilling for oil?

"As I told you, officer, he was performing his sound check for his show tonight." My mother's interruption is a quiet signal to me to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. "We've already checked with the club that their licensing covers us doing this at this time and it's not like it's the middle of the night, so I really don't see the problem."

"We've had complaints, ma'am." One of the officers in uniform says to her. "We have to investigate."

"Three of you?" I hear Chelsea mutter under her breath and I really want to smirk.

"Well, as I said to you before, sound check is over," Mom says firmly. "If there has been a licensing violation it is the club which is liable, which I'm sure your fine selves will be aware with your expert knowledge of the law, and we did the same here yesterday without a single complaint. We really have told you all we can."

Chelsea tugs on my t-shirt and I lean back surreptitiously, trying not to look like I've got somebody behind me. She starts whispering to me. "I think it might be because somebody's opened the skylight."

It's only then I look up and see what she means. She's probably right, all the soundproofing in the world means nothing if some idiot leaves a window open somewhere. Well, on the bright side, we just saved a few people the price of a ticket since they've got a taste of the show anyway. I won't give these officers the satisfaction of letting them know all this, but I will make sure the club gets a heads up. I might ask Johnny if he could get somebody to send a letter of apology to the residents around here, too. It doesn't hurt to look contrite.

"I'm sorry did you say something Chelsea honey?"

Well, sorry Chels, I tried. Reluctantly she has to step out from behind me and when she does so it's the uniform on the left who goes pale at the sight of her. Damn, I guess that's Will. I was so sure it was Plain Clothes Guy.

"No, just checking that Justin didn't need anything else before I go. Didn't want to interrupt," she lies.

"No, I'm good, thanks babe." I give her arm a supportive little squeeze and I see him go even paler. He probably thinks I called her babe as some boyfriend thing - this means nothing, I call Rachael babe too and she's my cousin, but heck if I can make him squirm on her behalf then cool. It wasn't my intent, but call it a bonus.

"Are you going anywhere near a pharmacy?" Mom asks her. "I think Trace could do with some Advil."

Chelsea smiles at her and I totally catch Will looking at her legs and giving her and her white sun dress the once over. It's a good thing she didn't do what she threatened to do and come here in her pyjamas or that really would have been embarrassing.

"Already on the list. Do you need anything Lynn?"

"Oh no thank you sweetie I'm good." My mom rubs her arm too and I can practically see the thought bubble over Will's head wondering precisely how involved with the Timberlake entourage his ex girlfriend is.

"I'll see you later." Chelsea gives me a quick look before stepping swiftly past Plain Clothes Guy without even a glance in Will's direction.

Well, well, well… nothing like a bit of ex drama to provide some entertainment for the morning (so long as it isn't mine). He looks pissed, it's pretty funny. I look down and see a gold band on his finger, so I guess he did get married. I'll say this much for him, he hasn't breathed a word since we got in here. At least he's not either of the assholes trying to pretend like they need to speak to me at all. Though he sure does fidget a lot… or has Chelsea just done a number on him?

***

"Chelsea!"

Oh crap. Why aren't there any taxis coming? I really need one to be here so I can jump in before he gets over here. Heck, I needed one five minutes ago while they were still unnecessarily giving Justin the third degree.

Oh, and by the way, that was so transparent. I see it all the time with Sophie, though you can imagine that since they all masturbate over her they're even more obvious about it. It's ridiculous, they think they're playing it so cool but I know and more to the point she knows exactly what their ploy is. They just want to talk to a celebrity and unlike most people they've got a ready made excuse to do it. Celebrity entourages might be able to tell regular citizens to back off but we fight the law and the law wins. Fame can't get you everywhere.

"Will." I smile politely at him through gritted teeth before turning my back to him and watching out for that cursed taxi.

"How are you?"

"Fine, you?" I'm still not looking at him.

"Fine. Michelle and I got married last week."

Oh I might have known he was over here to throw that in my face. I swear, every time I have talked to him since we split up he goes on and on about Michelle. If I thought he did that to everybody I'd forgive him, sometimes love makes you yammer, but I know he talks normally to everybody else. We still have mutual friends (many of whom, by the way, totally agree that he was a fuckwit over the break up).

"Oh, right, I forgot about that. How did it go?"

"Great." He seems taken aback by how little I apparently care. In actual fact, I'm kind of surprised by that too. I mean, I care a little bit, but not even half as much as I thought I would. "We, uhh, missed you at the ceremony."

"Oh, didn't you get my RSVP?" I say innocently without even looking at him. This has the dual purpose of keeping up the 'don't care' image and also preventing him from seeing the lie in my eyes. "Couldn't make it. I mean, clearly, you can imagine I've been with Justin the last week or so. Glad it went good though."

I let that sink in for a moment, giving him a minute to formulate a response.

"Yeah, Justin Timberlake. That was kind of a… what happened to Sophie?"

Wait, wait, wait… this is perfect. I detected jealousy there. He's totally put out that he was going to throw his nice suburban dream in my face and it turns out that I'm hanging around with a guy a lot more successful than he is. I know full well that Will has no interest in me, but my sister once told me in disgust that her husband was at work and his secretary…

Okay, long story short, our circles still overlap. Via her other half, Lisa told me that Will has boasted about how I'm still hankering over him. Well, not boasted, he was apparently pretending to be all concerned and wanting me to feel better, but if you read between the lines I think he has the impression I still want him. He probably thought that I would go back to him in a heartbeat (umm, no, ass) and that'll swell anybody's pride, thinking that they have an easy back up just waiting in the wings. The idea that I might have moved on to bigger and better has got to be a killer for his ego. And that's purely on the job front, never mind if he's got the idea in his head that I've been to bed with JT. It's so petty of me to encourage that, but do I give a shit?

"Well, you know. Justin begged to steal me, how could I refuse?"

What? It's only a small embellishment. He really was desperate for a PA even if not me specifically.

"Wow. Music though… little different from film, isn't it?"

You see? He's totally fishing, trying to wheedle an explanation out of me.

"Well he's impossible to resist." I sneak a glance sideways and see him looking just green enough to satisfy my more childish little urges. I think I'm done here - I may have just proved that I'm not as mature as I should be, but I don't give a fuck. This is for all the false promises, for the way he led me on, and for the way he has continued to treat me like a second class citizen ever since.

"Taxi!"

Finally somebody pulls up beside me, and I give Will a quick smile and the most dismissive 'goodbye' I can muster.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well it's just that I'm leaving and…"

I laugh out loud at that. "You're not that crucial, ass."

Trace's mouth stretches into a quick smirk before it settles into an expression of mock hurt. "Gee, thanks."

"Hey, you're the one who abandoned my ass without a PA."

"I got you a replacement!"

"No, Sophie got me a replacement," I correct him. "You just got let off the guilt trip."

"Ah ha! So you admit you were guilt tripping me."

"Well duh."

Trace gives me a light shove and I give him a light shove back. It's a manly expression of affection, don't ask me to explain. As per usual, we're stuck in a venue, although this one is in Florida and not New York. Trace extended his stay for one more stop, but now he really does have to fly home. It's okay though, we'll be back for the LA gig before any of us know it anyway. On the bright side Joey and Kelly are leaving Briahna with Papa Joe for the night and coming out for the show, which makes me excited in ways that would make *NSYNC fans sigh with nostalgia. I still feel bad I never managed to make it to a Dancing With The Stars taping.

"I mean I gave Chelsea the itinerary, so…"

"Dude," I interrupt. "You know Chelsea had that thing memorised before you'd even managed to get hold of a copy. Chill, she's got it covered."

"I know, I know," he concedes. "Just like to check she's got everything, since I dumped her in the deep end."

I still find it weird how protective he is of her. I know they're not dating, and he's made mention of some date he has fixed up for back home… but still, there's something. It's hard to put my finger on it, but they're closer than you might expect them to be. She's definitely closer to him than me and at this point I've probably spent more time with her than he has. It's cool that he looks out for her and it's been good to know she's had somebody on the tour she's a little more familiar with than the total strangers she got thrown in with, but I find it incomprehensible. It'd be easier if I knew they were screwing, that would explain shit.

Chelsea's been busy dealing with the latest PR catastrophe that has come my way. I honestly thought the papers would have given up this woman beater shit by now, but they haven't. Monica gave an interview in which somebody quizzed her about it, and the press have done their usual twist job on it. If you're smart and actually read what she says by itself, it's totally harmless. It's certainly nothing I'd be mad at her about, and I told her that when she called me to apologise. The problem is that as usual they present it with this narrative that makes it seem like she meant something else entirely, and of course now everybody else is taking it the way it was presented instead of the way it was meant. Her PR has been on the phone with Ken Sunshine constantly, but nobody wants to hear what she's saying or if they do they dismiss it as desperate backtracking.

So how does my temporary PA come into that? Well, she's sitting on the stage right now with a pile of papers in her lap and she's setting up appointments with my lawyers, my PR and between my management and label. Mom and I mutually decided that sitting back and hoping it goes away isn't working, and that it might be time to talk - though not without getting everybody's input first. I didn't get where I am now by making rash decisions. She's managing to be surprisingly upbeat about it, actually. Say It Right has been playing over the speakers and she's bobbing her head and mouthing the words to herself while she's reading or on hold or whatever.

Speaking of songs Timbaland produced, he should be getting here tomorrow. I can't wait. Tim is wiser than a lot of people give him credit for; he always gives me good advice. It's nice to have another person around on my level… and before you think I'm being arrogant and saying that I'm all wise and shit, I just mean that he gets me.

"Okay… I'm guess I'm out." Trace holds out his hand to me and we give it the old handshake slash hug that we do.

"Call me when you land."

"Don't I always?"v You're not allowed to tell anybody I told you this, but I hate planes. They're necessary and so I deal with them, but I always like to check in with everybody to make sure they got to where they're going alright. I'm a pansy, I know, but whatever gets me through the day.

"Hey Chels!"

Trace jogs over to the stage and I'm guessing tells Chelsea he's leaving. She gives him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, but then she's straight back to the papers and the scribbling. I swear that girl never stops, she's all business. It's a trait I wish I could emulate, actually; she seems able to functionally calmly and professionally whatever mood she's in, whereas I have to confess that sometimes my bitchier moods air themselves in interviews and shit.

Then again, at least my bitchier moods do get aired. Sometimes I think that woman is repressed as all hell.

Though she did actually tell me what happened with Will in New York, and it made me laugh. Clearly she's picked up a trick or two from Sophie, because it sounds like she gave him the serious burn. I guessed when he left in such a hurry he was hoping to catch her, but I'm glad she got to give him the 'like I care' treatment. I suspect she still does care, a little, but I don't begrudge anybody a little closure with their ex. Not least because that would make me the world's biggest hypocrite - Cry Me a River and all. I still find it remarkable that she's been so nice about him whenever he's been brought up. I mean, I don't know him or the full situation, but on paper leading your girl on like you're gonna marry her and then dumping her out of the blue for somebody else? Not deserving of politeness. That woman is tougher than she looks.

Eh, I don't know why I'm dwelling on Chelsea's ex when I have rehearsal to get on with. Kevin and I suddenly decided to replace Last Night with Damn Girl in the set… this is all very well, but it requires rehearsal. So instead of dwelling on Chelsea's ex, I need to go tell her to move the PR operation elsewhere while I do my shit. She's on my stage and I need it.

***

Dear God I'm bored.

I have run out of people to call. This is partly because it's two in the morning, and partly because I already spoke to Kennedy too many times today. I already filled up my mother quota of phone calls for the week - I can only take two before she starts needling me about something or other, but two she can keep pretty pleasant. Lisa's a no go; with all those kids she gets precious little sleep as it is.

Justin was gracious enough to tell me I looked tired and that I shouldn't bother coming to the show. It was one of those spectacular male 'foot in mouth' moments - men are so clueless. They're trying to show concern for you but don't realise that they just managed to tell you that you look like shit in the process. His mother totally rolled her eyes at him though, so at least it wasn't just me being oversensitive. I guess I probably do look tired though, the late nights and travelling have started taking a toll. When Sophie's travelling she turns in a lot earlier, so even through all the upheaval I still get a decent amount of rest. Touring is not like that: late nights and early starts.

Sophie… I wish I could call Sophie, but I've been avoiding her. I miss her. Those two things may sound mutually exclusive, but you'd be surprised.

You don't realise how used you get to a person until they're gone. Sophie always gives me my time to just read or have my bath or have some quality self time for a little while, but she has an uncanny knack of knowing just when to knock on my door saying she's bored and do I want to try this mud pack she got sent. We've had some great moments, just sitting in one or other of our hotel rooms and cackling away about nothing while doing girl stuff. I was a lot more tomboyish before I met her, but she helped me find my feminine side… and my whole style, really. She is the best at girly nights in (almost better than Kennedy).

On this tour it's all or nothing - I'm either surrounded by people or totally alone. It's like there's no balance. I really want to call Sophie, and with where she is I could probably just about get away with it time wise (though it's pushing it a little). The problem is though that I really don't want to talk to her knowing that she wants this information on Justin that I cannot bring myself to give her. I hate feeling like I'm spying on him. It's irrational of me because I know she's being totally harmless and she hasn't asked me to do anything that isn't a daily occurrence amongst thousands of women all over. She hasn't asked me to go through his drawers or dish out confidential information; she just wants me to feel him out a little for her.

So why so I feel like I'm spying? Ugh, it's not like it matters. The end result is still that I can't bring myself to talk to her because I spend our entire conversations worrying about what I'll say when she asks. Sometimes she doesn't even ask, but does this stop me? It's so stupid, I can only pretend to miss her calls so many times before she gets it into her head that I'm avoiding her… and then she really will start calling me non stop.

You know what, that's it. I'm sick of being by myself and I'm bored of reading. I'll go see if Trace is still up… oh wait, he got on a plane and left this morning, That was real smart, Chelsea, well done for that piece of blondeness. Though I suppose… nah, Justin will be asleep. Though I don't know, he's usually pretty wired after shows and he tells me he can be an insomniac. It came up because he asked me to go buy some over the counter sleeping aids in Chicago (apparently he uses them as a last resort, though he refuses to take anything that really would knock him out). Justin wouldn't want to hang out with me anyway.

Though that never seems to stop him invading my room when he's bored. Maybe it's time for him to return the favour.

***

Shit, was that a knock on my door? At this hour?

Oh well, it's not like I was asleep anyway. Monica called me up crying with no comprehension of what time it is here. I really wanted to hang up on her so I could go to sleep…but considering that she's so upset on my behalf and that makes it a little unfair to blow her off, I kept with it. You know, it's funny, when we were dating she'd never have been so concerned on my behalf and I never would have hesitated to hang up if I felt like it. We're nicer to each other now than we ever were back then.

I quickly yank on a pair of sweats as the knock softly sounds again. "Coming!" I say as I make my way to the door. For a moment I worry that maybe something's wrong, but then if that were the case it'd be about fifty people hammering down my door. That has happened before, and sometimes not when I would honestly define the situation as "urgent."

I pull open the door and there's Chelsea, standing before me in a sweater, PJs and… purple fuzzy slippers. Well that's interesting. She was embarrassed by me seeing her in curlers but not in those worn out things which really look like they've seen better days? I don't understand women.

"Hey," I say succinctly.

"Hey. I didn't wake you up did I?"

No, you're just preventing me going to sleep in the first place. "No, no. I was awake. What's up?"

"Umm, could I come in for a sec?"

"Sure." I step away from the door, holding it open for her to slip through. Now I'm a little worried. She seemed quiet. She's always quiet, but she's not usually quiet while knocking on my door at this godforsaken time of the morning.

She walks into the living room area of my suite and shuffles around. It'd be pacing if it wasn't so slow and random (and hampered by footwear). Her arms are folded over her chest and she looks self conscious. With a slight jolt I realise this is the first time I've seen her in glasses - or at least it's the first time I've noticed, anyway. I guess she wears contacts. It's also the first time I've seen her totally devoid of make up with her hair all scraped back like that; even with the curlers incident she was a little more put together than this. Maybe it shouldn't be so shocking, I've lived with plenty of girlfriends and seen the natural versus the make up, but Chelsea always seems so… yeah, put together. I don't know if she was always like that or it's Hollywood having its usual effect, but she's always so co-ordinated.

"So… what's up?" I try again.

"Oh, uhh, nothing really." She smiles sheepishly at me. "Couldn't sleep."

That's it? She can't sleep so she's come over here to keep me awake? I guess this is payback for all those times I invited myself over to her room. I would love nothing more than to kick her out right now, but I guess I owe her. That and I'm mildly curious - if you'd put it to a bet I'd have laid money on this never happening.

"Do you feel like watching a movie?" Which she really could have done in her own room?

"No, I could have done that without coming over here and bugging you." Shit, it's like she read my mind... I hope she didn't read it from my face. "I just… felt like some company. If that's okay," she adds hurriedly.

Oh. She just wants company? Okay… strange, but I guess I can do that. With any luck she'll tire out quick and then I can go back to bed. She's so neat and organised I almost imagined that she falls asleep whenever her pretty little head schedules itself to. Insomnia doesn't fit her image.

She sits down on the couch, and I sit down next to her. Silence ensues. I'm guessing that when she said 'company' she meant the pure physical presence of somebody else rather than actual conversation and shit like normal people. That does fit her image more than insomnia… for being somebody's PA and thus attached to their ass twenty four seven, Chelsea has always struck me as a little bit of a lone wolf. That's not just me being mean or anything - Trace has said the same. It's not like she doesn't have friends, obviously, but she just seems very independent. In a way I kind of admire that; for all my complaining that I never get any alone time, whenever I do get it it's not long before I crave company (the normal kind with the talking).

"I guess if I came over here for company I ought to start talking, huh?" She jokes out of the blue. Now I really am wondering if she's telepathic.

"Hey," I shrug, "whatever." Do you see how chivalrous I'm being here? I'm really uncomfortable and I really want to go to bed, but whatever she wants.

"I don't know why I can't sleep," she says as she rubs her eyes beneath her glasses, a little pair of rimless squares. "I'm bone tired."

"I get like that sometimes. I've still got those pills you bought me, if…"

"No," she shoots down my cunning plan, "I'm allergic. I thought they sounded great in the store and I was gonna get some for me until I read the back."

Huh - I guess insomnia probably is part of her image then. That's weird, she never lets on that she's anything but totally awake. How the fuck can she do that? When I'm tired, everybody knows it. It's not that I'm a bastard or anything, it's just that no matter how hard I try I can't pretend to be with it if I'm not.

"You're not coming down with something are you?" I suggest. She still shakes her head.

"No. If I was I'd have a sore throat, that's always the first thing."

"I start sneezing first."

"My Dad starts dying first," she jokes. "He suffers from man flu a lot."

"What does he do?" I ask. Mindless chatter about families should work well enough.

"He owns his own construction business. Mom's a nurse. I'd ask what your parents do but I think that'd make me look pretty stupid."

I actually laugh at that. If this is anything to go by, she jokes a lot more when she's tired than she does normally. "Yeah, I'd have to question what the fuck you'd been doing for the last couple weeks when you were supposed to be paying attention."

"I confess! I've been too busy plotting the demise of your career. That's why Sophie really sent me here - she doesn't want the competition being prettier than her."

What? What does that mean? Sophie thinks I'm pretty? Chelsea thinks I'm pretty? No, wait Timberlake, she's joking again you moron. Besides, I'm not sure that 'pretty' is really what I want to be. Hot, sexy, or burning hunk of man: that I can deal with, but pretty is just way too girly. I don't know how I'd feel about either of those two women finding me pretty.

"So Sophie thinks I'm hot, does she?" I joke back, trying to shrug it off. "Tell her likewise."

Okay, was it just me or did she just get a flicker of a weird expression? The thing I hate about this girl is that I can't read her. Reading people is an unspoken talent of mine - I don't like to publicise it because it works best when people aren't aware you're doing it. Chelsea, however, totally eludes me. I can't get the measure of her, and I find it both fascinating and really fucking irritating. Anybody else and I'd know what they were thinking, but that was an odd little twitch in her face. Alas, it's gone now and I'm totally lost.

"Speaking of Sophie," I try to steer the conversation back on course, "how is she?"

"Umm, fine. Busy as usual."

Okay, I KNOW I didn't dream that. It was that expression again, and on second glance I smell guilt. I think. I'm not sure. I really wish I knew what went on in thus woman's head. It's lame because it's for no reason other than the fact it's not obvious already, but when did I ever claim to be anything but lame? That's why me and Trace laugh at all these articles which name me King of Cool or whatever; it's because we know better.

"Bet you can't wait to get back to normal and off this crazy boat," I joke.

"Actually it's been kind of cool." Yet again, she surprises me. "It's nice to be doing something a little different for a change."

"Even if I do drive you to insomnia." Okay, why must I start cracking jokes every time I get nervous? It's lame. Then again, we did already establish that I am lame.

"Ahh, don't flatter yourself kid." She pats my bare arm and there's this really pointy part on her ring and it just scratched me. I will not mention how much that stung. "Too much crap going on in my head is all. I think I just can't shut my brain off when it's this busy."

Weirdly enough I kind of understand that, though it again makes me wonder what the heck is going on in there. I guess it's probably like I said earlier - she's repressed or something. Maybe that's the price of her being so invariably on point and with it all the time. I learnt the hard way that if you don't deal with your shit promptly, it'll just creep back up to bite your butt later. I still kind of see this whole woman beater debacle as a consequence of me sticking in that mutually destructive relationship with Monica so long that it came to that. If I will follow the wrong head, this is what I get.

Chelsea however only has the one head, so I wonder what her excuse is. She doesn't get to blame the Y chromosome for her shit.

"Wanna talk about it?" I offer.

"Thanks, but I think it's more of a Kennedy conversation." She gives me a sad little smile.

"Oh, I get it. Now this little visit makes sense; it's too late to call Kennedy so I'm your second choice." I give her a fake sniffle. "I'm very hurt by that.

"Third, actually. Trace isn't here," she says with an evil glint.

Okay, now THAT deserves retribution. I pick up one of the throw pillows and I give her a light smack with it. For a moment she looks shocked, almost indignant, but then she just picks up the other one and whacks me right back - a lot harder than I did.

"Don't start what you can't finish," I warn her.

"Hit me again and you'll be the one sorry you started, Timberlake."

"Never let it be said I back down from a challenge." She gets another hit for that. I get another glare for that.

"See now I know why they say you're a woman beater. Maybe I should call In Touch."

That's it. Bitch is going down for that. I go in for the kill, and the duel begins. I'm probably going to have to pay out for these ridiculously expensive cushions if we manage to send the feathers flying, but I'll consider it a necessary expense. Miss Chelsea is going to pay for that.

What I am about to say is sheer Timberlake blasphemy. I think I could get packed off straight back to Sophie if I ever articulate this thought. Heck, sometimes I'm worried that merely thinking it could get my dirty little secret uncovered.

Timbaland irritates the shit out of me.

I'm not exactly sure why, but I think it might be because he's always saying stuff like 'they cool,' 'this be' and 'that fine.' It seems like the guy is missing some key words from his vocabulary: 'are,' 'is,' 'was' and others. Maybe he's just trying to sound like Yoda, I don't know. Whatever it is it drives me crazy; I know he's not the only person in the world who talks that way and in the grand scheme of things it's not like he kicks puppies, but dear GOD it's annoying. Not to mention that the whole Thomas Crown thing he has going on is weird. Precisely how many different pseudonyms and monikers does he need? Most of us do fine with the one.

Also, Justin tends to laugh a lot around him. This is not a bad thing in principle, a little mirth is a good thing, but around Tim he always seems to use this really loud and high pitched yell of a laugh that I never hear any other time. It's about as pleasant as having a tooth drilled, though possibly more painful. Nobody's handing out Novocaine for this. Maybe it's unfair to blame Tim, but he's the only person who seems to inspire this laugh so I feel the link is not totally without evidentiary support. Heh, evidentiary support - you can so tell I watched Legally Blonde last night.

"Hey, Chelsea, I forgot this came for you last night."

"Huh?" I look up from my 'checking out' checklist with a confused expression.

As a matter of fact we just checked in to this hotel, but I always check the leaving checklist against the unpacking checklist. That way if I did something wrong the first time it shows pretty quickly. It's better than not realising you left something in New York a week later, because in a week you will be amazed what hotel employees will have liberated from a celebrity's suite. Most of the public presumed the idiot selling Sophie Lumos's pregnancy test on eBay as found in her hotel room trash can was a total fraud - there's a possibility he may not have been. It's better to know what's unaccounted for within 24 hours, I feel.

Justin grins at my unknowing expression (though thankfully his laugh is in lower pitch) and he tosses me a bulky looking package. I instinctively wince as it hits me, but then realise it's actually soft. I look at it and then him inquisitively as Tim observes in amusement.

"What is it?"

"Little present from me. Well, half from me and half from Trace," he concedes.

"The last present I got from any of you guys involved him singing with a box strapped to his groin. What's in the package?" I ask suspiciously as Justin bursts into laughter again.

"It doesn't sing or have anything to do with Trace's dick, I promise."

"Which limits the mischief potential so much," I say sarcastically. "Very reassuring."

"It's good, I promise, just open it!"

Finally curiosity gets the better of me and I go for it. It's one of those annoying trash-bag like wrappers which they secure with five tons of unyielding sticky tape, and it's a nightmare trying to get in. I wish I was in my room, I could just go for my nail scissors (which I never use to snip off split ends, oh no). Tim makes a not quiet enough comment about how concentrated I look, and that laugh sneaks out again. Maybe I would be doing the world a favour if I just gagged Justin. Nobody these days cares about lip syncing, right?

Then finally I get in and… damn it. I have to take it all back. Justin and Trace are AWESOME.

"Oh my God…" I breathe as I yank the hoodies out and unfold them in disbelief.

"We were arguing over which hoodie we each paid for," Justin jokes.

Call me a great big girl, but I kind of want to cry. While Trace and Kennedy were here and we all went out, Justin made a joke about how I wasn't wearing my PCD hoodie this time. This led to a fairly venomous comment from me about how Marco Fako had ruined my other one - which he had, considering that he caused me to bleed copiously from my nose all over my nice white shirt. Apparently I can make tie dyed designer shirts white again but I can't get blood out of my nice white Don't Cha hoodie.

Well, right now I have a brand new one sitting in my lap, as well as the one from Buttons. They didn't just replace what I lost, they went one better. I can't believe they did this. This is… I mean, to anybody else it's just a couple of cheap hoodies, but for me… this was so thoughtful. I almost wouldn't have expected it from the Burp and Fart Kings.

"Wow… this is… this is so nice of you guys. Thank you."

"You a big Dolls fan, huh?"

Really, is it so hard to say 'you're' Tim? "Far too big for my age, yeah."

"Heck, if you want a PA spot with them I could put in a good word. Them girls need some organisation on their asses, always late to the studio," he laughs. I'd almost forgotten he worked with them.

"Nah, I'm not looking to be a PA forever," I say. I immediately wish I hadn't, because he looks interested.

"Yeah? What you wanna do? Work for a label?"

"Nah, she's in the movie industry," Justin explains on my behalf. "I snagged her from Sophie Lumos for a couple weeks."

"Cool, cool," Tim says. You know, it's not like he's a bad guy, I just hate the way he talks for no good reason. I'm irrational. "So what you looking to do?"

"Film production, eventually," I answer. "It's just hard to get a foot in the door at the studios without lots of set time and a resume as long as your arm."

It's true. Every producer I've talked to either got a supremely lucky break or they slogged their guts out for years to get even halfway to where they are. I like it because you get a good mix of the creative side of the industry and the practicalities of it. I have a brain that I like to let run wild, but I also know to play to my strengths and organisation has always been my thing. I never missed a deadline or lost a single piece if paper in college. That would be great if anybody wanted to take a chance on me, but I know I'm not destined to be one of the lucky ones - so I must go the other route, the one that involves much menial work for crappy pay until I can force my way up the ladder.

"You know a lot of it is just persistence. Can't tell you how many people told me to get the fuck out on my way up, and now I earn more than any of 'em," Tim laughs with a wink at Justin, who gives him a knowing smile back.

I hate the way people do that. It's well intentioned, but so condescending when people who've made it say stuff like that to you. Great, I'm glad you had this great ride to the top but I am not you - it's not likely that I am going to wind up a millionaire. People are so quick to talk about their sweat, blood and tears if anybody suggests to them that they had it easy, but it never stops them telling you in unsolicited advice that it's all so simple if you just try. Fuck, it probably is simple if you've always known you want to be a singer and that's it, but some of us are flying blind here. Not everybody knows exactly what they want…

So why do I feel like such a freak, and like I'm the only one? I know I'm not, but it feels like everybody else gets it and I'm still stuck in adolescence. I keep waiting for the light bulb moment or for somebody to show me the way, and it never fucking happens. How the fuck do people know at the age of six what they want to do for the rest of their lives?

I won't say any of this to them though. I'll just be keeping quiet - that was my big mistake with my parents, talking about it. Now all they do is yammer on and on about what I should be doing and making disapproving noises any time I mention my current job - like unemployment is any better. Funny how everybody else always seems to be so determined that they know what's best for you and what you're destined for when you have no idea.

Maybe there'd be something to it if any of them actually agreed with each other.

***

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck it takes to make that chick happy.

For a moment there I thought we'd cracked it with the hoodies, but after talking to me and Tim for a while she went all quiet again. God only knows why. Now she's been quiet all day and it makes me cranky when I can see people around me so obviously depressed about something. It's like it's catching or something. The worst is if my Mom gets like that - then all is really not right with the world. On the bright side she is still wearing her brand new Buttons hoodie so I guess Trace and I got something right.

I'm just catching my breath and changing right now, I should be concentrating on keeping my focus for the second half of the show. The great thing about having Tim around is that I can have him do what he did for the arena shows - take on a few songs and give me a quick breather. It also helps if I can get out of this sweaty outfit. My wardrobe lady is nowhere to be seen, so it's Chelsea tossing a new pair of pants and an identical except in colour shirt over the top of the changing screen for me. In arena show quick changes there's no room for this kind of modesty, but that's the other good thing about a club tour.

"Can you toss me another belt?' I ask as I look critically at the buckle on the current one. It looks like it could go any second and I do not need my pants falling down on stage.

Quickly she obliges, and then I hear her heels clacking over to the other side of the room and springs creaking where she flops onto the sofa.

"What are you doing?" It's purely to fill the silence; I don't much care about the answer. I just find that being too quiet between acts stops the adrenalin going and it starts the come down process - it's too early for that halfway through a show.

"Reading trashy gossip about people who aren't you," she says and I chuckle.

Sadly, the gossip rags are still on form with the made up bullshit so Chelsea has to religiously read all about what a terrible person I am. Neither she nor my mom will let me look at any of it, but I guess I didn't hide that copy too well. Chelsea may be my PA right now but she's not the only one who can go out to Borders for me. The coverage is now leading more towards womaniser than woman beater, but that's because famous women keep coming to the show and I'm fool enough to oblige if they ask for pictures at the after parties.

I should be used to the fact that if I'm within ten feet of a woman I'm clearly screwing her brains out, but I have just never got it. I mean, I don't assume that every guy I see is fucking the woman he's standing closest to. Hell, these people once had Elisha pegged as my girlfriend when at the time she was Trace's. Worse, they thought I was boning RACHAEL and she's my frickin' cousin. As far as I can tell, most people don't do that to anybody… except me, apparently. For some reason I'm fair game.

Sometimes I really do wonder if it's time for me to just bow out. They'd get bored of me eventually if all I did was produce for other people or whatever. I just don't know if I could give up doing this… these shows, performing my own stuff, knowing that however many million people are listening to ME, to MY shit, liking MY stuff. That makes me open season though. Supposedly the tabloid shit is part and parcel of my job and if I sign up for fame then I have to sign up for defamation and stalking. I don't know if I can do it any more.

Sighing, I step out from behind the screen, all ready to go. Chelsea's flicking through the magazine and I look at her, wondering what it's like in her shoes. She gets the restaurants, the hotels and (some of) the freebies, just with fewer accolades and a lot less shit. She's sat there right now in jeans, a hoodie, the blonde hair scraped back off her face and not a drop of make up. Sophie would get slaughtered in the write ups; nobody cares if Chelsea does it.

"Ready to go?" Chelsea looks at her watch. "You got about three minutes."

"Yeah." I nod a little too hard in response, as if doing so will just erase the craziness that went through my head. Who am I to complain, right? I'm not exactly a starving child in Africa.

She flicks through aimlessly, seeming to bypass any celebrity who doesn't interest her. "Are you going to the after party?"

"I like the bar, but I don't want to stay too long."

"If you go you'll stay too long," she says knowingly.

"Ahh, I'm young right? I should party while I can."

"Partying's overrated," she shrugs. "I mean, don't get me wrong, in moderation it rocks but I never saw the point of doing it all the time."

I didn't exactly have her figured for the party type. This is the girl you go to a ball game or movies with, even if she would look a little too girly. "Well I didn't go last time so I figure I'm covered."

"Because the time before last time you swore never to drink again." She gives me a wry grin and a wink, and I know she's teasing.

Foolishly, I take this as a sign she's in a better mood. This was very premature of me and it was probably a jinx too, because by the time she's turned the next page her eyes have bugged out of her head. Her left hand looks suspiciously like it's shaking a little and her face is going red. It's not an embarrassed kind of red, it's a furious 'hell hath no fury' kind of red.

"What's up?" I ask cautiously.

"I can't believe she did this."

That's not a very illuminating response, so I try again. "Who did what?"

Chelsea folds the page around to keep it, and then tosses the magazine at me before storming out of the room. I don't have the time or inclination to follow her, so instead I just take a look at the article. At first all I see is Sophie kissing some guy, and I really don't understand why that would piss her off so much. The Einstein moment comes as my unobservant self finally clocks who she's kissing - none other than Marco Lame-o.

So Chelsea being mad kind of makes sense now. I'd be pissed too if the guys who assaulted me was now happily back in the arms of a woman who said she was my friend and that she'd ditched him over it. Who knows how long this has been going on, or if they even really split up to begin with? Either way, I'm betting Chelsea's feeling a phantom pain in her nose right now - and possibly a more real migraine kind of one.

Still, I don't have time to worry about it; she can go cool off somewhere and by the time the show's done she'll probably have calmed down. Instead I walk out to take my position, slap Tim's hand as he comes off and stroll lazily back out to my mike stand. The screams that go up are an elixir for me - instantly I feel better and my smile's back on. I might smile for a photographer's camera or an interviewer when I don't mean it, but I never need to fake it for a show. This shit can cure anything.

The band start the build up to Rock Your Body, and I prepare for the ritual audience participation moment. I roll up my sleeves as I sway to the music, winking at a girl who yells something really crude about what she wants to do to me. Sorry, sweetheart, but the last thing I need on my record right now is a statutory rape charge - she has to be over twenty one to be in here but she looks about twelve, you'd understand the cops' mistake.

"Are y'all tired yet?" I yell to the crowd. The band prompt them with the required answer by yelling 'hell no' into their own mikes. By the time I yell "are you ready to quit" the crowd has got it.

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all ready to quit?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all ready to quit?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Can I rock my shit?"

Before they can even start the 'hell yes' they're interrupted by what can only be described as a snap, crackle and pop. Sparks suddenly fly out of one of the lights - it sends my backing singers ducking for cover, and suddenly the loud drone of a fire alarm is going off as it ignites a curtain. Now the screaming isn't for me - people are starting to push and shove in the rush for the doors, and I'm not sure whether I'm more worried about me burning to death or them being trampled to death.

Before I know it Dre has seized my dumb founded, frozen self and is hauling me off the stage while Mike is talking into a microphone and beseeching everybody to stay calm and not to run.

***

Praying to every God I ever heard of, I dial Lynn Harless's number into my cell phone one last time and press send. For a brief moment I hear a dial tone, but it's quickly gone with the loud beep of my battery dying. Naturally the screen dies, and soon I find out that the bastard thing won't even turn on any more. The one and only time in my life I have a real emergency (not the 'Sophie's flight was cancelled' kind), and it's the one and only time I didn't remember to charge my phone.

Finally there's nothing to do but slump against the nearest building and cry. It's not a very adult reaction, but I am past adult right now. I fall to the floor and bitterly slam my phone against the ground. This is a very stupid thing to do, because I think I've broken it. I've also taken the skin off a few knuckles.

I was hiding out in the toilets when that stupid alarm went off. I didn't even know if it was real or not. All I know is that when I heard it and stepped out of the bathroom to see what was happening, the entire audience was swarming out in the opposite direction and there was no way in hell I was going to get back through to the backstage area. I figured that the best thing I could do was to follow the crowd out and wait outside the club. It's in the middle of a very long street so there's no way I could get round to the back entrance, but I figured somebody would pick me up.

Or at least I figured that until I saw the regulation Escalades racing down the street without stopping.

Foolishly, I even thought they might have made a mistake and would be coming back any moment. Soon I realised that it was a dumb thought and I'd been forgotten (that made me feel so great about myself, I can tell you). For a few moments I managed to be sensible and figured I could just go and grab my purse from inside and get a cab. Then the nice man from the fire department told me that the fire wasn't out and to top it all off they suspected another one could spark any second - lots of faulty wiring. Nobody was going in there for a good few hours, he told me. Then, naturally, I couldn't get a signal on my phone - by the time I did, it was dead.

Fine, I thought. Walking is good for you. I thought it'd take me half an hour, tops. This did not take into account my appalling lack of geography, an unfamiliar city and a pair of fucking stilettos. My feet are in agony. I finally had to take them off and walk barefoot, which considering the part of town I seem to have wound up in is risking broken glass and dirty needles. I have no idea where I am and no money. I even thought about wasting some police time and dialling 911, but every pay phone I find seems to have been vandalised. I could have burst into tears when some guys saw my hoodie and started grabbing their crotches and yelling how they'd be happy to oblige. For one heart stopping moment I thought I was about to get raped.

God, I bet nobody's even looking for me. How could they have just run off without me? Or even if they had to get Justin out of there, how long would it have taken to come back and check for me? For all they know I've fucking burned to death. You know, as much as I hate Sophie for getting back with Marco after all the spying she made me do and what he did to me and Kennedy, I know she would have never let this happen to me. She'd have screamed the place down before she let me get left anywhere. Hell, she once kicked a very important director out of her car for me (wound up being a good thing, the movie he decided not to give her was a total flop).

Finally there's nothing for me to do but get up and keep walking, wincing in agony every step of the way. I figure if I just walk for the brightest street lights I see, I'll either wind up in a nice suburb where I won't be scared to knock on a door and ask for a phone, or back on the main roads nearer the hotel.

I don't know who was listening up there, but I could cry tears of joy when a cab turns down the street and heads towards me. It's an actual licensed cab, too. I swear I might actually listen next time my mother drags me to church.

"Hey, could you take me to the Regent?" I'm babbling too fast. "I don't have any money on me, my purse got left, but as soon as we get there I can get to my room and…"

"Sure, sure," he says kindly, obviously a little taken back by what a mess I am.

I'm sure I look great, red eyes and a snotty nose. He seems like the grandfatherly type, the kind who'd always do a girl in distress a favour. Or maybe it's just because he knows that if I'm in the Regent then I will have cash. I'm deathly quiet on the short journey, aside from the odd sniffle. I watch as the streets go by, and it would have taken me a good while to walk back. Five minutes in a car is a much longer way by foot. My feet are burning, and I can't help a few more tears slipping. My knuckles hurt too.

Before I know it I'm at the hotel, telling him to wait outside while I get his fare. I shuffle in as fast as my painful feet will allow me, and go straight to the welcome desk. If the night porter is alarmed or surprised, he doesn't let it show - remind me to tip him later.

"Hey, umm…" God I can barely talk. "I lost my purse and I needed to get a cab, would you be able to spot me twenty dollars and charge it to room 2315?"

"Certainly ma'am." Wordlessly he opens the register and hands me the money, before immediately going to the computer and adding it to my bill. For the price they charge here, you'd think it'd be complimentary.

The next few minutes are a hazy blur as I go out, pay the dude, and then tramp back in and catch an elevator. You know how you can push through more than you'd ever think but then the second you get home the energy just disappears out of you in a second? Like if you let go of a balloon before you tie it and it immediately goes whizzing around the room before the air runs out and it drops? This is how I feel right now. You could walk up to me and tell me that my entire family was wiped out by a meteor and not a damn part of it would register. Heck, anybody could ask me anything right now and get a yes out of me. For some weird reason, I think to check my feet and I see how black with grime they are. It'll hurt like hell scrubbing that off while my feet are this sore.

Finally the elevator stops at the Timberlake floor, and I hear yelling. It takes a while before the words actually go through my head.

"How fucking long can this take?" Somebody's yelling.

"You need to calm down…" That's a Southern accent.

"Calm down? The building was fucking on fire and now we can't find her? How the hell did she get left behind?"

"Dude, you need to relax. I'm sure she was fine and she just got sent through the wrong door or something and got caught up in the crowd. They'll find her." Huh - so Timbaland can construct real sentences. Who knew?

"If anything happens to her…" Oh, wait, that voice is Justin. He sounds pissed. "How the fuck did we manage to get everybody out of there and back here and then not realise she was missing for two fucking hours?"

"Chelsea?"

My head instinctively rises as much as it's able at the sound of my name. Fuzzily I realise it was Lynn who spotted me, but it takes less brain power to notice Justin ploughing into me at speed and then practically breaking my rib cage with an over zealous hug. This is the last thing I need right now, more pain. Also, the one thing my brain did hear loud and clear was that nobody missed me for two whole damned hours. It's nice to know how important I am around here.

"Oww," I moan, and thankfully he takes the hint and loosens up a little. I'm actually glad he didn't let go, because right now he's the only thing keeping me upright.

"Shit, are you okay? What happened?"

"You drove off without me but then you knew that. Ass."

"I'm so sorry; I thought you were in the other car…" I can't find the energy to bring my head up and actually look at him, but he sounds livid.

"I tried to walk back but my cell phone died and I got lost," I mutter sleepily. I imagine this is what it feels like to be drugged.

"You walked all the way back here?" Lynn sounds horrified.

"Got lucky eventually. Cab came by." Even as I talk I'm starting to slur a little, and my eyes keep blinking shut. The last thing I feel is the sensation of being swept off my feet and pressed up against Dre's hulk of a chest before I completely black out.

"Justin!"

He's still storming off in the other direction even as Lynn calls his name. His mother looks a little hurt by his snub, and I wince in sympathy - he can be a little dramatic when he's pissed off. There's lots of stomping around and glowering.

"Justin!"

"Lynn, let me," I say to her with a quiet hand on her arm as Justin disappears into his room. She looks almost insultingly sceptical.

"Thank you, sweetie, but I think I…"

"Lynn, trust me," I say firmly. "It's better if I go."

You might think I'm being chivalrous or something but really, I'm just being too nice to tell her that her son is not in the mood for mothering. Sophie's madre does it sometimes too; parents, even the closest ones, don't always get that sometimes their children want to have a no-holds barred bitch fest. You can't do that if Mom is standing there telling you to watch your language - sometimes, you need to talk to your peers. Sometimes you don't want to talk to your parents when you actually need to (like when you're in a black hole of debt or under indictment or something), but when it comes to just letting it out and having a good whine it's friends you need.

She wants to disagree, but she's wavering. "But are you sure you…"

"I can," I interrupt. "I am to date the only person besides Rod Stewart who has ever successfully forced an on air retraction from Russell Brand." I can tell she's never heard of Russell Brand - he's an annoying and really not funny British comedian. He likes to make some really distasteful jokes. Whatever, he bitched out Sophie and I made him publicly back down; I am that good.

"Okay," she sighs, staring doubtfully at his door as we stop at her own. "I guess I could use an early night anyway."

I quickly see her off into her room, and I dismiss the bodyguards with a much easier shaking of my head. They know the signal, and they know they're done for the night. I've come to recognise Justin's moods over the last few weeks, and he will not go and party when he's like this; he won't leave the room, he'll just brood. I do the same when I'm pissed - I just go for self pity rather than sulking. Whatever, I get the anti-social nature of it, which is why it has to be me who goes in there. It takes one to know one… or to manipulate one into snapping out of it.

I say that like I didn't already manipulate him into giving me yesterday off as compensation for that whole leaving me to die in a burning building. Of course he didn't do anything of the kind, but I might have let him think that a little. I shamelessly took advantage of his panic and worry after I seemingly fainted. I say 'seemingly' because despite popular misconception I didn't pass out - I fell asleep. I was tired and scared and my feet were sore, so as soon as Dre took the weight of my feet like that it was sleepy time. Still, he felt so bad about it and I was still pretty tired so I made him give me the whole day off to laze around and read. It was great, I loved it. I feel so much better today.

The other advantage I have over Lynn is a copy of Justin's key card, so I quickly swipe it and let myself in where she'd have been relying on him to open the door. Apparently he's expecting me (or at least someone), because he's at the window and he doesn't even turn around before he speaks.

"It's so fucking wrong."

"I know," I sympathise. "But it's the best we got."

"But it… it just doesn't work!" Justin turns to me and he's swiping his fist through the air as though at an imaginary opponent. He's frustrated.

By some miracle, we managed to find another venue to host the abruptly cancelled shows - yes, that's shows, because we were supposed to have one last night too. We had to bend over backwards to accommodate the extra date; it involved people giving up their mid week break and us pushing back other shows to different nights. However, it looks great from a PR standpoint that Justin is so unwilling to let his fans down even though this clearly wasn't his fault. He needs all the good PR he can get right now.

What he's bitching about is that the venue we managed to get is not a small club. The good news is that we can fit both shows into one night because of the capacity; the bad news is that the capacity totally wrecks the intimate club show vibe. That's not just Justin being picky, the second you walk in there it gives off an entirely different ambience and anybody with half a brain cell could see that. It is, however, the only venue we will be getting at such short notice and he's going to have to live with it. The problem is that Mr Perfectionist can't live with less than perfection.

"It's so fucking wrong." He's muttering the phrase like a mantra as he paces through the room.

"Look, Justin…" I sigh. "I won't lie, it sucks. I can see what you mean about it diluting the atmosphere but it's just one night, one show, and this isn't your fault. So long as you go up there and rock it they're not going to give a shit where they are. Fuck, so long as you stand there and look pretty they're probably not even going to care if you sing."

A-ha… that's a smile that just poked at the corner of his mouth there. It was only a little twitch, but my eagle eye caught it.

"I guess." He scratches the back of his head and he's still clearly unhappy, but his shoulders seem to have relaxed a little.

He's wandering around in one of those beater vest shirt things and while most girls ogle guys in those I actually look at the way they move in them. When you can see every muscle working it makes body language about three times clearer than if it's hidden under baggy t-shirts. Right now Justin's is reading pure dissatisfaction, although there's also an air of reluctant acceptance; he's tense, but not in an angry way. I then quietly amuse myself with the realisation that I'm dressed identically to him, though my jeans are faded and my vest is black where his is white. I wonder if my body language is easier to read in this outfit than if I was in a sweater or something.

"Oh, I got that interview with that radio station cancelled for tomorrow morning." Good thing I remembered that.

"You must be psychic," he chuckles before throwing himself onto the sofa next to me. "I was going to ask if somebody could do that."

"I couldn't figure out why they even booked you to begin with, that slot is women's hour." I shake my head in bewilderment; Sophie gets asked to do the weirdest things too. Justin being requested for what is normally marital advice hour is nothing compared to some of the stuff she's been asked to do… though I also expect it's nothing compared to other crap he's been asked to do that I don't know about.

"Tim was talking about me joining him on the urban station, am I free?" He asks me.

"What time?" I ask. I may or may not remember off the top of my head depending on what his answer is.

"Eleven."

"Then no, you still have to go for that other interview."

"Dang it." He picks up a pillow and starts playing with it, tossing it from hand to hand like it was one of those stress balls that they give executives to squeeze the tension out. "Speaking of shit that makes me go dang, are you avoiding Sophie?"

"Why do you ask?" I say slowly. Great, I might as well have just said 'yes' for all the neutrality I got in that sentence.

"Because she's calling me bitching about how I'm keeping you so busy you can't pick up a phone." He's glaring at me in consternation and it doesn't help with the squirming I was already doing. "What did she do?"

"Picked back up with Marco Fako." I'm going handily leave out the second part of that sentence: 'after she drove me nuts trying to get info on you so she could seduce you.'

"You hated him before but you were still speaking to her."

"That's different," I insist, "that was before he gave me that free ticket to the ER."

"Maybe there's an explanation?"

"Sure there is," I sigh. "She's totally insensitive and a complete sucker for total bastards."

Unexpectedly he slings and arm around my shoulder and pulls me a bit closer in. This is not out of any comfort; it's to pull me closer to his eye line so he can stare me down. It's a nefarious yet unfortunately effective little trick. My mouth has gone dry and I suddenly get the feeling I'm being unreasonable… all this before he's even spoken.

"Don't you think you should hear her out? Or maybe tell her how you feel?"

"Justin…" There goes yet another sigh. "You don't get it. Your PA has always been your best friend or your cousin. Your PA has always been somebody close to you that you not only expect to give it to you straight, you rely on them to do that so you don't turn into some stuck up ass. They have impunity to tell you if you're being dumb; I don't. Sophie is my boss and there's only so much I can do to push her before she draws that line back in the sand, and my pay check is back on the line. I'm not her friend, I'm her assistant. I have to watch what I say to her and if that means ignoring her calls when I can't be trusted to keep my trap shut then so be it."

I've created a moment of heavy silence with that little speech. I don't know whether he's just shocked that I would say that or if I'd made sense to him, but I can't believe I just said that. I mean, that's… that's a good deal of my shit laid bare. It's more than you might think it is, and I'm astounded I said it to anybody at all let alone him. His arm snakes back out from around my shoulders and falls limply to his lap, where he starts playing with the fingers of both hands.

"Do… you… feel that way around me?"

"What?" His words make me shake my head, trying to clear it from foggy stupor. I don't get what he means.

"Are you always watching what you say around me too?" He asks it quietly, his eyebrows knotted together in displeased fashion.

"I…" I'm about to deny it, but I have to stop and formulate words first. For a moment there I'm not sure what the answer to that question is.

"I mean… if you are…"

"No, no." Finally words rush back into my mouth as if somebody just broke the dam and the river's back in business. "You… you don't seem to mind anybody saying that stuff. I think you're so used to being that way with Trace that you treat me the same way because that's what you're used to."

He's pursing his mouth, obviously mulling this over in his head. I wait with baited breath until finally he nods and seems to accept it. "Okay. But you don't ever need to worry about that, really. I mean, I can't promise to never get pissed at you but I swear I'd never hold your job over your head like that."

"No, it's okay, I know."

We're both quiet after that, me picking nervously at my nails. I can't believe I made that little outburst, how stupid am I? Justin's the kind of dude who would run well meaning interference and hint at this stuff to Sophie. He wouldn't mean it badly and he'd try to be tactful, but that girl doesn't miss a trick. Well, okay, she misses the entire boat when it comes to Marco Fako and other people worming their way into her affections but generally speaking she's on the ball. If he says even the slightest little thing to her about this she'll work it out. Oh God, I'm so screwed. Why did I just say all that shit to him, why?

Though actually I wonder if he will. I can see him doing it to be nice, like I said, but then I can also see him being smart and keeping his mouth shut. I guess it's only just occurred to me that these days… I'm closer to him than Sophie is. All this time I've been looking at this like this little errand I'm running so Sophie can worm her way in there, and they spent more time together on set, but now it's different. I haven't just been working with him like she was, since my kind of work involves a lot of hanging out as well. It seems stupid that this didn't occur to me before, but I could make a decent claim to be his friend these days. At any rate, definitely a better one than she could. It really has only just crossed my mind that the dude actually might feel more loyalty to me than Sophie.

Hmm.

"You really think the show will be okay tomorrow?"

The abrupt change of subject is typical - this guy can't do uncomfortable silences. "Yeah. I mean, it won't be the same, but all you have to do is adapt with it. You're an old pro, you'll handle it."

"Hah. I'm old at twenty six?"

"You know what I mean." I give him a reproaching look, all eyebrows and narrowed eyes. Nobody arches an eyebrow like this bitch right here, I can give a real death glare when I want to. Kennedy's scared of it; she doesn't need to be since I don't to use it that often, but when she did last get it she cowered. "You'll be fine."

"You think?" There's a hint of the little boy in his face as he asks.

"I know."

Giving what I hope is an encouraging smile, I prop my head up on my elbow (or more accurately my hand which is steadied by my elbow), face tilted towards him wearily. I'm not sleepy, but I feel so wired it's exhausting. That's a massive contradiction, but whatever. Don't tell me it's not possible because hey, living proof. You can imagine my surprise when he quickly smiles back and then leans over to give me a peck on the lips, saying 'thanks.'

No, that was not the cheek, it was the lips: it's not like he tried to put his tongue down my throat but that was the kind of kiss I'd expect him to give his girlfriend or his mother, not his PA. It was the quick 'thank you' peck I give my mother after she's had me over for dinner (which would make sense, seeing as that's what he said), but it's weird that he gave it to me. Now I feel awkward, and the hairs on my arms are on end. It's not like he did anything wrong but it feels too familiar somehow… again, like I'm his girlfriend. It's exactly the kind of thing me and Will used to do; I'd be a smart ass and he'd give me a wry one of those, or if he thought I was being silly or cute he'd give me one. It's just weird coming from Justin.

I catch his eye with what must be a pretty startled look on my face. You might have expected him to blush, but instead he starts slowly leaning back over and I get the distinct impression he's going to repeat it again. Umm… I'm not too sure what to do about that. It's probably not a good idea and it's making me extremely uncomfortable, and yet my limbs seem to recognise the hesitance in my brain because they're not moving. Normally I'd be too smart to stand for any of this but I'm having that 'suspended in time' moment every girl has when she realises somebody's about to kiss her.

His lips hit mine with the slightest of pressure and I kind of think they get the slightest of pressure back. It almost tickles, it's so soft, but there's a strange magnetism to it. My eyes involuntarily close - it's been a very long time since this girl got kissed by a boy. There have been guys since Will but never more than a few dates, and the last of those was a good few months ago; it sounds silly and I know it, but I'd forgotten that it feels nice. He pulls back and his blue eyes hit my brown ones, probably searching for some kind of signal: a green light or a back off sign. He should be so lucky - I have no ideas right now.

Then he makes the choice for me; his hand goes to the side of my neck and he pulls me in for what is definitely more than a 'thank you' peck. I feel adrenalin shooting through my veins and my heart is pounding in my ears. Dear God, it really has been a fucking long time since I had anybody's lips on me - thoughts are still whizzing around my head, but the loudest one is telling the rest to shut up because the man is not a bad kisser. This may or may not be a bad idea but my capacity to reason is quickly shooting out the window as Justin grows bold and snakes his arms around me, pulling me closer.

He's so warm… and he smells like faded cologne and hand soap. At the moment he tastes like Jack Daniels and Coke (which would make sense as we had a few of those with dinner). We're not drunk though, so I won't have that excuse when we pull apart. I'm not completely sure when that will be however because I swear I'm half horizontal right now and I didn't notice that happening. I can feel his weight on me a little, though it's not entirely unwelcome. I'm all for being single and 'I Don't Need A Man' and all, but I had forgotten how not bad at all it feels having one.

I momentarily think of Sophie and how she'll flip her lid, but then I remember she's back with Marco and thus is no longer interested in Justin. I guess that means that for all she cares I can jump him right now… umm… one thing at a time, still not too sure about the kissing thing let alone sleeping with the dude.

I'm trying to have a coherent thought and he's very irritatingly doing things to my collarbone that prevent me being so.

I don't wake up with the alarm like I usually do; instead the crack of sunlight coming through the curtains is enough to drag me out of my sleep. It may also have something to do with the fact that the air conditioning is a little cold in here. I glance over the top of my companion's head at the clock, and I see that it's another two and a half hours before it's due to go off.

The companion in question is still slumbering peacefully on; as I watch Chelsea I see her chest rise and fall in slow, even breaths. It occurs to me as I look at her that we're dressed identically except for the colour of our shirts. She's in black and I'm in white - guess that makes me the good guy. I'd laugh, if I didn't think it'd wake her. I have a suspicion that if I wake up she'll flee before me, like a doe at the sound of twigs snapping beneath somebody's approaching feet. As it is, I gingerly reach for the blanket folded over the end of the bed, to pull it up around us both. We've both fallen asleep on top of the covers, still in our clothes.

I'm kind of amazed that we did actually, because I'm sure we moved in here with some kind of intent. We were kissing on the sofa, and then we did some kind of silent communication thing where I got up and she was only half a beat behind. We were kissing all the way into the bedroom, we were kissing on our way down to the mattress… but somehow the kissing stopped before it reached what you might think was the inevitable conclusion. I looked at her and she looked at me and before either of us knew it our eyes were shut and we were dead to the world. There was no rejection or big dramatic moment where we decided not to, we just kind of mutually and naturally drifted off.

Umm… I'd like to pretend that I was sensible and pulled back when I realised that she's my (borrowed) PA and that this is unprofessional and probably not a good idea in general, but I'd be a liar. It did cross my mind briefly, but it was more that… okay, I am turning into a woman even as I say this… it didn't feel right to go on and have sex, somehow. This is not something I hesitate to do under normal circumstances, but this time it just kind of came naturally for us to just stop at the kissing, tangle our legs up together and go to sleep. They're still tangled up, actually, although her torso is completely set back from mine and there's no suggestion that we're otherwise hugging.

Before you catch the impression that last night was in the least part innocent, I should probably tell you that I totally copped a feel.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not doing that lame 'I respect you too much to rush in' shit. I'm sorry if it busts any bubbles, but any guy who says that is just pulling game on some poor unsuspecting chick. It's either a lame excuse to back out because he's just not that into her or he's trying to build up some credibility as a gentleman because it'll get him excused from some less gentlemanly behaviour later. I know because I've done it myself - girls then react to all the later bullshit you pull with 'oh but he respects me really, he wouldn't even sleep with me at first because he wanted me to be sure.' There might be a few exceptions but in general it's a total lie, and I grew out of that kind of shit about three years ago.

Chelsea… I don't know. In any other situation I'd have gone for it, but Chelsea's different. It's not because she's some perfect girl who needs to be venerated and treated like a goddess or anything stupid like that, it's just that we're (kind of) friends and we work together. It just… you know sometimes you just get an instinctual, pit of your stomach sense of 'this is the dumb thing to do' and 'this is a much better idea?' Sleeping with her seemed kind of stupid at the time. Don't get me wrong, she's cool and while not Angelina Jolie she's quite good looking enough for any guy who doesn't have the stupid idea in his head that only supermodels are worth it. I definitely would have in the physical sense but… I don't know. Making out just seemed like the place to stop.

The question is, I guess, what now? All that kissing made sense at the time but right now I have no idea if she'll freak, if she'll want more, or if she'll pretend it never happened. I have no idea what I'll be doing about that either.

I definitely started it so I can't blame her, and I can't blame the drink either because I only had two rounds of JD and Coke. Two shots of whiskey are not nearly enough to get me wasted. Right now I'm staring at her, hoping that she won't somehow feel my gaze and wake up. If I got a crush on her that's one thing, but if I'm just horny and this isn't about her then I got far safer places to exercise that urge than on somebody I work with and consider a friend. I refuse to use my PA - not even my PA really, Sophie's - as a fuck buddy. That's just all kinds of wrong.

Her face is slightly round as I stare at it. In fact, most of her body is slightly rounded at the various curve points - the small of her back, her hips, and her stomach. You can tell this is a girl who doesn't look after herself as much as she could but doesn't slack off either. This is not a woman who starves herself or slaves in a gym, Chelsea's just kind of normal like that… and in everything, really. She's got this dark blonde hair that I'm guessing has a little chemical help, and behind the closed lids are two muddy brown eyes. Her features aren't too remarkable and she's not stunningly pretty or anything, she's just… nice. She has a nice face.

Heh, she just shifted a little and I can see some big red crease marks on her cheek from the pillow. Her foot brushes mine and I'm struck first by how small and then by how cold it is. Good thing I pulled that blanket up otherwise it would have been even colder.

***

Fuck it really is cold in here.

Fuck I made out with Justin Timberlake.

Fuck it's really great kissing boys. I'd repressed the information on how just how good: probably to help myself cope with the lack of one in my life.

My eyelids flutter open, and the first thing I see is a steely blue gaze. It almost startles me, but I manage to swallow the reaction and keep still. Apart from anything else, it's so cold in here I suspect the only parts of this blanket that will be warm are those directly feeding off my body heat and moving will make me colder. I wonder when he pulled it over us. He's a smart man… although maybe it would have been smarter to have got up and turned the air con down.

"Morning," he says simply.

"Morning," I reply in kind. "I guess we weren't smart enough to get under the blankets before drifting off, huh?"

Justin gives a light chuckle, humouring me. "Nope, guess not."

"What time is it?" I can't see a clock.

"Nearly six."

"You mean there's a whole two hours before I'm supposed to wake up?" I complain. "Shit."

I can't help noticing that for all this glib pretence that this is like any other morning I've come in to make sure he's up and at 'em, my feet are still tangled up with his. I'm not sure whether it's because his feet are warm and mine aren't or whether I'm just conscious of what signals I give off. It turns out that the morning after making out is just as awkward as mornings after sex… although thankfully I don't have the embarrassment of trying to pick up clothes and cover my naked self. I always hate that; what looks good after a couple of beers and some low level lighting isn't always so attractive in the harsh light of day.

"I thought that when I woke up, only with an extra thirty minutes on it," He lets out a big white yawn and I can see white teeth. These are the natural kind of white though, the one that isn't pure white; these are not Hollywood dentist white. I'm guessing it's been a while since he last had an appointment.

"Man, I just thought of all the crap you have to do today… you wanna pretend we ate some bad pizza and got food poisoning?" I joke.

"I actually tried that a couple of times back in the day - until I realised they then call doctors to check," he tells me mournfully through a yawn. "Anything not serious enough to need a doctor they expect me to suck it up and anything serious enough for a doctor they call one. There is no faking."

"Dang."

"Why, Sophie pull sickies a lot?" He asks.

"No. If she gets sick her mother starts pulling out all these home remedies and they taste vile. Sophie says she'd pick actually being sick over having to take one unnecessarily."

"I'm trying to work out whether I'm supposed to kiss you right now or pretend like last night never happened."

Well, that was an extremely sudden though not really unexpected topic change; I guess one of us was going to bring it up. I admit I didn't expect him to be so blunt about it. I thought he'd do what he usually does when trying to push something delicate - he kind of tiptoes around it forever until you get so annoyed you'll be the one who brings it up purely to get it over with.

"Don't know what to tell ya." I look at him sheepishly.

"Well, I mean… I guess we… well you must have… it's not like…"

"It sucked?" I try to fill in the blank, and he blushes.

"Yeah. We were at it for a while so I guess we can't exactly call it an accident."

Sighing slightly, I start picking at the hem of the blanket (which is actually kind of itchy for a five star hotel). "I don't know Justin. You kissed me and I just kind of went with it."

"You just kind of…"

He trails off and I'm not sure what he's thinking. I can practically see the cogs whirring, probably trying to interpret that comment. Do I mean that I got caught up, or do I mean that I figured 'what the hell,' or was I just being polite: how's he supposed to know? Or maybe he's thinking something else; maybe he's wondering how to get across his own feelings on the situation. Maybe he's embarrassed at the indiscretion and just wants the air cleared? I have no idea at this point.

Apparently neither does Justin because we fall back into silence. Neither of us has yet moved, so our feet are still tangled together beneath the blanket.

"I probably ought to go soon." Naturally, it falls to me to be the one to speak again. "If I get seen coming out of here you can guarantee our torrid affair will be all over the papers."

"What? Why would they?"

It takes one of my patented 'are you really that stupid' glares to make him follow my drift. "Come on. I'm female and within twenty feet of you, what do you think they're gonna say? I'm telling you, rumours of wild monkey sex will ensue."

Justin snorts loudly, a disgusted expression on his face. "Nah, they'll say I locked you in here and spent the night beating you."

"Hmm." I ponder this for a moment. "So I guess on balance we'd be better off going for the monkey sex angle."

A smile creases his lips and he lets out the kind of low volume chuckle you emit when you're laughing so hard you can't get enough air to make it loud. "Sure. Hmm." Every syllable is punctuated with another choked laugh. "Seriously though," he says once he's recovered, "People will just think you passed out on the couch is all. It's no big deal."

That… if I'm not mistaken… was a get out clause. Of course I could have this totally ass backwards, but I think Justin is offering me a 'no harm no foul' here. We forget it, pass it off as me having crashed out in his room and nobody ever has to know. Well, nobody except Kennedy because this is serious gossip. If she didn't tell anybody about Sophie having that pregnancy scare (and she hates Sophie) she's not telling anybody about this.

"Good point well made," I tell him as I sigh and sink my head deeper into the pillow. It's too early to even be awake let alone be having all these thoughts.

"Fuck it's seriously cold in here."

"Maybe one of us should turn up the thermostat."

"I already did."

"Oh." Note to self: mentally retract that earlier thought about him not being smart enough. "In which case it really is fucking cold in here. You think it's broken?"

"Probably. I'm debating whether getting under the covers like I should have done last night will warm me up or if the sheets will be so cold they'll suck all the heat out of me."

"Another good point…" My eyebrows purse together as I consider this. The problem is you don't know until you try, and if you try and fail you've already let all that cold air under the top blanket too so we'd be cold no matter what.

Justin makes the decision for me by shifting closer and wrapping his arms around me, hugging my body to his. For a moment I think he's trying to come onto me again until he opens his mouth again: "you're warm, you'll do."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'll ignore the sarcasm. Shut up so I can go back to sleep."

In fairness to the boy, this wasn't a bad idea. I have to wriggle and squirm a little so that I can get comfortable (which elicits some complaint from him), but once I manage to burrow in under his arm I find that huddling up to him brings some more heat to my poor, cold self. I'm not as toasty warm as I'd like to be but I'm at least warm enough that I can start drifting back off to sleep for an extra hour or so. Nobody should be awake this early, it's just not natural.

"Chelsea?" His voice is sleep laden and he speaks in an almost dreamy tone.

"Hmm?" I'm not much better.

"We cool?"

Heh - the boy spends too much time with Timbaland. "Sure we are."

"Cool."

Letting a long, slow breath out, his cheek nestles against the crown of my hair. It's the last thing I remember before the alarm decides to wake us back up.

***

Well, she's gone.

Have to say, I'm kind of surprised at myself here. I'm surprised that I'm disappointed and I'm surprised that I'm surprised. I say that because this really isn't a shocker here; what did I think she was gonna do? I mean, okay, I guess the snuggling back up with me after could be construed as kind of mixed signals but it's not like Chelsea's ever shown any overwhelming interest in me. She's shown more interest in Trace… oh boy. I really hope Trace didn't have that thing I suspected he had for her or I'm the shittiest friend ever, developing a thing for his crush. Note to self, call him and ask. You might think it weird that I'm just gonna do that but that's me and Trace all over. If he wants her, I'm just gonna back away and forget this.

Yeah, okay, there's a thing to forget, I admit it. Just don't asked me when it happened because I haven't got a fucking clue. I take back what I said about making out seeming like the place to stop; it was a dumb idea even doing that. There's been a whole big can o' worms been opened up and now they're wrigglin' all over the floor.

Geez, I sound like my Grandpa when I say things like that. Worms, indeed….

You know what my favourite of all celebrity personal assistant perks is?

It is, by far, the shopping. Naturally these movie star types can afford way more than we common folk (which makes it really unfair that they get given more free stuff) and it is so much fun spending somebody else's money. Sophie in particular is real trigger happy when it comes to her credit card. Most of the time I have to step in and remind her that while a few grand on a Cavalli dress is one thing, paying five hundred dollars for a plain white t-shirt you could buy at identical quality for thirty is just dumb. Even if I can't afford them myself, it is just so, so nice to be around all these gorgeous things. Plus, Sophie does like to treat me occasionally so that's pretty darn awesome.

Today, I reached a new shopping high. I'm being paid to go shopping, and my employer isn't even here. Sophie never just hands me a credit card and lets me go buy her stuff unless I'm only picking up something she pre-ordered. Justin, on the other hand, just handed me his card and PIN number with a wave of his hand and 'I trust you' before swanning off to do his interviews. Apparently he wants some new clothes for the show and a couple of casual outfits but his stylist was nowhere to be seen. He handily overlooked the fact that his stylist knows his measurements and I don't, but a quick call to her has fixed that. I thought she might've insisted on coming with, but apparently she's ripping her hair out over another client so she was more than happy to leave me to it.

I haven't been shopping for a guy since breaking up with Will (and he never used to wear what I bought him anyway, tasteless fool), so this is quite pleasant. Clearly this is some kind of childhood throwback to my obsession with keeping Ken as well dressed as Barbie but it works for me. With Starbucks in one hand and my nice new Kate Spade in the other it's a new dawn and a new day and I'm feeling good, as James Brown might say. I've been wandering in and out of all the nicest stores, and it turns out the one thing Hannah did do for this shopping trip was call ahead and warn the stores that I was coming, so I'm being royally sucked up to. It's great!

At the moment I'm just wandering around one of the swankiest department stores the city has to offer, and after making a very unnecessary stop at the jewellery counter so I could lust over some pendants I'm on the case. (There might also have been some spraying of perfume, ahem). I already bought some nice collar shirts for him, but I haven't yet found the perfect suit. Everything all seems to geography teacher or too old. I will, though - give me time.

My brand new Panic At The Disco tone comes blaring out of my phone and I have real trouble managing my bag, my now empty cup and trying to rummage into the bag. I'm surprised but also grateful when an assistant whips the cup out of my grip with a smile… though maybe she was just afraid for the clothes. Anyway, it's given me a hand free to get to the phone.

"Chelsea, babe!"

"Trace, babe!" I mimic.

"Don't mock me."

"I wasn't mocking you."

"Yeah and I'm Brad fucking Pitt. How are you?"

"I'm good, I'm good…" I flick through a rail and scrunch my nose up at the suits they have. I'm starting to wonder if I'm just being too fussy. The best thing to do is to give it a break for five minutes and go look at something else, so I start flicking through some promising leather jackets. They feel butter soft to my fingers, always a good start.

"What are you doing?"

"Hannah's job."

"He sent you out with the black card, did he?"

"No, I'm only worthy of the platinum," I joke. "I just need to get him a couple new stage outfits, I think he's getting bored of the ones he's got. Tell me, does he prefer his leather jackets with or without collars?"

"You mean like does he want a Danny Zuko jacket or one of those one that just comes up flat on your neck without the lapels?"

"Nobody past 1989 wants a Danny Zuko jacket, Trace," I roll my eyes.

"And neither does Justin; that was my point."

"Got it." The next thing to do is to umm and ahh between black and this nice chocolate brown. Black is your classic never let you down colour, but brown is good too. Then again I suppose he is stinking rich, I could just get him both. "So what are you doing?"

"Right now I'm up to my neck in purchase orders. The warehouse which held our shipment got burnt down and it's costing us a fortune to source new material on such short notice."

"Shit, that sucks," I commiserate. "Is it going okay though?"

"Yeah, I think so. We may have to leave a couple of pieces out of our next runway show because they won't be ready in time, but we managed to turn it down from catastrophe to really annoying shit so it could be worse. Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about it…"

"Huh? Me?"

"I'm not getting out of this for a while and Rachael's still nowhere near being back, so I was wondering how you'd feel about sticking with Justin a while longer."

"Umm…" Oh boy, way to blindside me. "I'm not sure Sophie would go for it."

"We can talk Sophie round." You should have heard him say that, the cocky tone in his voice is almost as bad as Justin when he gets going. "Besides, you can NOT tell me that you wouldn't rather be with Justin."

It's a good thing I already finished my drink or I probably would have choked on it. Has Justin told him something or am I reading innuendo into that purely because I know more than Trace does? Taken in a less sexual way, he's right that I'd have a hard time denying it. The hours are a little crazier with Justin, but he's a lot less demanding than Sophie is. He does fail on the girly chats and gossip and the manicure front, but generally speaking life around him is a little more chilled than life around Sophie. Also, Justin's mom doesn't make me want to commit homicide; Enrique makes me want to commit it and then resuscitate him just so I can commit it again.

"Well… I'm happy to stick with him a while but like I say, you're going to have to talk Sophie round and the longer she's stuck with her Dad the harder you'll find that," I warn.

"Don't worry babe - you and I are PA, we can talk anybody into anything." I giggle just as he lets out a curse. "Shit, babe, I got to cut this short. Call me later."

"Will do."

"Ciao."

We both hang up at the same time, no further pleasantries required. I don't need an explanation and he just knows I'll call him back. Trace is somebody I really appreciate having in my life right now. It's been a long time since I've had a really close guy friend around and particularly one that I'm so in tune with. He and I just seem to instinctively get each other, and if I could be sappy for a second that's something I treasure in a person. It's one of the reasons Kennedy's been with me such a long time; she and I have the kind of relationship where we know just from the 'hello' what kind of mood the other is in, and it's made us great at knowing when to come close and when to just leave each other to some alone time. Trace is quickly going the same way - and after being with Sophie who has no concept of this, I really do value people who get it.

I can't lie though, he's cute. He's cute and hilarious, which are very attractive qualities in a guy.

Turning my attention back to the rails, now two leather jackets and a couple of retro punk tour t-shirts heavier, I find myself drifting into the lingerie section. I find it absolutely hilarious that they station this so close to the menswear - clearly they're hoping that if the clothes don't hold the guys' attention that the thought of shapely women in the nearby bras and panties will. This is cynical floor planning at its best, I tell you.

I'm not one to talk though, I'm far too easily distracted from my purpose… right now I'm looking with greedy eyes at one set in a green and gold leaf motif, and another one in pink and black pinstripes. There are two things that I'm a real sucker for when it comes to shopping - accessories and underwear. I only need to be wearing jeans and a vest to feel sexy if I've got the right underwear and sunglasses on. I'm weird, I know, but that's just my thing.

I'm about to pick them up when it occurs to me that I may not actually have my credit card on me. It's a major feat of handling, but I manage to hold onto all the items of clothing in my hand and rummage through my bag for my purse… as suspected, the only credit card in there is Justin's. Damn it all to Hell.

Speak of the devil, his ring tone starts sounding through my bag. He should feel special, he has a dedicated ring tone… though that's purely for recognition purposes. I need to know if I can ignore my phone or if I have to pick it up because it's the boss on the line. He insisted on choosing, so right now it's Timbaland (what a shock).

"Justin," I answer without preamble.

"Hey lady. How's it coming?"

"You have many shirts, some jackets and I just need to find some decent suits and I'm done."

"Excellent, because we need you back here as soon as you can."

"No problem." I look at my watch… if I stop being so picky about pants I can probably be back at base in an hour. After all, he's probably way less fussy than I am. "Give me an hour or so."

"Cool. Where are you now?"

"In the lingerie department at…" I have to check the store name, "Darlington's."

"You planning on making me wear panties at the next show? Those things chafe," he jokes.

"And how would you know?" I arch an eyebrow.

"Burn. So is this why you've taken so long? You been buying you clothes instead of me?" With some people I'd think I was in trouble, but he's got a smile in his voice so I know he's just kidding around.

"No, I've just been coveting clothes I could have bought if I hadn't left my Visa at home! I think I got everything you asked for though, you said you'd just hit up Trace to send you some of next season's jeans?"

"Yeah, he's sending them to Hannah for me. And if you left your card at home just use mine."

He… what? Did Justin Timberlake just give me the green light to buy exorbitantly expensive clothes on his credit card... I mean ones that aren't for him? Even though he knows full well where I am and that it can't be cheap? I cannot have heard him right - I must need my ears syringed or something. I've been working for Sophie for years and she'd never let me do that - I mean, she's pretty generous and she buys me stuff all the time, but never blindly and without knowing what I'm charging.

"No, I couldn't."

"Sure you could."

"Umm… are you sure?" I ought to just turn him down flat, but those bras were really cute. I can always pay him back, right?

"I said so, didn't I? How many times you need it repeating?"

I'll take the sarcasm as a yes. "Thanks, JT."

"No problem. I like to think I'm helping good looking women go out into the world in good looking underwear," he jokes. "Now, on a more important note what have you got me?"

See that's more like it - he was sounding far too altruistic for a moment there. "You have shirts in white, blue, grey and pink, plus t-shirts in more colours than I can remember."

"Pink?"

"Manly pink."

"That's okay then. You said something about jackets?"

"Leather in brown and black. Oh, and they also gave me a set of Police sunglasses with their compliments. Ass kissers."

"Freebies!" He exclaims. "Even better. I need to send you out for me more often, Hannah never gets me freebies."

"Do I need to get anything else before I come back in?"

"No, I sent Tiny on the coffee run so just get your good self back here when you can."

Quickly I sign off, smirking. Tiny despises doing the coffee run, says that he was hired to guard a body not a Starbucks carrier. Though he then always says that the carrier is probably worth more so maybe he should reconsider… which always leads to Justin threatening to give him a pay cut and then Tiny reminding him how easily he could kick his ass. The guys are predictable, but they are funny.

It takes a deep breath for me to be able to pick up the underwear and take Justin up on his offer - not least because I find it weird after the other night that he's paying for my smalls - but I quickly get over it once I get to the till and the assistant starts running everything through. I chat idly to her about Justin's planned show and give her tips on when to show up at the door for returned tickets (earlier the better, people do camp out) and give her a little tease about which famous types are on the guest list for tonight. In reality they all bowed out at the last minute so there's not a chance of her seeing any, but technically they're still on the list so I feel no shame.

I do have to walk a few blocks back to the car, so it gives me time for a little sun on my face and a little thought. I hate driving the Escalades, but all cars for the use of Justin's team seem to be those darn things so it's that or get a taxi. I had a hell of a time trying to park it since it's so much bigger than my little Audi. I swing the bags as I stroll along, glad I was sensible enough to wear flip flops instead of the wedges I was considering. And as a bonus, I even had the foresight to wear a tube dress today so hopefully my shoulders should catch a little sun, no nasty strap marks in sight.

Of course there'll be a big white block where my boobs are, but that's easier to cover than strap marks. Since there is no man in my life I only have to be concerned about the parts that are publicly on show - it's an upside to being single. There's no one to notice if you're a day late shaving your legs if there's no one who's going to be feeling that part of you up. I mean, don't get me wrong, I look after me anyway and purely for my own benefit, but when you have a boyfriend you can't get even a little lazy about it.

My mind can't help thinking back on what Trace said. As far as being a PA goes, Justin is easier than Sophie. We don't have the friendship that she and I do and I miss the girly stuff, but he's a lot… well, easier. The vibe around him is less frenetic somehow, even though he's just as busy as she is. As a PA I'd rather work for him, but as a wannabe movie producer only moonlighting as a PA for experience Sophie is the way to go. I need the movie industry, not the music one.

It's oddly easy to dwell on Sophie's lesser qualities when I'm not around her. Some people look great on paper but when you get around them you're reminded that in practice they're asses, but with her it's the opposite. If I just describe her she sounds high maintenance and a diva, but when you get around her she's warm and funny and a sweetheart. I am, by the way, still mad about Marco. There has been yet more canoodling pictured in the tabloids and the one time I spoke to her about it, she just made this lame spluttering about how truly sorry he felt.

That is 'felt,' by the way. He never said it, but she just knows: her words, not mine.

I don't know. I've spent a good few weeks away from her now, which is the longest I've been away from her since she hired me. In a lot of ways it feels… you know how sometimes you can have a pair of jeans dig in so uncomfortably that when you take them off it's actually more painful than when they were digging in? At first you think you were better off with the jeans still on, but give it time and it's a vast improvement. I feel like that being away from Sophie right now… not that she doesn't fit, but I just think I wore her too long without a break. I'm going to quit with the lame clothing analogy now.

I don't know. I feel guilty even thinking it, but I find the longer I'm away from her… well. Absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder I guess.

"UGH!"

I actually go through all the motions of throwing my cell against the wall. The only thing that stops it shattering into a zillion pieces is my hand, which seems to get a grip where I failed and holds onto it. My arm just swings to a stop instead. I still feel a little better for having let the muscles loose, but not much. It'd be much more satisfying to break something but I only just bought this phone. Maybe I should call my masseuse down here or something, because I can just feel the tension rising in my back and that never goes well.

Sophie is being fucking impossible. Well, I guess I should say her father is being impossible on her behalf and she won't take my calls long enough for me to talk her round, but however you want to put it the Lumos crew is pissing me off.

Why does nobody understand that I really NEED Chelsea right now? Why is it so hard for them to comprehend that them calling her back purely because they can is fucked up and it's going to fuck me over? There's a lot of shit going on and if she's not keeping my ass in gear, nobody is. I admit that I also want to screw her brains out but I'm a professional and I can control that little urge, it's my career I'm concerned with right now. Trace is going to be gone even longer than I thought and I can't drag Rachael back so if Chelsea goes, I'm fucked. I got nobody else; you can call me a diva or anal retentive but I can't trust this stuff to a stranger. Not to mention, Chelsea's been kind of spoiling me; she's way too efficient for my own good. I have a lot of shit to do and I need somebody to help organise my time and do the shit I'm too busy for.

Like right now - while I have been arguing with Enrique and trying without success to make Sophie have a serious conversation with me, Chelsea has been organising the kick ass party I'm going to have tonight at this club called Mojito. I know this is a really superficial example, but I don't care. The tour's winding down and before I go home I wanted to just have a real blow out. I ought to feel guilty about it, but I had this impulse… not quite twenty four hours ago. I gave her less than a day to get a venue, a guest list, security and all that shit organised, but damn if she hasn't pulled it off. She's looking pretty harassed and every time she glances my way she kind of takes this deep breath in like she's trying to bite her tongue, but she's getting it done.

Chelsea is my lifeline right now. She's keeping me sane through the tabloid drama, she's taking the weight off my shoulders and I no longer have to sweat the small stuff. Even if she was ugly as sin and I wasn't in the slightest bit attracted to her, she would still be my favourite person on the planet because that woman is worth her weight in gold… no, platinum.

And I might be losing her… fuck. I didn't even notice myself kicking that coffee table over. Shit, I think it looks okay.

"Problem?"

Now I'm just embarrassed. I don't even want to know how long Johnny's been standing behind me - here's hoping it wasn't long.

"Ahh, just Enrique Fuentes being an asshole."

"Who?" Johnny's brow furrows, clearly he doesn't recognise the name. I bet Enrique gets that a lot.

"Sophie Lumos's father," I explain. Now the light of recognition is on his face.

"Oh?" He's wearing his trademark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but I can still see his brows shoot up questioningly.

"I'm desperately trying to get somebody in their camp to agree to let me keep Chelsea longer but he's a bastard and Sophie's too busy doing whatever it is she does to stay on the phone long enough for me to ask. To be honest, I think she's doing it on purpose."

"How so?"

"If she doesn't hear the question she doesn't have to feel obligated to say yes."

"Hmm." Johnny doesn't look particularly surprised by any of what I just said. He perches himself on the arm of the sofa as I flop back onto the recliner opposite, and he folds his arms in his 'all business' pose. Clearly he's anticipated something like this. "Well, short of asking her to quit…"

"… Which she'd never do and would probably be offended if I suggested it," I finish for him.

"Well, Justin, I think the only thing that talks to a man like that is money."

"What are you getting at?"

"How much do you want to keep this girl?"

I give him a look, and he can probably tell how impatient I'm getting. "I'm fucked without a decent PA and you know it."

"Make him an offer," Johnny shrugs. "As far as I'm aware Sophie isn't doing much right now so she doesn't really need Chelsea, and he's just pulling rank. Sweeten the offer enough and he'll probably cave."

Why does this sound so sordid? I mean, seriously, it's a business transaction - you take a member of somebody's staff on secondment and you pay their employer for the privilege. What Johnny's saying is just pretty standard business; though if you didn't read between the lines, it's likely that I would personally be providing the sweet stuff because I doubt the label would cough up for this. You'd be surprised how many expenses come out of my pocket and not theirs. Anyway, I feel like I'm paying for a hooker here… not that I have any personal experience of that.

"Hmm…" I respond, non-committal.

"What it comes down to is precisely how much she's worth to you," he says. "We're covering her salary for the period she's with us anyway, but she's being paid less than Trace or Rachael so you probably have a little room. It'd depend on precisely how unreasonable he is."

"Very," I say immediately. Might also mention that the smaller salary does not surprise me… yes, okay, I'm the kind of idiot who blindly pays somebody's salary without knowing how much it is. Dad goes over all that financial stuff and he always tells me if something looks wrong.

"Then you'll have to decide where to draw that line."

"I guess I'll have to talk to Chelsea," I sigh.

"She already said she'd stay if they agreed to it, didn't she?"

"Yeah but if I hand over money for her behind her back she'll accuse me of reviving the slave trade. Then she'll probably hit me."

Johnny chuckles, taps the sneaker-clad foot I propped on the table (after I righted it), and leaves me to my thoughts. I know I just said she was worth her weight in platinum, but it's one thing to say that and another to be asked in all practicality to put a monetary value on somebody. It doesn't make it any easier that I have personal feelings all mixed up with this too; it's hard to try and pull myself back and look at this in a purely business light. I need a PA and I need one badly, but precisely how much is that really worth to me?

***

If I hear one more person at this table singing 'I know you got a buzz off that alcohol,' I am going to smash one of these empty bottles over his or her head. Somebody needs to explain why people would ever think I'd find that funny. It's like those DJs who see me in a club and then play one of my records while giving me the friendly wink… no, dude, I'm not grateful I'm just embarrassed. Way to draw attention to me.

I have to hand it to her, Chelsea throws a decent hootenanny. The club is the perfect size; it's small enough that with my guests it feels full and there's an atmosphere, but large enough that we all have some room to breathe. The décor isn't the greatest in the world, it's all pretty much black, but she's thrown some coloured pillows and cloths around and it now has an Arabian Nights kind of vibe to it. There are even a few torches set into the walls for the occasion. Well, I say she threw some pillows around, I guess she probably hired somebody to do it. Whatever, my money has been well spent.

I'm holding court with Marty, Eddie and Nick and the girls in this big ass booth by the bar; we're the only table in the place they'll bring the drinks to, though I'm not sure if that's because of where the table is or because of me. Chelsea's chatting away to Hannah and some girls Marty brought with him are putting away a scary amount of shots. I've had… well, a few drinks. Some shots and some beers, that's all. I'm buzzed but I'm not sloppy drunk.

It's awkward though because every time I look down I'm ogling Chelsea's legs - short skirts and knee high boots is just God being unfair. It's especially bad because if I look the other way I then get Hannah's legs and that's no better. Sometimes I think women were put on this planet to torture the hell out of me. I really want to get laid…

Not that there's any chance. Nobody else in here particularly piques my interest and Chelsea hasn't given me any signals at all since that weird make out thing. It's like it never happened; sometimes I worry that it didn't and I just had a really vivid dream. She has this messy wave going on in her hair and I don't know what she did with her make up but it's given her some serious 'come to bed' eyes. I can't help it, my gaze keeps going back to her legs and I keep thinking back to the make out and then I have visions of my hand on her thigh…

I'm such a horn dog.

To add insult to injury, I paid Enrique Fuentes no less than twenty thousand dollars for her today. Twenty fucking K, that's the price tag he put on her and I paid it - though at least I got her indefinitely, so I'm guaranteed a PA until Trace or Rachael gets back. I'd be even more pissed with myself if there'd been a time limit on it. Johnny's eyebrows practically hit the brim of his damn cap. Enrique's excuse was the fact that without Chelsea he has to be with Sophie twenty four seven and he needs to cover the loss from his other businesses plus his expenses, and expenses for any one else he needs to hire for stuff he can't do. It was a lame excuse, but it was the lowest me or Johnny could make him go.

Maybe I just like torturing myself. There can be no other reason I paid that outrageous amount of money for a woman whose total lack of interest is driving me insane. Can't say I've ever had this experience before - I've had women come running back for more and I've had women loudly cursing themselves for hooking up with me, but I ain't never had a woman act towards me like nothing ever happened between us. I can't say I like it.

I can't say I like the fact that Chelsea's now up and dancing all over Eddie, either. Bastard. Why did I invite him again?

***

A personal assistant needs many sneaky and devious tactics up her sleeve. Tonight, I've employed one of the most important.

Celebrity parties are glitzy and expensive (though not as endless or as unwaveringly fabulous as you might think). They're all very well but the problem is that at parties, you need to keep your celebrity's ass in check lest they inadvertently give the tabloids a great scoop. However, you can't be seen to be Debbie Downer or anti-social, both for the sake of their reputation and because it'll make them ignore anything you might say or do to talk them out of potential idiocy. So… you need to drink with the best of them without getting drunk. This might seem impossible, but I have a cunning scheme for just such occasions whereby I only half finish drinks while offering a taste around to anybody who wants one. There is some watering of any plants in the vicinity and pretending to spill is also a good one. All these things combined mean I never finish a drink and manage to stay sober while appearing to have partied with the best of them.

As a bonus, when I'm not hung over in the morning I look like I can really take my drink - it gives me cool points.

It's a good thing I did too, because right now Justin has me in dangerous territory. Right now, it's three in the morning. There's an after after-party going on in his room, and as far as I can see he doesn't know a lot of the people here. He's not slurring his words or anything, but his eyes are glazed over enough to let me know that some inhibitions and some sense have vacated the premises and that I should be on my guard.

I hate to say it, but his friends aren't much better than the random girls right now. He could use Trace around because these other guys have the word 'enabler' written across their foreheads. Trace likes to have a good time, but he also knows when to draw the line and tell JT that he's getting himself in hot water. These guys just seem to be egging him on and that worries me because I know for a fact that paparazzi are trying to get into this hotel. Prayers have been sent in the hope that none have or will succeed, but in the meantime my best bet is to keep Justin's ass in check.

Heh, people think this job is so glamorous. This is how I spend my days - constantly watching out for assholes who'll take advantage of another human being's slip ups and trying to prevent said human being slipping up in the first place. Sometimes I feel like I'm somebody's mother, telling them what they can and can't do and how they should behave. It sucks; who wants to be the thought police?

"Hey, Chelsea!"

"Hey, Marty!" I mimic.

"Come over here, I wanna ask you something."

Dutifully I get up and cross the room, wincing slightly as I go. I love my boots, they're brown suede and they rock, but after a night of dancing they hurt my poor little feet. I go to sit across from Marty, but Eddie pulls me into his lap instead. Eddie and I have been flirting on and off all night, but there's nothing to it and it's clear to both of us. He's taken and I'm sworn off men. I take the opportunity to start unzipping my boots.

"So…" Marty asks once I'm finally settled. "Tell me about Sophie."

Inwardly I groan. I hate being asked to dish about her. Not only is it something I can't do as her employee or her friend, it really pisses me off that people don't ask me about me. I'm not self centred, I swear, it'd just be nice if people could at least observe some niceties before grilling me for information.

"Go look her up on Wikipedia. It'll be more interesting."

Eddie chuckles. "Aww come on, you can't tell us you don't got dirt."

"Oh I got dirt," I snort. "But I'm not some silly moron who can't keep her mouth shut. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, boys."

"We ain't in Nevada, babe."

"I don't give a shit, I'm not dishing."

Marty starts off on some spiel, possibly about Sophie, but my eye and my attention have been drawn to this girl who is currently draping herself over Justin. I don't want to be a bitch, but… oh who am I kidding, I so wanna be mean. She looks like a complete slut. She's just so OBVIOUS. He danced with pretty much all the girls earlier and she made a real show of the booty popping every time she thought she was in his sight, and now she's being touchy feely in non-subtle mode. Oh, and why did nobody tell her that bleaching blonde tiger stripe chunks into mousy brown hair is not cute? Sophie and I have a term for girls like that, and it's SDFD. I won't tell you exactly what it stands for, but it's to do with what a girl might be whore enough to do for a little cash.

Normally it wouldn't concern me; Justin seems like he's people savvy. Tonight though I think he's just drunk enough to miss the 'I will sell to the National Enquirer' she has stamped across her barely covered tits and ass (see, told you I could be a real bitch when I felt like it).

"Come on, you can't even tell us one little thing about her?" Eddie strokes my arm like he thinks that'll make me dish, but I'm just distracted enough by the hooch to let a tiny tidbit out.

"She has a tattoo somewhere she'd have to be real naked for you to see it."

Great… nobody was supposed to know that. On the bright side they're now so busy salivating over that prospect that they're ignoring me. Normally this might bug me, but now it suits my purposes. Sliding off of Eddie's lap, I discreetly step over to Justin (where she's now stroking his chest) and bend down quietly with my most rehearsed excuse.

"Sorry JT, I just got a call I need to tell you about."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." He waves a hand dismissively, not getting the hint.

"It's, umm…" I gesture with my eyes to the door, and now it finally seems to twig.

"Oh, okay." He gets up without grace or ceremony and the silly wench practically falls off the couch, she was leaning over him so much.

I quickly steer him out into the hallway, shutting the door of his suite behind us both. I hate moments like this - it's awkward and like I mentioned before, it makes me feel like somebody's mother. In a way, it also feels like I'm kind of insulting his intelligence. Still, far better I piss him off a little than he gets into any more tabloid drama.

"So what's up?" He scratches the back of his neck lazily.

"Well…" Wait, did I just see movement at the end of the corridor? Okay, call me paranoid but that may not have been security. "Let's take this into my room shall we?"

He's very acquiescent, if a little confused, and since I'm straight across from him we're in there in less than ten seconds. In case of nefarious types listening at the door, I drift over to the far side of the room and luckily he catches the hint. Do you see how overly calculating I have to be about everything? I hate that.

"So?" He asks. "What's this phone call?"

"A blatant excuse."

"Huh?"

He looks so blank, it's almost funny. "It was a blatant excuse to get you out of there so I can ask if you're insane. You do realise that girl has 'I sell kiss and tells' written all over her, right?"

"Okay, WHAT?" He sounds pretty annoyed and I immediately regret the tone I took. Well, sorry, but it was warranted.

"Look, I…" I wince, biting my lip. "I don't want to kill your good time but that girl is clearly desperate to get into your pants and she looks like the type who'll sell the dirty details after."

"And you're basing this on… what?" Justin asks with a sceptical if drunk expression.

I can't answer with 'her obvious whore slut vibe,' so I go for reasonable. "You're in this business long enough and you develop a sixth sense for people with agendas. I bet you've had that vibe about people before."

"Whatever." The point seems to have hit home because he's lacking a comeback. "She seemed nice enough to me."

"Yeah, she would. She's being nice to you so she can get in your pants," I explain patiently.

I'm not sure, but I think I hear him mumbling that it's good somebody wants to and the money he's paid today. I think it probably best all around if I don't probe any further into that; it sounds far too much like there's a prostitute involved and I'm not sure I want the clarification. Instead, he says something else that confuses me even more.

"Well what about you and Eddie? That's no different."

"What?" I say. If there's a world where that was logical, this is not it. Why would Eddie sleep with me and then sell the information onto a tabloid? Heck, what tabloid would want to know? Unless I was yelling Sophie's name as I climaxed or telling him her deepest secrets post coitus or something, I don't think it'd interest them.

"Hey, I saw you two all over each other."

"We were not all over each other!"

"You so were."

"Were not!"

"He was dancing on you like white on rice. You're such a hypocrite."

Putting aside the fact that white doesn't dance on rice and that sentence makes no sense, somebody needs to explain how this conversation became about me. Or, more to the point, about bitching me out - what did I do?

"What the hell is your problem?" I ask hopelessly.

I fail to understand why his response is stomping on over, grabbing my arms and pushing his lips roughly to mine.

You know, of all the reactions a guy might want to kissing a girl, "are you bipolar" probably ranks just above "you've got halitosis," "when should we get married" and "I forgot to mention I have oral herpes."

"What?" I ask in disbelief.

"Are you bipolar?" Chelsea repeats with her hands on her hips, head cocked to one side and one furious eyebrow raised above the other. It's a shame she took those boots off really, the barefoot and short vibe is killing her stance.

"What the hell kind of response is that?"

"Says the guy who just bitched me out like I was fucking his friend in the middle of a crowded club when it didn't have any relevance to the conversation and then decided to kiss me instead. What the hell are you doing?"

Well shit, there goes my ego… yep, I can see it swirling in the bowl before being flushed down that toilet. To add to my humiliation, I find her oddly hot when she's angry. That used to get me in a lot of trouble with Monica and is probably the reason that destructive relationship lasted so long; I hated all the fights but her being angry was oddly sexy and then that led to sex and the sex kind of kept us together despite the fights. It was a vicious circle.

"I mean… God." Chelsea throws her hands in the air and begins stalking round the room. "You just had that skank crawling all over you, you get pissed with me because I dare to tell you you're setting yourself up for tabloid drama with said skank and then you bitch me out like there's anything between me and Eddie and then you kiss me? I mean, explain to me what the hell kind of response THAT is because I'm at a loss here buddy."

There's nothing between her and Eddie? Shit, wait, that wasn't the part I really ought to be focussing on. I wish I'd had a few less beers earlier; my brain's working too slow. I now feel a little guilty for being mad because if she really was just concerned about tabloid shit then she's just doing her job and looking out for me. Trace would have done the same, though he might have been a little more straightforward and less of a woman about it. I hate women, I suck at reading signals. It's hard to read signals when their meanings are changing every five damn seconds. One second she was letting me kiss her and now she's all mad at me.

Great, she's mad at me for kissing her. That kind of killed off my last little hope that she was just embarrassed and too shy to bring up our last make up session. Well, maybe she was embarrassed in a different way… boy this evening's been great for my manly pride.

"I… uhh…"

"Yes?" Her hands are still on her hips and I wish she'd understand how intimidating she is right now. Girls like that one she thought would sell me out… I'm in control of those girls. They want me, I know it, and all the aces are in my hands. Here I'm totally at the mercy of this woman and it's scary as all hell.

"Will you stop that?" I ask irritably.

"What?"

"That!" I spit out the words, gesturing with a loose hand at her. "Standing there like I'm some naughty school kid or something. I just kissed you woman, no need to act like I killed your puppy."

Chelsea shakes her head, eyes widened in disbelief, and then she throws her hands in the air and stomps off towards the sliding balcony door. "You are unbelievable. Unbelievable."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is it really that disgusting to hear that a guy finds you attractive and wants to kiss you? No damn wonder you've been single since cop boy ran out."

Her face goes white. It's not in the upset, hurt feelings kind of way; it's in that bloodless 'looks like the bad guy from Harry Potter' way. You can see the tension rising in her arms and if she wasn't so far away I think I'd have been slapped already. Oops. Now she's marching back over to me and I brace myself for the inevitable retaliation. My arms instinctively move a little closer to my balls, ready for action lest she decide to put a knee in them.

"Say that again."

Huh? Didn't expect that. "Umm…"

"Say that again," she tells me dangerously.

"I think it was a bad enough idea the first time," I squeak out. Shit I sound like Mickey Mouse when I get nervous.

"You think?"

She really looks like she could murder me right now. Lord, please don't let me die this way. If I had to go out of anything except old age, I was hoping it'd be a little more glamorous than death by enraged female.

"You know, God, I actually had you down for a decent human being for about five seconds there," she rages. "How fucking dare you talk like you know shit about me or Will? I mean, God, in the space of ten minuets you've managed to accuse me of whoring it up with Eddie and then repulsing all men and I'm supposed to be flattered that you deign to find me attractive? Who the fuck do you think you are, Timberlake? I thought for a second you might actually be a nice guy but guess what, you're just like every other Hollywood bastard I've ever met who thinks they can say anything to anyone and that it's okay because you're you. Well guess what, asshole, I'm not like that silly little slut in the next room who'll put up with any shit you throw out so long as you'll get her off, I've got a little more self respect!"

Pretty much every sentence of this speech has been punctuated with a sharp shove backwards. I've been too stunned by the rhetoric to notice much, but I definitely notice now that she's managed to open the door and push me right through it. You know, for a pretty small woman she's got some surprising strength to her; if I do say so myself my muscles are steel and she's throwing me round like a rag doll. I stumble, and the next thing I know I'm on my ass in the hotel corridor as she gives the door a good slam behind me. My booty feels bruised, but not as badly as my ego.

I have a feeling that I may not have handled that so well.

***

It's six o' damn clock in the morning. Nobody should be awake at this hour… let alone somebody who still hasn't slept up until this point.

It's the sick feeling in my stomach keeping me awake. I have actually been physically sick - it's embarrassing, but when I get upset I do sometimes react physically like that. When I'm angry I get stomach cramps (may be a PMS throwback), when I'm upset or nervous it's nausea. Since I've now done both this evening, the two have combined with the alcohol I didn't manage to pour away and I threw up. That was just after I threw him out on his ass, and after much tooth brushing and mouth rinsing I finally have the taste out of my mouth and the smell off my breath.

What the fuck did I do? I basically assaulted Justin after insulting him a whole bunch. I mean, he thoroughly deserved it but then there are a lot of celebrities I could have said far worse to and I didn't - why? Because it could cost me my damn job and now it probably has. You can't go around talking to your boss like that in any job, you just can't. Trace might get away with it but I didn't know Justin when he was in diapers so I can't play that card. Shit… shit, shit, shit.

Can I make a teensy confession? I think I got so pissed off with him because he may have had a tiny little bit of a point. Not about Eddie because that was just dumb as all hell, but about the way I react to guys liking me. These days male attention is not top of my favourites list; it's flattering and all but it's no longer something I'm too comfortable with. This is because men are trouble. He was still a total asshole for the way he said it and the way he just attacked me out of nowhere, but I'm not so sure he was wrong.

Another lone tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away angrily. I don't want to burst into tears again, I feel like such a girl when I cry over stupid stuff. Everybody cries when it's worth it, but I never wanted to be one of those overly emotional types. I find crying embarrassing.

My phone beeps, and at this hour I'm betting it must be Sophie in a weird time zone. Wearily I grab it from the side table, and prop myself up against my pillows to read the text. Lo and behold, it's her name on it.

'What the heck r u doin 4 him worth 20k? luv S x'

That makes the kind of sense that doesn't, so at light speed I tap out a response. 'What do u mean?'

Clearly she's bored and playing with her phone, because the response is instantaneous. 'Thought u wud b asleep @ that time. Insomnia?'

Ahh, I see, she just sent the text to me thinking I'd pick it up when I woke up. She does that sometimes; it's usually when she thinks it's too late or early to be calling me. See, sometimes she can be thoughtful. However, she didn't answer my question, so I have to respond.

'Yep. So what about 20k?'

The answer astounds me. 'JT paid 20k 2 keep u longer.'

Well, given what happened earlier I'm guessing he regrets that, but I'm in total shock. Justin seriously paid out twenty thousands dollars to have me around longer? I mean, he mentioned to me yesterday that they'd have to pay for the extension of the original secondment, but he made it sound like nothing. Maybe twenty thousand isn't much when you're worth millions, but in my world that's serious cash.

In a daze, I tape out a breezy answer to Sophie to assuage her curiosity. 'I kick ass! Nite hon x'

'Sleep tight xx,' comes the response.

Damn it, why do things like this have to happen when my mother is in bed asleep? She may drive me crazy if I speak to her too much, but this is a situation in which I need mature adult advice rather than Kennedy. I cost a guy twenty grand and then went postal on him, I need my Mommy to tell me what to do here. This is not a situation they cover in any handbook. I'm already trying to work out if I'll get sued for the money back.

Then there's a knock on my door, and I figure I wouldn't have time to read any handbook anyway because I'd bet you my last dollar that's Justin.

***

Chelsea's blotchy-eyed and looking pretty small and helpless when she opens the door to me and squeaks out a 'hi.' I never had much radar for female moods, but even I can tell you she's probably been crying. Makes a guy feel like a real shit bag - women crying has never been something I handle well, I never know what to say.

"Hey." I rub my door along the door jamb, feeling mightily uncomfortable. My hands are shoved self consciously into my pockets for fear of over gesticulating. "Umm… can I come in?"

"Sure."

Chelsea immediately steps back and lets me in, which surprises me greatly after my less than glorious exit. When I looked at it there was a nice red patch on my left butt cheek which I'm hoping has faded by now. It's still a little sore. She leans self consciously up against the dresser, and inwardly I groan when I realise she's wearing little silky shorts and her legs are still on show. Those things are distracting and the last thing I need is to get caught leering and have her flip out on me again. That's not the object of this visit.

The object of this visit is to apologise so I can shush my conscience and then maybe it'll let me go to sleep.

"Umm…" we both say it and the same time, and then chuckle awkwardly.

"Umm, you first," Chelsea gestures.

"Look, I uhh… I'm really sorry about earlier." The tips of my ears burn red and I find there's an interesting floral motif in the carpet beneath my feet. "I was really out of line; I should never have spoken to you like that."

"No, no," She lets out in a rush of air. "I can't believe I was such a bitch to you, it's me who should apologise…"

"But you were only a bitch because I was an ass first!"

"No, I provoked you; I'm the one to blame…"

I chuckle aloud as I push a palm back over the mini Mohawk I'm growing. "Most people argue because they don't want to take the blame and we argue because we both do."

Chelsea gives me an awkward smile that thins her lips and looks more like a grimace. "I guess we're weird."

"You know if Trace was here he'd probably say something along the lines of 'no shit Sherlock' or… something," I finish lamely. You may notice I'm avoiding the topic of the kiss.

"Nah, if Trace was here he'd still be busy laughing over you being pushed on your ass by a girl."

"Yeah, that hurt you know."

Dang - I ruined what little humour we had going there because her face just fell and she looks really upset again. I hope she doesn't think I'm going to hold this against her; it's just a dumb fight. Hell, if I fired Trace every time we argued about shit I would hold some kind of world record. The best thing I can think to do is to reach out and give her a hug. Chelsea puts her arms gingerly around my waist and I give her a little kiss on the cheek, hoping it tells her that I'm not mad at her.

We stand there like that for a short while, me rocking her slightly and her hiding her face in my chest. I suspect she's too embarrassed to look at me. Here's hoping this doesn't sound perverted, but she smells different than she did earlier. I wonder if she had a bath or a shower or something in the meantime because she smells like… I'm not sure, I suck at smells. Maybe it's jasmine or honeysuckle or something? It's something sweet and floral. It's very girly and I like that. I find feminine scents kind of comforting, because it reminds me of the times when you can just sit with a girl you dig and just chill, snuggled up and not having to say shit. Calmer times, sadly lacking in the present.

Chelsea pulls away a little without dropping her hands, and she looks up at me quizzically. I look at her expectantly and wait for her to say whatever it is she's clearly desperate to say.

"Did you really pay twenty thousand dollars for me?"

Oh shit, where'd she hear that figure? I purposely left it out of our conversation earlier. I figured I had to tell her something, but not everything. "Dang, you're good. I didn't realise you had so many spies."

"Twenty thousand dollars worth, apparently."

I shrug, locking my fingers together behind her back and settling them in the small of it. "You're good, Enrique's a bastard and I need you. I figured we could afford to splash a little if it was worth it."

"I just… wow." She's blushing even harder than she did when she was apologising. Sometimes I wonder if Sophie ever tells her how good she is because she seems way too surprised by all this.

"You're good at your job, Chels," I tell her. "You have to expect to pay extra for the best." Hah, she went even redder. I'm evil for encouraging that, but it's kinda cute.

It just takes me by surprise when her response is to grab my face and kiss me (especially after the whole bipolar reaction earlier). My first thought is 'what the fuck' closely followed by 'she tastes like toothpaste' and 'mmm.'

Before I know it my eyes have drifted shut and the only things I know are the flavour and smell of her and the feel of my hand sliding over the silk on her back. I knew she was a decent kisser from our little, uhh, 'session' before, but there's something infinitely more satisfying about this. It's probably that after the crazy shit that happened this evening it's good to know all is ending well, but I don't care if it's not. Her kiss is firm without being too rough and I can feel the faintest touch of her tongue running along my upper lip. I always did like kissing girls…

I'm scared shitless of what I'm doing, mostly because half me still expects her to break away in outrage any second now, but gingerly I let my hand slide under her shirt at the back to caress the soft skin there in slow circles. Chelsea takes it as her cue to do the same, but she's a little bolder than me and she also slides my shirt upwards as she goes. I let her take it off, but I'm kind of nervous about it. People think I should be a cocky shit because of the girls going gaga over those shirtless Rolling Stone pictures, but I'm not half so airbrushed in real life and not all of my body is as great as my abs. Thankfully she doesn't seem to mind it as she starts these little feather light kisses across my collarbone; I in turn bury my face in her neck, inhaling deeply as I taste her there.

"Oww," I say against her skin as her hand brushes over the sore spot on my ass.

"Oh. Guess that's where you landed, huh?"

"Yep," I nod, and her hair kind of gets tangled in mine a little as I do so. I have to sweep blonde strands of it out of my face.

"Sorry."

"You should be."

She giggles and returns to what she was doing, making her way back up my chin. I'm finally brave enough to start trying to tug her shirt off, and I could honestly get down and kiss the ground in thanks when she lets me do it. If she'd cut me off now, I might've cried. Seriously, you would've seen a grown man weep. Lifting her off her feet slightly, I kind of drag her over to the mattress. It's not until I sink into the pillows, pulling her down with me, that I realise just how tired I am. There's no way in Hell I'm stopping for a snooze now though, so I continue making out with her and running my hands over her breasts and stomach. I can't get over how soft she is… she's got more meat on her than Monica, and I will never be stupid enough to use this adjective in conversation with her but she's wonderfully squishy.

We take turns slowly kissing and stroking up and down each other's torsos, occasionally stopping for a little more mouth to mouth. After what seems like an age I finally get her shorts and her panties off, and it was worth the wait. I've been with some serious Hollywood bodies but hers will do just fine, I like it. She's got this really cool birthmark on her hip, kind of looks like a lopsided star if you squint at it. I also had a deliciously nasty thought about whether that set of shorts was the one she bought on my credit card.

We continue like that for a while, just nekkid and making out (life is sweet). Finally I have to ask the mood breaking 'are you on the pill' question, but thankfully she just says yes and kisses me again. I almost don't notice what's about to happen as she draws me over her body and settle there above her, but before I know it I've slipped inside her and we're in this fantastic slow grind, just stroking and kissing quietly as we go. Pretty much all my fantasies about this girl have been about slamming her up against walls or throwing her in pools and ripping her clothes off or bending her over tables or what have you, but now that I'm here this is just real… nice.

I think we guys underrate nice sometimes. Making the bed shake and all that is damn awesome but taking the time to feel is also pretty amazing, now I come to think of it. I should do this more often. Hell, I should have sex more often - it feels like a fucking lifetime since I last got laid.

Finally the whole things shudders to a close (I mean literal shuddering, the really great kind that kind of courses through your body and sets every nerve on fire), and before I know it we've kind of collapsed in a heap together, limbs tangled and just a little sweaty. My arm is draped possessively over her stomach, my hand gripping her hip. I kiss Chelsea's jaw before pushing my face into my neck and closing my eyes. One arm is splayed above her head and with the other hand she lazily strokes the little bit of hair at the nape of my neck. It's pretty hypnotic; she's going to put me right to sleep.

I wish I didn't have to get up in less than three hours - if I had longer, I'd lay odds on this being the best night's sleep ever.

There are some days (they usually follow a certain kind of night) where I wish I'd never got out of bed.

This is one of them. I'm falling asleep practically every second, and it's a struggle to so much as keep my head upright. Possibly if I hadn't stayed up late worrying over and then having sex with my temporary boss this wouldn't have been an issue, but there you go. That's the price I pay for having had a sex life for the first time in forever.

Hee, this morning was kind of hilarious. Justin had absolutely no idea what to say or do when we woke up, and it was really amusing. He looks like a twelve year old when he's confused, all lost little boy. He was practically tripping up over his own feet trying to find his pants, and finally I had to hand the damn things to him and tell him to relax before he popped a vein. That seemed to shock him even further, but there you go. I can't believe we'd been having sex… what, maybe three hours earlier… and suddenly he couldn't look at me. Generally speaking after sex I don't do big post mortems or heart to hearts, but I had to pretty bluntly tell him to get himself together and that it wasn't going to be awkward so he needed to get his ass in gear before he was late.

Possibly it's not the best idea for us to have done that, but to be honest I was a little overwrought with everything last night and then learning I was worth twenty grand to him kind of made me a little emotional and it happened. There was a mood and a moment and that's what happened in it, is all. I'll admit there's probably been a little sexual tension since that one off make out session, so it was probably waiting to happen at some point. It's not like I've been taken advantage of or anything and I know he's not going to suddenly start treating me like crap, so I'm just looking it as a pleasant way to have spent some time. Very pleasant, actually, boy's not bad at all.

Today has been less pleasant, what with me being exhausted. I've been running errands for Lynn, so the most I've seen of Justin after we left the room was the thirty seconds in which I popped my head into his car and asked him what he wanted from Starbucks. I like his coffee requests, whatever he chooses is always pretty straightforward - unlike his head of security Randy and his half fat decaf soy vanilla shot whatever the hell it is he asks for. Suffice to say that I have made speeches shorter than his drink order, so he basically gets however much of it I can remember… which isn't usually much more than 'half fat.'

I got in one car to go to Starbucks with Hannah and a couple of the guards, and we're meeting Justin, Lynn Johnny and the rest of the guards there. Hannah and I both have our hands full of drinks, but at least it's a short trip so they won't be getting cold. We've been following him around for various appearances this morning, so we're having a quick stop back at the hotel for regrouping and re-briefing before going back out for the afternoon's photo shoot. I like photo shoots, I get to sit around and read while everybody else works.

"Drinks, finally!"

Lynn looks incredibly grateful to me as I walk through the door with an arm full of cup carrier. I smile at her before setting them down on the table - the hotel has kindly let us use their small conference room, so everybody's sat around this great big table in really squishy looking swivel chairs. I like swivel chairs, they're fun.

"Okay…" I peer at the carrier Hannah has set down next to the one I was carrying; I think I have these drinks straight, maybe not. "Chai for Lynn, mocha for Johnny, insanely complicated drink for Randy and…" I have to examine the fourth cup, "Wait this one's mine."

Hannah's approach is totally different. "That one's mine and I have a skim latte and a frappuccino. Come and get 'em." I know the latte is Justin's but I'm mildly surprised that Kevin (the musical director) opted for the frap. I see him as liking his coffee hot and strong, not iced up with chocolate flavouring poured in.

The only seat open is next to Justin, so I slide into it cradling my drink. I have to make an indignant noise when he immediately grabs it from me and takes a sip. I don't care if I slept with him, that's just taking liberties.

"What is that?" He asks.

"Caramel hot chocolate." I got venti sized, too - Sophie might lecture me about refined sugar but is she here right now? No.

"Are you five?"

"At least I'm not the little girl ordering half fat because he's afraid it'll go to his hips." I give him a swift elbow. Here's hoping Lynn didn't just see the look he gave me because it's a dead giveaway; the boy clearly still doesn't have a clue how to act around me.

"Okay… to business," Johnny says after a gulp of his coffee. Justin is the big cheese around here but there's never any question that Johnny runs this joint. I like his management technique, actually, it's all very calm and friendly but he means business and we all know it. It's definitely conducive to a productive atmosphere, because everybody knows where they are and what's expected of them. This man doesn't do bullshit or laziness, but he's not a total hard ass either. Enrique could stand to take a few lessons from him. "Anything we need to go over from this morning before I move on to this afternoon?"

"I think the only issues were the cars," I answer him as I pull a notebook and pen out of my bag. "What happened there?"

Randy answers my question, looking pretty annoyed about it. "Clearly we chose the wrong firm, because I must have personally given those guys the instructions about five times."

Let me explain something to you about moving celebrities around quickly and quietly - it's like a military operation. You need the right cars in the right place at the right second, and you need the drivers to be pretty slick. It's an awkward job that's often subject to last minute changes, so whoever you have chauffeuring you needs to be pretty with it. These guys weren't, because they were on the wrong street entirely when Justin's quick back door exit became a fan frenzy that the bodyguards had to barge their way out of to get Justin through the crowd. Since we had to stand around waiting, it gave the fans and photographers time to find him whereas if we'd have gone when we were supposed to they'd have been too late.

Justin was complaining that a lot of girls managed to land their ass grabs right on his bruise. He never answered Hannah when she asked 'what bruise.'

"Which firm did we use?" Johnny asks.

"Robertson," I answer. "It's too much hassle changing for this afternoon but do you want me to call somebody else for the airport ride tomorrow?"

"Sounds like a good idea Chelsea," he tells me and I make a note to do that. "Anything else?"

"Oh, that reporter we missed this morning wants to come on set for the shoot this afternoon," Lynn pipes up. The shoot's for her magazine anyway so I don't see that it makes a huge difference. "Is that okay?"

"Fine by me," Justin says after a gulp of his coffee. "Though won't she get in the way of the TV cameras?"

"Oh, I forgot." Johnny slides a piece of paper my way. "You need to sign the waiver for the TV show, Chelsea. You still happy to answer questions?"

"Sure." I pick up my pen and quickly scrawl my signature before handing it back. There's going to be cameras on the shoot and they might ask us for a few sound bites. I've done it with Sophie before, it's all pretty standard.

"But no, Justin, I already told her there's be a crew there," his mom informs him.

"Cool."

"So did everybody receive their checklists and does everybody know where they are and what they're doing this afternoon?"

We all nod in assent, but Hannah pipes up. "If it's okay Johnny, I need to run out for his Anaheim show outfits so am I okay to leave as soon as he's dressed?"

Johnny nods and makes a note. "Fine. Do you need a car?"

"I'll grab a cab."

"Oh, did we get the comp tickets fixed yet?" Justin asks. The comp tickets are the ones we'll be giving out to his friends and family and the celebrities who want to come. I still do not understand why they of the lots o' cash will be getting in free when fans that save all year to see a show will be paying two hundred bucks for tickets off some scalper.

"I faxed the list but didn't hear anything back yet." I pre-empted Johnny's question there.

You notice how we jump from topic to topic yet everybody knows what we're talking about without any explanation? That's anal retentive attention to detail, right there. Yeah, people think this industry is so glamorous and so thrilling and glitzy. These are the days of our lives - we plan and plan and get anal over the details all so we can get somebody's picture taken. The whole celebrity bubble really is like living on another planet. I just concentrate on my hot chocolate and scribble the few relevant parts that I need to know into my notebook. I'd fall asleep on Justin's shoulder (which is right there and looks very tempting) if it wouldn't make me look so bad.

***

If I may say so myself, I give good photo shoot. I know how to do moody and happy and cheeky and all that, I know what angles make me look good and I know how to turn it on for a camera.

The one thing I have never got about photo shoots is… well, the point. I know it garners publicity and I know it makes people go buy my music, but why do they care? It's not like you can see me while my song's playing in the stereo is it? Don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid and I know that my looks (for whatever weird reason) set a fire under some girls and it makes them pay out all their hard earned cash for my shows and shit. I am most grateful and I try not to question it; I just smile and pose like the good boy I am.

I just don't get it though. It's weird.

The whole experience is weird. It's weird to step into a room and have everything be about you. Every person in this room is here because of me: either to make me look good or to write about me. Sometimes I think that after all this time in the business it's stupid that I'm not used to this, and sometimes I think it's better if I never get used to it. Everybody fusses over me and everybody's asking me if I want anything and am I okay and is this all okay and whatever… except the person I actually pay to do that. Chelsea has gleefully taken the opportunity to curl up with a book amusingly entitled 'The Love Academy.' At a guess, it has to be chick lit with that title. She doesn't need to be doing anything for me when the rest of the room is.

The reporter for the magazine (who is constantly getting underfoot despite being warned about it) catches me looking over there and I know she wants to ask something. This woman is annoying. Most of the time with the more upscale magazines the reporters are plenty nice, not like the tabloid ones - this one thinks that because she's doing the interview it puts her in charge of the shoot, and she's pissing off all the photography crew who know otherwise. I wouldn't much care, I'm not here to make friends with her, but when she makes everybody in the room uncomfortable it makes the shoot uncomfortable and I worry that it'll show in the pictures or the quotes.

You'd be amazed how many rumours I can attribute to a bad atmosphere in the room when I was asked the questions. I seem to let out quotes that are much easier to twist when I'm uncomfortable. It's strange, you'd think it would be when I'm comfortable and my guard is down that I'd do that, but no. I seem to mess up just when I'm watching myself and trying not to.

"So how did Chelsea come to be your assistant?" She asks me tape recorder in hand. "She was working for Sophie Lumos, right?"

She and I both know that she knew who Chelsea worked for. "Yeah. I worked on the movie with Sophie, obviously, and I needed a PA to fill in for me for a few weeks and Sophie kindly let me borrow Chelsea." Hah, see? The answer's boring, lady, move on.

"So Sophie didn't fire her?"

"No. She'd be nuts to, Chelsea's great at what she does," I say loyally.

"And Chelsea didn't quit?"

"Chelsea is still very much employed by Sophie. I just borrowed her for a while." Anybody else would take my tone as a hint to skedaddle right away from this subject, but this lady clearly doesn't get it.

"And how was working with Sophie? Rumours had you too looking pretty close for a while."

See? She even sounds like a cheesy tabloid reporter, how'd she get a job working for these guys? I consider this magazine pretty good as far as the media goes.

"Sophie's a great actor and I learned a lot from her," I shrug as Hannah scurries over. She grabs the back of my pants and starts manhandling me, getting me into a suitably Memphis looking belt, but I just let her do it. She has seen me practically naked and in the quick change she's practically had to feel me up in order to get me in and out of costumes, so I'm past caring with Hannah.

"How about away from the set?" God this woman is pushy.

"We hung out a few times and she's a lot of fun, but it really wasn't what people seem to want it to be."

"And what's that?"

Sure, bitch, play dumb. I give her the evil eye. "I stand within twenty feet of a girl and people say I must be dating her. People must want me to be Casanova or something but I don't think I've dated even five percent of the girls people say I have."

"So between the playboy rumours and the rumours that you've been physically abusive, do you feel like the media misrepresents you when it comes to women?"

Hmm… the way she worded that I can't quite get if she's trying to throw me a bone here or if she's just being a bitch and slipping that woman beater thing in there to spite me. It's awful that I have to second guess every question I'm asked, but that's what I get for living in the Twilight Zone. Fame's an awkward thing; I never know how people are looking to represent me or what their agenda is. One thing I can tell you is that she made up her mind about me five minutes after she walked into the room and she will pick and choose which quotes she prints to back that up.

"I think that the media is looking for a good story," I say carefully, "and unfortunately the truth is usually too boring to be one so they have to make baseless assumptions and start rumours because they sound more interesting than plain old reality and it sells more copies. I know that I treat women respectfully and the women around me know that I treat them respectfully, it's just a shame that certain factions of the press want to claim otherwise."

"Chelsea?" The woman (I think her name is Andie) turns around on my poor innocent PA. Well, I say innocent, but she's actually a very savvy PA who clearly heard a good deal of that from the look on her face. "What do you say, does Justin Timberlake treat women respectfully?"

I see a wry grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, though she doesn't quite let it show. With a shrug of her shoulders, she tucks a strand behind her ear and puts her hands out, palms up as if to say 'what can I tell you.' "Anybody who thinks Justin Timberlake would ever treat women disrespectfully has obviously never met his momma. She'd kick his ass all the way back to Tennessee before she let him behave that way."

Okay… I really want to laugh because Andie or whoever just got owned, but at the same time I kind of wish she'd said something a little more heartfelt and earnest to defend my honour. I was all nice about her when the bitch reporter was trying to malign her, after all.

"Damn straight," I try to play it off with a grin. "My momma raised me better than that."

"You're close to your mother, aren't you Justin?" Andie asks.

Finally, a nice boring line of interview question - I could answer this one in my sleep.

***

"Chelsea?"

Justin has finally spoken. It surprises me, because he's been deathly quiet through this whole car ride. The photo shoot went fine, bar this evil reporter who thought she was much smarter and more subtle with her questions than she was. I saw the polaroids and they looked pretty good, I'm sure the girls will go nuts for him as usual. The TV crew was pretty cool and they got some pretty funny moments: my personal favourite being 'Justin Timberlake with his head stuck in a sweater sleeve.' That was hilarious; he just could not understand how he'd done that.

"Justin?"

"Do you feel weird about last night?"

Oh, I wondered when he'd finally come out with this. I've known him a while now, and with the last few weeks I've got to know him in a fairly intense way (due to the constant proximity). This guy has to work up to talking about what's bothering him. You'll see it written over his face an age before he finally asks but it's like he has to think through how to say it first. On the bright side, it's always a good idea to think before speaking, but there is such a thing as too much thought.

"No," I answer truthfully. "I take it you do?"

"It's not weird to you that we slept together and now we're acting like everything's normal?"

I'd never be stupid enough to say it, but it's interesting how instead of answering 'yes' straight out he got defensive and basically suggested that mine is the wrong reaction.

"Justin…" I sigh and put my head back against the head rest. It's a good thing these cars are comfortable - Randy's standing guard outside while the driver is inside the gas station. I personally think Randy is drawing more attention to it that way, but who am I to argue with the professional?

"I'm sorry; it's just weird for me. I've never done this before."

"I presume by that you're not trying to claim you're a virgin…" okay, at least I got a chuckle, "so do you mean that every time you've slept with a girl it's been a big deal after?"

"Well… no… well, kind of. Like, it was at least acknowledged that something had happened, that it makes things a little different."

Sometimes it's hard to decipher him, I tell you. I think I know what he means, but he doesn't make it easy. "I don't see that a lot is different. I stopped thinking that sex was this huge deal pretty much… the second I first had any," I joked.

This was not the right way to go, because he now looks stony faced and clearly just took this as an affront to his manhood.

"Look, JT…" I sling an arm around his shoulders in an attempt at being conciliatory. "I think you're a great guy and if it's not too presumptuous a great friend. I thought that before last night and I still think it now. I don't feel awkward about sleeping with you exactly because I'm comfortable with you and I know you'd never do anything to make me feel weird about it. So I don't."

Call me optimistic, but I think his expression softened a little. His mouth doesn't seem so hard set and his brow has relaxed a little. He still doesn't look thrilled, but this is what happens when your PA has a talent for sticking her foot firmly in her mouth. Pretty blue eyes are much prettier when they don't come with a scowl.

"I just… you can't deny this changes things a little."

"Well…" I say slowly. "It means you'd better not piss me off or I got a story to tell the Enquirer."

"I got the confidentiality agreement signed, sealed and delivered."

"Dang. That was my back up plan for if Sophie ever fires me."

The joking finally seems to relax him properly, as he slouches back in his seat instead of being so rigid. "I just… there's a line, we went over it, and I don't know what to make of it is all."

I feel an odd rush of affection for his over-contemplative self, and I lean over to kiss him on the cheek. "Don't worry."

***

Don't worry? Don't worry?

What the hell does that mean? What the hell does any of that mean? She sleeps with me, her employer, she acts like it's as significant as a… not significant thing… then she gives me a speech about what a great friend I am and how comfortable she is with me. She gives me totally mixed signals with acting like it's no big deal but then kisses me on the cheek and cuddles up to me. She gives me no hint whether I'm still firmly in the Friend Zone or if by telling me she's comfortable she means comfortable with things taking a turn in the sexual direction, and she tells me not to worry?

I hate women. I need to call Trace.

I'm so excited. After tonight and this one last after party (complete with Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight, oh deep joy), the tour is over. This is the last night I'm spending in a hotel room for a while - tomorrow, I get my bed back.

Justin and I were talking about it earlier, both entirely too thrilled at the prospect of home. That said, in one breath he was saying he never wanted to leave his house again and the next that we should go to Vegas for a long weekend, but he's just contradictory like that. I have big plans for to slob out in my bed and Kennedy has already been invited for the sleepover. I did also promise Sophie that we'd 'do lunch,' but there's no date on that so I can put that off until I can be bothered. I love her, but I never want to leave my apartment again right now.

On the bright side of still getting through this one last day, he gave me nothing to do except pick Rachael (his cousin and his real PA) up from the airport. She won't be staying long, she's just visiting, but it'll be nice to get to know her since I've only seen her in passing before. As a result of this, I went with Hannah to pick her up but once we got her all three of us decided we'd rather go shopping. There was some real whining about that from Justin given that she's allegedly come to visit him, but did any of us care? Not even. We're now back at the hotel chilling in my room - the shopping trip kind of took three hours - and she STILL hasn't seen JT because he's off doing more interviews. He sent whiny text messages to that effect and I sent one back telling him to shut it.

I'm so much more abusive to him than I am to Sophie, mostly because I know he'll take it.

"Okay, is this just too slutty?" Rachael holds a black and yellow bra and thong set up from one of her bags. I swear I didn't see her buy that.

"It's really cute but it is dangerously small," I say honestly. "Is this for general wear or for seduction?"

"Which is less slutty?"

I pretend to think this over really carefully, tapping my finger to my mouth and making Hannah giggle. "Oddly less slutty if you are trying to seduce somebody. Only a hooker wears underwear that small as general wear. Why, is it for seduction?" I nudge her with an elbow and she just grins in response.

"Maybe. So what did you get when we were in there?"

'There,' by the way, is this really cute little lingerie boutique where they do all these really cool one off designs. The owner there says she makes two in each size of a design and that's it, except for occasionally when she might make the same one in different colours. I like the idea that I'm not wearing the same Secrets underwear a hundred thousand other girls are, so that's cool. I'll have to remember the place to show Kennedy and Sophie; Sophie in particular is an underwear fiend, I think she has more bras than shirts to wear them under.

"I bought that blue one with the little flowers on it, and…" I pause for effect while fishing my other purchase out of my bag. It's an entirely too sexy pair of black silk PJ shorts and a black polka dot camisole. It's really sexy in a coquettish way and an absolutely pointless purchase because nobody's going to be seeing it. Still, I know I look cute in it so that's enough, right?

"Oh, I like," Hannah says as she fingers the material.

"I thought you said you were single, this is guy nightwear!" Rachael always seems to have this cheeky gleam in her eye, and I like that about her. I can see why Justin gushes about her so; she's a lot of fun.

"Wishful thinking. And you're one to talk - those jeans are way too tight for anything except showing your ass off."

"Speaking of, ladies, what are we wearing tonight?" Hannah asks. It makes me groan - I'm expected to make an effort since the TV crews will be out in force at the after party and I really don't want to. Rachael looks a little more excited by the prospect, and begins bouncing in her seat.

"I'm gonna wear my jeans that are too tight for anything except showing my ass," she punctuates with a raspberry in my direction, "and that little corset you found for me. Did I mention you rock?"

A perk of being a Hollywood PA is shopping with stylists. They cannot help themselves; even though you don't employ them and they're supposed to concentrate on their client they will still give you advice anyway. Hannah's particularly unable to stop herself, and it has made this whole shopping trip a breeze for me and Rachael because she's just picked out everything. She's been around both me and Rachael long enough to know her personal styles so she just whips through the racks and before you know it she's thrown five different outfits at you and is ordering you to a changing room.

"Very good," she nods in approval before turning to me. "And?"

"What, I have to like get wardrobe approval?"

"Yes."

"That answers that question."

"So…?" She asks before I groan out loud and flop back on the bed.

"But I don't want to," I whine. "I want to slob out in my hoodie and my jeans. Why do I have to get dressed up? Whatever happened to comfortable?"

Hannah pokes me in the rib (which is very painful, can I say) and shakes her head at me with a tut. "Silly girl. Do you learn nothing from the Dolls?"

"Huh? What do PCD have to do with this?"

"The trick is to sex up the comfy stuff so much nobody notices you're in jeans," she winks. "Let me at your closet for five minutes and I'll swear I'll have it."

Rachael looks sceptical. "Twenty bucks says you can't do it."

"On."

"Hey!" I protest. "Can we not make wagers over how crappy I may or may not look?"

Hannah has ignored me and has already grabbed my shopping bags and marched over to the closet and my half unpacked suitcase. "Half of it's in the make up anyway: lots of mascara and eyeliner. Smoky eyes sex up everything."

"So anyway," Rachael rolls her eyes and pulls a face at me, making me giggle. "We still going for sushi before the show?"

"Oh yeah, Trace was insisting," I tell her. "You, me, him and Justin, Marty and Eddie and Tasha are booked in." Hannah's not coming as she had prep to do for the show first.

"Oh, can I add one or would that be a pain?" She asks as she takes a bite of a Hershey bar.

"It's just a phone call," I wave a hand dismissively. "Who you bringing?"

"Oh, my friend Laura is in town trying to set up some meetings at Paramount and she's like, so insanely busy tonight is all the time she has. She can't even stop for the show."

"Paramount?" I ask interestedly.

"Yeah, she's just set up her own production company and they have a couple of movies to pitch. She says she fully expects them to turn her down but she wants to get her face known as much as anything," she says with her mouth full.

"Wow," I say. "I'd love to do that at some point. That's kinda of what I did for my degree, I majored in film and business with a view to producing one day."

"Well hey you should totally talk to her," Rachael nods emphatically through the chocolate as Hannah yanks to me to my feet and has no qualms about stripping me like I was Justin in the quick change. Thankfully I wore presentable underwear today. "She's been in the business a while and she knows a ton of people. Plus she's always looking for staff."

My stomach churns a little to hear that. It's weird how sometimes I get more nervous at the prospect of furthering my ambitions than at the ideas that I never will. I guess you can get too comfortable… plus there's always that looming fear of failure. Will never liked the idea of me setting up my own company, said it was silly to risk my own money when I had all these Hollywood bigwigs I could work for: risk theirs instead. I guess in a weird way he had a point, but it wasn't the most encouraging thing in the world. Still, can't hurt to talk to her. It's not like anything will come of it and I'll be seeing Sophie tonight anyway.

"There," Hannah says as she's finished dressing me before I've even really taken stock of what she's done. When I look in the mirror, I immediately see that she was right - I'm in a pair of skinny jeans which when teamed with some stilettos will look killer, and she's pulled out a stretchy black shirt that clings to me and makes me look like my waist has been cinched in. It sits artfully off my shoulders, hinting at skin… but I am remarkably comfortable. With the right shoes and some teased hair it'll look like I made a huge effort when I really didn't.

"Damn it," Rachael mutters as she fishes for a twenty.

***

"Oh my God, girlfriend," Kennedy clinks her Cosmo against my daiquiri in a toast as we lean over the rail, waiting for Justin to come on. The fans are all in but the show's not going to start for another twenty minutes (it was due to start half an hour ago) and the VIP balcony still has a few more to be even fashionably later than the first fashionably late arrivals.

"I know! How freaking cool was that?"

I wore my PCD hoodie over the top of my outfit (just as a jacket, really), and I haven't taken it off yet. So thirty seconds ago Nicole frickin' Scherzinger walks past, she meets my eye and then realises what I'm wearing. She kind of touches my sleeve and then smiles at me and says I have great taste in shirts before walking off to talk to Timbaland (he of the funny sentences is back for one night only). Do you have any idea how awesome that is, Nicole damn Scherzinger? Would it be really unprofessional of me to go bug her for a picture? I mean, I knew she was on the guest list but I didn't think she'd actually be here, this is so cool! I can't believe it! I am acting like such a teenage fan girl right now, somebody stop me!

"I don't know why you're acting like that when you sent her the damn tickets," Trace chuckles as he tosses an arm around my shoulders. I reciprocate with one around his waist, though I do take the opportunity to pinch him a little for that comment.

"What, I can't be a fan as well as a PA? It's not like it's Justin I'm going gooey over."

Trace gets a funny look on his face that immediately tells me that he knows about me having some Timberlake 'sexy time,' as he and Justin were referring to sex at dinner. Apparently if I'd seen Borat I would get the reference, I just think it sounds kind of dumb. I mean, call a spade a spade. Whatever, I hope Justin hasn't been blabbing that little piece of gossip to too many people. Trace is one thing, but I really don't think anybody needs this to be public knowledge and some people just can't keep their mouths shut.

"So does that mean you're not a fan of Sophie, either?"

"I'm certainly not," Kennedy mutters. I so heard that.

"It's hard to go gooey over somebody when you book their gynaecologist appointments."

"Eww!" Trace looks appalled, which is good because that's exactly the reaction I wanted. Maybe now he'll shut up about it.

Either way, it is kind of nice to just be standing around like this and chatting. We're just chilling out with some drinks in our hands and the whole vibe up in VIP right now is just really indolent and calm. It won't stay that way once JT starts doing his thing on stage or once we get to the after party, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts. It's nice to just chill with Trace and Kennedy like this (it was also Rachael earlier, but she's now too busy telling Lynn some story about what's been going on in Shelby Forest).

"So you seemed really into it with that Laura girl earlier," Trace asks. "She give you anything useful?"

"Like what?" I ask.

"Her business card?" I give him a teasing elbow, but he looks serious. "If she's looking for staff you might want to jump in there, Chels. It's always a lot easier to get the fledglings to take you on with less experience than the major players since they need the bodies, it's a great short cut.

"You know I hadn't thought of it like that but you actually have a point."

"Do you have to sound quite so surprised?"

"It's surprising." Kennedy winks at him before tossing back the last dregs of her Cosmo.

"Some things aren't so surprising. Look at Sophie, I can't believe she brought him after all that," I say darkly as I spot her walking through the door, later than most. I seem to distinctly recall telling her not to bring Marco here. For one thing it's Justin's show and he pretty much tried to kill the dude, and for another I warned her that I was bringing Kennedy and she wouldn't appreciate being in a room with the guy. More to the point, neither do I - my nose just twitched in fear, I swear. It hasn't forgotten its last near break.

"Well I keep telling you she's a selfish wench but do you listen?"

"Not now, Ken."

"You want me to get him thrown out?" Trace asks. He's utterly serious too; I can feel the way his arm just tightened around me. Apparently the memory of our little ER trip hasn't left him behind, either.

"No," I say reluctantly. "It'll make a scene, it'll be all over the gossip rags and she'll get pissed at me like it's me who did something wrong. It's not worth it."

"Chelsea!" Sophie has scurried around here as fast as her boots will let her go, practically knocking Trace out of the way to fling her arms around me and leaving Marco Bastardo in the dust behind her. "Long time no see, amiga! This all looks great, how long have you been here?"

I look at her and she looks so happy and chipper, like she always does. She's beaming at me, looking all pretty and princess like in a flowing mini dress, probably Marc Jacobs or somebody like that. She looks so genuinely pleased to see me, and so clueless about the dreadful cloud her boyfriend's arrival has just pulled over proceedings.

"What is he doing here?" I say in a low voice between gritted teeth. To her credit, a mildly annoyed look passes over her face, if only for an instant.

"Ugh. He insisted. I did tell him not to." For a moment she looks like she's about to say something more disparaging, but then the perky veneer comes back on. "Never mind, we'll have a great time anyway. God I missed you! We totally need to book into the spa and catch up, if Justin can spare you a day. Speaking of, I really need to talk to my father about when I can get you back. I don't want to leave him in the lurch but he can't keep you forever, I need you!" She laughs gaily, blowing a joking kiss to some guy in the crowd of fans who just yelled 'will you marry me' up at her.

I blink rapidly. I'd almost forgotten what a force of nature she can be sometimes; she just kind of sweeps into a room in all her outgoing splendour and before you can draw breath everyone has been dazzled. It's amazing how quickly I've become so un-acclimatised. Is that a word, un-acclimatised? Well, whatever, it's startling how quickly I've got used to being just kind of out there by myself rather than with her as I was so used to.

What? Why's Kevin coming out so early? Are they starting already? I was going to go get another drink first…

***

I'm really glad that Rachael's here to pick up my slack, because Sophie's got me trailing after her on this red carpet like I'm still on active duty as her PA. Justin keeps glancing over and looking really annoyed about it, and I keep trying to catch his eye so I can mouth a 'sorry' over at him. This is, however, hard to do when Sophie has dragged me in front of a camera, holding my hand in friendly fashion. She does that a lot on red carpets; she says it keeps her calm. It does have the added perk of allowing me to give her subtle hand signals - we long ago worked out a code for when we need to leave or when I think she needs to watch what she's saying.

"… I mean what can you say, the show was amazing and it's been really great for me to see this side of what he does as well as obviously seeing how good he is on set and acting," Sophie nods at her interviewer with a smile.

"When's the movie due out?"

"Uhh… help me out here?" She laughs at me, flashing a pearly smile.

"I think later in the year once they got the post production out of the way, maybe December, but it's not finalised yet," I tell him. That's a point, will Justin have finished with me by then or will I still be 'his' PA once they're doing that round of publicity together? I have images of running double duty going through my head and it makes me want to run far, far away.

"So how different has it been working for Justin than for Sophie?"

"Well Justin hasn't asked me to give him any pedicures yet…" Sophie bursts into peals of oddly attractive giggles. There's a very sing-song quality to her voice without it sounding babyish or silly, I think it really helps her in interviews. "I mean, no, it's a totally different industry but they're both very professional and very nice people so they're both pretty good to work for."

"Hah, she still loves me more!"

"So not true - you're just jealous she likes me better than you!" Justin yells from behind us and it sets Sophie off into even more laughter. I can just see this being the clip they all play… oh goody. I'm glad Hannah did my make up, never hurts to be professionally styled if you get yanked in front of TV crews against your will.

"It's so tough to be popular," I breathe out with a grin that I can't quite help as Sophie gives me a playful kiss on the cheek.

Finally we appear to be done, and we stride through the door of the club. My eyes immediately sweep the room for Kennedy, but Sophie's been kind of monopolising me and I have a feeling she's got the huff with me for it. My life would be so much easier if these two could get on. This club is pretty hot - it's brand new and it's all been styled as 1930s Art Deco, lots of funky angles and very clean lines. My grandparents' house was like this before my grandfather died and my grandma moved into a retirement village; as weird as it is for a club to remind me of home, it makes me finger Grandpa's dog tags which are currently hanging around my neck.

Sophie holds my hand as she leads us through the crowd to the bar, and subtly she leans into my ear and whispers. "How do you think I should get rid of Marco?"

Oh thank God - she's dumping the bastard. Let's hope it sticks this time. "Just do it once you get back to your place. You don't want to make a scene here. And no I'm not doing it for you," I tell her as she gets that look on her face. If there's one thing she's not good at, it's confrontation with boyfriends. Anybody else she's great at putting her foot down or standing up for herself, men she sucks at telling no."

"I don't know why I got back together with him," she tells me as we halt by the steps. "He's so possessive. He asks me why I didn't spend time with him on such and such a noche and half the time it was a night he told me no because he was working!"

I swallow the impulse to tell her that there were far bigger reasons not to get back together with him. Thankfully I can see Justin beckoning, so I have an excuse to get out of this conversation.

"Sorry, Soph, Justin's calling me. Duty calls!" I chirp.

She glances sideways at him. "So you never did tell me what his deal was."

"Huh?" I look at her blankly.

"You know… that thing I asked you to keep me updated on."

Oh no. NO. You have GOT to be kidding me. NOW? She ditched the idea of getting anything going with Justin to get back together with the asshole and yet suddenly now she changes her mind? What the hell? I mean, God, I thought she'd moved on from it. There's no point in her running after him anyway. Clearly he's not that interested since in the meantime he's hooked up with somebody el…

Oh God, ME. He hooked up with somebody else and it was ME. Oh shit - she's still interested in him and I've slept with him. Oh SHIT. She'll kill me. She'll fire me. I'm not even sure which she'd do first, oh fuck…

"Back in ten," I say as Justin begins to look ever more impatient. I practically sprint over there, glad that it's dark and the red flush in my cheeks will be invisible.

I reach the table where he's holding court, surveying his partygoers, and he drapes an arm around my shoulders. "Hey you."

"Hey yourself." Believe it or not, this is the first time I've actually spoken to him since this morning. "Great show, looked good."

"Looking good yourself." He tips his beer in deference to me and then takes a swig. "Has she forgotten that you're mine right now?"

Oh shit, and to top it all off he's pissed too. "I'm sorry, she just…"

"I know, it's cool," he gives me a squeeze. "Why the hell is he here though?"

"Apparently she tried to tell him not to come but he insisted." I know without asking that he means Marco.

"The only reason Tiny hasn't kicked his ass out is those camera crews."

"I know, I'm so sorry," I whimper pathetically. This is really embarrassing, all this drama on my account.

"Don't worry, doll. I ain't blaming you."

"So you are blaming someone?"

He doesn't answer me, but instead turns to introduce me to a bunch of his friends from Shelby Forest who only just got the chance to come out to the show. I'm shaking hands with everybody and making the small talk as I should, but I can't help noticing that he hasn't answered my question. This is great - Sophie's back after him and in the time since she was last interested I've managed to turn Justin against her and sleep with him myself.

Maybe my life would be easier if I just called that Laura friend of Rachael's and begged her for a job.

Trace leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the magazine in front of him. He looks incredulous. His eyebrows almost meet in the middle where he's bunched them together and his tongue darts in and out of his mouth to constantly smack his lips together. That's a really annoying habit of his.

"I think it's really weird that if you got the cash to pay for Cochran you can go kill somebody and still walk, but then people call for your blood in the papers because you double parked or some shit. That's really fucking twisted."

"Some might call it karma," I smirk.

"Huh?" He looks blankly at me. The dude is a good business man but he's not much of a philosopher.

"We get away with the big shit so the universe balances it out buy having people over-sweat the small stuff."

"Right," he says slowly, drawing out the I. The longer Trace makes his syllable last, the more fun he's making of you - they're directly proportionate.

If you're wondering, I haven't double parked recently. I gave Trace this week's pile of 'not good enough for toilet paper so they printed magazines on it' because there's a lengthy discussion on me in one of them. Needless to say it's not flattering. It's basically every bad rumour ever printed about me regurgitated and served on a bed of vitriol and supposed concern for the kids who look up to me. Apparently I'm a bad role model. Yep, that's right kids. Having a successful multi-faceted career and staying off the drugs (well… except for the odd joint) is a bad, bad thing to do, kids. Stay in school.

Though of course that's not the shit this asshole's focussing on. Apparently my voice is whiny and I make my name off of boning women more famous than me and I'm a misogynist. This is supposedly clear from my lyrics and all the sexual references. On top of the woman beating, there's a truck load of new allegations in there about how I'm supposed to have treated Monica and how awful our relationship was. If only he knew - that relationship was emotionally abusive but it was totally mutual. I'd even go so far as to say she was better at it than me: not because she's somehow a worse person than me, but just because she's smarter and thus better at spotting the weak points.

You know what the really irritating thing is? I can't even sue. There's enough 'allegedly' and 'reportedly' in there to cover this bastard on the rumour side of things, and the rest is all protected as fair comment or opinion. Somebody needs to tell me what the fuck is fair about some pretentious asshole I never met judging me from a variety of notoriously unreliable print sources instead of on my work, but this is my life. I might have been joking about karma, but sometimes I honestly think the press and paparazzi are the karmic pay off for wealth.

I think the drug addictions and the going crazy some people suffer from are the karmic fallout from not dealing with it too good, but then I guess if I go too far down that route it makes me a judgmental hypocrite. I don't know; I just wish tabloids would shut up. I'm on vacation.

"They got the knives out for you, man," Trace breathes with a sigh. "I don't understand where this backlash is coming from."

"It's the same as after the Super Bowl," I tell him. "You get too high and they start trying to pull you down."

"Yeah but dude, you gave them an excuse last time and what the fuck have you done now?"

"Which just proves I was right when I said if it hadn't been the Super Bowl they'd have found some lame ass excuse somewhere else."

"I suppose you got a point."

"Mmm. It'll blow over, I guess. Probably a good thing I was planning to lay low anyway."

I get up and walk over to the refrigerator, pulling out the necessary ingredients for a kick ass ham and cheese sandwich. Those, if you didn't know, are top quality ham and some good cheddar that's mellow but still mature enough to have a little kick. I'm not particular about my peanut butter and jelly or my chicken salad or whatever: just throw everything in and I'll take it as it comes. But when it comes to my ham and cheese I'm telling you it's got to be right. It needs just enough toasting to melt the cheese and to bring some crispness to the bread, but if your bread goes too far to becoming toast then you've blown it.

I would have made a Philly cheese steak instead, but that sounds far too much like effort right now.

"Don't you ever feel like doing a Britney?"

"Umm… how? Barefoot in bathrooms, hitting people with umbrellas… what?" Trace looks at me disapprovingly, but he clearly wants to laugh. I didn't mean that against Britney, I swear, I just have no idea what he's talking about.

"Just giving a big blow out interview with your side of things?"

"And what did they do to her for that?" I point out. "They blasted her and twisted everything she said to make it sound worse than before. You're fucked if you do and fucked if you don't, so I figure not bothering saves me some wasted effort."

"True. But you never even thought about just laying that Monica shit out there? Just to shut them up about the woman beating thing?"

"The truth makes me sound like just the kind of guy who would beat a woman."

I am totally ashamed to say that, might I add. Monica and I… we were so awful to each other. It was the most destructive relationship I've ever been in and to this day I don't know why we held out so long. In a way it was almost like a contest; it was like we were trying to see who could break first. Leaving meant that you were too weak to deal with it, that you couldn't come back and face a little more or that you weren't mature enough to be able to take a joke or some teasing, even though we both knew it went well into bullying territory. Of course that's really stupid logic because the whole thing was totally immature and if we had been mature we'd have both been in a big hurry to cut the other loose, but this is how fucked up it all was.

It was like some weird endurance test, like in those Army Brat Camp shows you see on TV where they take the delinquent kids and put them into boot camp. I remember seeing one where after this awful long exercise with like ten hours of running cross country and dragging trucks and stuff, the leaders of the two competing camps had to hold full buckets of water for as long as they could stand, when their muscles were already burning. It was painful and you could see how much they both wanted to quit, but it was pride that kept them going. Neither of them wanted to lose, and I think after a time me and Monica viewed being the one to call everything off as being the loser.

Sometimes I think the most irritating thing about these magazine articles is that occasionally, when they manage to hit on something slightly grounded in truth (it's never the actual truth), they can really strike a nerve. This whole woman beater issue is just awkward because though it's not true, I know I treated my last girlfriend like shit. She treated me like shit too, but that doesn't get me off the hook.

"Hmm." I bet you anything Trace is going to change the subject in five… four… "So where's Chelsea today?"

Told you. Any time he doesn't like a conversation he changes the subject. In a confrontation he'll be all up in your face and won't back down from anything, but in general life he likes to avoid the heavy shit if he can.

"She and her sister have gone to some chocolate spa."

"What's a chocolate spa?"

"I know they serve a lot of chocolate in the restaurant, but I think all the treatments and facials have something to do with cocoa beans or cocoa butter and shit, I guess. I think she told me but I wasn't listening."

"Staring at her ass?"

"Like you weren't. And actually it was her legs."

You may remember that I mentioned a suspicion of mine: one about Trace having a thing for her. Well, as usual, I know him too well. He totally liked her to begin with, but he said somewhere around month two on the movie set he quickly worked out that he was in the Friend Zone. Trace being Trace, he's not one to sit around and mope after a chick so he just got up and got on with it. I mean, of course he still has the hots for her a little, but it's not like he's got a huge crush on her. He did, but now he doesn't. Some might consider this bull, like he's just trying to downplay it, but I know when Trace is bullshitting me and he wasn't when he said that.

Also, the fact that he openly and honestly told me he was as annoyed as fuck that I slept with her gives me confidence that he hasn't withheld feelings of any kind. You might think this would be a problem or cause issues with us, but this is just how we are after twenty something years of friendship. We don't fuck around with small talk and denials we're just honest about shit. It works way better than pretending everything's fine; sure we might get mad on occasion, but it always blows over quick instead of simmering under all that repression. He said it wasn't my fault or Chelsea's, he had no claim on her and he wouldn't have any problem if it turned out she liked me and wanted more, but that it just pisses him off sometimes when all the girls he likes wind up with me. Except Elisha. Elisha didn't give two shits about me, but then in the end she didn't work out so great for Trace so I guess she's not an example to bring up.

For my part, I told him that his relationship with Chelsea annoys me too. He asked why, like I was worried he'd try and fight me for her or some stupid shit like that, but I told him not to be so stupid. It's just for all this being in the Friend Zone, I think she's a lot closer to him than me and I think he's got more insight into who she is than I do, because she lets him in more. Despite having slept with me, she's way more comfortable with him. Trace tried to make me feel better, say that maybe it was because she liked me I scared her or something, but I don't buy it. That woman seems scared of nothing and no one, Enrique notwithstanding.

Hmm. I wonder if going to a chocolate spa would make you taste of chocolate. Maybe I should try it - I'd be irresistible. Well, okay, it'd be the chocolate that was irresistible but I'd still be getting the benefit.

"Good that she's going to a spa anyway, she needs the break."

"What, you saying I overwork her?" I joke.

"Dude, haven't you noticed?" He snorts at me like I'm a total dunce. "She's been stressed as all hell since we got back."

"She is?" I pale slightly. I thought I was being pretty reasonable, she's just done some grocery shopping and picked up some dry cleaning and shit. Have I been Mr Diva? "Why?"

"Kennedy thinks it's because of Sophie."

Hmm - I didn't know he was chatting with Kennedy. Intriguing. "Why?"

"Because she's totally self absorbed and insensitive?"

"Huh?" God I sound really dumb right now. Polysyllabic words are my friend. Come to think of it, it's funny the word monosyllabic itself has so many syll…. Never mind.

"Dude, I like her and all, but Sophie treats Chelsea like a maid and now they're back in the same city she's still treating her like a maid despite the fact Chelsea's not on her time right now. It's driving her nuts. She keeps watching that phone like it's a rattlesnake."

"She tell you all this?"

"No, I was just able to pull my eyes off her tits long enough to notice."

He got a playful-but-slightly-too-forceful punch in the arm for that. "Seriously? She hasn't told me, what's Sophie been making her do?"

"Favours. The kind of whiny 'if it's not too much trouble' favours that you know you have no real choice in."

Okay, I have expressed some displeasure before at Sophie attempting to monopolise my assistant (even if she is hers… you know what I mean) but if it's causing Chelsea stress then enough is enough. "You think I should step in? Like I should have it out with Sophie?"

"Enrique will have swiped her back before you can even breathe if you go around telling his daughter too many home truths."

"True." I let out a large and slightly feminine sigh. "Maybe I should just give Chelsea more to do? Like, so she's too busy?"

"Wouldn't stop her. You'd just wind up making Chelsea suffer with extra work."

"Fuck, true. She does that anyway. What if I just take us all off on a trip somewhere? Where's good for snowboarding this time of year?"

"Dude," Trace asks sceptically, "just to get her away from Sophie Lumos? And more to the point, when you know full well that I can't go, ass?"

"Oh I get it, he's just bitter he'd be left at home," I joke.

Actually, the more I think about it, snowboarding sounds good on its own terms. I haven't hit the slopes for a while and if a bunch of us go… we always have a great time and we laugh, and I love the cabins. There's something oddly cosy about them that as a guy I shouldn't find quite so appealing. We always take a ton of alcohol with us and we ski or board by day and by night the cards and the board games and the booze come out. It's awesome. I always gain a ton of weight between that and all the hot chocolate and fondue and all those really big meals they give you to warm you back up, but that's what I got a personal trainer for.

Of course, while this would get Chelsea away from Sophie, it would also get her away from the nieces and nephews I promised her she'd have plenty of time with. I know Sophie had her attached to the hip but I told her that when I'm on break all I really need my PA for is to keep touching base with the label and production company, to arrange my business meetings (those, sadly, never pause for vacation) and to manage any scripts that come through. She's definitely got the film side of things covered; she does all that for Sophie anyway. The most any of that takes is maybe a few hours every other day, and maybe the odd hour here and there for some errands. Other than that, I told her that she was on her own time and while I'd probably ask her to hang out a lot I wasn't going to be all Nazi about it. I said that if she had shit she wants to do she can do that first and hang with me later.

I'd consider it a really fucking sad indictment on myself if I had to order somebody to hang out with me, so my PA always gets a choice.

She made this joke about wanting to quit with Sophie and work for me permanently… I'm not so sure she was joking about the first part. It's weird, but her coming to work for me seems to have put a wedge between her and Sophie and I'm not sure why. I sure as heck know she spent a lot of time on that tour avoiding Sophie's calls, and now Trace tells me this… hmm. I guess I don't know too much, but I find the whole thing weird. It doesn't help that I'm kind of confused by the way she acts towards me - we've had two very hot flushes and then a lot of lukewarm, from time to time a little cold. I don't get her, at all.

"You know…" Trace says slowly, having stolen half of my perfect ham and cheese. I would have just made him one if he'd asked. "Maybe a vacation is a good idea. Not because of Chelsea…"

"Not?"

"J, you'd have to be a total fucking pussy to run off to the mountains just to hide from some actress." It's a fair comment, I can't deny it. "But you did do three back to back movies and a club tour. Maybe you could use the chill time."

"I'm at home doing jack shit, doesn't that count?"

"It's not the same as actually going somewhere on a trip though. Holiday vibe is different."

That also is a fair comment. Home is home and you just do your everyday shit, even if it doesn't add up to much. When you're kicking it in Hawaii or Europe or some shit like that, you kind of feel a little more liberated. You can do whatever you want at home, it's still a free country, but you don't get that same sense of it like you do when you're away. When you're away you just feel… yeah, freer. Is that a word, freer? Or are you supposed to say 'more free' or whatever?

Ahh, who cares? I really want to go snowboarding now.

"Do you think if I asked Chelsea she'd manage to find somewhere the paparazzi… well, I won't say 'can't find us' because that's just asking for it, but somewhere we might have a shot at going unnoticed?"

"She'd sure as hell try."

"Cool." I nod furiously to myself, thinking about how many people I should invite and where's got good snow at this time of year. "I'll do that."

"And I will stay home and run your fucking fashion label."

"Funny how when it's going good it's ours and when you're pissed off with it it's just mine."

"I am the glory, you are the problem. That's how our friendship is balanced."

"Huh. I thought it was balanced with a bottle of Jack in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other."

"That too."

I hate snow.

Of all the places to go on vacation, that bastard had to pick the mountains. I hate snow. It's cold, it's wet, and it's cold. It's a royal pain in my ass is what it is and I hate the stuff. Naturally when Justin told me he was going on vacation and would require my presence I had visions of Hawaii or the Caribbean or the Keys, or somewhere gloriously hot and sandy where I could work on my tan. I was already mentally picking out bikinis when he announced we were going snowboarding, the asshole - all my hopes were just dashed.

Let me explain the background when it comes to me and snow, okay - it's a total disaster area. It's been a complete farce. I got lost on the baby slope the first time I ever went (quite an impressive feat, even for a nine year old) and it scared the shit out of my poor young self, the second time I nearly broke my ankle, I got this big ass gash on my arm the third time I tried it, and then when Sophie forced me to go one time 'to get over my fear' there was an incident wherein the instructor nearly concussed me. Snow and Chelsea do not mix. We are a bad combination. We'd never get matched up by one of those computer personality profiles. We clash.

It was the snowboarding part which really made me question the wisdom of everything - I'm bad enough on skis and at least I have two of those. Being strapped onto one plank of wood or plastic or whatever these things are made of unable to independently move my legs is just asking for it. I lack grace as it is. Naturally I couldn't say a damn thing about this to Justin, since he seemed so excited by the prospect. He also seemed to think it'd be like a huge favour to me, getting me out of Sophie's way. I really had to work to keep my mouth shut on that one; I'm sorry, how old does he think I am? I can cope with Sophie. I'm not so childish I need to run from my problems.

The sound of Candyman comes blasting through my phone and I know it's Kennedy (normally her ring tone would be PCD but I've overdosed on them right now). Thank God, I need some sanity.

I answer the phone with a pleading "rescue me" and she laughs at me.

"You've been taken on a five star vacation and you need rescuing?"

"I hate snow!" I bitch in a particularly whiny kind of tone. "You should have seen me attempting to snowboard; I have bruises all over my legs!"

"It's only snow, it can't hurt that bad."

"It does if you manage to fall onto the only rocks or stumps for miles. Somebody needs to explain to me how that works, because by the law of averages I should have fallen on something soft at least one damn time."

Why is she laughing so hard at me? This shit is not funny! I'm stuck here until Justin decides he's had enough, I can't even count down the days until I leave because he decided we should all just stay until we get bored. "Come on babe, there's got to be something else around the resort you can do."

"They've got an indoor pool and a spa and stuff, but there are only so many facials I can have and it looks really anti social if I'm away from everybody all the time."

"Where are you now?"

"My room."

"And where are they?" She asks knowingly. Damn it, she's got me.

"Uhh… not my room?"

"So for somebody who doesn't want to look anti social you're doing a crappy job there babe."

"I needed to nurse my wounded pride," I grouch.

"And how have you done that?"

"Had a bath, stoked the fireplace and ordered a lot of chocolate from room service. I was just reading that Shopaholic book you let me borrow when you called."

"And what are they doing?"

"Umm…" I think for a second. "Justin said the tradition is they get real drunk and play cards and board games and shit."

"Sorry babe, but chocolate aside that sounds way more fun than what you're doing." Even over the phone I can tell Kennedy is rolling her eyes at me. Since she's always the life and soul of any social gathering she has a hard time empathising with my lone wolf tendencies.

"Believe me - this is way more fun than what they were doing when I left, which was laughing hysterically at my ass."

She lets down a little sigh over the phone, and I can just imagine her pacing around her apartment while we talk. Whenever I'm at her place and she picks up the phone, she won't just sit somewhere with the phone. She just kind of moseys around, fiddling with stuff.

"It's better than being here with Sophie still bugging you."

"Ken," I groan, "please don't."

"What? I was just saying."

"You've said already, about five zillion times. Please can we not?"

"Fine, fine. Anyway, I just called to say I got an audition with Robin Antin."

I nearly choke on the passion fruit chocolate I just ate. "What? You got an audition for the Dolls?" By that I obviously mean the dance troupe and not the actual music group, because Kennedy can't sing for shit.

"No, not the Dolls," she explains. "She's been asked to do this big one off cabaret show for the Palms in Vegas. It's kind of like the Dolls but kind of not. Anyway, I sent her people my resume and they just called to tell me I'm through to the first round of auditions and if I get through those I get to audition for her personally, so I thought that was pretty cool."

I have never understood how these things work. With open calls anybody can go in, but with jobs like this you have to apply before they'll even meet you. I understand how that would work with an engineering job, they want to see you got the right degree and stuff first otherwise it's pointless, but when it comes to dancing how can you ever judge somebody until you actually see them do it? It also surprised me how far you have to get through the audition process before you actually meet some of these bigger name choreographers, but Kennedy says they're not going to waste their time on the people who can't even make it through one round. Even after checking resumes, you can still get a few duds. Eh, maybe I'd get it if I was in that line of work myself.

"That's amazing, honey, congratulations." I'm about to question her some more when there's a very irritating knock at the door, I bet Justin sent somebody along to drag my butt out. "Shit, somebody's here. Can I call you tomorrow babe?"

"Sure. Try to start having some fun?"

"Only 'cause it's you asking."

"Love ya." She blows a kiss at me through the phone and hangs up. I very resentfully trudge to the door and open the damn thing.

***

"Hey," Chelsea says. She looks mildly surprised to see me. I'm not sure why, since she clearly knew somebody would be outside this door. Why not me?

"Hey," I ask her chirpily. "We missed you earlier. You feeling okay?"

She gestures me in, and I think it's mostly so she can shut the door. It is pretty nippy out there. Or, okay, it's pretty damn freezing. Since our cabins are all next door to each other I figured I could just walk out here in my sweater, it was only like ten feet away. I'm an idiot, it is fucking cold. I'm really glad she's got her fire going (I know that it's gas, but it looks very real and certainly feels as warm as the genuine article). I'm not surprised she needs a fire going if she's walking around like that. She's in this little strap top thing and short shorts. I thought I told her she needed to dress warmly for this trip?

I was about to look on the bright side and the view of her legs that it gives me, but she's got some nice purple bruises on there. Huh. Maybe I should feel a little guilty about laughing at her all those times she fell on her ass. I never realised anybody could be so crap at snowboarding, but she is; a whole day later and there was not even the slightest of improvement. The instructor looked about ready to kill somebody.

"Yeah, I just needed to relax a little. Had a headache."

It's a likely excuse, but I'll let it go. I throw myself down on the couch and eye up all the chocolate I see on the table. "Jesus, woman, you got an addiction you didn't mention?"

"You knew I was female, right?"

"Yeah…" Too damn right I noticed she was female.

"Then it should have been an obvious deduction."

"Good point well made." I decide to steal one for myself, not bothering to check what I've just thrown in my mouth. It's some kind of hazelnut concoction, wouldn't have been my first pick but it works well enough. "Well, you missed out. I just creamed Nick's ass at Monopoly."

"Shame." Chelsea looks suspiciously like she doesn't mean that.

"Well, no skipping out tomorrow." I pick another and this time it turns out to be white chocolate and lemon - that's better. "We got reservations at this supposedly great barbecue place and then after we're playing Cranium."

Again, she looks less than thrilled. "I'm there. Though if it's okay for you I might nurse my bruises tomorrow instead of going back out on the slopes to get more - I hear their spa is pretty good."

"Heh, sure," I shrug. I'm not one of those sad asses who has to be around the person they're crushing on twenty four seven. In fact, I actually kind of hate that.

There's nobody in this world I could honestly be around twenty four seven, not even my beloved mother. There are people like Momma and Trace who I can spend an abnormally long amount of time with, but even with them there's a saturation point where I just have to go away and hang with somebody else a while. It was one of the things that eventually broke me and Cameron up; she was an independent woman, but when she likes you she likes to be around you a lot. All her own independent choice, but she didn't understand that my definition of independent was a little different from hers. So long as she could choose to be elsewhere if she felt like it, that was all she needed - she never quite got that I need to actually be elsewhere sometimes. I think it made her feel a little rejected.

"So what have you been doing all night?" I ask. She looks puzzled by that until she checks her watch. I guess it's later than she thought.

"Not a lot. Just reading."

People who read baffle me. I am such a narcoleptic reader; I don't have the patience for it at all. I would rather be doing things than imagining other people do them. Chelsea seems to read a lot. I wonder if it's anything to do with how standoffish she can be; maybe when you live in your own head so much reading about other people is more comfortable than dealing with them. Or maybe I just know nothing about it and so ought to shut up. I mean, books are a billion dollar industry and I doubt all readers are as anti social as she can be, so I guess there's got to be some appeal in there somewhere.

"What you reading?"

"Shopaholic."

"What's it about?" Boy, even as I said it I knew that was a dumb question.

"Somebody who likes to shop." Chelsea has that look on her face like she thinks I'm an imbecile but is too polite to actually tell me that I am. She doesn't always have that problem though; she called me a pig earlier when she landed on her head and I laughed. It was wrong of me, I know, but that fall was spectacular.

"See that sucks," I tell her. "What we were doing was way more fun."

She look sat me wryly. "And noisier. This was much better for my headache."

"I find having to concentrate on shit makes my headaches worse."

"Chick lit is designed precisely so you don't have to concentrate," she ripostes.

"Well if it's anything like chick flicks, I'd hate it."

"A man who doesn't like chick flicks? What a shocker."

"It's true," I chuckle, slapping a hand against the arm rest for emphasis. "I always refuse to go on any date that involves a chick flick."

"Wow." She looks surprised. "And women still date you?"

"Ha-ha." I flip a finger at her. When younger it was sticking my tongue out, these days it's the finger I use to express myself. "I don't make them come to any guy flicks and they can't make me go see chick flicks. I think that's more than fair."

"Hmm, I guess. I always used to just guilt trip Will into it."

I was about to make a joke about 'and where is he now' until I realised that shit wouldn't be funny and she'd probably beat my ass for it. My butt has only just recovered from the last time she kicked me out of a room. Instead, I take the opportunity to quiz her a little about him. I don't expect her to open up much, but if I don't ask it's guaranteed she won't.

"You heard from him since New York?" I ask.

She gives a delicate little shrug of her shoulders that makes her shirt straps fall down. "No. Can't say I care to. Besides, I think I righteously pissed him off when we said our goodbye there."

"Why, what did you say?" You know, these chocolates aren't half bad. I can't help sneaking another one; it turns out to be a pretty excellent dark chocolate and strawberry cream.

Chelsea looks a little sheepishly at me, twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "He was totally fishing about you and I kind of… didn't correct too many of his assumptions."

"I take it from your tone that said assumption was you and I were screwing?" Chelsea nods with a wink, and I bust out laughing. "Geez. Imagine how much you could piss him off now."

For a moment she looks at me, her brown eyes blinking in disbelief, and then she sees the truth and thus the humour in what I'm saying. She busts out into some hysterical giggles: the kind of really fast paced laugh you make when something's so amusing you can't contain it.

"God that's true. Maybe I should just make it public knowledge; I'd get him and his stupid wife and my stupid boss plus half the female population in one shot."

Huh? What about her boss, exactly? Does she mean Enrique or Sophie? I can see why Enrique would be pissed, mostly because he thinks I'm a no good son of a bitch who is out to corrupt everything and everyone and he doesn't want me anywhere near his daughter or anybody who has anything to do with his daughter. Sophie however would make no sense to me. I think I might leave that one alone, I'm not sure I want to hear anything that might involve Enrique. If he heard I'd slept with Chelsea he'd order her back with Sophie so fast it'd make all our heads spin.

"Was it okay though, seeing him?" I keep prying into her personal business like it's any of mine. I guess this is at least better than that time I eavesdropped on her phone conversation.

Chelsea breathes in deeply and then lets out a little sigh, playing with a few of the discarded chocolate wrappers. "Yes and no. Like, it just reaffirmed that I would never want that relationship back even if he called me tomorrow and said he was getting divorced, but he still makes me angry. The way he name drops her all the time when he's talking to me, the way he treats it like a shock if my life is going good… he just has this idea in his head that I'm nothing without him and it drives me nuts."

"More fool him," I shrug, stealing her glass and taking a sip of what's in it without thinking about what it might be. That was a little stupid of me, but luckily it's just some kind of flavoured water. For all I knew she was on the schnapps or something (I hate schnapps - vodka is a far manlier drink if you have to go that route). I swallow and continue what I was saying. "Honestly, babe, he's probably just acting like that because he knows the exact opposite is true. It's got to piss him off that you're better off without him."

"You think?" She smirks, rolling her eyes. "So what about you? Spoken to Monica lately?"

"Only about the tabloid shit." I shake my head and I guess my expression probably tells her how little I want to speak to Monica these days.

"Was it really that bad?"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah."

"You know, I look back at Will and me and in hindsight I can see how much he used to belittle me and put me last and stuff, real quiet like, but I can't imagine being in a relationship so obviously terrible as you say yours was and still sticking around." She steals her glass back and finishes the rest of her water - probably so I can't. I notice her edging the chocolates nearer to herself too.

"It was…" How do I explain this quickly, definitively and in a way that pre-empts any further discussion? "There's a thin line between love and hate and we lost sight of where it was."

"Fair enough." She stands up and stretches. It makes her shirt ride up and uncovers this little sliver of tummy that I'd really like to sweep my fingers across. I hope everybody understands how self restrained I am. "You want a drink?"

"Nah. You wanna play a game?"

"Like what?" She looks sceptical. I get up and go hunt on the shelves… this place always has some board games stacked away in the chalets, I think because they know that if the snow really kicks up too bad that occasionally they have to shut the slopes and they need to have other entertainment to hand.

"There's a pack of cards here. You play poker?"

"Only the strip kind once in college. It didn't go so well and I haven't played since."

That self restraint is coming back out, because I could really say some dirty shit right now. "Gin?"

She looks like she's debating with herself - probably about whether to say yes or to kick my ass out so she can sleep - but finally she nods and sits herself down on the floor next to the fire. Drat. I was hoping we could do this on a chair… my butt's going to go numb.

***

You know, it's surprising how much I enjoy chatting about random stuff with Justin Timberlake. He's got a very wry sense of humour, which appeals to my sarcastic nature. I never liked the whole class clown obvious humour, I like a drier wit. It probably helps that he takes clues well - if I don't want to talk about something, he catches the hint pretty quick and moves on.

He does complain a little too much for my liking sometimes though. At the moment, he's whining about how I insisted we sit on the floor. I did that because it's a little cold in the room and I'm too lazy to go grab a sweatshirt. Sitting by the fire is easier. Also, I just like the act of sitting by the fire on this nice sheepskin rug in its own right; the whole image of it is very homey and cutesy. I do have a long standing sexual fantasy about doing it in just such a place which is a little less cutesy, however; I'm weird like that. Most normal people stick to the old mile high and in the kitchen standards but not me, I get elaborate with my settings.

"So I can't tempt you back out on the slopes tomorrow?" He asks as he picks up another card. I shake my head firmly at him.

"No. I need to heal first."

"Be honest, you totally hate it here don't you?"

Damnation - I clearly need to work on my poker face. Am I that obvious? "Don't take it personally, me and snow just don't get along too well."

"If you'd have said earlier we could have gone somewhere else, somewhere you'd like better."

"Dude, it's your vacation," I tell him. "I'm just your assistant, Justin, where you go I go and if you want to go here, it's not my place to whine about it just because it's not my choice. When it comes to my holiday, then I can go somewhere I want." Maybe it's just me, but he looks a little wounded by that. Possibly it was my tone, I was a little curt.

"Don't mistake me for that kind of asshole that just bosses everyone around and doesn't take what they think into account, Chels. Maybe that's what you're used to, but I don't work like that. Next time, just tell me."

Oh, burn for Sophie there. Part of me wants to stick up for her and tell him not to be an ass about her, but considering that the overall intent of that was him trying not to be an overbearing bastard to me I'll let that one slide.

"Yes, Master." I reach forward and give him a little poke on the knee, hoping the tease lightens him up a little.

"That's not funny."

He gets another little poke. "I thought it was."

"We need to educate you then, I guess."

"I am the height of edumacation, I'll have you know."

"You're still stupid enough to work for Enrique Fuentes."

"I…" Well damn it, he's got me there. Only stupid people subject themselves to that dictator. "Well shit, I got nothing for that."

See, I should have just let him verbally get one over on me sooner. Now he's suddenly all smiles again. Wouldn't that just be typical? And there was me all this time thinking sex was the way to worm back into a guy's good graces. Note to self, Chelsea, just let him think he's smarter than you next time. That'll do it.

Justin reaches back over to fix my top, and I slap his hand away. He'd just managed to brush my skin before I did so however, and it tickled. "Hey. That was either copping a feel or trying to sneak a look at my cards."

"I was just trying to pull your shirt back up before it fell down," he chuckles. "Is that how you dress for company?"

"I wasn't dressed for company, you invited yourself over."

"Ahh. Touché."

"You do that a lot, you know."

"Oh." Wow, this dude is really oversensitive tonight, he looks kind of embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's okay. Any time I don't want you, you can rest assured I'll kick your ass right on out."

"That's very comforting." There's a twinkle in his blue eyes as he shakes his head at me, and I'm grateful that second little touchy moment has passed. His touchy moments aren't half as bad or as frequent as Sophie's (particularly on that monthly woman's occasion), but oddly that makes them weirder for me to deal with. He has this wounded puppy quality when he's hurt that makes seeing him in those moments very discomforting.

"I'm all heart."

"You're full of shit is what you are."

"Me and the rest of Hollywood."

"Gin," he finally says as he lays his cards out.

"Bastard." I throw mine down in disgust. "I was one lousy Jack away and where was it? In your frickin' hand."

"I win, I win!" He raises his arms above his head victoriously, a gloating grin stretching his face to reveal glistening white teeth. Clearly there's been some expensive dentistry going on there. I have never met a single Hollywood smile that was natural, in that sense - if they haven't been straightened or veneered you can guarantee they were whitened. "What do I win?"

"Umm… nothing."

"Chocolate?"

"You finished them all. Which, by the way, so wrong of you." That's a crime against God, as far as I'm concerned. My chocolates are destined for me and me only - I'm sure there's a Bible verse about that somewhere. If not, I'm falling back on 'thou shalt not steal.'

"Money?"

"You're the multi millionaire and you want my money? Ass."

"Did I mention we were playing strip Gin?"

"I can and will beat you."

"Try it, little girl."

I don't think he actually expected me to reach over and slap his arm, but I did it a little harder than I intended to because he let out a great big 'oww.' He's too much of a gentleman to hit me back, but not enough of one to refrain from poking me in the ribs. Well, I'm here to tell you that damn well hurts too so I have to give him one back. The situation quickly escalates, and before I know it I'm on top of the dude and we're both trying to poke and tickle each other while simultaneously batting attacking hands away.

Both of us are laughing our heads off, and it particularly amuses me when a strand of my hair smacks him in the eye. He squeezes it shut really tight to ease the discomfort and it screws his whole face up, makes him look like some crappy one eyed pirate from a B movie or something. I expect him to say 'ooh argh' or 'avast me hearties' any second now. He looks so stupid and I just have to tell him that he does, because I'm mean. Of course, he looks stupid but I am stupid since saying that just made him poke me even harder.

I think the turning point comes when he pretends to bite my neck like a vampire, because suddenly he's got his hands gripped around my waist and his lips on me as well as me being sprawled out on top of him. While we're talking about stupid, this is a stupid situation for me to have got myself into because (let's face it) this is a total sex pose. Getting into a sex pose with a guy at any time is practically guaranteed to change the mood instantly. Getting into sex poses with men you've already been foolish enough to sleep with despite them being out of bounds is just a really dumb idea because it's inevitably going to lead to precisely what's happening now.

That, if you didn't know, is Justin trying his luck again. It's hard to explain what is going through my head right now. My weak willed body kind of likes this - not helped by the fact that like I said before I've long had fantasies about this setting - but my head is reminding me that on top of the reasons it was a bad idea last time now Sophie wants him. I am setting myself up for a world of trouble here. Problem is… knowing that it's dangerous is actually as much of an incentive as a deterrent.

Wow… umm… gee that thought was longer than it seemed. A lot has happened while I wasn't paying attention. His hands are halfway up my shirt, resting on my stomach, his mouth has been doing some pretty nice things to my neck for a while and I've kind of curled myself around him. I did not notice me doing that; my muscles apparently have a will of their own. He's still lying beneath me, but he lifts his head from my neck to look at me with an oddly piercing glare. There's a question on his face, and before I know it I've answered it with a kiss.

My muscles are traitors. I'm pretty sure my brain has condoned none of this yet… but he is a good kisser. Hmm. This is a bad idea, yet on the other hand when I remember the last time I think it's kind of a good one. It was really nice last time. It wasn't like my best sex ever but it was just really nice.

"You know…" Justin barely takes his lips off mine to speak, so it kind of tickles when he does. His hands definitely tickle, his touch is a little too light and it almost makes me want to crack up.

"What?" I ask.

"I kind of always had a fantasy about doing it in front of a roaring fire."

Well darn it - if his aim was to get into my pants this evening… that just clinched it for him.

Some mornings you just wake up and feel like shit. This is one of those crappy mornings and I'm afraid it's going to signal an even crappier day. After all that falling down ski slopes yesterday and all that physical exertion in inadvisable places last night, I am really stiff and tense. My muscles are screaming.

I was going to go for a massage when I hit the spa today, but I'm now rethinking the wisdom of this plan.

I have a big old arm splayed out across my stomach, and I gently slide out from under it so I don't wake its owner. Now, here's a question - I don't want to strut around nude (even when I'm by myself I feel weird about that) but I don't want to do all the bending and stretching required to put clothes on. It's going to hurt. The drawer thankfully slides out quietly, and I manage to grab some panties and a shirt; I have no claims to modesty in front of this guy any more so this should suffice. A glance at the clock tells me it's nearly ten in the morning, and I'm surprised nobody has called or bashed my door down wondering where I am or he is. I know my phone was definitely on, and that thing is always set to loud so I can hear it even when it's buried in my bag.

It really, really hurts trudging into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I know that I'm only stiff because I just woke up and that muscle usage will in fact ease the pain overall, but right now it hurts like a mother. My usual morning Clinique routine is a little rushed but that's mostly because I want to go sit somewhere and not move again, ever. I do the cleansing and the toning and the moisturising, but I take a little longer over cleaning my teeth because along with muscle pain I have cotton mouth this morning. Probably from all that making out I was doing.

I've barely spat and rinsed before I hear a slow shuffling behind me, and I figure I must have woken Justin up or something. It was a pretty dumb idea having him sleep here really. I know there have could easily have been paparazzi lurking at this resort and when you move between these cabins, you're out in broad daylight; it's not like hotel corridors where we can just post Randy and Tiny at either end and have them scare the dudes away. I mean, there haven't been any paparazzi, but that's not the point - with Hollywood you always have to remember that there could be, even if there aren't. He looks bleary eyed and even with the shortness of his hair you can tell one side of it has been plastered to his head by the pillow.

"Morning, Chels." He mumbles rather than speaks as he gives me a loose one-armed hug around my shoulders, and drops a kiss on my head. He reaches past me and steals some of my cleanser, though naturally he doesn't bother with the rest of the regime. You might think he would, being Hollywood, but some guys have too much masculine pride.

"Morning," I mumble back. We're a perky pair this morning.

"You sleep okay?" He asks.

"Like a log until I woke up and realised how sore I am. Snowboarding disagrees with me."

"Maybe that whole spa idea you had was a good one, give you a chance to rest up before we drag you back out."

"Why couldn't we have gone to Hawaii?"

He chuckles and gives me a dopey, half asleep smile before pulling me into a hug. He's still very warm from the sheets, and it'd be very easy for me to fall back to sleep right here against his chest… or at least it would if he didn't have that morning after sex smell. Will used to call me crazy but I swear you can smell sex on somebody if you're close enough. It's kind of musky and a little ripe - kind of thing best washed away in a shower if you ask me. Still, Justin's morning hug is overall a pretty comfy place and I'm fighting to keep my eyes open.

"But snow's pretty."

"Snow sucks. And it gives me bruises."

"Well a spa won't give you bruises so just go and do your facials and shit." He lets out a big, loud yawn before kissing the top of my head again and letting go. "I guess I better go get my ass back to my cabin and shower and stuff. What time is it?"

"Gone ten."

"Shit, we slept late."

"Little wonder," I say without realising how dirty it is. He gives a little snort and smirks before wandering back in the direction of his clothes. We… well… it didn't exactly stop with the rug. You could call me a wanton harlot and at this point in time I wouldn't have much of a come back.

I don't quite know what it means, to tell you the truth. I'd be an idiot to deny there's chemistry (I mean, no shit) and I do get along great with him. It's just odd to me that I don't feel more jitters or have butterflies around him, like you expect to when you have a crush. I guess that means I don't have a crush, would be the obvious answer, but then it's kind of weird to me that I have so much chemistry with a guy I don't have a crush on. After Will I had some casual sex I have to confess, but I always had at least some form of thing for the guy. With Justin I don't feel that at all, I'm just comfortable with him. Still, there's a lot to be said for comfortable; I enjoy Comfortable's company and Comfortable is not at all bad in the sack. What I am having right now is the classic worry of what precisely it is he thinks about all this and if we're on the same page or I'm doing something cruel here, bringing up hopes or something like that.

Sex is complicated - whoever dreamed this up as the best method of procreation was a total idiot. I bet it's the same idiot who decided on the whole periods and giving birth thing too; I heard Lisa's stories of contractions and stitches and that was pretty effective birth control in itself. Maybe that's the answer to teen pregnancy, have somebody go around and tell them how brutal childbirth is in really graphic detail.

Speaking of my sister, I keep forgetting to call her. And I mean honestly forgetting, not the 'oh I'm sorry I forgot' kind of forgetting I do when it comes to my mother. That kind of forgetting is what normal people call 'avoiding your mother like the plague.' I hope they allow cell phones in the spa, because just sitting for twenty minutes with those mud packs on your face is kind of dull without somebody to chat to.

"Chelsea?" He walks back into the room, fastening his watch, and I'm stunned at how quickly he got dressed.

"Mmmhmm?" I respond distractedly as I wonder where I left my shampoo. I think I need a shower as much as he does, maybe some hot water will wake my muscles up.

"You okay?" He asks as he slips his arms back around my waist and his eyes meet mine in the mirror.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?" I turn the question back on him.

"I'd hope not." The kiss he lands on my cheek is a little more lingering, and my hands squeeze his in response. I'm not quite sure what's going on between us right now, but I must admit the intimacy is nice. Much as I preach about loving the single life, I do miss this part sometimes. "So I don't know how long you'll be in the spa or whatever but the dinner reservation is for six. We want to get out of there early… just in case of paparazzi."

"Cool." I nod, knowing what he means. Sophie sometimes does that, eating either really early or late to avoid the rush times when paparazzi might figure her to be at a restaurant. Of course they get tipped off, but with any luck they're caught on the hop and by the time they've scrambled to get there she's gone. As I already said, even in situations like this where you're pretty sure there are none around, you still have to be careful just in case. "I don't think even I can spend that long in a spa."

"I thought all women could?"

"Vicious lie spread by freaks who do spend that long in there. They need an excuse."

"Hmm." He gives a chuckle and squeezes me around the waist one more time before turning and leaving, calling a 'see you later' back to me. I'd have responded in kind if I wasn't too busy wincing - sore muscles plus being squeezed equals not good.

***

Good Southern food (even if not in the South), good company, the slopes were great today and I got really well laid last night. Life is good.

There's something about that cold air and the fresh Alpine scent that really invigorates me. I love being a beach bum and surfing and everything, but I always find that where that chills me out snowboarding kind of wakes me up and energises me. I think it's good for the soul, breathing in real fresh air and not the smog filled crap that passes for it in LA. I love being in the mountains. Chelsea is obviously suffering, God love her, but she seems to be in better humour after her day at the spa. I don't think she'll duck out on us like she did last night, there's a little more social interaction going on tonight on her part.

And not just with the crowd… she let me be, dare I say it, affectionate with her this morning. This may be related to the fact that the night before was way more sex filled than the last one, I don't know, but right now my arm is draped loosely over the back of her chair and she hasn't kicked me for it yet so I'm going to just leave it there. She's not giving me any big 'it's okay to ask me on an actual date' signals, but that doesn't concern me so much as it did last time. Part of that is because Trace is right, I was acting like a total woman over that shit, and the other part is that I've finally come to my senses. I have realised that the way to deal with this chick is to be a little more laid back. It'll be weird for me because I've always been the guy who likes to just kind of dive on in there, but whatever.

It's weird how chicks are different like that. Britney and Monica always wanted the big overblown cliché gestures, Cameron wanted big overblown but more offbeat gestures, and Chelsea seems to back off from anything that even looks like a come on. I think she's the kind of girl you'd have to have been dating a good long while before she'd be cool with you doing that.

Why am I thinking about this when there's gossip afoot? They've all kind of turned in on Chelsea wanting details on Sophie and it's funny as hell watching her trying to worm out of it without just telling anybody to fuck off. It means she's dishing a lot more than I'd have ever thought she would.

"You're trying to tell me she's never done anything?" Nick snorts loudly. He's a little cynical about Hollywood folk, comes from having seen a few too many after parties at my side.

"Nope." She shakes her head. "It's not out of any moral thing, she's just a total hypochondriac and she's into all that 'my body is my temple' stuff. She has trouble with red meat, never mind that kind of shit. Besides, her father would kill her."

Okay… much as I love my friends, I really hope they don't talk so loudly about my drug taking in public restaurants. Chelsea's bright red, and I can tell by the furtive way she looks around that she's worried who might overhear her.

"You'd be one to talk, man." I throw her a bone and try a little diversion. "How many joints did you used to get through a night?"

"About as many as you." He gives me the finger before gulping down another bite of his pecan pie. We all gorged ourselves on ribs and steaks and all the rest of the good stuff, now we're on Granny's Home Desserts (not my Granny, that's just what it says on the menu).

"Seriously though," Rachael likewise chows down on her pie between words (apple, not pecan). "I mean, she's gorgeous as Hell and all that but you can't tell me she's as nice and down to earth and all that shit as she comes off. Come on, tell me, she's a bitch right?"

"What, so does that mean I'm not how I come off in my interviews either?" I ask.

"Oh you come off as a cocky ass bitch and we all know you are one of those."

Thank you, dear Cousin. I guess I set myself up for that, so I flip her the bird Nick style and laugh along with everybody. Apart from anything else, I can be kind of cocky. Just between you and me it's usually a big old front because I'm uncomfortable, but don't tell anybody I said that. All we celebrities have our own masks to put on when interviewers are making us uncomfortable. With some it's the baby faced playing dumb, with some it's the winning smile like nothing you could ever say would bother them, and with others it's the bad ass who doesn't give a shit anyway. For me, it's pretending I'm so confident a brick would bounce off me like water off a duck's back.

That's all bullshit, of course. I mean, all the whining I privately do about this woman beating rumour is in stark contrast to my public 'they can write all the crap they want' stance. As much as I think of myself as pretty real, as far as celebrities go, even I have to admit to regularly participating in the spin and the image working and shit. In a weird way, you have to do it in order to be true to yourself and keep some private part of you together and functioning - because if you let them see a weakness they'll use it to break the shit out of you. How backwards is that? You have to lie in this business in order to keep your true self honest and intact.

"Come on Chels, spill." Rachael gets back on topic.

"Well…" Chelsea's face screws up like she's not sure what she's expected to say in response to that. "I mean I guess she has her moments, but… I don't think she's any worse than most actors. I mean, if you're around them enough you'll find out what I mean, they all kind of act out these public personas too but you meet them and the resemblance between that and the way they really are is only kinda passing, if you know what I mean."

"I mean, yeah. Know what I mean?" I mock her over-dependence on the phrase.

"Shut up." She gives me a sharp poke in the bicep.

Matt Morris is another musician friend of Justin's, a nice but pretty laid back and thus taciturn dude. He's got an unusual gleam in his eye. "Go on, what's the most diva shit she's pulled?"

"What's the most diva shit Justin's pulled?"

"Late to an interview because he didn't like the car they sent to pick him up and made them go get another." That was Rachael's contribution.

I thought she was using me as a diversion tactic there, but Chelsea just grins, laughs and dishes. "That's nothing. She once had a private jet going from Zurich to London diverted because she decided they needed to go pick somebody up in Barcelona. Wasn't even her plane."

Everybody totally cracks up in disbelief at this, and I have to say I'm kind of amazed. Sophie, when I was on set with her, seemed like a pretty normal person. She was a little Hollywood, but then she's in that industry and nobody can be in that industry without getting a little touch of it. They try and tell you otherwise, but it's true. The trick is that some of them manage to keep it at just that little bit and so still pass the grade as human. But until Chelsea came to work for me I really had no idea how demanding Sophie could be, and I have to say it has totally put me off. A lot of it is probably that I've become pretty defensive of Chelsea, but the other part of it is just disbelief that I clocked the woman so wrong to begin with.

"Nice." Rachael snorts out. She has to take a sip of water to try and bring herself back under control.

"She sounds like a total bitch," Nick comments. "How the fuck do you deal with her?"

"She's not actually a bitch." Suddenly, she has a more philosophical look on her face and she looks a little sad. "She can be high maintenance but she's not a nasty person. She's always looked after me. Unlike some I've worked for…"

I'm so busy wondering how Chelsea can have Sophie painted as a total brat one moment and a decent, three dimensional person the next that it takes me a moment to realise everybody's looking at me. "Hey, what did I do?"

"Left me behind to die in a burning building and how long did it take you to work out I was missing?"

I meet Chelsea's brown eyes and there's an evil little twinkle in them. My middle finger has already been overused today so I just calmly stick out my tongue at her and dig back into my cobbler.

"Well maybe if you hadn't managed to go that long before remembering to use your phone, then maybe you could have called somebody BEFORE it died…"

"Dude, when was this?" Matt asks laughing.

"Oh, you remember that show of his where the venue caught fire? They all left me behind in their rush to save their own asses and I had to walk back. So much for women and children first!"

"Hey, women always come first with me."

Everybody just stares at Nick for a minute, wondering whether that was an intentional innuendo or if he just totally stuck his foot in it. You can tell we're all thinking the same dirty thought by the stunned looks on our faces. Then Chelsea breaks and cracks up, which sets the rest of us off. Nick answers my question by folding his arms and sitting back with a smug grin, not the slightest bit embarrassed by what he knows we all inferred.

Good food, good company, good laughs, life is good.

***

I'm not sure how Chelsea and I ended up being the last of the group walking back together, but we did. I think she was just walking slower than everybody else and I naturally fell into step with her. Everybody else is visible but out of earshot in the difference.

If I might say so, she looks pretty cute bundled up in her big old winter coat and her snow boots. There's a bright pink scarf twisted around her neck and she looks very small and girly. The thought I'm currently having is a total hunter gatherer throwback I'm sure, but it makes her look all vulnerable and in need of my protection. Maybe that's just because when she's not in those heels she lives in she's a lot shorter than me; before we came out here I was teasing her that she wouldn't survive long in a place like this where she can't possibly wear them. Heh - Chelsea doesn't need protection, that's a laugh. One thing you can say for the more stand offish type, they're independent.

It's still kind of weird to me that I've gone for her. She definitely can be stand offish, and I normally like the more bubbly type. Apart from an obvious penchant for blondes, I can't say Chelsea fits my 'type' at all. Maybe I'm finally entering my experimental phase.

"So, you back on the slopes tomorrow?" I try to fill the silence. It's a surprise when she shakes her head.

"Nope."

"You going to spend your day being a loner again?" I can't help it, my voice was chock full of blatant disapproval.

"No, I'm going to spend my day being a girl. Rachael and I are going to go abuse our plastic in town."

"Oh. Okay then." I feel a little sheepish and I catch her smiling wryly at me, like a mother to her chastised son. In a very disturbing and I-hope-not-Oedipal way she just reminded me of my mother. "Do you really hate snow that much?"

"Yes," she answers immediately.

"Why?"

"Well…" Chelsea stuffs her hands on her pockets, before taking a quick look skywards. It's a clear night, which makes it totally freezing but extremely beautiful. The stars are amazing out here. "I say it's because every time I go near snow I pick up some kind of war wound. My mom says it's because Grandpa indoctrinated me with his own hatred of the stuff."

"Really?" I ask. "Why did he hate it?" "I never knew, I think maybe his squad or platoon or whatever it's called was stationed somewhere cold once." She shrugs.

"You still sore from yesterday?" Sometimes, I find it hard to find a good thread of conversation with this girl. It's not that she won't answer me, it's just that she's always so succinct and to the point about everything that it kind of leaves you feeling like a topic's exhausted before it's begun. In a way I like that about her - that she doesn't just babble about pointless shit - but in another I find it really irritating. It makes it hard trying to connect with her.

"Not as bad, but I bet after I go to sleep it'll send my muscles back all stiff. Though maybe it might help that I won't spend half the night fighting for the duvet." She kind of walks into me, a sort of full body nudge before stepping back and giving me a teasing smile.

I take it that means I'm not welcome back? Fuck it. Or maybe it's not so 'fuck it' as 'good idea, slowly does it.' I'm not sure. All the signals I got earlier really encouraged me but this is like somebody threw ice water in my face. This chick is so hot and cold…

"Are you suggesting I'm a duvet hog?"

"No, I'm outright telling you."

"Well you're a wriggler." Yes, my comeback is lame but it's all I got. "The whole point of being asleep is that you're supposed to be still. You must have kicked me about three times."

"Sorry." Jovially she links her arm through mine, and silence falls between us again.

You know, sometimes I wonder about this woman. She's pretty good at working me up and then stepping right off, and occasionally I feel like it's just one step forward two steps back. Last night was pretty wild, if I do say so myself, and normally after something like that coupled with the previous time I'd feel pretty damn confident that a girl liked me.

Many a woman I'd accuse of game playing, all that hard to get shit and whatever, but when I try to level those accusations at her they fall flat somehow. Chelsea just isn't that type; she's so damn straightforward about everything. She's demonstrated time and time again that she'll just treat me like anybody, isn't cowed by my fame or under any delusions I'm anything but a plain old man. If I try to accuse her of playing games it just seems ludicrous somehow, but she's blowing so hot and cold I'm damned if I can work out what the fuck else is going on. Maybe she's not even sure, but in the meantime I'm confused and I loathe being confused.

Her phone goes off (amazing that she's got any reception), and without unlinking her arm from mine she digs into her pocket and pulls it out to check her text message. I, being tall and at a vantage point, can clearly read it. It's got Sophie's name on it and says 'how's the skiing,' so I don't know why Chelsea is looking so weirdly at it.

"How the fuck does she know?" She asks me. I know she's asking me because she's looking right at me, but I think I've missed something here.

"Know what?"

"That we're skiing."

"You didn't tell her?"

"Nope. Just that we were on vacation."

"Well," I answer grimly, "either she's spying on you or the photo agencies are spying on me. Survey says?"

Chelsea hurriedly unhooks her arm from mine and jams her hands in her pockets, going rigid. As much as she perplexes me, the atmosphere was still pretty comfortable until that text message. Now it's just evaporated.

"Guess my 'no paparazzi will ever guess' spot wasn't so great, huh?"

"Hey…" I would have hugged her or done something reassuring if I wasn't so self conscious. Damn cameras spoil everything. "Wherever you picked, somebody was going to rat us out eventually. Heck, I think we did well to make it two days."

"I hope nobody saw you this morning," she mumbles under her breath.

When she says that, she doesn't mean 'on the slopes.' I hope nobody saw me coming out of her cabin either. Of course, that wouldn't have been a problem if somebody had seen me enter it thirty minutes earlier, but an all nighter will raise eyebrows. I'm kind of worried now, to be honest, because until she got that text message I was certain that they hadn't found us yet… but clearly they already have and they've managed to be uncharacteristically stealthy.

Fuck it.

The major problem with being a jet setting super star that had made it big before you made it legal is that you've seen and done everything. You've tasted the highs, the lows, all that's in between and a couple of other things normal folks wouldn't ever dream of. I've met practically everybody worth meeting (well, I mean in terms of rich and famous and politicians and shit, if we're talking people who are actually worth something I could make the list a lot smaller). I've bungee jumped and surfed and snowboarded and climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge and seen Paris and all that shit. I've packed more into my relatively short life than most people do before they're eighty.

All this means that I can't get through a game of 'I've Never' without getting shit faced drunk.

Let me explain the rules - everybody buys a drink and a few shots. Everybody takes it in turns to announce to the group that they've never done A or B or whatever they come up with. Anybody who has done it then has to take a shot or some of their drink. Like, if I said to the group right now that I'd never kissed a guy, Rachael and Chelsea would have to do some drinking for sure because they definitely have. It's a pointless game, but kind of funny. It gets funnier the drunker people get, too.

"I've never… skinny dipped," Matt finally says after an age. Funnily enough, Nick and Chelsea are the only ones out of the entire group who don't have to take a shot for that.

It's my turn now. "I've never… woken up and not recognised the person next to me."

"Does it count if you should have recognised them but were too hung over?" Matt asks as Nick, Eddie and Rachael all neck shots.

"Umm… yeah." I make the ruling and he takes a big gulp of Jack Daniels.

"I've never puked up anywhere public." That was Rachael's turn, and I am sad to say that I had to down some vodka for that. What? I was a teen pop star in an industry full of drugs and alcohol. It's lucky that a little al fresco puking was the worst I did.

The bar we're in is kind of a dive. However, it was just about the only place we figured the paparazzi might not think to look for me, because FUCK they're everywhere. Chelsea's been having a lot of whispered conversations down the phone with Trace, my momma and Ken Sunshine, and she's had a permanently worried expression on her face for the past two days. Her theory (and Ken kind of agrees) is that they're swarming because there's something brewing and they want to be in position. I don't see that to be honest; sometimes they just get the impression that I'm doing something particularly interesting and they get overzealous. Give it a week or two and it usually dies back down after they see how boring I am in real life.

Besides, I don't see what could be brewing because there's no woman around for me to be beating, I'm not working and I'm not dating. They have no idea I slept with Sophie Lumos's assistant (because that they would find interesting) and I'm not working. I really don't see what could have got them in such a tizzy that they all felt the need to be here, but Chelsea is adamant that they have something up their sleeves. She's paranoid, and I feel fine saying that because Rachael's been doing this shit as long as Chelsea and she agrees with me.

Still… better safe than sorry. Hence we're in a redneck bar with some very unattractive pine panelling circa 1974. I'm surprised there's no sawdust on the floor. I can't see any self respecting person wanting to step in here even to get thousand dollar pictures of me. I still don't get how pictures of me can be so expensive, considering there must be a billion of 'em that have been taken over the years.

"I've never…" Chelsea mulls this one over, pursing her lips a little. "Faked an orgasm."

Everybody busts out laughing for two reasons. The first is that our demure little Chelsea said that, and the second is that while Rachael was expected to imbibe some alcohol Eddie certainly wasn't. Heck, I didn't even realise men could (or would need to) do that.

"What? I was tired and she wouldn't shut up about it!"

"Or maybe our dear Eddie's just lacking something there," Chelsea says through fits of giggles, earning herself a faux strangling from Eddie.

"Next?" Rachel asks. It falls to Eddie, seeing as he's next in the circle.

"I've never slept with my boss," he informs us all. Nobody takes a drink, but the blonde's hand is twitching against her glass and Rachael picks up on it (sharp as a tack, that cousin o' mine).

"Chelsea?" She grins with a question on her lips.

She raises her eyebrows, toying with her last shot glass. "Not sure the gentleman in question counts."

"Surely that's something you should know straight off, right? I mean, if you're not sure you had sex somebody's gotta be doing something wrong," Matt jokes as he takes a drink of water. Water does not count as any kind of confession in this game, only alcoholic beverages count as an admission of wrong doing.

I'm watching her like a hawk right now. Actually, I should correct that statement. I'm watching her as much like a hawk as I am able without aforementioned scarily perceptive cousin spotting me; Rachael would twig in a heartbeat that I was the guy she was talking about. Wait, am I the guy she's talking about or is there someone else? Unless she had a Saturday job in high school that I'm not aware of, she's worked for Sophie too long and I would seriously vomit if she'd slept with Enrique. Seriously, that thought would put me off food for life.

For just the briefest moment, Chelsea catches my eye. I give her what I hope is a challenging stare, and I guess it is because she immediately tosses her hair and takes a defiant shot of cherry vodka to the cat calls of the group.

***

"I don't know Chelsea… I mean, for all your conspiracy shit this is just what they do, you know? They get paid to stalk people like us."

I may not have spoken too well of Sophie lately, but I have to admit that she is definitely the woman to turn to when it comes to paparazzi. She has a reputation for dealing with them as well as anybody can be expected to - that translates to her only flipping them off every other month. Believe me, if you knew what the paparazzi were like you would be impressed by her self restraint. Generally speaking though, she's pretty level headed when it comes to the press. Her only slip ups tend to occur when there's a boyfriend or ex-boyfriend involved. Then all bets are off as she forgets who she is and where she is (namely, in public - see previous incident where Marco Lame-o rearranged my face).

Today, there was a first in my life. Today was the first time the paparazzi have ever engulfed me from all sides (and I mean in that way where you have to physically fight through them to walk) when I did not have a celebrity with me. It scared the shit out of me. I mean, being mobbed is never a fun feeling and it's often pretty hairy, but at least I always know it's not personal. They want Sophie or they want Justin, I get that. I pretty much hate it but I get it. Why the fuck does anybody want to crowd me for my own sake? I'm not special.

"I just… why else would they do that to me when he's not around?" Yes, okay, I'm paranoid, but I can't help suspecting nefarious motives. My spider sense is tingling.

"Chels," she tells me patiently, "you might tell them where he is or let loose a snippet, or else they can print a nice big picture of you and claim you're his latest fling. They just snap whatever they can get in case it makes a story later. I mean, heck, I saw a picture of you in 'Fab or Flop' today."

"What?!" My screech may not be audible to human ears, it's so high pitched. 'Fab or Flop' is a segment in one of the lamer trashy gossip rags where they print pictures of celebrities and rate their outfits. Most of the glossies do it too, but the rags are more vicious.

"Oh don't worry, they said you were snow bunny chic and I must have taught you well," she giggles.

I try to talk, but it comes out as a splutter. The numerous shots I did in that stupid game earlier don't help. "That's not the point!"

"Relax, honey," she tells me like I'll actually do that. "Justin… they're a lot nosier about him for some reason, and especially about women around him. That's all it is, they'll forget all about you when you come back to work for me."

To some that might sound like the ultimate back hander - I however know what she means and it's actually kind of comforting. For the first time in a while I see a perk to returning to the Lumos fold. "You think?"

"I do. I wish it would be sooner, I miss you chica. Sometimes it feels like he's going to keep you para siempre and I'll never get my Chelsea back! I love her and all but mi hermana sucks at the whole girly thing, we never have half as much fun as me and you do." If you didn't know, 'para siempre' is forever in Spanish. Sometimes she can be heartbreakingly sweet.

"But on the other hand, you're working right now and I'm being paid to go on vacation," I tease.

"You hate snow."

"Well next time I'm holding out for Hawaii."

Her tinkling laugh skips through the line, and I can imagine her giggling with a delicate hand to her mouth. "Apart from snow and asshole photographers, how is it?"

"Oddly fun, though I still hate snowboarding." Despite Justin's claims to the contrary, practice did not make perfect or warm me up to the sport.

"How's he?"

"Nice attempt at casual."

"I am casual! How is he?"

I'd almost have to laugh at her if her little crush didn't make me so nervous. It's extremely awkward knowing that a) I slept with him first and b) Justin really doesn't like her much any more. I still feel like that's my fault, like I've totally misrepresented her. I mean, okay, she annoys the shit out of me sometimes but she's like a sister. You know, she steal your shoes and drives you nuts but you love her and you'd be there for her in a heartbeat? Sometimes Kennedy annoys me too but I still like her - it's just that as my boss Sophie is in a better position to inconvenience and thus annoy me. I don't like the idea that Justin thinks she's some vacuous Hollywood doll just because I gripe about her sometimes.

"A little pissed at photographers, but apparently he actually likes snow so this place is all good for him."

Again she laughs and it makes me miss her smile. "Good, good. I get the impression he's annoyed with me."

What? How did she… umm, I mean, of course not. Ahem. "Why would you think that?"

"Apparently I call you too much."

"Why would you think he thinks that?"

"Mostly because that's what he replied the last time I sent him a text."

Oh SHIT that's not good. That's really not good. Wait, why is he sending mean text messages to my employer? For one thing, she's my friend, and for another she's still the boss of me and it is actually pretty nice of her to let him keep me when his ass doesn't actually need a PA now he's come off that tour. Well, okay, he still does have meetings and stuff so I guess he does need a PA, but he needs one less than she does. She's on full blown promotion right now, and for the first time in forever she agreed to attend a convention for Tomb Dwellers (the sci-fi show that made her famous).

Let me go on a tangent here to tell you how much of a big deal that is. Sci-fi fans love their conventions. They get talks with the guests, they get picture and autograph sessions, they get to party with the stars and it's a great experience for them. It's also a great experience and real job validation for the actors… until they get as huge as Sophie. Then it gets kind of dangerous. Sophie used to do the circuit all the time before she blew up, but then after a couple of goes around where she was getting mobbed and grabbed and molested we quickly worked out that she could not safely attend them any more. They're too open and free for all.

So I'm guessing she's more panicked than she's letting on about doing it again (she said because it's the fifth anniversary of the last episode and she wants to show appreciation for her roots she has to do it). It sounds like Enrique's running himself ragged organising the security, and apparently even the event organisers are nervous about meeting the fan demand for picture and autograph sessions and making sure she's well protected without totally cutting her off. She could really use me right now, but she's very kindly letting me stay with Justin.

So the ass needs to be a little more grateful and stop sending my friends rude text messages.

"Don't mind him, he's probably just kidding."

"I didn't get that impression…"

"No, I'm sure he is. He's just real sarcastic is all, half the time I can't work out whether he's kidding or not either."

"You two sound like you're getting pretty close."

Great, She's got me breaking out in cold sweat twice in as many minutes. "Umm, I suppose so."

"That's good. You know sometimes I worry about you honey, you got me and Kennedy and your family and that's about it, and it sucks. You hide your light under a tree…"

"Bushel," I automatically correct the rare English/Spanish flub up.

"Umm, I think the hiding being a bad thing is the more salient point," she teases. She also used a smarty pants word like 'salient' to remind me she's better at English than her occasional ignorance of such phrases might suggest. "Sometimes I just wish you'd get out there more, I think it would be so good for you."

"I'm on vacation with a whole bunch of people I barely know and still doing okay. Do I get points for that?"

"Hmm…" she pretends to ponder it for a second. "Yeah, that's good. Points for Chelsea."

"Perks of working with JT," I joke. "Boy can't cope without a ton of people everywhere."

I shouldn't have mentioned him, because she's back on that subject again. "Do you think he hates me?"

"What? No!"

She sounds unhappy when she answers me. "He's just been so off with me, even when all I'm doing is just passing on a message for you. I don't know what I did wrong."

Oh the guilt, the guilt. I can feel it seeping through my skin, seeping right into me, and let me tell you the damn stuff itches. I might as well have rubbed a bunch of poison ivy on myself, that's how uncomfortable I am right now.

"He can just be kind of crabby, don't take it to heart."

"It's hard not to."

"Because you have a crush on him?" I ask.

"No," she scoffs. "I'm a big girl, I can deal with a crush not liking me back. It's just…" Her voice softens again and it's just so melancholy. It's like I just popped some kind of downer. "I don't want anybody mad at me."

That's Sophie all over. Sometimes I think half the reason she works so hard at playing the nice girl and doing well in her films is that she can't stand it if she's not liked. She wants everybody to like her. It probably sounds vain, but I don't think it is; to be honest I think it's the opposite. I think she's insecure underneath all the pep and effervescence and her measure of success is other people liking her. Her rationale is that if you can befriend anybody and make them smile, you're doing something right. She says people appreciate friendliness and manners and if you can leave a room having left a good impression it's because you behaved well and you're being a decent person.

Hell maybe that's not insecurity, maybe that's good thinking. Possibly I should try that - I think I just leave a perfume smell when I leave rooms.

"He's not mad at you!" I insist.

***

Oh shit she's mad at me.

Chelsea hasn't spoken to me in two hours, but that's not how I know she's mad at me. Nick and Rachael haven't spoken to me in two hours either because they turned down the after party in my cabin for some shut eye, only Eddie and Matt are still here. We're just kicking back and having some more beers, nothing heavy, but the others wanted to sleep because we're hitting the slopes early again tomorrow. That explains why Chelsea not speaking to me is not how I know she's mad at me, because her not being here was not based on any sort of ire.

The text message asking 'Y the fuck r u b-ng an ass 2 soph' was the big hint that she was mad at me.

"Shit, dude!" Matt's yelling causes my head to snap up from my phone. It also makes Eddie nearly fall off his stool, that's how far he jumped out of his skin.

"What?" Eddie asks wildly, looking around him like Matt's just spotted a fire.

"I swear there was a camera at that fucking window!"

Heh. Now I'm mad too.

You know, I've never been possessive of my friends. Fuck that shit; let people do what they want.

Right now, however, I need to stage a serious intervention. I have suffered silently while Trace has disappeared every morning with Chelsea and they haven't waltzed back in until late. I mean, as much as I could have used some comfort and good counsel from my best friend after I had to run home from my vacation with my tail between my legs because paparazzi were literally peering in my windows, I let that go. Far be it from me to mention that he's supposed to be doing stuff for our label rather than following Chelsea around while she runs my errands. Just to demonstrate how a good a friend I am, I didn't even call him lame when he turned down basketball tickets to go cheer Kennedy on in some show with her.

But I am NOT standing for this shit, man, and especially not in my own home.

"I don't get it," Trace frowns at the TV screen. "Why's she so pissed if he has to move there to work? It's not like that's his fault."

"No," Chelsea explains patiently as she takes another gulp of red wine. "She's pissed because he didn't even think to mention the possibility to her until it's practically guaranteed that he's going. He just sprung this on her with no warning. I mean, if you'd been dating somebody seriously that long and you were thinking of emigrating you'd talk to them about it earlier than that, right?"

"Right," he nods sagely.

"See, but him… Big's just a commitment phobe. Can't cope with having to factor somebody else into his life." She shakes her head in disgust as she grabs the bottle and tops up her glass.

Yes, people, my very male best friend is sitting on my couch drinking my red wine with my crush, watching Sex and the City. Apparently this is her getting ready to go out ritual and he is indulging in it with her. My best friend has turned into a fucking woman. He is having a serious conversation about precisely why Mr Big can't commit to Carrie. This has GOT to stop.

"I'm sorry to interrupt folks but Chelsea could you knock whoever this sad ass is out of his head so I can have the real Trace back?"

"Hey!" Trace protests. "HEY!" He protests louder when Chelsea gives him an obliging slap upside his head.

"Dude, when the fuck did you turn into a girl?" I ask in disbelief.

Look, you may think I'm being harsh, but this is true. Chelsea, in the absence of having Kennedy to do the girly getting ready thing, has purloined my best friend and has swapped his Y chromosome for another X in the process. Apparently Sex and the City is stage five: 'We're Done And Have Time To Kill Before She Gets Here.' Stages one through four involve cosmetic product abuse. They're curled up on the couch with one of the most female oriented TV series ever, delicately supping glasses of my best Merlot while she fusses over which colour she should have painted her toe nails. Who's even going to be LOOKING at her toenails? Why doesn't Trace just do what he normally does and inform her that any guy will be too busy staring at her breasts or her ass to even clock that she HAS toenails, let alone what colour they are?

I'm still trying to pretend that I didn't hear him asking her which tie went best with his eyes. Next he's going to be asking her if those pants make his ass look fat.

"Dude," Trace smirks, "you're looking at this so wrong."

"Really?" I fold my arms over my chest and give him an unconvinced look. "Enlighten me."

"Hot women taking dirty and regularly naked or in underwear. It's like porn only kosher in front of women."

"I…" Damn it. I presumed I'd have a really good rebuttal there but I kind of see his point. I am told Samantha gets naked several times an episode and for an older chick she's not bad.

"I really wish I hadn't heard him say that," Chelsea groans. "He may have just ruined my show."

In lieu of an answer, I give a hefty sigh. "What time do we need to be at the restaurant?"

"Eight thirty," Chelsea automatically answers. Immediately she starts fidgeting a little, and I'm not sure I blame her.

Tonight's a big deal for her. In all technicalities it's just the run up to the really big deal, but she's still nervous. Tonight, I have graciously given Chelsea back for the evening (only because Sophie asked nicely) as they are doing a dummy run for this hugely important business dinner Sophie will be having in a couple of weeks' time. Sophie while asking to borrow her explained that since this will hugely affect Chelsea's job, she needs to be present and so she wanted her back just for the dummy run evening and the actual dinner. Of course, Chelsea can't keep away from such plans without winding up organising them because she's one of those types who if they want it done has to do it themselves or they fret, so I've been seeing little of her lately… though miraculously my dry cleaning's still always on time and I haven't missed a phone message or a meeting request yet.

I don't quite get the intricacies of it, but apparently the next step in the dazzling Lumos career is for her to set up a production company. This dinner is going to be a meeting of potential execs and investors and stuff; I think the crux of it is that they do the hard sell on these guys. Trace and I have been cordially invited to act as stand-ins for the execs. We have been instructed to critique everything about the restaurant - food, ambience, service - so that we can give them an idea of whether these guys will be suitably impressed. Sophie's logic is that we're more reasonable than her father but we've still got enough money it'll take a lot to impress us.

Chelsea's been twitchy about it ever since Trace pointed out it could be a real short cut into film producing for her.

I want to tell her to relax, but I have a feeling I'll get glared at so I just top up her glass some more and quickly grab the empty third one they left for me. I could use a drink. In all fairness I'd be a hypocrite telling her to relax - ever since that vacation got so suddenly cut short I too have been twitchy as all hell. I'm not as paranoid as Chelsea or my dear Ken Sunshine who insist they must have been after something if they were literally peering in at my windows, but it was still way too much for me to handle. I decided to cut my losses and come back to California and my big ass iron gates; there's no paparazzi getting in past those babies.

It would be nice if one of these days I didn't have to worry about such things, but never mind. I guess I should just be grateful that they missed the real scoop, which would be me having a new woman on the scene (sort of). There's only been one reoccurrence since we got back, but that was just a little kissing on the couch. That very couch she's sitting on, actually. Sometimes I half think she's going to say something to me about the whole situation with me and her, but she never does. So for now it's just simmering there waiting for shit to happen.

"You know, I'd totally do Charlotte," I announce to no-one in particular.

Chelsea squints at me in surprise. "Heh. I had you as more of a Carrie."

"Too neurotic," I say.

"Charlotte seems clingy," Trace responds.

Fuck, why did I let myself get into that conversation? I'm as bad as they are.

"Chelsea's kind of dressed like Charlotte," I observe.

"I am?"

Her hands fly to her dress in panic like I paid her some kind of insult. I don't know why, I just said I'd do Charlotte right? She's in this very fifties style strapless dress, white with little black polka dots on it, if she's wearing a lot of make up she did a very good job hiding it and she's in minimal jewellery. She looks pretty classy. In fact, she looks classy enough that she made me and Trace feel bad about planning to wear sneakers with our shirts and ties and we changed footwear. We didn't tell her that though.

"I see that," Trace says ponderously. "Though I still say you're gonna get food all down your nice white shit there if this place is Italian. Pasta sauce gets everywhere."

I can't help snorting. "If you were so concerned about her dress why'd you offer her red wine, dumb ass?"

Trace is saved by the door bell, and I guess it's probably Sophie. He leaps up to go get it, and I steal his spot on the sofa next to Chelsea. If I'm honest I didn't really want to go out tonight, least of all with Sophie. Chelsea chewed me out for speaking ill of her before and I promised I'd tone it down, but… what can I say? I now have the diva impression and once you have the diva impression it's hard to shake no matter how many nice stories Chelsea takes pains to tell.

"Umm… J?" She says quietly.

"Yep?" I sink into the sofa, wondering if I could disappear into it.

"Umm… you know Sophie has no idea about…" I'm guessing she means sleeping together but I'm going to make her say it. It takes her a few seconds, but she gets there. "You and me? Having sex?"

"I didn't but I do now." Well, okay, I kind of guessed she wasn't exactly broadcasting it.

"Not planning on mentioning it are you?"

"Not the kind of thing I'd normally bring up in casual conversation."

Okay, there has to be more to that sigh of relief than she's letting on, but I'm too tired to consider why. "Okay, fine. Just didn't want anything being blurted out is all. She gets pissy if she doesn't hear shit from me."

I want to respond to that, but instead a waft of pretty strong Chanel fills the room and Sophie bursts in, her usual exuberance moving about six feet ahead of her. I turn to smile and say hi, be polite and all, but I have to admit my jaw dropped because holy SHIT that dress is very red and very tight. Even if you'd never heard of her in your life you would know that woman was a movie star. She may constantly hog my PA but the woman fills out a dress nicely.

"Hey chica bonita!" She pushed right past me and flings herself at Chelsea, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Looking fabulous!"

"Right back at you," Chelsea says weakly. Maybe I'm over analysing, but I'd swear she just wilted a little. I can't believe this never occurred to me before but I wonder what it's like for her as a female, working for a woman who so completely overshadows you (deservedly or not). Makes me think back to what my momma said in that diner all that time ago, about her always seeming sad somehow.

"Hmm…" It's weird to watch, but Sophie takes a critical look at Chelsea for a minute and then goes digging in her purse. Before I know it she's pulled out one of those teeny hair grips and swept just a little off it back from the top of Chelsea's head and secured it there. Dude, I'd tell any one of my friends to fuck off if they did any male equivalent of that; is this what girls are like?

"Perfect!" Sophie declares with a bright grin. "Now I can see that pretty face you're so fond of hiding!" Uhh… actually, she's kind of got a point. Chelsea does hide behind her hair a lot.

Fuck. I'm officially a sad case who stares too much and notices too much. Maybe we should go to dinner where I can distract myself with food.

***

"Oh my God oh my God oh my God…" Chelsea is barely breathing between syllables as she buries her face in her hands. She looks about ready to cry.

You know, I have officially decided that the only thing more awkward than bumping into the ex who broke your heart at a restaurant is watching while one of your companions has that dubious honour.

"Hey, hey," Sophie says soothingly as she reaches across the table and takes Chelsea's hands, linking their fingers together. Fuck this is so not a guy event; this is the time that Carrie needs to be surrounded by Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha. Guy witnesses are added embarrassment.

"Why the fuck did he have to be here?" The little blonde is seething her words out through her teeth, irritation flowing through some obvious pain. "I get that LA is a free city and he's allowed to attend people's weddings and all, but why did he have to walk into this restaurant and why did he have to be an ass and come over here?"

"Wanted to see Justin and Sophie," Trace says matter-of-factly. I give him a swift kick under the table, but he just looks at me defensively. "What? It's probably true."

"Little wifey probably wanted to come look see. Gloating over me was an added bonus," she grumbles.

"Hey." I put a hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair a second before remembering what she said earlier and that this might appear too familiar. "The guy's an ass and he clearly downgraded. You look about five times better than her."

"And might I say that the ring she was so obviously trying to flash everywhere was the biggest piece of tack I have ever seen," Sophie pulls a face and even manages to get a pained giggle out of Chelsea. "You have more taste in your little finger and might I add if that's the rock you would have got for staying with him, you did so well getting out of there."

"It was tacky, right?" Chelsea sniffs hopefully.

Trace snorts. "I have a tattoo on my arm calling myself Tennessee Trash and even I thought it was tacky."

Chelsea releases one of Sophie's hands to take another large gulp of red wine. "I know you guys are only saying this shit to make me feel better but did I mention I love you all right now?"

"Babe," Trace says as he leans casually back in his chair opposite mine. Being the sad case I am, I made sure I nabbed the seat next to the chick in the polka dots. "You're successful, you're beautiful and you're sitting here hanging with the stars making more money in six months than he makes in twelve. Don't sweat it."

I can't say much more than he did (damn it, why didn't I think to make that little speech first? I so think that), but I punctuate it for him with a quick arm around her shoulders and a squeeze. I don't know if she's forgetting herself for a second or if she just considers it Sophie friendly interaction, but she drops her head onto me for a second. I'm tempted to drop a kiss on her cheek but I won't.

"Thanks. I'll slip you that fifty later Ayala," she finally cracks a smile.

"I thought that was worth at least seventy."

Sophie doesn't say anything, but she's rubbing her thumb across their still entwined fingers and she's got her head tilted at Chelsea. The two of them are doing that weird female thing where they're having a silent conversation with their eyes. I have a suspicion that it's about things they both know but won't be said until those pesky boys are out of earshot. And… okay… I'll admit it, Sophie has been kind of cool this evening. She's been polite, friendly, totally without the diva 'tude and I'm now remembering all those times on set Sophie seemed grateful to have Chelsea instead of all the bossing around she's been doing via phone over my tour.

Looking at your PA like a friend and not a servant is a good start, but I'm still not forgiving her for all the PA hogging. She could still stand to call Chels a lot less.

"So back to business…" Trace asks, "what kind of films are you looking to make with this company?"

"I want to have all those really great films that everybody knows has Oscar written all over them just from hearing the plot," Sophie's eyes light up. "Stuff like the big period dramas you expect Keira Knightley to be in but all the really unique movies too, give some people a chance to make some more off the wall stuff. Kind of like… you know that movie Justin did with the girl chained to the radiator?"

"Black Snake Moan," I confirm.

"Yeah, stuff like that."

"You want to make Atonement and you want to make Black Snake Moan?"

"Weird mix, huh?" Sophie has the grace to look a little sheepish.

"I like that though," Chelsea says, seeming grateful for the change in topic. "You get a good mix and it keeps everything fresh. We've been doing too many romantic comedies lately."

"I know, right?" Sophie sighs. "Papa dearest insists. Speaking of which, Chels, have you yet worked out how I can tell him he's not joining in this little project without him killing me?"

"Do I look like a miracle worker?"

"Well hey," I tell her, "You did manage to get five cars cleaned inside out, get scripts copied, arrange flights and a closet full of dry cleaning done, a grocery shop and pick up call sheets for me from five different locations in one day. I never thought you'd do it all before somebody closed."

"So then why did you give me that long ass list of things to do in one day when you thought it'd be impossible for me?"

"Well…" Shit, now they're laughing at me. "Fuck, I didn't know my foot fit that far into my mouth."

"You just limber?" Sophie jokes with a wink.

I jump a little bit when I feel a finger poke into my thigh and realise it was Chelsea. I look at her quizzically and her expression is a little too knowing; I take it that was an allusion to how limber she thinks I've proved to be. I don't get this woman. Dirty one second and totally disinterested the next. I need a map to follow her.

***

I always say you can tell how swanky a place is (or aspires to be) by the bathrooms. Considering that the freaking urinals have a lion's head fountain in them to wash stuff away, I'm thinking this place wants to be pretty damn swanky. I think it's kind of overdone, but as I said to Sophie at the table the food is good and it's sufficiently pricey for business meetings. It's got good hype around it too, so it'll seem like she's pushing the boat out for these guys.

I stare at myself in the ornate, Renaissance styled mirrors (I bet they were recently made in Taiwan). I look pretty neat and tidy, beard is kept at low grade neat stubble and the hair's grown out into a mini Mohawk. I miraculously haven't spilt any shit down my nice white shirt, but otherwise my black waistcoat, tie and pants blend me perfectly into the black marble floor. I think I'm only visible in the room because of my nuclear white glow - I need a tan.

Everything in this place seems to be black marble and low lighting though. Maybe it's just that they're catering to the Saturday night date market and they'd be brighter during the week, but it's almost a little too low lit. Ignoring the attendant and choosing instead to wipe off my freshly washed hands on my pants as I leave, I'm surprised to see Chelsea leaning against the wall in the corridor. It's out of view of the restaurant, so I'm guessing she escaped the table just to look pissed for a second.

"You okay?" I ask her, worried. I thought she'd been a while in the bathroom.

"Will asked me out."

"What?" I'm a little louder and higher pitched than I'd like, but what the fuck?

"I bumped into him before I got to the ladies. He… he's in town for a week and he was talking like it was a catch up drink but he… he kept eyeing me up." She looks about as comfortable with this prospect as most women would with being slipped a roofie. "Am I being paranoid?"

"What did he say?"

"Really innocuous, 'wouldn't make his wife even a little suspicious even if I repeated it verbatim' stuff."

"What did he say with his eyes?"

"I might be over-reacting but I was getting 'I'm picturing you naked' from him. He just kept running his eyes on me, and I know he's told people he thinks he could have me any time."

"Asshole," I spit murderously. Part of this is because I think that's asshole behaviour whoever it's directed at, but mostly I'm just jealous. See, I can be a man and admit it, I'm insanely jealous.

"I don't know, maybe he does mean it in a more innocent way, but I can't see why else he'd want to speak to me unless it was just to pull his usual better than me crap and that's not a great notion either." She keeps alternately folding her arms and clutching at her skirt. Clearly she's been made extremely uncomfortable by this whole thing. Then again, being set upon by the ex who is supposed to be the opposite side of the country is never exactly a picnic. "I knew this dress was too slutty…"

"What the fuck?" I'm sorry, maybe I should be more delicate or diplomatic or whatever but she's talking bull. "Did you not listen to me and Trace? You look like Charlotte this evening. Charlotte is demure."

I finally pull her arms from her chest because she's driving me nuts constantly moving them like she is, and I wrap mine around her waist in what I hope is a reassuring hug. She seems grateful because she buries herself right into it, almost like she thinks I'll hide her from the Big Bad Ex.

"I thought you said no self respecting man watched Sex and the City so how would you know?"

"Sometimes self respecting men have girlfriends obsessed with it and have to suffer through."

"Oh."

"So what did you say back?" I ask her as we continue to stand and hold each other. You know, for two people so continually skirting around our issue we can be pretty touchy-feely.

"Told him you were busy."

"You told him I was busy?" I'm confused.

"If you're busy that means your PA is busy. That would be me."

"Oh." Now I'm less confused.

It seems that Officer Whatever hasn't had enough time worrying his ex, because he rounds the corner again. Chelsea has her back to him and her face in my shoulder, so she can't see him. I, however, am having a John Wayne stare down with him right now. She's wrapped around me, I'm clutching her and I'm glaring at him, and I think the message is very much 'keep your hands off.' He can assume she's my girlfriend or just that I'm concerned as her boss slash friend, I don't give a shit, but if he doesn't heed the back off signal I'm going to have Randy or Tiny rearrange his face or something, I don't know. Either way, he slinks off quietly; I guess if he needed the bathroom he'll hold it. God, and the asshole's married. If he'd do this now I have no problem believing he cheated on Chels or whatever back then. The guy screams sleaze to me.

Of course this might just be that Chelsea was so freaked she read too much into it and I'm just too willing to believe he's scum, but considering a thing like that would be fair to the guy. Fuck that.

I am the first to admit that I have been somewhat evasive when it comes to me, Justin Timberlake, and the having of sex. Now with some women that's just because they're user bitches, but I swear that my caginess comes purely from the fact I have no idea where the Hell I'm at with him. If I knew, I'd be very direct about it. It's like that time Trace accompanied me out and he asked me what I thought of this tattoo he's been nursing the idea of for some time… I told him I thought it was horrible and he should give it up before it was permanently etched on his arm. I'm just a straightforward kind of girl. Yes I knew it would wound him a little, but I was cruel to be kind.

Justin… ugh. I don't think I'm being cruel to be kind as much as generally cruel right now but I can't damn well help it and its irritating me. It has become blindingly obvious that the man likes me. At first I might have put it down to good times and good sex, the whole benefits gig, but even I can tell he likes me in a deeper way now. I never buy it when either men or women claim to have been clueless about somebody liking them. Maybe at first you could miss it, but after a while everybody works it out and to maintain otherwise is just bullshit. Either you know it and you're pretending not to, or you've repressed it so much you've honestly deluded yourself that you don't. That's why whoever's better at acting disinterested always winds up with all the power in the relationship.

So yeah, I know Justin likes me. What I can't work out is where my feelings for him lie. He's not somebody I can definitely put in the Friend Zone, but he's not somebody I'm sure I could date either. Even forgetting the huge mess that would cause with Sophie and what a huge breaking of the Girl Code it is, I'm just not sure about him. He's cute and all, but I know a lot of cute guys. Trace is a cute guy and I have no interest in dating him.

"So…" Kennedy takes a big gulp of a mocha light frappuccino as she picks up a cute little pendant from the market stall. Flea markets are fun; you never find this kind of jewellery in stores. "Let me get this straight. He came over last night why?"

"He had stuff to pick up from me and seeing as he was already out it was easier for him to swing by me than me to go all the way over there."

"A likely story. So why did… he stay?"

Naturally since we're in public, I have warned her not to say the name out loud. She's finding it really difficult, she keeps going to say it and then catching herself at the last second. I just don't need any opportunistic paparazzi putting two and two together - I doubt any are following me, but I refuse to take the risk.

"We were just talking and then I was making food and it seemed rude not to offer him some, and then I put the TV on and there was a movie and… I don't know, it got late and before I know it I'm waking up next to the guy."

"See, some people have blackout sex where they don't remember having it, you just never seem to remember how you got to the sex point." I really wish her snort hadn't been so derisive.

"Well if I'm totally honest..."

"Suggesting you haven't been up to this point which, by the way, I knew."

"I hate you."

"Nice diversion tactic, back to the sex."

I love Kennedy, but I hate her. There's shit I can avoid talking with Lisa about or even stuff I can withhold from Sophie, but Kennedy just has me on lock. There is no way to lie to her, sometimes I think she knows me better than she knows herself or I know myself. It'd just be nice sometimes to know more than she did about me.

"I don't know…" I whine and then take a quick pause for a sip of my latte. I'm fingering a delicate pair of pink stones delicately encased in silver. I'm tempted to get them; I'm a sucker for earrings. "It's just that my couch is kind of cosy and we wound up kind of cuddling and he was playing with my hair and I got a little too comfy."

"It's the couch's fault?"

"Will you please stop ragging on my lame excuses?"

"Come up with better excuses and then I won't have to." Kennedy throws an arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. "Babe, come on, you obviously like him. I can't remember the last time you got too affectionate with a guy but you obviously like this one."

"You think?" I ask and she nods. "Because I feel much ambivalence to the whole situation."

"Is the sex that bad?"

"Oh I didn't mean ambivalence to the sex," I shake my head. "I just don't know whether I really, like, feel romantically for him."

She gives a little huff and rolls her eyes to the sky. "Honey, you forget, I have seen you with the man. You let him walk with his arm around you and you're always touching each other's arms and shit and looking at each other and clearly there's SOMETHING there."

Now it's my turn to make unimpressed noises because clearly she does not comprehend me here. "Well sure there's something there, no shit, the question is over the nature of said thing."

"Hmm. Hold this please!" I take her drink from her while she picks up a choker of black beads and tries it on for size. "Babe, let's break this down for a minute. He's hot, he's successful, he's a surprisingly nice guy and you get on really well with him. Add it all up and it spells get with the program."

"You could say the same of Trace," I point out.

"Yeah but it's no huge surprise you get on well with Trace, he's exactly like the kind of guys you and I always hang out with so it's no wonder you don't feel any big thing for him. Your little sex toy there, however, is something with a little more spark…"

"He is not a sex toy!" I protest.

"Then what is he if you're not just sleeping with him for fun or in other words using him as a sex toy?"

"I…"

Damn it. I hate it when she does that! She gets me on the hop and I get all defensive and then she swoops in with something I can't find a decent comeback for. It's not that there isn't one (necessarily); she just gets me all twisted until my usual wit escapes me and then I get stuck.

"Chelsea, I think you're just prolonging the inevitable and you should just go with him on it. Because whether it turns out to be a goer or not, at this point the only way to find out is to attempt it."

"But…"

"Why do I have a feeling this 'but' is going to be about your ex or your employer?"

"What?"

Kennedy and I both haphazardly throw ten dollar bills at the stall owner for our purchases, and she's looking a little awkward. This really isn't a conversation we should have in public paparazzi or no paparazzi, but it's a beautiful day and I didn't want to sit inside, so sue me. Now, the employer issue seems fairly obvious, but where does the low down dirty ex come into it? Oh, by the way, Lisa called me the day after asking if it was true I was mooning after him in that restaurant. I have sent her away with the actual story and I really hope it gets back to his wife that he asked his ex girlfriend out. I still hate her but I would rather Will got his ass deservedly dumped than she got made a fool of. I hate him more.

Slowly we start moving back off, just meandering through the stalls. I always take flea markets slower than I do malls - with malls you pretty much know what's there, but with markets if you're not paying close enough attention you might walk by and miss something good. The sunshine and the walking are good for the soul, too. Or at least they are until you get into heavy emotional discussion with your best pal.

"What?" Kennedy asks innocently.

"Employer or ex? Explain?"

"Easy," she shrugs as we pass by some hand crafted toys and some magnetic copper arthritis bracelets without interest. "You're using Sophie as a good excuse because you know there's the off chance she'll get pissed about it, when actually you're having issues over Will."

Is she TRYING to make steam come out of my ears? "Exsqueeze me? Baking powder?"

"Oh come on, honey." Kennedy tosses her hair back behind her shoulder impatiently. "I love you and I've tried to be supportive, but you got your fingers burned and now you're all gun shy, plus you half let that idiot convince you the way he treated you is about you being not worth the effort instead of him being a rat bastard. I just think you're a) scared of getting vulnerable and b) can't work out why he likes you so you suspect it's all a big trick and he's going to turn around and pull a Will."

"I'm so over Will!" I protest.

"Yeah, but clearly not what he did to you otherwise you wouldn't have got so upset in that restaurant or cried to me about it for like an hour."

"So what, now I'm just Miss Sad and Needy Can't Get Over It?"

"You haven't got over it and you've been Miss Unavailable to Men since. And I got to tell you, you need to snap out of it because it's getting boring."

"Well gee, thanks. Nice to know I bore you."

I stomp off through the crowd, breaking away from her. This is probably a stupid move considering that she drove, and even with my back to her I can envisage her pulling faces at my back before sighing and running after me.

***

Okay, clearly Justin should have shaved before he left my place this morning because I swear that stubble is now turning into Hobo-Man beard. That's not good.

"Hey." He scratches his head looking woozy, and I suspect I woke him up from a nap.

"Hey. Dry cleaning lady at your service." I brandish the arm full of suit carriers like they're a backstage pass.

He gives me a bleary smile and moves away from the door, the unspoken invitation being that he has left it wide open for me. Justin did actually give me a key (which is the PA standard), but I haven't known him long enough to feel comfortable waltzing in unannounced. I always ring the bell; the key only gets used if no-one answers. I have no issues walking into Sophie's place uninvited but I've been working for her years rather than weeks.

Stepping into Justin's house is, to my mind, like stepping into the love child of Memphis and LA. It's your typical LA structure and colour scheme, all very modern styled and expensive and 'look at me I'm rich,' but then there's just this quirkier, incongruous, more down home stuff that you know must be mirrored in Momma or Grandma Sadie's kitchen. I sure would like to meet his grandmother one day, if her pie recipes are anything to go by. Lynn says she doesn't make them half as well as Grandma Sadie and if that's true, Grandma Sadie is the woman I'm going to marry (I hear it's legal in England).

Justin totally laughed at my apartment; last night was the first time he saw more than just the entryway. He said it looked like I had a room for every different mood I was in and wasn't that just like a woman - lots of totally contradictory moods. I gave him a good poke in the ribs for that.

"So did you get any calls from Johnny today?" Justin asks me through a yawn. We've come through to the kitchen and he's doing that gross guy thing where he drinks out of the carton. That's really not hygienic.

Carefully I lay his stuff on the table as I respond. "Just a real quick one to say that he's sorry but the number crunching has hit some snags and they have to go back over it before he can fax it through. He says tomorrow morning latest."

"Oh. Okay." He lets out another huge yawn and the effect is oddly cute… even if he does look like he hasn't showered in days. The t-shirt and those shorts are just way too grubby. "Tomorrow?"

"Car is booked for nine thirty sharp, shoot starts at eleven."

"Tonight?"

"Umm… you have nothing booked for tonight unless you forgot to tell me?" I tense, just waiting to hear the news that there's some crucial thing I haven't been told about that I need to do a ton of shit for. Any personal assistant will tell you these are the moments to dread.

Justin shakes his head, as if there's a pebble rattling around in there he's trying to get out. "Sorry, no, there isn't. Force of habit."

"Good." I give his chest a quick smack with my hand as I push past him for a bottle of Smart water from the refrigerator. "Don't do that, you trying to give me bad blood pressure?"

"Sorry." He shrugs and yawns again, stretching his hands over his head as he does so. A sliver of his stomach becomes visible and if I was evil now would be the opportune moment to start tickling it or something. Half asleep people are really funny when you catch them off guard, just ask Sophie (mud mask, she forgot she had it on, mirror…). "You feel like hanging tonight then? Trace has a date and Matt's busy."

"Trace has a date? I'm intrigued." I yank myself up onto his counter and swing my legs jauntily. "Who?"

"Some designer they just hired for William Rast." Justin leans back against the counter opposite me and continues swigging from the carton. "I haven't met her but he claims she's got an ass like whoa."

"Nice," I laugh. Boys amuse me. "Well, I'm glad I rank behind Trace and Matt but sure."

"So what's Kennedy doing tonight?" He asks with a pointed look that makes me put my hands up in surrender. Yeah, he wasn't my first choice either.

"Okay, okay, she has a late class and anyway I'm technically not talking to her."

"Technically?" He asks with a quizzical expression.

Men just never understand how female friendships work. "I'm officially mad at her and shouldn't be talking to her except I'm not that mad really and I'll just see her tomorrow."

"Chicks are weird," he says as he shakes his head. "Anyway, I need a shower so you're welcome to hang around and make yourself at home."

He runs along to the shower (I leave him with a helpful hint that he needs to shave) and I find myself wandering through the downstairs of this cavernous house. It's beautiful, no doubt, but I wonder how one person can live here by himself. I know Trace crashes here a lot and his mom stays a lot and all that jazz but at the core this huge mansion is for one guy. Who needs that much space? Hell, sometimes my little five room apartment can feel too big.

I bypass his workout room (all the latest hi tech stuff), I peer down into the basement and see a games room with consoles and a pool table and a little door off to the side that looks to my untrained eye like it might be a recording studio. The kitchen and living room are pretty usual. There's a very impressive looking office full of all kinds of gadgetry he never uses, and then there's the utility room. The dogs have their own little room, and while Buckley wags his tail on seeing me neither he nor Brennan looks likely to get up any time soon.

The place I stop is the room where he keeps all his awards because holy Hell there's a million of them. I know he's been in the business forever, but I want to know what happens if he wins any more Teen Choice awards because those surfboards are taking up some serious space. There are platinum discs everywhere, and an awful lot of moon men. It's funny to see some of the stupider pictures attached to the oldest discs - Justin looks so very young and so very stupid. He really wasn't attractive back then… or maybe at that age he'd have been just what I'd have found attractive, given that my taste was similarly bad. I wore Laura Ashley once or twice.

It's the Grammy awards I can't help tracing my fingers over - Sophie's never won an Oscar, but I figure this for the musical equivalent. They're a pretty big deal, even I know that. It's weird to think of Justin as being this big impresario when I've seen him tie dye designer shirts by accident and stub his toe on stairs and get sloppy drunk and stuff.

"What you looking at?"

I turn to see Justin in the doorway. He sounds a little more awake and looks a lot more human. His t-shirt and jeans are actually clean and he has thankfully trimmed if not totally taken off the beard.

"The musical achievements of Justin Timberlake," I make a mock impressed face and he chuckles. "Not half bad."

"I like to think so." His finger trails along a shelf before he gets to me and sees what I'm looking at. "Oh shit woman, avert your eyes please."

It's a picture of *NSYNC on what I guess must have been a photo shoot or video set. Justin's in jeans and one of those white muscle vests that were really not invented for skinny teenage boys who haven't bulked up enough. He looks way too young.

"Aww, I think it's cute."

"Don't mock me."

"If I don't who will?"

"Trace has never lacked in that department."

I laugh at that. "I bet he hasn't."

"Nah, it's good though." He straightens the picture and looks at it with an amusing expression of horror and fondness. "It helps that I got people who don't kiss my ass."

"Yeah, definitely," I nod.

"You know I think that's Sophie's problem?"

Huh? I'm sorry, where the hell did that come from and has he not learned that I don't appreciate him bitching about Sophie to me? "What?"

"You strike me as the only person in her life who doesn't bullshit her and kiss her ass twenty four seven." There's a funny look on his face that I can't read right now, it seems a little wry. "You're probably the reason she's still a decent human being."

Oh… okay. I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but I think there was a compliment in there somewhere so I might just let it go. "I think you underestimate her. Anyway, explain to me what the hell this is about?" I pick up a really stupid photo of the *NSYNC boys painted gold.

"Our first gold disc…"

"So gold faces," I finish for him. "That's lame."

"Hey, we weren't quite Rolling Stone material yet so we had to take what we could get."

This man is probably one of the most self-effacing I've met. Yet oddly, he's also one of the cockiest. There's an odd mix of pride and humility in him that I don't see a lot in Hollywood; most people there tip one way or the other. Watching his eyes sweep over his numerous accomplishments he seems barely moved, but there's a light to his blue eyes that betrays him. He's a funny thing, but I find that refreshing in a weird way.

"So what do you want to do tonight anyway?" I ask him. "Movie, bowling, sit around and drink?"

"I could go for dinner and a movie."

"Cool. But I warn you I'm not a cheap date, I expect you to buy the tickets and the popcorn."

"Oh so now she wants a date?"

Eek… here's wishing I hadn't used the word date. He's now left that comment hanging in the air, fully knowing that it's loaded. The ass has intentionally put the entire onus on me here. I either play it off as a joke or I get flirty and we take it as an actual date. This thought scares me, because I have no idea what I want and even if I did I'm not sure going on a date with a guy Sophie is crushing on is a good idea.

I mean, okay, I know she dropped her crush for Marco and all the JT sex happened before she dumped him and got back on the Justin track (let's handily ignore the fact it's also happened since). Still, she'll want to know why I didn't tell her, even in the unlikely event she's not as upset as I suspect she'll be. Sophie got the picture that Justin doesn't like her too much so she totally turned on the charm at that dinner and damn if she wasn't subtle about it. The boys didn't know what had hit them but I certainly did. She's definitely started along the path of redeeming herself in their eyes. Also, I absolutely saw Justin clocking her in that dress and his eyes popping out for a second.

Whatever, point is she hasn't given up on this crush of hers and I am not stupid. Sophie Lumos versus moi is no contest and even if it were, she's my friend and I feel bad going after him when she wanted him first. Ay yi yi.

"I don't know. Do you put out on the first date?" That was about as flirtatiously joking as I could make it - I have to try and put this back on him.

"I seem to recall putting out numerous times and we haven't even been on a date."

Fuck it. He always has to have a comeback… I'd joke that he was a whore but in this situation I feel that a little hypocritical. "Well okay then. Pick me up at seven and remember your popcorn money."

Did I just agree to go on a date with him? Is everything I do today going to be because I couldn't think of a snappy retort? Why must my brain cells abandon me this way? Je ne sais pourqoui.

Women's hair just fascinates me. That's not some freaky pervert thing - I'm just kind of in awe of the stuff.

I mean, my hair is just on my head. It's there and it's curly and wiry and I kind of hate the stuff, but that's neither here nor there. Men's hair is just hair. It's there and unless you have some real God awful eighties rocker do or a mullet or something, you can't go too far wrong. Women… it's straight, it's curly, it's up, it's down, it's short it's long it's five million different things depending on what whim she had when she got up this morning. It's riveting to me.

Let's take an example… oh, say, Miss Chelsea. She would be the obvious example because she's sitting here in my bed with me and I'm playing with her hair. She assures me her natural hue of blonde is still visible on her head through the highlights, so I'm guessing it's the darker kind of honey caramel colour that's sitting under the brighter, more sunshine blonde. The shades aren't a million miles apart as I'm peering through her hair at the streaks, but I bet she'd look real different if her hair was totally natural. This fascinates me, because my hair is just a colour (I messed with blonde bleach in my teens, but never again). It's just one colour. Chelsea's hair, as I alternately comb it through with or curl it around my fingers, is about three or four different shades, and I think more than one is there without the help of chemicals.

It's so soft. Soft is a word for Chelsea, I think, if I want to describe her physically. She's got that softer roundness to her figure that normal sized non Hollywood stick figure women have, which also makes her softer to squeeze. The eyes are a warm brown, not striking 'jumps out at you' eyes but all the more inviting for that. Her face is oval shaped with a little filling out, her features not so well defined as they'd be if she were fifteen pounds lighter but with that comes a more approachable look.

Fuck, I had better not be stupid enough to voice that 'fifteen pounds lighter' thought any time ever. It's amazing how much stuff guys think of as compliments to a girl that females would just take as total insults. You can guarantee that anything to do with weight is a total disaster area, a complete no entry zone. Even 'did you lose weight you look slim' can turn into 'oh so I was fat before' in some women's minds.

But I was talking about hair… Chelsea's is nice. It's long but there are lots of choppy layers cut into it, which are providing more amusement for me right now than if it were all one length. I have a short attention span sometimes.

"I don't get it…" Chelsea is frowning at the screen as she delicately plucks a kernel or two of popcorn from the blow and slips them past her lips. "How is he time travelling?"

"Umm…" I squint at my TV, as if that'll help. The reason I'm playing with her hair right now is that this movie totally lost me about five minutes in. "Something to do with paper being flat and linear but if you fold it you can make two points meet. I don't know."

"I think we made a mistake picking a movie you have to concentrate on." Her nose wrinkles up in the cutest way as her head props back against my shoulder with a sigh.

"It's true, I think if you look away for more than thirty seconds you miss crucial plot points." I finally remove my hand from her hair to take some of the popcorn from the bowl propped in her lap. My other hand is resting in a nice warm spot on her stomach.

Our idea to go to dinner and a movie turned out to be a no go. I'm still not entirely sure what the reasoning behind this was, but I think it was something to do with the foul mood she was in earlier. It was not pleasant for onlookers and even Trace said she was acting like a "pre menstrual bitch," direct quote. What started this mood off I'm not sure, but there were mutterings about Kennedy, Sophie and older sisters who needed to butt out of her career or lack thereof. Apparently Chelsea was so eager for guy time tonight because the women in her life are all pissing her off.

Well score for me, I ain't complaining.

Instead, I ordered Thai take out and got a DVD from Blockbuster. The DVD in question is Déjà Vu starring Denzel Washington, a fine actor if ever there was one but the movie is too much hard work for post coital chilling out in bed. Somewhere between the dinner table and the couch for the movie things got out of hand. For a moment there I was pissed at myself that this happened again while she has STILL got herself out of going on an actual date with me, but then this lazing around together after thing is fresh and new and far more couple-like. Does that count?

Either way she's naked and in my bed, and that can't be a bad thing. It's kind of nice with us just holed up under the covers, her sitting up against my chest and me with free rein to stroke my fingers over her arms and stomach. She's chilled out and has reverted back to her usual cool Chelsea self rather than that witch-y harridan who was masquerading as her earlier. Women are wonderful when you're having sex with them or being cute and romantic with them or just joking around making each other laugh, but they're not so great when they get into a bad mood and have one of those turns as the Bitch Demon From Hell. That is never attractive.

"I meant to ask you about my to-do list for tomorrow…"

Oh joy, work talk - the instant mood killer. "Yeah?"

"Do you honestly pay seventy five bucks for a wash and wax you could do yourself thirty times over for maybe fifteen bucks worth of supplies?"

"That car is huge and I lose patience." I shrug slightly, relieved that this wasn't a bigger thing but still not seeing the issue.

"Maybe if you didn't buy big ass gas guzzling trucks bigger than you ever need… I thought you said you were environmentally friendly, anyway?" She tosses a piece of popcorn at me which I manage to catch in my mouth with aplomb, making her giggle.

"Hey, when the Prius starts looking more like a real car, I'm all for that."

"You celebrities and your causes. I tell you, Bono and Bob Geldof are the only sincere ones out of the whole damn bunch of you."

"You saying Sophie wears fur?" I joke. The latest buzz with her rightful employer is the PETA ad she just posed for.

"She doesn't wear fur but do you honestly think Manolo Blahnik doesn't use leather?" Chelsea scoffs as she crams a huge handful of corn into her mouth. So much for all those ladylike bites she was taking.

"I can't say I'm too up on Manolo Blahnik. I can't walk in heels," I joke.

She reaches a hand up behind her to pat my cheek condescendingly, before she heaves another big sigh and rolls onto her side - though thankfully she's mindful of Justin Junior and doesn't squish him while she's at it. "Okay, I'm officially bored of this movie. Let's do something else."

Hmm, what could I possibly do in bed with a naked chick besides watch a movie? Let me think…

***

"Dude, it's like a porno flick just came to life in your front yard," Trace tells me with wide eyes.

"What, you're expecting some guy to come up to her and ask if she wants a look at his hose?"

Trace gives me a solid thump in the arm for that, but still raises his beer to mine in salute. "To excellent views."

"To excellent views," I clink bottles with him and we continue to watch Chelsea washing my car like the total perverts we are.

You could also say we're lazy ass perverts since neither of us has lifted a finger to help her. Well, this all kind of started this morning when Trace walked into the kitchen to find me and Chelsea there. We weren't in any compromising positions or anything like that but she had bed hair and she was in my clothes and it really didn't take a genius to work out which room she'd stayed in last night. Anyway, Trace couldn't possibly let an opportunity like that slip and she couldn't possibly stand that conversation, so she started one on my car washing bills. Trace took my side, so she eventually said she'd wash the damn thing herself and then we'd see there was no difference (I don't think this was totally altruistic, she also said it was a good tanning opportunity).

One quick phone to Rachael for permission to raid her closet later (Rachael usually lives in my guesthouse but is currently elsewhere), and I have a buxom blonde in shorts and a bikini top washing my car. Trace and I refuse to help her on principle. Well, we told her it's the principle that this is her point to prove and we won't help, but actually it's the principle of being lazy and just wanting to sit and sun ourselves on the lawn with some beers, watching her lose the bet. Oh, yeah, the bet involved is over who does the cooking for the small, intimate pool party I'm having tonight. I'm happy to man a barbecue but all those salads and stuff bore me.

The best part was when the spray gun came out of the hose while she was rinsing the windshield and she got totally drenched. Trace even gave me a high-five for that one. The only way this could get better is if there were more foam and girls involved.

"So…" Trace looks critically at me. "I take it since she was here this morning the date went well?"

All is okay for us to talk about her, she's out of earshot. "What date? We ended up staying in."

Trace snorts. "You are such a fuck buddy."

"What?"

"You are totally her fuck buddy. And you're paying her. Dude your life is pathetic."

Now it's my turn to give him a good punch in the arm, but he barely flinches. Everybody may think Trace is a short little lap dog just because he was my PA, but the guy is stronger than people give him credit for. I like to say he's taller than everybody in all the ways that count, even if they will rag on his height.

That doesn't stop me hating his short ass self when he makes these brutal assessments of my life situation though.

"I am not a fuck buddy."

"Fine, you're her friend with benefits."

"Am not!"

"Then why the hell are you struggling to get the woman out on a date with you?"

I groan, hiding my face in my hand for a second because he is painfully right. "Explain to me how I can get Britney Spears, Cameron Diaz, Jessica Biel and Monica Greenwood out on dates within like half an hour of meeting them and I can't get some normal chick out on a date even after she's fucked me?"

"Never say that to her or she'll break your face," is his evaluation of that comment.

"No shit, Sherlock."

Trace shrugs and takes another swig of Corona. "I'm just saying dude, maybe you got to start thinking that this chick only wants you for one thing and you're either fine with that or you let it go."

Through narrow eyes, I study his demeanour. He seems matter of fact enough, but the guy has already told me how pissed off he was that I hooked up with her. Do I smell ulterior motives here? "You sure you're not saying that because of you and her?"

He smacks me upside my head for that, making my cap fall off. It's a good thing I had a bottle and not a glass or it would have fallen into my beer. "Don't you know me better? Besides, it's not like it'd do me any favours either way since I'm not even a friend with benefits, I'm just a friend."

Heh, he can be just as brutally honest about himself too. That's what I like about this guy; he tells it like it is and he doesn't bull shit, even when it comes to his own issues. I retract everything I said about possible ulterior motives. This guy is as honest as the day he was born, which is a quality I treasure in a best friend. I treasure it particularly since I have to deal with all this two faced fame shit, being in this game and living in this town.

"You're probably right," I admit. "But I think I can break her."

"Real romantic choice of words there," he snorts.

I give him a quick nudge as I see Chelsea walking over, and we both fall silent. Trace catches my eye and we both smirk, realising we were simultaneously checking out her legs. The pervert comment probably bears repeating. As Chelsea reaches us, she throws her soapy sponge in my face and sits her still damp self down on Trace's lap. The second she does he starts yelling and squirming in protest.

"Shit woman you're cold!"

"I know." Hah, she totally did that on purpose. I guess maybe she twigged that we were ogling her or something.

"Now I'm all wet!" He complains loudly. "And right in the…"

"YES, well," she says before Trace can go any further with that sentence. "I have to let it dry off before I can wax it. What are you two boys talking about?"

"What we think you should cook for dinner this evening," Trace grouches before caving in and giving up his fight, becoming still and letting her stay on his lap.

"Oh no my friend, you will be doing the cooking," she says as she swipes my beer from my hands and takes a sip. "Oh, by the way, I'm very particular about my steak. Just bear that in mind."

"Speaking of which, who have you invited?" I ask. I like to know who will be invading my house well in advance. Matt, Nick, Marty and Eddie will be coming of course as will Nanci and Sky, a couple of my dancers. Marty said he'd bring a couple more of our mutual friends and I told Chelsea to bring some people.

"Umm… Kennedy can't make it so I'm dragging my sister out and making her leave the kids with my brother in law for the night."

"And your sister is…?"

"Lisa," she reminds me. Wait, wasn't her sister one of the people she was bitching about last night? Hmm, guess she was more easily forgiven than Kennedy. "Sophie can't make it either but she says have fun and don't do anything she wouldn't do. Though she said that doesn't narrow it down much."

What, she invited Sophie? Oh well, I guess it's not like she's actually coming. I cannot work out the relationship those two have at all. One minute she seems like she hates her and the next it's like she's her BFF or whatever that term is. I can't keep up. I mean, me, I got Trace and we're solid, I got Rachael and we're solid, I got lots of friends and we're all solid. I don't understand how girls can do all this rollercoaster shit with their pals - it's bad enough doing it with the opposite sex. Friends are supposed to be the calm place.

"Oh, and Justin, I took a call from Johnny earlier and he says he's set up some meetings over the next couple of days with… I can't remember. It was whichever record company is hosting your new label. And he told me that before you start whining about being on vacation I have to tell you these meetings are crucial and these men are busy."

"Fine," I grouch. Whining is exactly what I was about to start doing but I guess she put the kibosh on that. I'm on a break, damn it.

"Just so you know he's faxing me through the final details but there's a good chance I won't make it because me and Sophie already have a ton of meetings this week."

"Fine," I grouch again. It's not fine, I hate that I have to share my PA. You can call me a spoilt brat if you want and maybe you're right, but I'm used to things being mine and mine alone. I don't deal well with things being out of my reach or having to be shared. Maybe it comes from being an only child -well, my mother's only child if not my father's.

"Big day coming up soon, huh?" Trace asks. She nods and he bounces her on his lap like she was a small child. "You nervous?"

"Don't ask me that or I might vomit."

"Well you can get off my fucking lap then!" He kind of pushes her over, and she would have fallen on the floor if I hadn't caught her before she hit and dragged her onto my own lap. I shoot Trace a look of disapproval before understanding what he meant about her being cold. Those wet shorts are unpleasant to have sitting across your legs.

"So I can vomit all over J but not you?" She asks Trace with a glare for nearly dumping her ass on the lawn.

"Yep." He toasts to that.

"Ass," I tell him.

"Your point being?"

We're interrupted by his phone going off. He takes a look at the screen and even as he answers with "hello" he's standing up and moving away from us, back towards the car and out of earshot. Chelsea shifts on my lap and loops an arm around my shoulders, trying to find a more secure position.

"He usually run away when he gets phone calls?" She asks.

"Nope."

An evil glint lights up her eye. "You think he has a lady friend he doesn't want us to know about?"

I laugh. "Maybe. So how's my car looking?"

"Way better than if you'd paid seventy five bucks for it," she snorts. "It's a good thing you're not from my family or you'd be suffering my father's lectures on unnecessary spending."

"Hmm," I say, non-committal, not liking the subject. "So are you going to need to go back to your apartment for anything or are you just going to keep raiding my cousin's closet?"

"I don't mind borrowing bikini tops but I draw the line at the bottoms - you might as well borrow somebody else's panties." She looks disgusted by the notion. "I'll scoot back when I go to pick up Sky."

"Oh, have you got the directions to his place?' I ask. Sky normally hitches a ride with Eddie but he's coming from elsewhere today, and my PA kindly agreed to go get him.

"In my bag," she nods affirmatively.

Chelsea gives my arm a quick rub and we fall into companionable silence with her on my lap and my arms locked around her waist. Her arm is comfortably around my shoulders and this is nice. On the plus side, this isn't benefits. Wait… does the occasional display of affection still count in the friends with benefits scenario or is it something a little more and fuck could I sound more like a woman?

"Are you staying tonight?" I finally break the silence to ask her. I can't help it as my gaze falls to the floor and my Nike flip flop clad feet.

"Umm… how late is this party likely to go?" She asks. Not exactly the unequivocal yes I was going for.

"One am at the earliest, occasionally we've done all nighters."

"I'll pack some pyjamas."

There I was kind of hoping she'd want to stay even if we were wrapped up by ten, but I guess I'll take what I can get if it looks like progress.

"Have you noticed that eventually at all these parties the girls and the guys all separate out?" Nanci asks as she lazily trails a chip through the salsa. "Why is that?"

"Because they want to talk about sports and we want to talk about boys?" I suggest.

"Nah," Tammy shakes her head, "it's because they have to all pretend they're too manly to get cold whereas we're not that stupid and have moved inside to where the heating is."

"Maybe it's because we're all running around in bikinis," I say. By the way, I might add that running around with a ton of incredibly fit and toned dancers is a sure fire way to make you feel fat in a bathing suit.

We're all curled up on couches in Justin's game room, because there are a lot of heaters but more importantly couches in here. It's the only place in the house where somebody wouldn't wind up sitting on the floor. We lifted the Doritos, the dips and naturally the cheesecake from the table and disappeared down here with it. We're taking bets on whether the guys had even realised we're missing, since they were all caught up in planning who was going on which team for their impromptu basketball game. I never realised Justin had a full sized court in his back yard… and a putting green. Sports freak.

We also brought the wine, even lifting a couple more bottles out of the kitchen as we went. The Chardonnay is excellent and Nanci and I are making pretty good work of it - everybody else is on red. Since the tour we did was a club tour I didn't see a lot of his dancers, though they stopped by a few shows. I will credit the guy for picking his crew well because almost everybody around him is a really nice person and his dancers are no exception. Even if they are skinny bitches and technically I'm supposed to hate them for that.

"You'd think that with us running around in bikinis they'd want us to stay closer," Alicia jokes. I think she's dating either Eddie or Sky right now, I can't keep track.

"Ugh, men never want you to stay close, they want to get some and get gone," Tammy mutters to a big chorus of 'ouch' from all of us.

"That bad, huh?" I take it upon myself to top up her glass; she looks like she needs it.

"Ugh. Asshole thought it was fine that for two freakin' months we were spending every spare minute together and going out all the time and now I make one slip of the word 'boyfriend' and suddenly he's freaked. MEN."

"Been there, done that," Nanci nods her head sagely, sadly while attacking another handful of Doritos. I bet she's just one of those lucky people who have a fast metabolism too. Ugh. I'd hate her if I didn't like her so much.

"Well hey, least you found out now instead of years later," I bitch.

That was a huge mistake, because now all eyes have turned to me. Nanci has leaned in close like I'm some particularly unusual specimen of bug or something, Tammy is looking at me wide eyed, and Alicia looks scared. Maybe they think it's contagious or something and that my bad luck will rub off on them. Or maybe hearing other people's pathetic relationship tales is just like a train wreck you can't look away from. Tammy in particular looks in fear of me - maybe because I just opened up the possibility that her current situation could drag on that long too.

"Do tell," Nanci says through a mouth full of chip and dip.

"Umm… high school sweetheart, with him through college, asshole who knew that everybody expected us to get married including me, but used to treat commitment like it was a rattlesnake that was going to bite him any second." I heave a sigh because reaching for the Doritos myself. Screw healthy tomato salsa, I want the cheese and chive calories be damned. Maybe that's why they're all so much slimmer than me…

"What happened? You're not still with him right?" Alicia asked.

"Oh no. One day out of nowhere I get the 'it's not you it's me' speech and then two weeks later he's with somebody else. That he just married." In go the chips. I need salty fatty goodness when talking about this subject.

"Asshole," Lisa snorts derisively. "Good riddance." My big sister has been relishing her night away from the kids and has had a little too much to drink even though she planned to stay sober and drive home. I'll make her get in a cab and drive the car back for her tomorrow.

Tammy looks thoughtful. "Oh wait, is that the guy Justin said still tried to hit on you in the restaurant even though he's married?"

"Jesus Christ he's going round telling that story?" I ask indignantly.

"Oh, it was just because earlier I was bitching about an ex hitting on me in front of Eddie," she explains. "Justin just kind of said it could be worse, at least he wasn't married like your ex. Extra level of sleaze."

"Well… to be fair…"

"Oh screw being fair it's us girls," Nanci shakes her head as she tops up both our glasses and then raises hers to me. "Tell us what you really think."

I pause for a moment, think about that, and then clink my glass against hers. "The stupid bastard's clearly realised what he's missing but he ain't never getting it back."

"Right on."

We drink to that, and it suddenly kind of hits me that this is not my usual MO at parties. Kennedy or Sophie is always the life and soul, but I just kind of hang in a corner with somebody I know. The whole social butterfly has never and will never be me; I tend to be an observer. That's okay though. I've always felt out of place in crowds so I like it that way. Maybe it's just this world Justin lives in - he has so many people around all the time and the whole atmosphere is so communal that you feel more awkward taking yourself out of it than just going with the flow. It's kind of nice to be in the thick of it with all these girls, all of us just laughing our asses off. Lisa, I have to admit, is always a good person to bring out with me because she's like the cool mom who's friends with everybody as well as being a mom. Everybody warms up to her but she's still fun and she still knows how to be one of those girls, so she's a useful buffer for me.

Except sometimes she gets a little too far into 'I'm a parent who can only talk about their kids' territory and I have to give her a gentle nudge out of there. Nobody my age wants to hear about changing nappies when the kid's got diarrhoea.

"While we're on the subject of Chelsea's love life…" Tammy begins.

"Oh hell no," I stop her before she even gets started. She hasn't even said anything and I already know I won't like this conversation.

"You are aware JT has a huge crush on you right?"

"What?" I play dumb. I convince nobody.

"Oh please it's written all over his face," Nanci snorts. "Don't tell me you don't know."

My sister the Gossip Magazine Queen is looking me with an expression that's somewhere between shock, horror and delight. God, this is just the kind of thing she lives for. I like to tease her about it being because she's just Mommy and her life has no excitement beyond what to make for dinner. Whatever - her appetite for gossip is ferocious, half the time she knows what they're saying about Sophie before I do, and I did not need her hearing this.

God, what if she tells our mother?

"Well… maybe it had occurred to me." That's as much as I'm going to give them. I absolutely cannot let on that there's been more to it because if they know everyone in his circle will know and I'm not ready for everybody else to be wondering what this is when I haven't figured it out yet.

"And you didn't tell me?" Lisa whines.

"Hey, I don't expect you to tell me about your love life," I riposte. Then I think about that some more. "Heck, I'd much prefer you never tell me, I need to know about you and Phil about as much as I need to know about Mom and Dad."

"What about you? Any butterflies for JT?" Oh great, thanks Nanci. Now they're all looking at me again and I do not have a great poker face.

"Umm… he's my boss, it's awkward… I don't wanna talk about it," I mutter before gulping half a glass of wine at once. I wish I hadn't done that because it's gone straight to my nose and now I have hiccups.

Luckily for me, my phone has just started chirping and I see that it's Sophie. Sometimes she has the best timing ever, I tell you. If ever there was a perk to her incessant phone calls, it's that they have interrupted plenty of uncomfortable conversations for me. I love it when she does that.

"Excuse me, I need to get that!" I take the blanket with me so I can go outside to take the call. The reception in Justin's house can be shitty anyway but I also just want to get out of the room.

I try to ignore the "that was so a yes" I hear Lisa declaring to the group as I make my exit.

***

Well, that was the best phone call of my life, really. I'm so glad this was a pool party and I wasn't wearing make up, because it would be smeared all over my cheeks by now.

I just got fired.

My alleged fucking best friend just got me fired.

It's getting pretty cold out now. It has got dark enough that I can't read my watch very well but the clock on my phone tells me it's just gone midnight. The good thing about Justin's vast estate is that it's easy to get lost on it. When I took the phone call I just slipped out a side door, but when I started to get the notion that it wouldn't be good I slipped along past the flowerbeds and into the back corners of his yard, where he has some benches and stuff. It was a little precarious when I had to sneak past the court, but thankfully the floodlights point in the other direction so I don't think I was too visible. I came out barefoot, but I'm so paranoid about bugs and creepy crawlies that I've perched them on the edge of the bench, hugging my knees to my chest in a pretty good imitation of the foetal position.

I would love to go inside and cry to Lisa right now, but knowing her feelings about my job it'd just make me feel worse. She'd think this was just fabulous.

Sophie just called me up on the phone, telling me that with me having been gone so long with Justin it's given her time to 'rethink' my 'position' on her 'staff.' She never fucking refers to me as staff. I swear to God, she was talking like a complete robot. Sophie, it seems, has decided that she's holding me back and that I've got into such a comfort zone with her that I'll never do anything about furthering my ambitions unless I'm forced to. She has decided that the only way I will go look for another job more in line with what I want to do is if she fires me. So she did just fucking that.

I wasn't buying a word of this. She sounded completely stiff and unlike herself. She was talking about me and my job with her in terms I had never heard her use. Sophie has always told me she never wants me to leave and she has no idea what she'd do without me. She's always told me that she knew I'd leave one day and she'd never hold me back, but that until then I was hers and she was hanging on. It was a nice thing to know, though she's totally gone back on her word I guess now. So, I pulled out my stern manner, I swore at her and I got really mad. It was emotional blackmail. I know she can't stand it when I'm angry with her and I used that. She cracked like an egg.

Sophie couldn't get hold of me earlier and she did what she sometimes does, which is to try Kennedy's number. Kennedy, my alleged fucking pal who has just stabbed me in the back, basically guilt tripped Sophie into FIRING me. She told Sophie I was being held back and that if Sophie had ever been my friend at all she wouldn't do what she does to me or some piece of crap like that. Thanks to my supposed best friend, I am now unemployed and totally screwed. How many God damned times have I told Kennedy that I've got much more service to do with Sophie before I've paid my dues and can get in the door at the jobs I want? Now I'm screwed. I have to start this whole cursed journey all over again just because Kennedy hates Sophie and doesn't like me working for her. That's all this is. She's used Sophie's actual concern for me to fuel her own selfish ends and now I'm SCREWED.

Not to mention that the dinner I've been toiling weeks over now won't involve me. My pretty new dress won't get worn, my pitches won't be made (by me, anyway), and my possible short cut to the producing career I want has just been snatched out from under me by that fucking bitch. I just couldn't convince Sophie that Kennedy was talking shit and so she's sticking to her guns.

The wind is stinging my wet cheeks as the cold cuts into them, but the tears won't stop. Despite the night being crisp and clear and the smell being of fresh air and space, I feel like I'm suffocating.

"Hey, I wondered where you'd… shit, are you okay?"

Justin. It figures Justin wouldn't let me be missing too long. He likes to know where everybody is at all times; I think it's his OCD thing. I raise my head from my knees just long enough to shake my head no before a fresh wail springs from my chest and I bury my face back in them.

In an instant he's sitting next to me and before I know quite what I've done I've climbed into his lap and wrapped both my arms and the blanket around him. Despite the cold they must have been getting warm on that court, because he's mildly sweaty. Normally I'd find that gross and would pull away, but right now I need him. Now my face is buried in his neck rather than my knees and his hands are running soothingly over my back beneath the blanket as he coos softly into my ear.

"Hey, hey… what happened? Tell me, it's okay…"

My shoulders are shaking, and I can't catch breath for more than a couple of syllables a time so the sentence is jarred and hesitant. "Sophie… fired… me. All… Kennedy's… fault…"

"WHAT?" His voice is raised in angry, indignant disbelief and a flush of warmth spreads over me. I'm just so pathetically grateful that somebody's outraged on my behalf. "She did what? Why?"

"Kennedy… told her that…" Shit, my hiccups are back. "She was… holding me back… that if she was a good friend she'd…"

Justin, clearly seeing that I'm in no fit state to talk, pieces together the rest for me. "Kennedy told Sophie to fire you? And she did it?" I nod, trying to stifle another cry. "Are they both retarded?"

I give a shrug before bursting into fresh sobs. Justin tightens his arms around my waist, giving me a squeeze, and kisses my cheek a couple of times before brushing his thumb under my eyes. If he's trying to wipe away tears he needn't bother because there'll be more coming.

"What am I going to do?"

"Well…" He smoothes my hair out of my face before wrenching it up out of his neck - he forces me to look at him. "You dry your eyes, we'll go back inside, and you have a job with me for as long as it takes for you to find another one."

"What about Rachael?" I sniffle.

"If she's back before then I bet she'll be thrilled to have help with my demanding ass."

Despite myself I let out a solitary pained giggle. There's sympathy etched all over his face, but he's still smiling at me and trying to encourage me to calm down. It's all in the eyes with this one, all in those big old blues of his.

"It's okay, Chels," he reassures me, again trying to brush tears off my face. "We'll go get some sleep and then in the morning when you're not so upset we can go through all the gory details. If you want I can kick everybody out right now."

"No," I shake my head. "Let them have their fun. I'll be fine."

"This is why you're the PA and not the actress - that was not convincing."

I give his chest a light smack for that, but again I can't help a small giggle. "Thank you," I tell him.

"Any time, sweetheart."

I catch sight of him, and suddenly it occurs to me that I just got screwed over by two people who are supposed to be my best friends in the world. I can't count on people that have known me for years, but this guy met me a few months ago on a movie set and he actually gives a shit about me. He doesn't have to, he's all big and famous and shit, but he does and he likes me. And more to the point, I don't fucking care if it breaks the Girl Code because Sophie just smashed that into a million damn pieces along with my future.

Gratefully I press my lips to his, whispering 'thank you' again. He kisses me back, each time briefly and softly between quiet assurances that we'll work it out and I'll be okay. Finally I don't want to think about it any more and I kiss him harder, longer, going for the make out. It's really too cold out here for this, but I don't care. I just want to stay with him for a while and forget that any part of the world exists beyond this little nook of his yard, with the azalea bushes and the bench. He's a great kisser. He's being all soft and delicate with me right now and even through my serious upset it's occurring to me how sexy that is.

Not to mention he must have had some more dessert before he came looking for me because he tastes like chocolate cake. Score.

I don't know who said money doesn't buy happiness, but clearly he or she never had a decent shopping trip. I'm telling you, shopping has done what neither sex, chocolate or Starbucks could.

There is a down side to this great mood lifter - namely that I spent a fortune - but I officially don't care. A few hundred dollars is a small price to pay for feeling chirpier, right? I have new perfume, I have some gorgeous smelling bath lotions and potions to try, pretty new clothes and best of all shoes. I am now the proud owner of a beautiful pair of black satin Louboutins, so I laugh in the face of bankruptcy. I have pretty new bras, I have cute skirts and some fabulous smelling Stella McCartney so I have it all.

Well, okay, I don't exactly have a job right now but that's going to have to be a work in progress. At least Justin's still paying me in the meantime. It could be a lot worse; I could have been dumped on my ass with absolutely nothing coming in until I landed myself a new position. As it is I still have cash flow, there's a zillion TV and print interviews floating around in which my name has been praised and Justin has said he'll write me the most glowing reference ever if Sophie decides to be as much of a bitch about that as she was firing me (yes, okay, bitter) so at least it's not a total disaster. Heck, Paul Harless is even looking into the possibility of bumping my salary up to match Rachael's for the remainder of my time. They weren't that far apart, but do you see me turning down extra cash? A clue, no.

It was quickly decided by the Boss of Me (at the time Trace because the rightful Boss of Me a.k.a Me was having a slight crisis) that I was not allowed to feel sorry for myself. For a good few days there I ignored him and basically clung to Justin like gum to a sidewalk, but a little time has made me realise that was dumb. I mean, okay, it was nice to have all the manly hugs and comfort I could stand but being needy and whiny gets boring after a while- for me as well as everybody else. Even Justin was starting to get a little frustrated with my determination to stay down in the dumps, so I got up, shook myself off (not literally) and decided to get on with it.

Today I just needed a little retail therapy because other people are going to reap all the benefits of the dinner meeting I spent so long putting together.

Back to the point, I stood up and decided enough was enough. First on the list was staying in a bed that wasn't Justin's, so I insisted on removing myself back home. Apart from anything else our lack of status at the moment is not helped by me being on him like a bitch on heat - mixed signals and being a prick tease is not good - so I decided to step back and detach a little from him. I think he was also relieved, because like I said I was getting kind of clingy. Step Two has been me starting to dress like I care again, which for a few days there I didn't. It's weird how when I feel like crap I also want to look like it. It feels like outside should reflect inside. So today, outside reflects an improved inside; I'm sitting in this nice little bistro in a dress and heels and even some actual make up (I was letting the dark circles reign supreme for a moment back there).

Eventually, after keeping me waiting half an hour, my lunch partner arrives.

"Finally!" I whine. "I felt like a social outcast."

Trace smirks at me as I rise out of my chair to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Just like Justin, he waits for me to sit down first before making a move for his own chair. What I think is cute is that it's the briefest of pauses and I don't think either of them realises that they actually do it. I like the idea of having manners so well ingrained it's an unconscious reflex - just wish they could extend that to not burping in front of a lady. They're so gross when they do that. I bet those burps register on seismometers in Japan.

"Sorry, but even I can't get across LA in lunch time traffic in under half an hour."

"Ugh," I wave my hand dismissively and sip my Pellegrino. "It's not your fault. It's just that with Josie having to cancel on me last second I've been here an hour without ordering food. The waiters were starting to look at me like they didn't believe anybody was coming."

"Hmm." Trace turns his own water glass over and steals some H2O from my bottle. "In a 'she's been stood up and in denial' way or a 'she's crazy, nobody was ever meeting her' way?"

"Which one's worse?" I ask.

"Second one," comes his instant reply.

"Good thing it was the first one then. Now, hurry up and choose because I've had my order ready for like forty five minutes."

"Shit, woman," Trace ignores me as he eyes up the shopping bags at my feet. "How much money did you spend today?"

"Enough," I say.

It's a lot of bags, and I have to admit these are not exactly your standard shopping mall names on them. Well, I already mentioned Louboutin so that was probably a given. Still, I spent a lot of money on unnecessary designer shit today. I might feel better, but I had better not mention this to my father. He'll go on a 'you're only paying for the name' rant for sure. He claims there's no difference in quality; I disagree. Okay, you are mostly paying for a name but the clothes are much better quality. Not five hundred bucks a throw quality, but it's my money God damn it. It's not a scam if I know what I'm getting into.

Trace picks up his salad fork and twirls it absent-mindedly in his fingers. One eye in on the menu and one eye is looking suspiciously at me. "Didn't you tell me you were job hunting today?"

"Job hunting became shoe hunting," I say honestly.

"Chelsea…" he begins with a groan.

"Look," I say defensively, "not all of us are as thick skinned as you. I just got shit on by the two people I trusted most in the world and I just lost my livelihood. I need a minute to breathe before I pick myself back up, okay?"

"Okay, okay," he throws his hands up in surrender. "I just don't want days becoming weeks becoming months, is all. Sometimes it's better to just get it over with."

When precisely did what he wants become relevant? I thought this was my life here. Still, I know his heart is in the right place so I am graciously going to let that go. I may possibly file it away for later grudge holding but I'm evil like that.

When I don't answer him, he changes the subject. "So, tell me, did your doorman recognise you when you walked back in or had he forgotten what you looked like?"

"Oh ha ha." Trace is so not funny. He thinks he is, but he is so not. "It was like a week, he's not senile."

We're interrupted by the waiter, who looks surprised and somewhat relieved to see me with a companion. Thankfully Trace is predictable; he wants a steak and fries, while I'm plumping for the seafood linguine which looked particularly good to my rumbling stomach. After making Trace order his own water and getting the waiter to replenish mine, we're back in business.

"So we were talking about you sleeping over," he wiggles his eyebrows.

"Tell me, Trace, do you always live vicariously through your best pal?" I stick my tongue out at him playful and get a surreptitious middle finger back. We are in the middle of a nice restaurant, after all.

"Nah, I just wondered what was up."

"Don't you have said best pal to ask that?" I say as I take a sip of water.

"I'm not sure he knows either." If he wasn't just Trace talking in his Trace way, that could have been really accusatory.

Oh boy this topic just got awkward. Somebody needs to remind me why I called him to be my lunch date. Kennedy and Sophie are obviously crossed off the list these days but I have a sister and I have other friends and even a mother if I'm that desperate. Why was he so far up the list? I need to rewrite the list; clearly the balance of the list has been shot to Hell with the tandem betrayals.

"I don't know," is all I can say to him as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I'm breaking in a pair of new but less expensive shoes than the ones I bought today, and they're still kind of tight across my toes. They'll stretch, but it's annoying in the mean time. "Does anything have to be up?"

"You tell me."

"I hate cryptic trying to turn it back on me responses."

"Tough shit, you got one."

"We're just seeing how it goes," I tell him. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Unless seeing how it goes means different things for you and him."

"What does that mean?"

"You figure it out."

"What did I just say about putting it back on me?"

"You hate it. Again, tough shit." He shrugs affably and infuriatingly, before doing his Trace thing and changing the subject. "So have you talked to Sophie or Kennedy yet?"

"No," I say through gritted teeth. Trace is annoying the crap out of me right now. He's totally undoing all the good work I did with the shopping, too. I can just feel the tension creeping back in, starting from the base of my spine and slowly fanning outward; it's an unpleasant tightening sensation. "Not planning to."

"Really?" He asks. "I'd have to hear all the gory details before I told them to fuck off."

"I don't need to know much more than that Kennedy told my boss to fire me and my boss was stupid enough to do it."

"Will you keep glaring at me like you have been since I say down if I say I can kind of see Sophie's perspective?"

That really smarts, so he gets a triple strength glare for that. "Yes. How can you agree with her?"

"I didn't say I agree with her," he says as he rips open his roll and starts liberally applying butter. "I said I can see her perspective. I know she's a little self-centred but she does actually care about you, Chels. If what Kennedy said was convincing enough to make her think that she was holding you back I can see why she'd do it if she thought it would help you."

"What, are you going to tell me now that you understand where Kennedy's coming from too?"

"Oh fuck no." He tears a great big chunk of bread off from his roll and at least attempts to chew a little of it before talking. His mouth is still half full as he speaks though. "I can see why she'd want to talk you into quitting but I don't know how the hell she'd think getting you fired would be helpful."

For some reason, talking about Kennedy sobers me up. The anger suddenly zooms out of me. I feel like somebody put a pin in me and I'm deflating. "God I hate her right now. I just don't understand why the fuck she did that."

"Me neither," Trace shrugs. "Of course, that'd be why I'd talk to her."

"Trace, I know you might act like a woman sometimes but you're not one and you have no idea how girl stuff works," I say snippily.

"Clearly. I'm not used to things that have no logic."

I'm about to toss down some money and flounce out of here with my bags. I don't know what has got into him today but it seems like he's purposely trying to push all my buttons. To be fair, I'm in a crappy mood anyway (who was I kidding, shopping is but a fleeting joy) so I'm reacting when normally I'd be able to resist, but he is just being a bastard today. What got his panties in a bunch?

He is only saved by the fact that Justin and his mother have walked through the door. Justin's too busy staring at the décor to spot me, but I see his mom catch sight of me and look happily surprised, tugging at Justin's arm and gesturing at me. He meets my eye and gives me a smile, following his mom over to our table.

"Well this is a surprise," Lynn says as she reaches the table and gives me a quick squeeze around my shoulders. "How are y'all doing? When did you get here?"

"I've been here a while, Trace just joined me a few minutes ago," I answer. I'm still angry but I have to smile at her, because she's nice and doesn't act like a prick to piss me off (mentioning no names, especially not that of Ayala). "Do you guys want to join us? We only just ordered."

"Love to!" She exclaims. We're at a table for four anyway so this is not much of a problem. At the time I hadn't understood why they seated what was supposed to be a party for two at a table for four when there was a table for two open by the door and bigger parties than mine were still waiting, but I never understood restaurant logic.

As it turns out, this works. I'm happy to be saved the inquisition - I felt I was being grilled more than the food was going to be. I give Justin a wry grin as Lynn quickly and without subtlety sits herself down in the chair next to Trace. This leaves Justin with no choice but to slide in next to me - funnily enough, I'm up against the wall so the seats here are not separate chairs but a bench, and we're sitting more together than just next to each other. Hmm, I wonder why she did that?

I guess Justin really does tell his mother everything.

***

I can't help thinking that something was happening between Chelsea and Trace before me and Mom got to the restaurant. Not in a romantic sense, far from it. It's just that there was a real atmosphere between them and try as my mother might to be the life and soul of every gathering, even she couldn't mask all of it.

It must have looked really convenient that we just happened to show up there, but I swear I had no idea. I knew Trace was meeting Chelsea for lunch but though I wondered for a moment why she asked him not me, I still just waved him off and said 'see you later.' I never asked where he was going. Possibly Chelsea picked this place because I kept saying we'd have to go some time - I love it here. They have a really wide range of stuff so it's one of the few restaurants I don't have to be in a particular mood to go to. Sushi places are all very well, but you have to be in the mood for Japanese. It's the same with Indian or Thai places, but this place does a pretty good mix.

It was just weird -I kept catching them eyeballing each other like something had been said that couldn't be taken back. I think whatever it was must have come from him though. My only proof of this is that while she looked irritated he looked wary, but that's my theory and I'm sticking to it. Doubtless next time I speak to my mother out of earshot she'll have it all decoded. She has that weird Mom intuition thing; I don't pretend to understand it but I do respect its accuracy rate.

We're walking back to the cars now. We're all in different lots and going to different places, so I probably won't see Trace or Chelsea again until tomorrow now. After a most excellent week of her being in my bed next to me every night, she said it was time for her to go home. Part of me didn't want to let her, but a bigger part of me was kind of tired of her moping and understood that Stella needed to go home for a while to get her groove back. Hopefully she'll be back soon enough - or maybe we could try her place. For all the time she's worked for me I've seen little of the place.

Trace and Mom are walking a way in front, talking about his Mom and what she's doing to her living room now she's redecorating. Chelsea and I are quieter, only exchanging the odd word, but I don't give a shit because she's actually holding my hand right now. She is holding my hand and in public, too.

"So did you do any job hunting today or did you get sidetracked?" I tease her lightly, lifting the bags I'm carrying for her in my other hand. For a second she bristles, but she seems to relax when she sees the smile on my face.

"I needed the shoes. The shoes called to me."

"Not like there's any rush, you can stay with me long as you need. Oh, speaking of which," I tell her, "I talked to Rachael and she said she'll be back next week."

"Oh?" Chelsea asks, looking a little nervous to my eyes.

"Don't worry," I reassure her. "She's ecstatic about the job sharing, says she'll still need some free time to sort her remaining shit out so you being around is perfect."

"Oh thank God," Chelsea breaks out into a grin, finally relaxing and admitting it. "I was scared for a second."

"Relax, you're golden."

I swing our joined hands a little as we fall back into a more amiable silence. There may or may not be some checking out of her butt, which I was very pleased to see in William Rast. Thank you, thank you - yes I do rock, you're far too kind. I'm still not sure how she managed to get around all those stores in those heels though, much less keep up with me while we walk. I'm taller than her and my stride is longer.

"Justin?" She asks.

"Yep?"

"If you were in my position would you be taking calls from Kennedy or Sophie right now?"

"Hell no," I shake my head. "I'd be too pissed."

"Do I think I'm being unreasonable?"

I'm not ashamed to admit it; I'm looking at her like she has two heads. "Where'd you get that notion?"

"Just something someone said." Then, to my unequalled surprise, she looks down at our fingers and changes the subject. "Are we on the same page?"

"Not really, I have no idea why you're feeling guilty about those two when they screwed you over."

"No, I mean you and me. This." She gestures between us with an index finger, the bags she's still carrying rustling together in her hand. Now I'm even more confused, what the heck was in that water she was drinking?

"Well, we're… just kind of getting closer and seeing how it goes, right?" I ask nervously. I hope that was a good answer. Questions like that are so frickin' loaded - if you go too far down the commitment route you scare them off being too much too soon, but if you're too laid back they think you just don't give a shit. I really HATE questions like this.

I'm taking her slight sigh as one of relief and not frustration. "Yeah, good. Just checking."

Chelsea continues walking but I've involuntarily stopped, so she's halted by my lack of movement, jerked back a little by our still entwined hands. My brows are furrowed and my lips pursed in an obvious 'what the fuck' expression, and she's looking sheepishly back at me.

"We alright?" I ask suspiciously.

"Yeah, yeah." She nods compulsively. "I just… I just thought of it for a second there is all. It's no big."

I don't believe her for one solitary second, but still I wrap a conciliatory arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her head before starting to walk on again, pulling her with me. It takes her a moment to reciprocate, but soon we're back to our comfortable stroll - though we've now fallen behind quite a way.

"Shit… did you see a flash?" Chelsea asks me out of the blue.

"No, where?" My eyes are immediately skirting the surroundings for paparazzi. There are a lot of them around this town and I really hope they didn't catch that kiss or the hand holding. Slinging arms around each other can be friendly and thus deniable, but kisses on the head and walking around with your fingers locked together screams for headlines: 'Justin's New Girlfriend!"

"God I hate this town," she mutters as we pick up our pace - now she is struggling to keep up in those shoes.

"Me too," I tell her.

"Between backstabbing actresses and climbing career ladders and paparazzi, sometimes I wonder why I still live here."

"But what would you do without me?" I joke lamely.

For just a brief moment she touches her head to my shoulder, just a little nudge (I like to think an affectionate one), but she doesn't answer me.

There is nothing I hate more than being called into my publicist's office to be lectured. As far as I'm concerned I pay Ken to look out for my public interests and field all the calls I don't have the time to take, not to be my babysitter or my damn teacher. There are only a handful of people alive that I will let lecture me, and last time I checked Ken was not a parent or grandparent to me.

Or, okay, occasionally I might let Trace lecture me if I really screwed up.

I hate his office, too. It's so… sanitized. I suppose that comes hand in hand with what he does, cleans up his clients' public messes and shit, but it's way too sterile to be inviting. Everything is all white walls and bleached light wood. Even the paintings are all monochrome - I mean, damn, would a splash of colour kill you? The seats are all those thousand dollar things you see in those designer home magazines that might look flashy but are the most uncomfortable things ever. I notice that he doesn't sit in them; he has a normal office chair.

"Justin?" He says after a prolonged silence. "Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening," I respond. "I just don't know what you expect me to do about it."

"She's your assistant, can't you control her?"

I nearly spit out the sip of water I just took. "Excuse me? Control her? She's not a fucking dog, Ken."

"We don't need this right now," he tells me stubbornly.

"Well this isn't her fault, she's not doing anything! Even if I wanted to order her around like a mongrel there's nothing she could do to stop this Ken! I thought you were supposed to be the big expensive publicist, aren't you supposed to get this shit better than I do?"

Normally I try not to swear around him - I find it's best to stay the right side of formal in business - but come the fuck on. I'm regretting even coming to him with this. I expected him to do something positive to contain it, but now I see all he wants to do is lay the finger of blame on Chelsea. Even Trace has confirmed that I am not just being blinded by the booty with this whole debacle - Chelsea is genuinely blameless.

Somebody (wish I knew who) has leaked the story that Chelsea no longer works for Sophie. I honest to God have no idea who it was. As much as I'd like to assume it was somebody in her camp, I have to be open to the possibility it was some asshole in mine. This wouldn't be such a problem, except that the tabloids have decided to make something out of this. Normally it wouldn't be such a big deal, but because Sophie and I are big names they want blood in the water and they want the next celebrity feud.

The problem from my perspective is that there are a few different versions of what has happened going round, and none of them are correct. Some people claim that I just stole her with no regard for Sophie, made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Some are claiming that Sophie fired Chelsea for being more concerned with me than her. There's some speculation that I'm sleeping with Chelsea and she quit to be with me, and there's a few other accusations going around of various things. None of these make me look especially good, which is what Ken's concerned with. He says it looks bad if I stole somebody else's assistant. I did not steal her Sophie dumped her, but Ken doesn't like that version of events true or not.

Chelsea doesn't like that version either. The problem for her is that she's screwed no matter which way people choose to take it, and it's seriously affecting her job hunt. It looks bad for her if she got fired, naturally, and it makes her look disloyal if she quit so she could defect to my entourage. The problem is that the only way for her to come out of this with any hope of a job is to tell the truth, and she won't do that to Sophie's reputation even if she is steaming mad at her. Plus, even then it's not guaranteed that somebody won't think she sold Sophie out to save her own skin and thus she's a liability.

And yet Ken thinks this is her fault? Like if she behaved differently they'd stop? She hasn't done a damn thing except pick up my dry cleaning and make my calls.

"What I'm concerned with, Justin, is what precisely is going on with you and Chelsea? If there's something there I need to know."

No he doesn't, he needs to know jack shit about my sex life. He's not supposed to comment on my private stuff anyway.

"Don't change the subject," I say to him (somewhat hypocritically considering that's exactly what I'm attempting to do). "I want to know where these stories are coming from. I also want to know what photos they have of me and Chelsea."

Here's the other big snag - OK is claiming to have some major pictures of me and her. They don't exactly explain why they're major, but I'm terrified it'll give the game away. I'm not particularly concerned if people know I'm with Chelsea, but I think she is and it'll send her running just as I think I'm starting to wheedle my way into her heart. Thankfully the pictures of us after our lunch were nothing more than us with an arm around each other walking, they could just as easily have been me and Mom, so there's plausible deniability there (my fans will do the hard work on that one for me, little do they know).

"Hmm…" My distraction tactic worked, because Ken's now frowning. "I've got people working on it. I'm just not sure if they're trying to make something out of nothing or if they've actually got something that reasonable people would give credence to."

"Do you think I should sit tight or maybe try and disappear somewhere?" I ask. "Memphis? Maybe if I'm not visible they'll let it go."

"No, don't run," he says. "Makes you look like you have something to be ashamed of. Hang tight, just try to stay low key."

"What's Sophie said to all this?" I ask.

I know she's been trying to get hold of Chelsea but Chelsea, naturally, is even less inclined to talk to her than before. Same goes for Kennedy, actually. She's been hanging with Rachael a lot now she's back and every other day she's telling me about a date with some friend she hasn't seen in years, but I know she's overcompensating. It got to the point where every time Kennedy or Sophie would leave a message or text her she would just kind of stare at her phone for five minutes after. It was so obvious she wanted to call them back. I think if this media drama hadn't happened to open the wounds back up, she'd have called them by now. I'm guessing the fact that they landed her in this mess and have now made it impossible for her to get another job has kind of set their cause back.

"I actually had a meeting with her and Eliza yesterday afternoon," he informs me. "Eliza's not sure how to handle this either. Problem is that even a statement just wishing Chelsea well begs the question of why she's gone, and we can't come up with a spin on it that doesn't make somebody disloyal."

This is just great. This is the magic problem solving genius that I pay all that money for? Rip off.

"On the bright side," Ken says as he shuffles some papers far too loudly, "at least this has got them off the subject of girlfriend beating."

***

After a sucky day of meetings with people who aren't fixing things like I pay them to, it's somewhat of a relief to be driving into Chelsea's lot. Trace is already at her apartment with Rachael, we're having dinner and a movie. She even told me the sneaky route round the back, so I could avoid the photographers at the gate. I can see why they'd never find it, it's tucked behind all these back streets and lock up garages. Chelsea said she only ever used it when bringing Sophie back, trying to sneak her in, but it's doing a good job of sneaking me in.

This is only going to be like the third time I've been in her apartment - the first was that still amusing encounter with the pizza boy and the hair rollers. It'll be the first substantial time I've spent there too. Part of that is just that my house is bigger and it's further away from prying eyes, but part of it I think is Chelsea holding back her own space, and I take the invitation as a sign that she's slowly letting me in.

Yep, I admit it, I'm infatuated. Love is too strong a word, but I really dig this girl and I do care about her a lot. Her holding me at arm's length the way she does is understandable, but it is a little bruising. I know she's had some drama in the past but I don't think I've given her any reason to doubt my intentions. Heck, I treat her like a fucking queen and in a town where a lot of personal assistants get treated like shit, I think I'm deserving of a little more credit than I'm getting.

It's a good job her name is on her buzzer, because I totally forgot which apartment she is. It takes a second, but soon a crackly voice tells me to come on up and the door releases. I stride up the stairs two at a time, wanting to get safely behind closed doors as soon as possible. Whenever the media get on my case like this I feel very exposed in open areas. That sucks, I'm a citizen and I have rights like everybody else, but the paparazzi seem to think I sold them for a recording career. I think that's all kinds of bull shit but apparently my opinion don't count.

"Hey cousin," Rachael answers the door with a spoon in her hand and a smile on her face. She gives me a one armed hug before disappearing back into the apartment and leaving me to guide myself in.

"Hi!" I call out as I make my way through. A short hallway opens out in the living room, where Trace is sprawled out on the sofa arranging bottles of soda, wine and Jack Daniels.

"Dude," he greets me casually as he sets out coasters for the tall tumblers Chelsea has put out.

"T," I answer back. I see now I'm inside that the living room expands out into a small kitchenette, the dividing line being where tiles meet carpet. The kitchen's just big enough for the necessities and a table for maybe four or six. It's all very neat and tidy, but the décor is a little… well, eclectic. It looks like she just bought a bunch of stuff she liked and didn't stop to think if it all quite went together.

Hey." I sidle up behind Chelsea and wrap my arms around her waist, peering at what she's doing. In one pan she's stirring an odd green concoction, and in the other she's spooning salsa over some nachos. I guess that's why Rachael is grating all that cheese. "Something smells good," I tell her.

"Thai green curry," she tells me. Excellent, it's meant to be green; I was worried for a second. It does actually smell good though, hint of coconut - makes me wanna go to Hawaii or something. Actually, given the day I've had, that's tempting.

"Did you make that from scratch?" I ask her as I ignore Rachael's pointed looks in my direction. Naturally Rachael saw the sexual tension a mile off, so I confessed to the whole Chelsea situation. Rachael thinks I'm being a pussy and I should just sit her down and make her have 'the talk' whether she wants it or not, but I think if I force her Chelsea will just tell me where to go.

"Will you still think I'm a domestic goddess if I say no?"

I loop a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear. "No."

"Then yes I did," she lies. I laugh, give her a light smack on the butt and then turn my attention to the table of beverages. I'm parched.

"You ladies want drinks?"

"Oh, get me some rosé please!" Rachael responds. Chelsea just shakes her head, so I go attack the wine bottle for my cousin.

"So what was Ken's verdict?" Chelsea calls back from the kitchen.

Oh shit. "Umm, he's working on it."

"Translation?" She asks knowingly.

"He's got jack."

"What do you even pay him for?" She asks crossly. Funny, I was asking myself the same.

So anyway, people," Trace calls from the sofa. "Did we pick a movie yet?"

"I kind of like the look of that Fracture thing Ryan's in," Rachael says.

"No." That was me, I have to veto it. Ryan and I go way back and the dude's cool as hell, but I cannot watch my childhood buddy in sex scenes. It's just weird. It's almost as bad as watching my sex scene with Christina in Black Snake Moan back - God I go crimson whenever I see that. I know objectively it looks hot as hell but that's ME naked all over the joint. It's weird looking at it.

"I still want to watch that Elizabeth DVD I bought but apparently costume dramas are not for such big manly men as the munchkin," Chelsea snorts.

"HEY!" The yell comes from Trace.

"Well are we in the mood for murder and intrigue or action or romance?" Rachael asks.

"Not romance," Trace and I answer her as one.

"You know, this is my apartment and my TV," Chelsea says thoughtfully as she tastes a little of the rice, checking whether it's done and then peering into the oven to see if the cheese is nice and melted on the nachos. "I could just put Dirty Dancing on and you guys would have to deal with it whether you like it or not."

"Meh, I never saw the big deal with that movie." See, this is why I love my cousin. She's a girl, but she's not totally caught up in the predictable girly shit.

"Get out of my house," Chelsea mutters darkly as Rachael sticks her tongue out at her.

To our surprise, the buzzer goes off. I don't know why, it was just supposed to be the four of us. Immediately a glance shoots between us all, wondering if one of the paparazzi has got bold. It wouldn't be the first time. I've had the bastards dress up as delivery men before. These days I'm more careful - anyone delivering anything has to inform me when they're coming, anyone who wasn't expected gets told to deliver to the gate house on my community and I'll go pick it up from there. The guards who look after it know what the paparazzi are like so they're cool about it.

"Hello?" Chelsea says quizzically.

"Thank God," the voice comes through the buzzer. "Can you let me up chica, por favor? The bastards saw me and the flashes are going off like crazy."

Chelsea's hand comes off the intercom and she looks white. I can't say I'm too comfortable right now either. I suppose it was inevitable Sophie would just turn up eventually, she's not a woman to take no for an answer, but this is awkward. It'll certainly ruin the nice friendly evening we all had planned.

"Shit. What do I do?" She asks, looking at me. I shrug helplessly. I probably wouldn't let her up - I hold grudges. That's awful and I know it though, so I don't want to be the asshole who tells her to be cold.

"If they've seen her you're going to have to let her up, unless you want it all over the tabloids that you won't even see her now." Rachael, as ever, is the one to come up with the sensible advice. "Even if all you do is make her arrange to get escorted back out, you're going to have to let her in."

"Fuck." Chelsea angrily tosses the spoon back in the pan before reaching out and pressing the intercom. "Okay, but you better not let any of them through the door with you." She pushes the button that will unlock the door and let Sophie Lumos into the building.

She takes the pan off the heat and then mechanically starts straining the rice. Sophie couldn't have had worse timing - she's going to ruin our meal. Rachael quietly shuts off the oven and starts dealing with the nachos, but the atmosphere in the room has just disappeared. Before we were all laughing, now we're all quiet and nobody wants to say anything. Trace is fidgeting, his leg jiggling against the couch. Rachael has shown just how much of a relative of mine she is - all the women in my family get busy when they get uncomfortable. She's taken over dishing everything out and making herself useful. I could never work out if it's genetic or just something they pick up by example.

Chelsea… Chelsea's just rigid. She's staring down at the sink like somehow the plug hole will spit out some answers. I move behind her and try to massage her shoulders a little, do something to reassure her, but I don't think it's helping much. It seems like she's ignoring me, almost. I can't lie; it stings, even if I don't blame her for her mind being elsewhere. It just… I wish she'd let me in.

Then comes the inevitable knock on the door. Chelsea rips herself away from my hands and stalks over to it, much as I imagine a tigress stalks over to some dumb animal that's pissed her off and is about to know it. Wordlessly she throws open the door, and Sophie doesn't get so much as a greeting. She just immediately turns her back and moves back into the apartment, to all of us, while Sophie is left to trail in awkwardly behind.

"Oh… lo siento, I'm sorry, I didn't know you had company. Hi guys."

Well, it would help if she called first. Then again, I suppose Chelsea's not exactly taking her calls. Maybe I shouldn't say this, but she looks like hell. Even the 'superstar' aura she always emits is having a tough time masking the dark circles or the strain in her face. The hair is perfect and the finger nails buffed, the jeans and the Burberry jacket impeccable, but she still looks kind of haggard. I think it's the eyes.

"Hi." Trace, Rachael and I all mutter the greeting lamely as one. We're all passing looks between us like we think we should leave them alone but it'd look way too obvious if we did.

"It crazy down there?" Naturally Trace is the one who cracks first. He's not good with awkward silences.

"God, yeah," Sophie says with a shudder. "I don't know how they knew I was coming. I even used my sister's car so I wasn't so obvious."

"They didn't know you were coming, they've been camped out on my door step for a week," Chelsea finally says with a bitter tint to her voice. There's an accusation in there, one of self absorption and one of getting her into this mess. Sophie doesn't miss it.

"Oh. I'm sorry. What can I do to fix it?" She asks awkwardly.

Chelsea's looking at her incredulously, and we all know what she's thinking. It's something along the lines of 'well if you hadn't fired me in the first place…' Still, I find myself feeling surprisingly bad for Sophie. It's obvious she's here to mend some bridges and she can't do it because we're all in the room. The question remains unanswered and being in here is like being in a stuffy room on a boiling hot day when you can't open any windows.

"I'll call Diego and get him to come get you out of here."

That didn't sound like much, but it was a direct rejection and we all knew it. Sophie has kind of crumpled into herself, looks like she wants to cry. She's fiddling with her overpriced designer bag like it's a lifesaver ring and she's drowning. Chelsea crosses the room to get to her phone and by doing so lands herself next to me. I brush my fingers against her arm and she looks at me, her brown eyes meeting mine. I thought I'd see anger but I just see someone very wounded. I raise an eyebrow, silently asking her if she's sure she wants to dismiss Sophie so fast. She gives me a tiny shake of her head and it dips down towards the phone, her hand trembling as she dials the number. My hand brushes her arm again, this time just to tell her I'm here and that I'll help.

When I look back up there's a new expression of Sophie's face. I can't quite read it. She looks half confused and half annoyed, and half like she's fighting with herself. Okay, I know that's three halves and that doesn't add up, but just go with me here. My eyes flick over to Trace who just seems confused, and then to Rachael who looks grim. I'm guessing whatever this is it takes a girl to know it, so I can't say her looking so worried fills me with confidence.

***

"Okay, what?" I turn on Rachael the second Diego has bustled Sophie out of here. We all just kind of ate our food in silence and Sophie sat awkwardly at the table, clearly trying to fight the urge to break down crying or to throw herself at Chelsea's feet. Sadly for her, Chelsea made it quite clear she would not be talking by taking her food to the couch, sitting with her back to her and becoming silent. Trace and I had to fill the silence with random football talk.

"What?" Rachael gets a wary grimace on her face.

"I know you saw it too. What was it about?"

"What was what about?" Chelsea asks.

"That weird expression Sophie had on her face when she was looking at you dialling Diego's number," I answer.

"What?" Chelsea just looks confused, twisting a lock of blonde hair around her finger.

Rachael shifts uncomfortably on the spot, folding her arms before tossing her dark hair back with a sigh. "I think she picked on the vibe with you two and she wasn't impressed. Though she kind of looked like she wasn't sure if she was just being paranoid."

"What's it matter to her?" Trace asks.

Okay, now Chelsea's getting a funny look on her face. First it was Sophie with her look and now it's Chelsea with her look, what is it with these women and their looks? Why can't they just look normal? You know, sometimes I feel like asking Lance if being gay saves you from this kind of shit or if it's not just chicks.

"Were we giving out a vibe?" Chelsea asks while chewing on a nail.

"Not like blatantly obvious 'we're screwing' vibe but our JT is a little touchy feely," Rachael snorts.

"Hey, why we trying to pin this on me?" I ask indignantly. I was just trying to offer some support, damn it, isn't that what concerned boyfriends are supposed to do? I mean, okay, not officially a boyfriend, but I might as fucking well be. Sheesh.

"Look, guys…" Chelsea rubs her hands over her face, suddenly looking about ten years older. "I'm sorry but this has just put me totally out of the mood for this whole evening. Can we re-schedule?"

"Hey, we got our food out of it, that's all we came here for anyway." Trace's joke doesn't lighten the mood any, but I think we all appreciate him trying.

Rachael and Trace says their goodbyes and leave together, since they both came in Trace's car. He'll drop her home, but I hang around because I still want to question Blondie over this whole thing. The whole situation doesn't feel right. I feel like there's something she's not telling me and it's yet one more thing she's holding back from me and I'm starting to get really cheesed off with the whole scenario. All this hot and cold shit has got to stop some time.

"Do you think I should've talked to her?" Chelsea finally says after a few moments of silent tidying up. She has a dishwasher and the girls cleaned the dirty pans while they went along, so there's not too much shit to get. I helpful pick up the soda bottles from the coffee table and start putting them back in the fridge. My momma taught me well.

"If you'd been alone I would have said yes, but with us there it was bad timing," I shrug. "So what's the real deal with that look thing?"

She lets out a deep sigh, fiddling nervously with her camisole as she thinks about what to say to me. For a moment I'm distracted by its thin straps and the amount of skin on show, but then I manage to focus again.

"Sophie has no idea anything happened between us, at all. I guess she just picked up the vibe and was surprised." What am I, like her dirty secret? When precisely is she planning on telling people that we're involved? (By people, I clearly do not mean the tabloids or the general public. I don't need the world knowing, but it'd be nice not to feel like her sordid little clandestine affair).

"Why would she look so pissed?" I ask.

She gives herself away with a facial twitch. She tries to shrug, but I give her the eyebrow that tells her I'm not buying it. With a loud exhalation of breath, she gives it up. "The reason I didn't mention it is that she kind of has a crush on you."

"She what?" Well fuck me sideways, I had no fucking idea. Kind of an ego boost that somebody considered that hot digs me, but I really can't say it's reciprocated. That's awkward. Though also kind of shitty of Chelsea not to tell her, now I think about it.

"She… GAH." She throws a wooden spoon violently into the sink. "She broke up with Marco the Bastardo and said she had a thing for you. But then she got back with Marco and seemed to forget you existed. In the meantime, she dumped me onto your tour without asking me and then you and me happened and I figured since she was all loved up with Il Creepo again it wouldn't matter to her. Except before I could mention it she dumped him and decided she liked you again, which put me in kind of an awkward position since I'd already boinked you by then, not to mention I knew that you weren't so fond of her."

Okay, I can't help it, I bust out laughing. "Boinked?"

"Shut up." She tosses a nacho at my head - thankfully a dry one that didn't get any salsa or cheese on it. "I just… fuck, Justin." She buries her head in her hands again and I have to admit I'm so amused by the girly drama of it all that I've kind of forgiven her for the secrecy. I stride over and wrap her up in a hug, and she swaps her hands for my chest. "I just didn't want to lose my job if she got huffy."

"Little late for that." I get a smack in the bicep for that one.

"I don't know what to do about anything any more," she sighs hopelessly.

"Well you don't have to figure it all out right this second," I tell her as I stroke her back. Monica once told me it was very soothing when I did that - here's hoping it's universal.

"True. I think I must just hit the hay and sleep on it," she says. "You staying?"

"Am I?" I ask her before thinking about what it sounds like. She pulls back from me, looking up at my face with a worried expression.

"What, you thought I'd kick you out?"

To this I can only shrug. I find it really irritating when people do what I'm doing right now, but I started something I'm not sure how to finish and now I'm coming off like I'm doing this on purpose to be infuriating. "I don't know. I'm not always sure where we are."

"Justin…" Chelsea's gaze is cast downwards, and she pulls right back from me, hands lingering on my chest. She kind of claps them against me, sighing. "I know what you want, and I know you've had a lot of patience with me, but…"

"I need to have a little more?" I ask with a sigh of my own. She nods earnestly, apologetically at me.

"I've been alone a long time and now all this with the jobs and back stabbing friends… it's a head fuck. I'm trying though, honestly. I mean, hey," she perks up a little, like she's found the perfect anecdote to placate me. "You know you're going to be the first guy I've had stay in this bed, ever."

"Really?" That did pick me up for a second, but then I narrow my eyes at her. "Is this the part where you tell me you only bought the thing a month ago?"

She gives me a laugh and shakes her head. "No, it's just that every guy I've been with since Will I stayed with them but didn't invite them here. So you should feel privileged."

"Wow. Way you're talking this up I'm expecting like the most miraculous bed ever in there. Real high thread count too."

Okay, so I started making lame jokes to try and diffuse the situation. Obvious tactic, I know, but it got me out of there. The funny thing is that for all the urging Trace has made for me to instigate this talk and all the whining I've done about when we'll have it… it seems to me like the talk was starting off right there, Chelsea was delving right in without hesitation and I'M the one that's pulled back. For all the on and off crap she's pulling, I'm the one that didn't want to go there - wasn't sure I was going to like what she said, if I let her say it.

Guess I'm not as sure as I thought as I was that I'm getting under her skin.

There are some days when just coming home washes the day off of me. It's like I pass under some kind of cleansing mist when I pass the threshold. I walk through my door, kick off my shoes, toss my keys and bag on the table and somehow the rest of the day's shit fades away purely because I'm home.

Yeah. Today is not that day.

When I take off my shoes, I notice how sore the balls of my feet are. The pretty shoes were a little more impractical than I bargained for and the tightness I thought would alleviate once I'd worn them a few times has not, in fact, alleviated. The bun I pulled my hair back into was too tight, because it actually kind of stings my scalp a little as my hair falls down. The pencil skirt that looks as cool and smart as hell still looks great, but guess what? It also is too tight. Everything is too fucking tight, including me - I'm wound up too tight. This day has sucked monkey balls.

I pad into the kitchen, wincing as I walk, and immediately reach for the milk. This is a hot chocolate moment. I don't have the patience to boil it in a pan however, so it's just going to get nuked in the microwave. You know it's bad when I reach for my big purple Eeyore mug. Eeyore is my little guy; he's so cute and melancholy - just makes it all the nicer when I see him smiling a hopeful but unsure little smile, as he is on my mug. Yes, I'm a freakin' saddo who takes comfort in Disney but right now I don't give a flying rat's ass. As my milk and Eeyore are getting toasty warm through the wonders of technology, I go for another technological wonder and hit the play button on my blinking answer machine.

"Hey, it's Rach!" How does she always sound so mellow and un-harried? I want that. "Hope the big interviews went okay, and if not I will totally come over there with Ben and Jerry's. I might even suffer through Dirty Dancing for you. Later!"

I smile wistfully at the machine as if it were her, even as I delete the message. I'll have to think about that offer, because it's sure as hell tempting.

"Hey, it's me!" 'Me' in this case is Trace. "Hope it went good. And Lynn's glaring at me like I'm totally retarded and she just said of course it went good. But I can still hope it went good even if I'm sure it did. Whatever. See ya when I see ya."

A scowl passes over my face when I hear the next one "Chica, it's Sophie. It's seems like we have a standoff here - I don't want to give up until you talk to me and you don't want to give up until I give up. We both know I am way more stubborn than you so you should just save yourself some hassle and talk to me sooner rather than later. I miss you, honey."

"Chelsea, sweetheart, it's Mom. We're flying in next Wednesday but we won't be in until late so we're saving the reunion dinner until Thursday night, at Lisa's for eight o clock. I can't wait to see you!" That was a more boring one; I'm not scowling so much at that. I haven't seen Mom and Dad for a while, but the beauty of it is that they're not staying long and they've got a lot scheduled. I will get a nice dose of Mommy time without her staying so long she drives me crazy. Perfect!

Then comes more scowling - my next voicemail is another unwelcome one. Hearing her voice kicks up a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach. "Hey, it's Ken. I don't care if I have to stalk you to the end of your days, you will hear me out and then you will see how I'm stupid but not a stupid bitch. You love me too much to live without me, even if you might need to kick my ass first and get it out of your system. I love you, babe. CALL ME."

The last message, dare I admit it, is the one that makes me feel better as I'm stirring cocoa powder into my hot chocolate and pulling out my earrings.

"Hey pretty lady…" Justin growls in a deep voice. "Nah, I'm just kidding, About the stupid Barry White voice, I mean, not that you're pretty - and also a lady. I hope it went well, I don't see how it couldn't have what with me picking your lucky underwear. I never miss! Speaking of underwear, I hope yours has all finally dried out. I don't know about you but it was certainly a good start to the morning for me. If you feel like celebrating, give me a call. If you don't feel like celebrating, give me a call any way. If you just don't feel like calling me… tough shit, I'm your boss, you have to! Oh, and Mom says hi. And that I shouldn't swear on answer machines. Fuck that."

I can't help it. I begin the slow, stutter-filled laughter of somebody who doesn't really want to have been cheered up but kind of was anyway. Part of it is the memory of this morning, him walking into my bathroom and being oddly fascinated yet clearly a little turned on by me having hung some of my bras over the shower rail to dry (they're hand wash only, it's a pain). I told him sometimes girls have to do that, but he seemed more concerned with eyeing up the goodies and thrilling himself at the thought of having seen so much of my underwear collection. He then off the back of this insisted on choosing my 'lucky-guaranteed-to-win-you-that-job' set to wear to my interview, to which I told him that'd only work if I gave the guy a strip tease.

Trust a guy to pick the most impractical underwear set I own just because it's revealing.

The other part of the cheer up factor is just him. That was one of the dorkiest messages I have ever received, save one from Will where he sang 'You Are My Sunshine' into the phone. Even in my most blinkered state of blissful 'thinking Will was perfect' love, I knew that was lame. Weirdly, it's not lame when Justin leaves me stupid messages. He makes me laugh. The man, when he decides not to be so concerned with his cool persona, is really goofy and funny. Goofy and funny is a quality I like, because it helps me be more goofy and funny. I have trouble with that on my own; I can be a little uptight.

Sipping my hot chocolate as I go (which has been nuked a little too long and burns my tongue) I pad into my bedroom and quickly strip off my nice interview outfit. I throw on the pair of Juicy sweatpants I haven't worn since they went out of fashion and a tank top, pile all my jewellery on my bedside table instead of neatly putting it away like I normally would, and then I throw myself onto the sofa. Lord, I hate this day. When did my life start royally sucking?

Oh yeah, I remember. It was when I got fired. You know, they lie when they tell you that you can go out into the big wide world and be anything you want to be. The world has ideas of its own. Unless of course it's just me… sometimes I wonder if it is just me. I'm around people like Sophie and Justin and all these huge names who are living their dreams and I think it has to just be me, because clearly it's not impossible. What am I doing wrong?

Great, now I'm depressed. I pick up the phone, mug in the other hand, and quickly dial Justin's cell as I curl up in a ball.

"Chels! How'd it go babe?"

"How'd you know it was me?" I ask.

"The same way everybody does - I looked at my phone and the caller ID told me."

"You sure you didn't just give me some cheesy ring tone?"

"Okay, you got me. You're 'Smack That,' naturally."

"I better not be."

"Ouch." I can almost see his grimacing into the phone. He was funny but I am just not in the mood for joking about this. "Lost sense of humour, not a good sign. Did it not go so well?"

"I feel like I've been grilled."

"Medium or well done?"

"Charcoal," I whimper as I put my hot chocolate down and rub my face apprehensively.

"Well, you know, these big execs like to put you through the wringer to see how you perform, is all. You've probably done better than you think; they just wanted to see how you cope under pressure." Bless him, he's trying to be encouraging but it just sends me spiralling into panic that I showed them not very much. I decided that I wasn't going to get very far with producing jobs just yet, but pimping myself around the actors isn't going to move me any closer so I've gone for positions with various people at various production companies. I'd still be a PA, but at least the experience will be that bit more relevant.

I wiggle my toes, staring at my new peach pedicure as if it'll reassure me or rouse me into some brilliant light bulb moment. "Maybe. I'm just not sure how well I fielded everything though. Especially the why did I leave my old job conundrum, that was nasty."

"What did you say?"

"Made up some shit about wanting to move closer to the production side of the business rather than the talent and feeling now was the time."

"At least the first part's true," he offers up. Again, I have to let out that reluctant chuckle - I don't want to feel better, but I kind of do. "You're welcome here if you want company and a cheering section. Rachael made me buy Ben and Jerry's for you. Said I had to because she promised."

"Why do you have to buy me ice cream because she promised?"

"That's what I said!" He exclaims. "Seriously though, come over if you want."

"I got plans," I tell him. "Maybe tomorrow? I have to bring those scripts over for you anyway."

"Cool. See you then." He hesitates for a moment, like he's going to say something else, but it never comes.

"Au revoir."

***

So I kind of lied to Justin when I said I had plans. Well, I was planning to have plans, but nothing was set in concrete. I hadn't even made the phone call yet. When he asked I was tempted just to run over there and hide for the night, but I decided that I had better suck it up and do it while I was in the mood to. I say in the mood… I'm never exactly going to be in the mood for this, but I'm feeling vaguely like it would be a good idea so I picked up the phone and I did it. I haven't been so nervous since my first date, but I did it.

The knock on the door tells me my visitor is finally here, and I have to wipe my perspiring palms on my sweatpants. Good thing they're black. My heart's in my throat and I'm practically trembling with trepidation. All the same, there's a ball of determination in my stomach. I get to the door, pause with my hand on the knob to take a deep breath, and then swing it open.

Kennedy and I stare at each other lamely for ten seconds or before she says "snap." I look down and almost smile when I realise we match today. Don't they wish their girlfriends were hot like us?

"Come on in," I finally manage to say, leaving her to trail in after me and shut the door.

There are a few minor pleasantries, offering of beverages and so on. Mostly it's this big awkward silence that echoes between the two of us. I play with my hair and she fiddles with her bangles. That's how we express discomfort, we fidget. She comments on my new lamp and I comment on her new hair. We sip Pepsi and react like it's the yummiest thing ever, and we do everything except what we both know she's here for.

"Shit," Kennedy finally lets out with a sheepish smile. "I have no idea whether I start or you start or we just go through some more small talk or something."

"Me either." A deep shrug lifts my shoulders momentarily.

"Okay, I have no idea why Sophie fired you." This was a bad start and I feel my face going purple, but before I can get too outraged she rushes on. "I mean, okay, I totally bitched her out and even if she hadn't fired you I think you'd have been mad at me, but I so did not tell her to fire you. I have no idea where she came up with that, honestly."

"Well, hey, she got it from somewhere!" I grouch indignantly. "What the fuck did you say to her?"

"She called me bugging me about where you are like you're her dog on a leash, sometimes I think she would seriously have considered micro chipping you…"

"Excuse me! Bitch fest not scoring you points here!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been wanting to say this to you for so long and you haven't been talking to me and it's all just kind of been bubbling up, you know, and…"

There are few pauses for air in her babbling and finally I have to intervene. "Kennedy. Calm. Yourself. Could you breathe a second?"

I was half joking, but she does take a few moments to inhale some deep breaths. It's one of the breathing exercises I've seen her do before performing, she says it balances her chi or some New Age mumbo jumbo. Breathing seems to be the only thing she's even remotely New Age about, but I never claimed she was anything if not quirky.

"I'm sorry." She sounds a little calmer. "I just… I feel horrible. I know I did wrong, going off on her like that, but you know how the way she treats you bugs me. But she called and was yammering at me and I snapped. I told her what I thought of the way she treated you and I said she holds you back and she needed to get a clue, but I swear I never told her to fire you or that you should leave your job or anything. I mean, I did say you were too good for her, but I still have no idea how she got that she should fire you out of it. I swear if I had known she'd go off and do something crazy I would have buttoned my lip. Swear."

"So where did she get it from?" I throw my hands up in the air.

She holds out her palms and shrugs. "Grossly inaccurate interpretation of me telling her she wouldn't be so awful to you if she cared about you? Other than that I got nothing."

"Word for word," I command. "What did you say?"

"There were various examples of the stupid things she does and name calling and shit, but basically 'she could do so much better and if you cared about her at all you'd start treating her better than some brain dead slave.' I swear there was no hint of any job loss in there!"

We fall silently as I mull this over, playing with the hem of my sleeve. Trying to picture the scene in my head, I can honestly see this. I'm sure Kennedy has seriously edited for expletives, but this rings true. I can hear Sophie trying to butt in and letting out some Spanish swearing herself, but I can't honestly see Kennedy outright telling her that she should let me go or whatever. I can hear her getting high and mighty and self righteous and being a total bitch to Sophie, but I smell no lies here.

"I just… why would she do that?" Funnily enough it's her asking the question, not moi.

"You're asking me?" I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I just… I mean, yeah, I told her she needed to get a freaking clue but I just meant she should start being nicer to you and not taking you for granted so much. I never saw this coming, even from her."

"That whole conversation was not her," I tell Kennedy sadly, tears springing to my eyes. "It was like talking to a pod person."

Then, as if this not-exactly-negligible period of estrangement had never happened, she wraps her arms around me and lets me cry into her shoulder. I feel stupid, I hate crying, but something inside seems to lift. Not talking to Kennedy is unnatural to me, even if I did have what I thought was a really good reason. Hanging with Justin for all this time hasn't exactly been terrible, but when I'm with him and Rachael and Trace I do kind of feel like I'm with his people. They're friends with me and have never made me feel anything except totally accepted, but I still feel like there's that line there, and without Kennedy (who is well and truly my people) I feel vulnerable.

Of course the lack of employment doesn't help with that either.

"Shh," she coos as she rubs a hand over my back, the brisk way my mother used to do. It's like she was saying a silent 'buck up, you'll be fine.' "It'll be okay. You're better off without her if that's how little she values you. Least you get to go get a new kick ass job now."

"Heh." I wipe at my wet cheeks with a sleeve. "I had interviews today and it was awful."

"Really?" She winces sympathetically.

"I'm not quite suicidal, but I was listening to country music on the way home."

"Oh shit. Red alert. You, me, ice cream parlour. I'm driving."

It's strange, how oddly easy it is. After this long period of ignoring her, and all that anger and bad will I had towards her, she's been here all of half an hour and she's forgiven. That's it. There'll be no more recrimination, we will step right back into our friendship like this was some insignificant blip that never happened. We'll go out, she'll load me up on sugar and talk to me and I'll feel better. I guess I just love her, is all. She's my soul mate. Well, if I get a 'friend' soul mate as well as the love of my life kind of soul mate. If I even get one of those.

Wait, yet more maudlin thoughts. She's right, I need my ice cream. I'm rushing for shoes right now.

I've never understood why it takes girls so long to get ready. Even allowing them ten minutes to do that whole make up thing they do, I make it half an hour tops that they need. Oh no. I'm lucky if even my low maintenance cousin is done is less than an hour. I don't like to say it to her, mostly because I'd get punched, but I don't even think they look that different at the end of it. It's just their eyelids got some colour on 'em is all. Big whoop.

After two weeks of the old lay low, the press has finally backed off of the Chelsea story. Her apartment is no longer being staked out, and flashbulbs aren't going off in my face like Christmas lights every time I walk out the door. There's still some speculation going on, but Sophie finally managed to come out and convince them there hadn't been some huge bust up. Of course there has been, but the press don't need to know that. Chelsea still isn't taking Sophie's calls, save a short thank you for sending her references over.

Tonight then, now the attention has backed off, is the perfect time to go out and celebrate Chelsea winning herself a trial period working for Brett Henderson. Brett Henderson isn't somebody I ever heard of before, but apparently he's a movie producer working for Jerry Bruckheimer's production company. He might not be Jerry himself but he's a pretty good step in the right direction so Trace immediately declared we should all go out and party it up to celebrate. We didn't quite manage to prise Chelsea back away from Kennedy, Kennedy had to be invited, but it'll be the first decent amount of time we've spent with her since those two made up. She's been on interviews or with her every minute, though miraculously she's still getting her half of my errands done. Rachael swears she must have one of those Harry Potter time turner things.

I'm hanging in her living room, waiting for the two of them to be finally done and worrying about Rachael and Trace getting bored out in the car. I said I'd only be five minutes and so far I count fifteen.

"Sorry, sorry," Chelsea says as she appears before me. "She's nearly done, I swear. Which restaurant are we going to again?"

"Nobu," I manage to tell her distractedly. I take back what I said about the make up, her eyes are doing this dark sultry thing where they're popping out her face and I like it. I also like that little white dress she's wearing, but we have company so I'll behave.

"Cool. You sure Randy's cool with driving us around?"

"It's his job, Chels," I chuckle. "Relax." I reach out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ears and then swoop in for a kiss. My lips meet hers for a moment before I pull back and smile. "Hi," I say.

"Hi," she says back.

"You ready to celebrate?" I ask. I got such a perfunctory greeting when she opened the door that I'm taking this as my proper hello.

"As I'll ever be…" I go to kiss her again but she's turned away before I can get there, looking back towards her bedroom. "Hurry your ass up Ken!"

"It's a big deal," I try to push on regardless. "You must be so excited."

"Yeah, sure… Kennedy!"

There's nothing I love more than being basically ignored. I feel like a bastard for saying it, but I actually preferred it when she was pissed with Kennedy. I got a lot more attention that way. She and I have been doing this 'softly-softly' approach thing for some time and I'm running out of patience with it. She's fine with me, I'm fine with her; I don't see where the problem is. Especially since if she passes this audition period she'll no longer be my personal assistant and it won't be quite so professionally awkward.

Actually, this whole audition thing makes me worry. As much as I want her to get this job, I'm kind of concerned about where it's going to leave me. Sometimes I think that even though I'm dating her I only see her when Kennedy's busy or when she has to be there because she works for me. It's unusual for me to be doing all the running in a relationship and to be honest it's starting to wear me out. I don't mind a little hard work and I am the King of perseverance, but even I have a break point and right now I'm starting to wonder if it's imminent. Much as I despise sounding so much like a girl, I just want some little sign that I'm getting somewhere and that she cares.

"Hey…" I try again, pulling her towards me by her waist and wrapping her up in my arms so she can't get out too easily. "You feel like staying at my place tonight? For our own private celebration later…?" I waggle my eyebrows dirtily.

That cracks a smile from her. I suppose even if I can't get her to give too much of a shit, at least she wants my body. "Sorry lover boy, I got a car picking me up from here early tomorrow morning. So we can't be too late at this club either."

"Oh." I retract that body statement; maybe she doesn't even want that.

She must have noticed how disappointed I am, because she rubs my biceps with her hands and gives me a peck on the lips. "Some other time."

"Uh huh." I break away from her as Kennedy enters the room, finally ready, and without too much preamble I go straight for the door. I feel a serious funk coming over me, and suddenly I'm not looking forward to tonight the way I was.

Oh well. Onward and forward.

***

Dinner was great. Paparazzi were minimal. The club is great. So why has it taken me about seven beers to start to loosen up? Why do I still feel kind of shitty?

Well, I know why. I have been rebuffed and ignored at every turn tonight and this is probably why I've felt the need to get drunk. It's like I'm suddenly back to being the guy Sophie foisted her off onto and that she resents being around. She's polite but distant, and all her conversation is aimed at Kennedy. Rachael's just about getting a word in edgeways, but until we bumped into some of our crowd at this club the only person I've had to talk to tonight is Trace - and Trace is not my idea of a hot date.

"Come on, you haven't noticed?" He asks me.

"No," I shrug.

"She's had her eyes all over you all evening."

'She,' sadly, is not Chelsea. She is Olivia, a sometime fuck buddy of mine. Most of the time she's just a friend and not much else, but ever so occasionally when I've been single and she's been single we've hooked up. It's strictly a get mine get yours scenario, but in the past it's worked for us. I haven't noticed, but Trace seems to think she's been checking me out a lot this evening. Any other time I might be interested, but right now I'm too pathetically enamoured of my personal assistant. I mean the one who isn't my cousin - because that would be gross and way too much of a Southern stereotype.

"You got to admit, your old fuck buddy and your new one in the same room… wonder what would happen if I mentioned that to Olivia," he snickers.

"She is not my fuck buddy," I tell him for the millionth time.

"Olivia?" He looks confused. "But you said…"

"No, Chelsea!" I correct him with a roll of my eyes.

"Hmm. You keep telling yourself that bud."

Trace has been really getting on my case about Chelsea lately. I have once or twice accused him of just being jealous, but he swears he's just concerned that I'm getting strung along. He likes her, he says, but at this point he thinks she's screwing me around. Maybe not intentionally, he says, but that doesn't make it much better. As much as I like to disagree with him about that, sometimes I wonder if he's right. I mean, how much time does one person need? Either she likes me as more than a friend and a good lay or she doesn't at this point, and I would really like to know either way.

It's really fucking me off that this is all I think about lately. Tim's invited me out to do some more producing with him and I have some artist development to do for my own new label and Grandma's invited me home to Memphis for a week or so, yet all I think about is some little blonde chick and whether or not she likes me. I feel like I'm back in eighth grade. It just… I just… UGH. What the fuck is her issue? The only thing I can think of is that she's got residual Will issues and I'm sorry, but come the fuck on. Let it go already.

Rachael leans into me and yells in my ear over the music. "You want another beer?"

"I'm cool for a minute," I yell back. She turns around to the waitress and relays this, before coming back to me and slapping a friendly hand on my thigh. "Having fun, cousin dear?"

"I'm bored as hell," I tell her honestly. She tips her head back and laughs.

"We've been sitting on our asses talking for too long, that's why. Come dance."

She stands up and stretches out her hand to me, and I grasp it willingly. At this point I'm in such a bad mood that it doesn't much matter, but I'll at least try to be sociable. If there's one thing I can't stand, it is people who don't make the effort and who choose to sit and openly mope all night, killing everybody else's buzz. Either go home or make the effort, that's my clubbing motto. Heck, sometimes I even find that if I pretend to have fun for long enough it actually happens.

Somewhat masochistically, I stop by Chelsea and tap her on the shoulder. She looks up at me and I lean down to her ear, asking her to dance. She shakes her head and smiles, telling me to go have fun and she'll be up in a while. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I got the brush off yet again.

After ten minutes, she and Kennedy are the only ones still at our table in VIP, The rest of us have joined the throng. Me, Rachael, Trace, Olivia, Jennifer, Marty, Nick: we're all out on the floor. Possibly we're drawing a little more attention to ourselves than I'd like, since somehow we've formed a circle and whenever that happens, everybody else in the room kind of start watching whoever's in the middle. Marty loves that, naturally, since it gives him a chance to show off. It makes me a little uncomfortable though - I mean, I can bring it and I know it, but I get stared at enough without giving people something to stare at. It's worth it though to see Trace get absolutely stumped and have nothing else to do but the running man; dude is not a dancer.

Slowly I start to see what Trace was talking about with Olivia. She's giving it a little hooch touch when it's her turn and she even bends over and puts her ass practically in my face. Any other night I'd probably be capitalising on this opportunity but now I'm too sprung and oddly, that actually makes me kind of hate Chelsea. I do what's expected of me and give a pretend thrust behind her, making everybody laugh, but my heart's not in it. Hell, not even the less picky parts of my body are in it. Watching Olivia throw all these signals my way and knowing that I wouldn't even enjoy it if it happened kind of makes me curse Chelsea for leaving me this way, so unrequited.

There's nothing I hate more than being hung up on a girl who isn't interested. Celebrity has done a good job of limiting the number of times it happens, but even my fame can't totally buy me everything.

***

"God, would it be rude of me to go home?" I ask Kennedy, whining.

"It's your party so yeah, kind of," she tells me as she sips her drink.

"I just… I love them so much for being excited for me but the night before my first day I'm just too nervous to enjoy this." I exhale noisily, putting my head on my best friend's shoulder and tracing the rim of my cosmopolitan with an index finger. This is only my second alcoholic drink of the evening and an hour lately I've barely sipped it. I'm terrified I'll be hung over tomorrow if I drink.

"I think they just wanted to help you relax and stop you being nervous," she tells me. "Which you should be, you know, this is a great thing."

"It's a little premature though isn't it?" I ask as I sit back up. "It's just a trial period."

"Which is still a big step up from 'no thank you' so it's worth celebrating." She tightens her sleek red ponytail and glances out at our group, who haven't been back to the table for a good forty five minutes.

"I just feel like kind of a killjoy." It must be my fiftieth sigh of the evening, and yet I can't stop it coming out as I twist a strand of neatly curled hair around my finger. "And Justin looked so disappointed when I said I had to stay at my apartment tonight. I feel like I've been kind of absent for him lately and even though I know I have to be sensible tonight so that tomorrow goes okay I feel like I've let him down."

"I'm sure he understands," Kennedy shrugs. "It'll get better once you know either way about the job."

"Hmm…" This time it's one of the empty beer bottles I pick up, and I nervously start peeling away the label. It's a pretty stubborn label, too. I fidget when I'm anxious. "I think he's a little pissed with me to be honest. I haven't had a lot of time for him lately and he's kind of hanging around waiting for me to… I don't know. Tell him I want to be his girlfriend or I love him or some shit like that, I don't know."

"Well you've slept with him enough, what's stopping you?" Her nonchalant shrug surprises me. This is a bigger deal than just a shrug.

"It's complicated."

"Is it?" There's that blasted shrug again. "He's cute and he treats you well and the boy obviously likes you. So what if he wants a label on it? It's not like he's asking you to marry him."

"I just… ugh." I place my chin into my hand with a pathetic expression on my face. "It feels like a big deal and I have too many big deals going on right now is all."

"I think you'd have less of those if you stopped making so many of 'em." She slings an arm around my shoulders and kisses my forehead affectionately. "Come on drama queen, let's go dance."

***

Well this is just fine. She finally deigns to get up and come over here and join the party we threw for her, and yet again I'm being rebuffed at every turn. Well screw that. All I wanted to do was dance with her, and she stands there all stiff like I totally disgust her or something, and then all I do is reach down to kiss her and she turns away like I'm a leper or I got halitosis or something. What the fuck is her problem? I'm good looking, I'm successful, I treat her great… anybody else would have worked out I'm a catch by now but is she really that slow on the uptake? What the fuck is with the standoffish shit?

Okay, I know I had a couple too many beers when even in my own head I sound kind of up my own ass, but it's true. I'm a catch. My momma says so. Maybe she's a lesbian, maybe that's why she'd rather dance with Kennedy than me. Yeah, okay, that was the drink talking too. It's just really annoying. I went to all this trouble for her and she refuses to even enjoy herself. What kind of shit is that? She starts a new job tomorrow, why is she not celebrating? And why is she everything I fucking think about? I have a great career, I have a great set of friends, we're young and we're partying and why should I even care about the way she's being right now? I hate being this fucking whipped.

Well, to hell with it. I'm just going to stand here and dance with Olivia and to hell with Chelsea. I'm going to ignore the panging in my chest that wishes it was Chelsea so eagerly going for it to the music and sidling up to me. I may not be too interested in Olivia right now, but I'm still glad she's here. She's a friend and she's just about the only thing saving my ego this evening. At least somebody wants me. A little dance won't hurt. I occasionally pull her hands away if I think they're headed in the direction of my butt or any other too familiar territor, but I pretty much let her do what she wants and for a while it's good, good to kind of close my senses off to anything but keeping time with the beat and the person in front of me.

This is until I see Chelsea roughly push her way past Marty and Rachael and storm off back to the bar. It doesn't matter how pissed I am with her, watching her do that still tugs at my stomach for some insane reason.

Blithely I extract myself from Olivia and leave her in the dust without a second glance. I'm sure she's probably giving my retreating back a 'what the fuck' look, but the only one I catch is Kennedy shaking her head and looking grim. I half expect her to follow me through the crowd, but she stays with Rachael. For the first time it strikes me how stiflingly hot this club is. The air is thick with perspiration and sweat and it's pretty humid in here. I'm not too bad, just a little damp, but you can see people with some huge sweat patches. It even smells of heat.

Chelsea is disappearing off into the corridor that leaves to the VIP bathrooms, so I race to catch her before she actually gets into the ladies room. I can't just burst in there and it looks mighty dubious to be hanging around outside the women's bathroom like some perverted stalker.

"Hey!" I yell at her as I catch up her but she ignores me. "Hey!" I yell it again before managing to reach out and grab her arm, pulling her back to me.

"Oww!" She cries out angrily, glaring at me as she whips her arm away and rubs it.

"Sorry," I say dismissively. "Where are you going?"

"Mongolia," she says sarcastically. "Where do you think?"

"Hey, what you so pissy with me for?" I ask indignantly. "And what's with running off like that?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you could even see what I was doing you had your head so far down her cleavage," she spits out angrily.

I shouldn't be quite so gleeful about this, but at least the jealousy is some sort of reaction rather than the constant indifference. "What's it to you? We were just dancing."

"Is that what you call it?" Her eyebrow raises and an ugly coldness passes over her face. Suddenly she looks a lot less pretty. "You might as well have been screwing her right then and there."

"Jealous?" I ask as I fold my arms over my chest. The cold expression becomes one of disbelief and more than a little irritation.

"Is that what it's about? You were just trying to piss me off? Well congratulations, you succeeded."

"And why should you be pissed off if I dance with a friend? We don't owe each other anything, it's not like we're together." There, I did it, I threw her own indecision right back in her face and you know what, it felt good. Maybe I should feel like an ass for that, but it felt good. I'm sick of taking her shit so it's time she got took it back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise that whatever it is we're doing was a free for all," she snipes back, giving me a light shove. She's getting physical - good. She deserves to be hurt right now because Lord knows I've had more than my fair share.

"Well maybe if you were a little more specific than 'whatever it is we're doing' I'd know what the fucking rules were!" I yell. "You can't have it both ways, Chelsea, you can't string me along holding me at arm's length and then expect me to just follow along like a fucking dog on a leash! I'm doing fucking everything for you and getting jack shit in return! You couldn't even act grateful after I put this whole shindig on for you, to celebrate for YOU!"

Now I'm saying all this, I realise how inevitable this little outburst always was. I've been trying to hold all this in too long and the floodgates couldn't take the pressure any more. It was easier to suppress when she was constantly in my house and in my bed, I could pretend it was progress being made, but I'm no closer to her than I was the first time she slept with me and then acted like it was no big deal the next morning. It stings like a mother, and I think she ought to share in that.

"Did it never occur to you, moron," she says as she smacks at me with her hands again, "that it's my first day at a really crucial audition tomorrow and I'm fucking nervous as hell and thus not exactly in party mood? And that I can't exactly party until I drop precisely because tomorrow is so fucking important? You're being so selfish, you want me to jump around and play along with your little set up here so you can feel like a nice guy when it could cost me a huge opportunity! I only even came out tonight because I didn't want to let you down and now I wish I hadn't even bothered because you're being a total ass and you were so not worth it!"

Ahh. I didn't quite think of it like that. Still, I didn't put a freaking gun to her head did I? And she didn't have to act like I barely exist, did she?

"Way to change the subject," I spit. "You want to tell me what the hell this is, Chelsea? I'm sick and tired of you stringing me along and promising me shit that never appears! Either you want to be with me or you don't, stop bullshitting!"

"This is your sales pitch? Being an asshole and yelling at me?" She bites back at me. "It's not exactly making me swoon."

She wants a sales pitch? I'll give her a God damned sales pitch - I push her up against the wall and before she can protest I've caught her lips with mine. For a moment she squirms, even beats against my torso a little like she wants out, but I'm not giving in. My whole body has her caught, she's pressed into every inch of me, and my tongue has slipped its way past to meet hers before she can do much about it. Somehow my anger is fuelling me, making me rough and demanding, and I think hers is making her respond in kind.

The kissing is fast and furious, our hands are going all over the place, and before I realise exactly what decision's been made her hands are at my zipper and mine are inching up her skirt. My lips attack her neck and collarbone and she breathes heavily as she wraps her legs around my waist and her fingers claw at my back. If I was thinking a little clearer I would realise that having sex in a public place is about the dumbest thing somebody as famous as me can do, but I'm not thinking anything beyond having her and right now. Her perfume smells of roses and there's an angry fire blazing in her eyes.

Before I know it I've pushed into her and we're writhing against the wall, both panting and making some fairly animal moans. Her pretty little mouth nips at mine, and I'm pretty sure she might have bruised my lower lip with her teeth. I'm certain we're both going to look totally like we just had sex after this - our clothes are rumpling against each other and now we're both slick with sweat. It's all over almost before I know it, first with her shuddering and then mine. It's probably a good thing the music's so loud; it'll have drowned all that noise we were making out.

Then we're both coming back down to earth, our eyes meet and suddenly I feel embarrassed. She certainly looks embarrassed. Gingerly I pull myself out of her and let her slip back down the wall to stand on her own two feet again. As she stares at the floor, trying to smooth the new creases out of her dress, I'm fumbling with my zipper and then to put my hands in my pockets. That was… phew. It was intense, to say the least, and I'm now not sure it was a good idea.

In fact, I know it was the worst idea I've ever had. She can't even look at me and my blood has rushed to my face. Most guys would slap me on the back and congratulate me for what just happened, but I feel totally humiliated. She can't even look at me.

Right. I guess that says it all.

"I think maybe there's no point in you staying on with me," I tell her shakily. "You got this job now and Rachael's doing most of the work anyway."

"Okay." She speaks so quietly it's almost a whisper.

"And I think…. there's no point in you… us…"

I'm practically choking on the words, can't get them out I'm so disappointed but she definitely catches my meaning. She doesn't even have the decency to look even a little upset. She just looks numb.

Funnily enough, the only change in her expression comes when the door bangs open and there, as if a ghostly apparition, appears Sophie Lumos. I guess I'm not the only one hit for six, because she's staring at the two of us in what looks half like disbelief and half like expectation fulfilled.

"Your lip gloss is a nice colour, Justin, but it doesn't really go with your complexion."

She sweeps on past with a face like thunder, and it's only after she's brushed past me and banged the door to the ladies behind her that comprehension dawns on me. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and see the tell tale pink smeared across it.

"You never even told her, did you?"

I take Chelsea's silence as confirmation and this time it's my turn to walk away and slam a door after myself.

"Hi honey, I'm home," I yell out as I toss Trace's keys on his hall table. Since we don't live too far from each other, he and I have exchanged keys for plant watering and apartment watching purposes.

"Hey, in the living room!"

I follow his voice and walk into his sprawling living room. His apartment must be twice as big as mine, and it's a lot less eclectic in its décor. His living room is all white with trimmings in various shades of grey, and all his furniture has a very geometric feel to it. The only splashes of colour are a few bright posters in frames on the walls. All the lines in here are sharp corners and right angles, no curves; it's very masculine. I like it, but I couldn't live here. I need something a little softer, warmer.

"Playing Halo. Again. I never would have guessed." Even as I sit down on the sofa next to him I'm pulling off my heels and breathing a sigh of relief. Even in my sensible shoes, my feet are killing me.

"And how was your day?" He totally ignores my sarcasm.

"Brett… sorry, Mr Henderson… is totally kicking my ass. I really hope he's just playing bad boss to test me out and this isn't actually how he is or I'm never going to hack it."

I sprawl back into the sofa cushions, so glad to be finally sitting down. Apart from a brief sighting of Jerry Bruckheimer and Steven Spielberg, which was very exciting, my day has been all about dry cleaning and picking his kids up and copying papers. The past two weeks have been exactly like this, too. I half expected it since he's just gearing up for a shoot right now and isn't on set, but dear Lord this is boring. Again, here's hoping he's just trying to see how I take it.

"Hey, I'm sure he's just trying to break you in. You're two weeks into a month's test period right? That means you're halfway through and he hasn't kicked you out yet."

"The glass is quite literally half full," I echo. "Here's hoping I get through the next two weeks, and then I'm smiling. Especially since Sophie's on my case and getting more interviews might get tricky."

I have, apparently, mortally offended Ms Lumos. I don't see why, she has absolutely no claim over Justin and ironically enough now neither do I, but all I can say is it's a good thing she'd already handed over my references. She's not doing anything overt, but then this town is all about whisperings. There was briefly some renewed paparazzi interest in me, but when they worked out I was going nowhere near Justin or Sophie they moved on. This is the life of being the hired help; you are only of associational interest. I'm kind of like the moon to their sun… if it wasn't for their light being reflected on me, you wouldn't see me at all.

"Yeah, explain to me what her problem is again?"

"I think she's having a tough time dealing with the idea that a guy wanted me not her. Since it's, like, the first time ever. I don't know. At this point I'm not even sure I care."

"You sure she isn't just doing that whole girly 'but you didn't tell me' thing?"

"Considering that we weren't even talking at the time…"

"Good point," Trace concedes as he gives in and turns off his X-box.

Reaching for his soda, he copies me by flopping back into the cushions and just chilling. There's a brief silence, and Trace is being a little twitchy. He keeps drumming his fingers against the arm of the sofa. I know exactly why he's being twitchy - he's been twitchy every time I've seen him lately. His face is pulled a little taut, the smile is a little forced, his hands will not sit still, and it's all in the name of He Who Trace Dares Not Name. The poor boy is trying to so hard to avoid the subject and to be nonchalant about it that he's done the opposite. It is, in fact, the elephant in this room, and it's so unnecessary. As usual, it's up to me to address it.

"Do you want me to just ask and put you out of your misery?"

"Huh?" He says.

I smile knowingly at him. Trace is kind of cute when he's feeling awkward. "How's Justin?"

"Oh. Fine."

"That was about as convincing as Bush claiming he's going to pull troops out of Iraq any time soon."

"Well did you want me to say he's pissed as hell at you?"

"Ouch." I wince at that news. I fully expected it, but somehow it's different hearing the confirmation. "Good point. I understand."

"I'm glad somebody does. He's still kind of narked at me too, for still talking to you."

"Really?" Guilt gnaws at my chest.

"Yep. Rachael says I'm an idiot and that if I had any sense I'd be a little quieter about it until he's calmed down some."

It takes me a moment to process this, but then something ticks over in my head. He hasn't said it outright, but if you put this new information with an old piece that I just happen to have - namely that Rachael is still in contact with me - logic draws me to a not so great conclusion.

"So Rachael hasn't mentioned to him that she's still talking to me?"

"She says that she's waiting for the opportune moment to casually drop you into conversation. I asked her when that would be but she kind of shook her head at me and said I have no appreciation for subtlety and that's why I'm an idiot. Though she also said to say hi and to keep your Saturday free because she's got tickets for some thing she thinks you'll like."

Much as I'm hurt a little that Rachael's keeping me on the down low, I understand it. Blood's thicker than water after all and Justin's a relative as well as her boss. I'd probably do the same in her position. Hell, I think doing the same but just waiting a little too long is what got me into this mess to begin with. Here's hoping she's better at spotting the opportune moment than I was… though I can't see Justin reacting like Sophie to anything Rachael ever did. He's just not that guy.

"Cool. I'll send her a text as soon as my phone's charged back up," I say through a yawn.

"You're not mad?" He asks.

"That she hasn't mentioned me?" Trace nods and I shrug. "Nah. It's awkward, I get that. Besides, I'd be kind of a hypocrite, given Sophie had to walk in on me and Justin to find out anything had happened."

"True. You're kind of an idiot too."

"Yep." Sadly, I have to nod and agree. "Still, at least we're idiots together. We could just be sad ass idiots with no friends."

"I'll drink to that." He raises his can and pulls a face at me. I can't help the smile that breaks out.

This is a moment I'd like to take to appreciate Trace right now. He could so easily have just sided with his buddy and turned his back on me. Trace being Trace, however, is at least able to differentiate between people having issues with Justin and people having issues with him. I think there's an unfortunate stereotype he has to put up with; people assume he's just the lapdog and that as JT goes so goes his nation. Don't get me wrong, I think if I'd hugely betrayed Justin or something I wouldn't see Trace for dust either, but right now I'm just thankful he's not so petty with his allegiances that he'd stop being my friend over some silly tiff I had with the pop star.

Might I add, it was totally silly. That whole night was kind of ridiculous. Justin was being drunk and a great big girl, I was being an ungrateful killjoy, and then that whole thing in the corridor… dear God, do I think I'm Paris Hilton now? I'm supposed to have more common sense than that; anybody could have walked in there and caught us. The ensuing scandal would then have hurt Justin's career and absolutely killed mine. I was so caught up in the moment that the second we stopped and my brain kicked back in I was more embarrassed than I've ever been in my life.

That's not the only thing either; I'm kind of appalled that the way I chose to deal with being angry at him was to turn into Ms Back Corridor Whore. Since when do I deal with my issues by screwing a guy? It wasn't exactly the most mature and adult moment of my life, that's for sure. I couldn't even look at Justin, I was so humiliated. I'm not quite sure how that then translated into Justin dumping me - Sophie barged in before I had any time to think or respond to him, but in hindsight I think Justin took my mortification for me being embarrassed at him rather than at the way I acted. Naturally he hasn't spoken to me in the meantime for me to set the record straight.

I would like to set the record straight, and maybe if Brett 'The Taskmaster' Henderson would lay off me for two seconds I could go do that. Justin's kind of prickly when wounded and it's going to take multiple attempts which I do not have time for right now. Still… I don't want to leave it too long. I feel bad about the whole thing. As well I should, I guess, but I'm still kind of annoyed that he just leapt to a conclusion there. I've sent him a few texts since to ask if he feels like talking, but naturally they haven't been replied to.

"Do you think you're going to make it up with Sophie?"

Great - in order to get off one awkward topic he's jumped right to another. Well, I guess it's less awkward for him maybe, but for me it's definitely a rock and a hard place kind of deal. I understand though; pretty much the first thing he said to me was that I'd better not tell him too much about my side of this whole weird fight with Justin. He says that it's a conflict of interests and that he'd never be able to help opening his mouth to Justin. Why this means I have to talk about Sophie instead I'm not sure, but I guess I owe Trace here.

"Umm…" I prop my elbow up on the arm of the sofa and rest my cheek in my hand. "I don't know. In a lot of ways I miss her, but I'm still kind of furious that she fired me for no reason and that she's being petty about the whole Justin thing."

"Well, if Kennedy managed to come up with a decent explanation for her part of it, maybe Sophie will too?" Trace throws the thought out there and I guess I can kind of see what he means, but at the same time I can't think what explanation there could possibly be.

"But what though? How can she ever justify firing me because Kennedy had a bitch fit at her? I mean, God, it has to be the first time in her life she paid much attention to anything Ken ever said."

"Hey, I never said I had all the answers," he says as he grabs a packet of Doritos from the table in front of them and noisily opens it.

"That's because you're an idiot."

"As are you."

"As am I." I give him a wink and he gives me a smile. It helps me ignore the lump that's been sitting heavily in my stomach ever since I watched Sophie and Justin both slam doors shut on me. "How about we talk about something that doesn't involve me fighting with people?"

"Oh, wanna hear about my idea for the fall show?"

I presume he's talking about William Rast, so I say "sure" and settle in to listen to him talk about colour swatches and catwalk shapes and lighting designs. It sure beats being reminded of my various screw ups. Though speaking of those… if I only sent my last message to Justin yesterday is it too stalker-esque to send another today?

***

"Yo, dude, in here," I call out in response to Rachael's yelled greeting. I should get an intercom for inside the house as well as the gate - trying to be heard across rooms in this cavern requires a lot of lung power.

"Since when am I a dude?" The yell sounds a little closer and sure enough it's only thirty seconds before she's in the kitchen with me. Although she lives in the guest house and we try to make sure we're not always hanging out together (in case we start overdosing on each other and thus fighting), most nights she'll come over and cook with me. This is the good thing about having a cousin nearby - I almost never have to be alone if I don't want to be.

"Remind me what I'm doing with these potatoes?" I ask. Rachael's half made some thing called a shepherd's pie, which is groovy and all but she told me to peel and boil some potatoes and then waltzed off for half an hour without telling me what else I need to do with the darn things.

"You mash 'em and spread them on top of the meat in the dish, and then we throw it in the oven."

"Oh, okay." This seems wrong to me. She claims it's some British thing she got out of Jamie Oliver's cook book but these English people seem kind of whack to me if this is their idea of cuisine. Meat and potatoes are supposed to be cooked separately, as far as I'm concerned. Why mix them up?

Rachael reaches into a drawer and hands me the masher - she knows the utensils in here better than I do - and I get to work. Call me weird but I kind of like my mashed potatoes a little lumpy, so I'm not quite as thorough as I could be. She reaches into the fridge and without asking picks me up a Bud as well as one for herself. This is why I love my cousin, she knows what's needed.

"Umm, hello genius, you need some milk and butter in there too!" She taps the recipe book and rolls her eyes at me before grabbing the necessary additions from the counter.

"Hey, I'm an old fashioned guy - I was raised to believe that men bring home the bacon and women cook it. How'd you expect me to know?"

"We're not cooking bacon and you know as well as I do that your momma raised you to shut up and help. I'm pretty sure she also taught your dumb ass to read, too, so a recipe shouldn't be beyond you." Rachael clips me upside my head affectionately and then starts grabbing some of the dirty pans and tossing them in the sink.

"Well fine then. My dumb ass will no longer be taking you surfing on Saturday," I sniff.

"Oh, Saturday? I'd love to but I can't do Saturday," she says as she takes the masher from me and starts pounding out all those lumps I like.

"What you up to?" I ask as I grab it back from her and jealously safeguard my potatoes which will be done as I want them, damn it.

"Oh, me and Chelsea are going to that new exhibition at the museum, the one on film production and Old Hollywood and stuff."

"Oh." It takes me a second, but then finally it hits me that she's talking about Chelsea who is the source of my current pissy mood. "Chelsea?"

"Yeah." Rachael nods as if this were no big deal.

"I didn't know you were still talking to her," I say sourly. Rachael slings an arm around me and pokes my cheek.

"What, you thought Trace was the only person around here who's friends with her?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?" The tone is teasing and she's smiling, but deep down I know that this is really her laying down the law. "This isn't third grade, J - I'm allowed to be friends with her too."

"I know!" I say defensively. Actually I'd like to throw a bitch fit and tell her never to see her again, but the chick has cunningly set me up so that anything I say to veto this makes me sound like a total child. I hate women and all their wily ways.

Honestly, I thought at least Rachael had taken my side when Trace refuses to, but I guess not. Maybe it's immature of me to want there to be sides, but my ego's taken a bruising here and knowing they're all still bestest buds doesn't help. With all the hot and cold she was running Chelsea really has done a number on me, and it kind of stings knowing that she's still hanging out with my friends like nothing's happened. Trace rolled his eyes at me when I said that, but it's true. Actually, I'm kind of especially fucked off with Trace about it. He was the one saying she was stringing me along and now he's the one saying I haven't considered her side of what happened. I mean, make your fucking mind up brother.

I especially didn't appreciate it when he called what I did "screwing her and abandoning her without letting her get a word in." Excuse me? She's the one who was stood there looking at me like I was the most shameful thing that had ever happened in her life. I mean, okay, that whole thing was kind of weird and angry sex is always kind of awkward when you're done… but compared to what Monica and I used to be like that was nothing.

Also, I'm really pissed that she never told Sophie. I mean, I know she told me she hadn't when Sophie paid that unexpected visit to her apartment, but I thought by now it would have come out. It was embarrassing enough that she was so ashamed of me before Sophie walked in on us, but when she did Chelsea went twice as red and I could just tell.

Ugh. I was kidding myself the whole time. I was being used and once again I failed to notice. I need to give up women. Do they let you become a monk if you're not Catholic?

"Hey." Rachael pokes me again. I guess I was silent too long. "Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"You so are and you know it."

"What?" I say defensively, prompting a sigh from her.

"Justin, I love you and all but I'm not going to ditch a friend just because you had a falling out."

"I wasn't asking you to!"

"Maybe not out loud but you're getting awful bent out of shape about it," she says bluntly as she snaps the top on her Bud. "You know, I seriously think you should talk to her."

"Yeah, right." I fold my arms over my chest in defiance.

"She keeps texting you so clearly she wants to make it up. I mean, isn't that what you were whining about? That supposedly she doesn't care?"

"What?" I don't see her logic at all, but I will admit to some measure of interest here. Only academic interest though, like I said I'm giving up women. Do they let priests watch porn or when they say give up sex do they mean totally and in all forms?

"If she didn't care, she wouldn't bother."

Rachael swipes the bowl from me, briskly mashes up the last of my lumps, and then starts spooning the potatoes out over the meat already sitting in the casserole dish. I stay silent, still pouting (I did not just admit that) but I confess to being a little confused. There's a treacherous part of me that kind of likes her thinking but a bigger part of me is telling myself not to get taken for that ride again. It is true though that Chelsea's last text message to me was only sent half an hour ago. She hasn't been too full on about it, that's not her style, but she is still attempting to talk to me. Every time I get one of her messages I spend about an hour debating over whether to reply before the 'screw you' part of my brain kicks in and I delete it.

"Chelsea… she's not a big gesture kind of person," Rachael tells me as she tries to spread the potatoes evenly. "She's used to being the player in the background and not making a big deal out of stuff, and obviously it makes her uncomfortable putting it all out there. I know you're Mr Romantic and all but maybe it's time you started looking for all these signs you wanted in less obvious places. Starting with the fact that two weeks later, she's still asking you to talk."

Hmm… maybe, I guess, but I doubt it. I'm still trying to picture myself in those brown monk robes. Do they come in any other colour?

"But carrot's a vegetable, Auntie Chelsea. So if I have cake is like having vegetable?"

My face cracks into an enormous smile. If carrot is a vegetable then so must be carrot cake - that's my kind of logic. I love my niece.

"You have to do what Mommy says, sweetie, so if she says no cake then no cake."

"But why?"

"Because Mommy's the boss - now you go back to the table and finish your lunch, okay?"

"Okay. Bye bye."

"Bye, sweetie."

The other way in which my niece is already a chip of the old Auntie block is that she's already sneaking away from the dinner table to make phone calls - and she's already worked out speed dial. This is so bad and I really ought to tell Lisa, but I kind of like being the cool Aunt they come to for the fun stuff. Plus, much as I love my sister she can be a very overzealous mom; she'd probably call this 'a rebellion against authority' and 'underlying deception' and want to pack her off to a child psychologist. She already did that once and it was a very expensive way to find out what everybody knows - little boys are dirty creatures and they often take longer to potty train. It's not psychological, it's the Y chromosome.

"You got nieces or nephews?" Rachael asks as she wipes her forehead and looks critically at the wall we just finished painting. She's redecorating one of the rooms in Justin's guest house and this was the last wall to need its final coat. The others were all done a couple of days ago and so are ready for us to break out the stencils and the spray cans she's bought. I think this woman has watched one too many of those home makeover shows.

"Yeah, a few. My niece just wanted to know if carrot cake counts as a vegetable," I laugh.

Rachael smiles and giggles too. "Your niece thinks like me. So are you ready?"

"Yeah, about that…" I look doubtfully down at the paint can in my hand. "Are you sure this isn't something we should leave to the professionals?"

"But it's fun!"

Well, yeah, it has been fun, but it could be expensive and annoying to fix if I screw this up. She basically has these stencils that she wants us to spray along the middle of the wall as a border, which she's marked out. She's even taped some newspaper either side of it so if we have any mishaps with the can it won't get on the walls, but I just… this is a bad idea, I feel. It was fine when we were just doing a plain wall and pretending to dab each other with paint, and she stuck a paint brush through my hair like a chopstick, but this makes me nervous. Why couldn't she just buy some wallpaper border? Pasting and sticking, I can totally do that.

"Okay but I am not paying for the interior decorator to come by when I inevitably mess up!"

Rachael goes first, holding the stencil to the patch of bare wall between the newspapers. She's exacting about making sure it's straight and in the right spot, so there are a few seconds before she gingerly shakes the can and sprays. She's careful not to overdo it, so when she pulls the stencil away there's actually a pretty neat silver leaf motif against the wall

"Woohoo!" She punches her fists in the air in triumph. I feel this a little premature since there's an entire room to do (plus there's another stencil to go on top), but I guess I feel mildly better about attempting this myself.

"Oh, I have to turn this up!" I bounce over to the docking station I plugged my iPod into and start jamming out to Candyman. I wasn't a huge fan of Christina's faux forties phase (I preferred Stripped), but this song rules.

Rachael's immediately laughing at me as I wiggle my hips and do my own little Andrews Sisters style dance to it. If it was Kennedy she'd be doing the exact same thing, but Rachael's a little less girly than we are so she's just taking amusement at my expense and egging me on. That's okay, so long as we're laughing all is right with the world. She laughs even harder when I pick up my stencil and work the rhythmic bass line into the way I shake and spray the paint. You know, oddly enough that kind of works for even coverage. Would that go for nail polish too?

"Come on, shake that ass!" I tell her as I shimmy my hips and shoulders. Then it's my turn to laugh as Rachael takes me literally and hops backward across the room, leading with her butt like she's doing the Beyonce booty shake and the moonwalk all at once.

Then a wolf whistle from the doorway stops us in our tracks and we both freeze in total embarrassment. "Work it Mommas!" Trace calls out through manic laughter.

I have to admit I'm paying more attention to Justin than Trace. He's leaning against the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, and the only amusement getting out through his rock face exterior is a small smile. He looks cold and impenetrable.

"Say, Rach, can you teach me how to do that?" Trace does his best impression of what she was doing and I burst into laughter that's a little too hysterical as Rachael beats at him with a spare paintbrush.

"What do you want, losers?"

"Sorry, we didn't know you had Chels over and we were going to ask if you wanted the last game ticket."

"Oh, you guys going to the Lakers tonight?" I'm answering Trace but my gaze is firmly on Justin. It's strange seeing him in the flesh when he's been refusing to take my calls for about a month. He's been like a ghost - I've been over here a lot for Rachael and Trace lately but he seems to magically disappear through a doorway and not emerge until after I've left. I won't lie, it really stings.

"Yep. I'd invite you if we had another ticket but…"

"It's okay Trace, I'm booked with the boss tonight."

"Oh yeah? How's it going?" He smiles brightly as I turn down the Beatles song that just came on.

"Great. Just a meeting with some director."

I'm lying through my teeth. I am completely free and available tonight, and if I wasn't it would not be on account of Brett Henderson who fired me yesterday. It's a very long story, but the crux of it is I blew my big chance because I was stupid and let my heart get in the way of my head for the millionth time. See, it's moments like this I think I ought to let the whole Justin thing go because clearly when I get emotionally involved with people it makes me crazy and then I make stupid life decisions. I was so involved with Sophie I stuck with her years longer than I should and I'm now so involved with Justin that I've got fired for spending more time being his personal assistant than Brett's.

Not that Justin has any idea - I basically did it undercover for Rachael. Well, I say for Rachael, it was more my lame way of trying to assuage my Justin guilt. Rachael was ill and way too busy, so I immediately stepped in and took not just some but all of the slack. I basically did her entire job for her when all it would have taken was my picking up a few errands at the end of the day. As usual, I just threw myself in trying to do everything myself and because I was so good at doing her job I totally neglected mine. So, yep, I've totally shot myself in the foot because I'm now completely unemployed and Brett Henderson is now going to tell every producer he knows that I'm a waste of space. All because I've fallen ass over feet for Justin Timberlake and it's made me stupid.

Yeah, okay, I admit it. Ass over feet. Me. I have fallen. For Justin. Who isn't even talking to me and has no idea I did any of this and who is doing everything he can not to look at me. BAH.

"So to get to why we're actually here…" Justin is talking to Rachael and Rachael alone. "You in for tonight? And also do you have a first aid kit?"

"Yes for tonight and no to the first aid kit. Why?"

Justin lifts his shirt and down his left side is a long and pretty nasty looking graze. It's not deep but it's covered in dirt. "Couldn't find one in my bathroom."

I immediately rush for my bag. I took the kids out yesterday and Lisa will not let me take them anywhere unless I have a supply of band aids and antiseptic. She does have the world's most accident prone children. They just have so much enthusiasm for everything it makes them a little too fearless, I guess. Never something you could accuse me of, fearlessness…

Pulling the bottle out with the small bag of cotton wool pads that come with it, I soak one of them and walk to Justin. "Hold your shirt up." He looks like he's about to protest, but a glare from Trace makes him acquiesce. He still doesn't speak a single word to me, but he's co-operating.

"Oww!" He protests as the first pad brushes against his torn skin.

"Sorry," I tell him. "It stings but it works." I continue to work as gently as I can, sweeping dirt out of the scratches until they're as clean as I can get them. A little dirt won't kill him, especially since theses grazes are very shallow, just surface scratches, but a lot of it could make those things get a little infected which is unpleasant.

"God, how did you do that? That's a lot of dirt," Rachael observes as I get onto my sixth cotton pad. The scratches go practically from his hip to the middle of his rib cage, they are pretty long.

"We were running with the dogs and I slipped in some gravel and kind of skidded."

Okay, is it bad that I missed most of that because I was kind of busy staring at his abs? I just… it's kind of weird being this close to him now. I know I refused to put a label on it, but he was pretty much my boyfriend and the last time I saw his abs we were doing the kind of things a girl does with her boyfriend and it's just weird. I feel like the nerve endings in my hands are inflamed, I have this weird pins and needles feeling.

"Looks like it hurt," I say to him.

"That's fine now, thanks." He brushes my hand away and the material has dropped back over his skin before I can even blink. Awkwardly I stand up and move aside. I feel almost like some servant girl who's just been brushed off by Henry VIII or something. Not that Henry VIII brushed girls off without some sex first, if that Jonathan Rhys Meyers series is to be believed, but whatever. It's weird, this is probably the only time he's ever known me that he's done the whole celebrity 'you are beneath me and thus are invisible' trick. That trick's bad enough coming from some prima donna I don't even like anyway, but from Justin it's a doozy.

Even with Trace and Rachael here I was hoping I could ask him to talk, but the way he's acting I know I'm going to get ignored and that hurts way more in person than it does by text messages, so I stay quiet.

"Look, Rach, I probably ought to go. It's later than I thought it would be and I have to get ready and everything. I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." She looks at me with a sympathetic expression, knowing why I'm really leaving. "Good luck tonight."

"Thanks. Bye guys."

I scoop up my bag and leave before either of them could say a lot to me. I know Justin would say nada anyway, but for some reason I just don't want to hear Trace trying to cover up the awkwardness like he normally does.

***

Well, I suppose when I made up a dinner meeting with my boss it was only the meeting and boss parts that weren't true. I have put on some nice clothes and come out to my favourite noodle bar. Thankfully they get a few people who come in by themselves so they don't give you the pitying looks that a lot of places do. Being Hollywood they get a lot of people by themselves either script writing or reading scripts alone over lunch. I guess sometimes living in this town does come up with the occasional perk.

I'm sitting here with a small bowl of complimentary miso soup and a much bigger one of my favourite spicy chicken ramen, but I'm a little miserable. I have in front of me the Hollywood Bible - it's one of the industry papers that basically lists all the production companies around - and I'm trying to work out who I haven't already applied to and who is not going to have heard bad things from Enrique Fuentes or Brett Henderson. The list is depressingly small, particularly when you count in the people I already sent letters off to before scoring the role with Brett who gave me 'don't call us we'll call you.' The food is kind of tasteless in my mouth as I slowly chew, wondering how the heck I'm going to get myself another job.

I'm so stupid. I should never have blown off my job for Justin. It's so unprofessional and it was totally pointless seeing as he hates me anyway.

I'm so intent on what I'm doing I only notice somebody's sliding into the other side of the booth when a leg accidentally kicks mine. It makes me jump and I nearly knock my ramen flying. A soft hand clamps down on my arm as if to steady me.

"Ahh, lo siento. Didn't mean to scare you."

Well I'll be damned. "What are you doing here?"

Sophie shrugs. "I was just going to grab some sushi to go but I walked in and they were immediately saying how you were already here and they'd show me to our table."

Oh - Sophie and I used to come in here all the time. We're pretty well known to these guys because this restaurant is good but not paparazzi central, it was a favourite spot of ours. I guess they saw Sophie and automatically assume she was meeting me. I can't blame them; we've only been here together about seven zillion times.

"Sorry, I thought you were mad at me," I say.

"Well I knew you were mad at me," she smiles wryly. "Nah, I was."

"Was?" I question.

"Was," she echoes with a wistful sigh.

"Why?" I keep pushing.

"The pretend reason was Justin but if I'd been honest with myself it's just because I miss you and I was frustrated that you still weren't talking to me. Especially when you'd made up with Kennedy."

"How do you know I made up with her?"

"I have spies."

"That's creepy."

Suddenly I'm uncomfortable and I pick at my noodles with my chopsticks, chin resting in my other hand. It feels weird to know that she's still been checking up on me since she fired me. It also makes me wonder if she knew about me and Justin long before she let on. Mostly though, I'm just so weary at this point that I feel bone tired. I'm kind of sick of everything being so hard and confusing. It makes me feel helpless and dumb and weak and pretty much like a worthless human being.

"I'm sorry," she sighs.

A waiter interrupts and takes her order, and rather than sushi she goes for the vegetable katsu curry, a personal favourite of ours. She orders a bottle of wine and two glasses. It's somewhat presumptuous of her, but I don't have the strength to send her packing. I don't have the strength to resist her much longer to be honest, so she might as well say her piece and then if I still hate her I can just walk away.

When she's done Sophie turns back to me, looks me dead in the eye and picks up my hand in hers. "I'm sorry," she repeats.

"For what?" I respond blandly. "Firing me, spying on me…"

"Look, I fired you…" Her expression trembles a little and her eyes momentarily dart to her lap, away from my gaze. "I know it's stupid now, but at the time I honestly thought I was helping."

"How would that help?" I ask incredulously.

"Kennedy was right when she said I held you back," she shrugs. "She was a total bitch to me and most of what she said was just her being a bruja, but she was right about me holding you back. In mi corazon I've always kind of known that you should be doing bigger and better than being my personal assistant, but I love you and I wanted to keep you. You were never going to leave me because you're so scared of putting yourself out there, and in the back of my head I knew that you would stay pretty much forever so long as I didn't piss you off too much."

My jaw is hanging open while she makes this speech, but she's not done yet. If this were one of her movies, this would be like the third scene from the end and this would be the big dramatic moment they show at all the awards shows.

"Kennedy was right though. If I was being a better friend to you I would have encouraged you to put yourself out there and helped you move on from me. Except I was so selfish I couldn't bear to, and after she said all that to me I knew that if I didn't just make a clean break and fire you I'd only end up doing the same thing all over again. So I did. It killed me, but I did it."

She… WHAT? She fired me because she loves me? She fired me because she thinks I can do better? WHAT? How the FUCK did she manage to come up with an explanation for that utter piece of craziness she pulled? HOW? How the fuck does this woman always get away with everything? How… why… how… I am so confused right now.

"I just… I know it was stupid and I should have just talked to you about all this instead of firing you, but I stupidly didn't expect you to be so angry and then when you were and you wouldn't let me explain…"

"And Justin?" I choke out.

"I was just pissed that you never told me. And I was kind of pissed that you used to be my PA and my best friend and now you're his."

"Actually no, I lost that job too and now he's not talking to me," I tell her faintly.

"Oh, I'm sorry chica." With the hand that's not holding mine she reaches out to rub my wrist sympathetically. "Whatever it is I'm sure he'll come round."

Wordlessly I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. She's totally knocked me for six here. Never, not once in all the times I dwelled on my misfortune, did I ever consider that there might be any positive reasons for her doing what she did. I mean, it's still a really stupid move on her part and I don't know anybody else who'd react that dramatically, but in some badly thought out way she really had my best interests at heart. That would mean she's not the selfish bitch she acted like and was just being the friend I've always known her to be.

Actually, now I think about it, this whole thing is so Sophie. Doing something utterly ridiculous out of the best of intentions.

"Listen…" Sophie now grasps my hands in both of hers, looking hopeful. "I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?" I squeak.

"I heard about Brett Henderson."

"Oh," I grouch.

"I have a job offer for you. I want you to come work for me."

Wait… didn't she just say she fired me to help me further myself? And now she wants me to come back and work for her again? How would that be furthering myself? What is this woman on?

"On the production company, I mean, not as my PA." She rushed that out and I'm guessing it was after she saw the look on my face. "It'd be a new role for you, more about what you actually want to do and not so… subslave? Subservant?"

"Subservient?" I correct her.

"Yeah, that. I just… you worked so hard on it with me and it seems wrong doing it without you, and I really miss you Chelsea. I'll totally up your salary, too. Call it my birthday gift."

Well, at least somebody who wasn't my mom or Kennedy remembered that it's my birthday today. Nobody else did and those two are out of state, so they don't count. I look up at Sophie and a faint ghost of a smile passes over my face. I guess if nothing else, now I won't have to spend it alone.

"Okay."

"Really?" She gets the big movie star smile going on and in a flush of relief I realise how glad I am of it.

"Si."

It's pretty weird to be standing outside this photo studio right now. My mom often says to me that life is a circle and eventually you'll find yourself back where you started, but it feels strange to be finally kicking off the promo for this movie when it feels like a life time ago that we made it. This movie introduced me to Chelsea and Sophie and a whole world of weirdness, and it's going to be strange facing Sophie again. On the bright side, at least Chelsea isn't her PA any more. That would be seriously awkward. Part of me wants to get this over with, just face Sophie and get out, but another part of me really wants to turn heel and run.

Rachael links her arm through mine and we follow Randy as he leads the way through the doors. It's a fairly bland building, all white stucco and no personality. That seems fitting somehow, since this day is likely to be boring as hell on top of awkward. This entire thing is going to be nothing but photo shoots, and it's pretty tedious because it involves so much changing of clothes and waiting around. The movie isn't going to be out until Christmas, but this is the time that they start letting little pieces out about it and we three starring actors will have to start dropping it into our interviews pretty heavily. Today I think Elliot and I are going to have to stand around a lot both looking competitive over Sophie, and I think she and I are going to have to do a few publicity shots in various seductive poses. Yippie-yi-yay.

"Hey!" Hannah says as she sees us coming. She's standing by the elevator with a rack full of clothing that I presume is mine.

It's unusual that I get my own stylist on a photo shoot that isn't for music related activities, normally the film production company organises that, but this time Hannah's arranging my outfits and I'm most grateful. No good stylist is ever going to let you look like shit, but a lot of them don't particularly care if you feel comfortable or like yourself in clothes. Hannah makes sure that I'm still 'me' in my shots so I'm happy to have her. I'm always happy to have my own people around me when I'm doing movie stuff, because sometimes I feel like if any part of the entertainment industry would swallow me it'll be Hollywood rather than the music side of things.

"Hey," I respond with a smile. "Gonna make me look good today?"

"Do I ever fail you?"

"Never yet."

"Well there ya go then," she says before blowing me a raspberry. I like Hannah; she's such a kid at heart.

"So how long is this whole thing going to take?" I ask Rachael the question like I don't already know the answer. They picked me up at 8am, they claim they have a lot to get through and photo shoots always involve a lot of hanging around waiting for them to be done with the lights.

"Their best guess is we're not out of here until at least four."

"Ahh."

Okay, I know that was kind of whiny, but I don't want to be here today. I made the teeny tiny mistake of getting a little overfriendly with a girl in a club a few days ago and the paparazzi will not leave me alone now. Especially since she's now gone ahead and sold a story like anything more than a little dirty dancin' happened. I suppose I should be grateful she didn't tell them I had a tiny dick and was crap in bed, but the whole thing is so untrue. We didn't even kiss. I'm also trying not to dwell on the fact that this is the girl Chelsea yanked me away from the night she and I first hooked up - which she did on grounds that she had 'kiss and tell' written all over her.

She called it and I'm kind of bitter about that, both that she was right and that it was her who said it at all.

Whatever, it does not make for me in full professional and focussed mode. I know a true professional should be able to turn that on and off like a light no matter what's going on personally, but I find it a little harder than that. I can do it, but it takes a huge toll on my mood and my general state of mind. That's part of the reason I always have to take a break during albums - part of it is that creatively I like to wait until I have something new to say, the other part is that the constant trying to rise above the media shit wears me down too much otherwise. When I don't have to work I can bitch just as much as I want about it, when I'm at work my schedule's usually too full to let me vent.

"So what shots are they trying to get today?" I should at least pretend to be interested.

"They want some solo shots, some group shots, some of you and Sophie, and they want to do some publicity shots with the outfits from the big benefit scene so you and Sophie will be getting your formal wear on," Hannah advises me. "They've also got some set ups with your office desks and typewriters and cheesy journalist stuff."

"When this is done, I'm going to need to drink," I mutter sideways at Rachael. She just rolls her eyes at me.

I'm kind of pissing Rachael off at the moment, between my bad press mood and my 'treatment' of Chelsea. Trace and Rachael have both told me they're really fucked off by the way I blank her, but I don't see what the problem is. I can't trust myself to hold my tongue if I speak to her, so I don't speak to her. They accuse me of putting them in the middle of me and her; I say that's ridiculous, I'm not telling anybody not to hang. And besides, whose fucking friends do they think they were first? If you ask me I think Rachael's just in a pissy mood anyway, and whenever she's in a pissy mood she gets extra annoyed if I'm in one. Seems to think nobody else is allowed while she's exercising that privilege.

It only adds to my pissy mood when I walk into the room and there on the couch by the hospitality snacks and drinks is none other than Chelsea, looking remarkably friendly with Sophie for somebody who claimed she'd never speak to her again. They're clearly laughing about something and Chelsea has a big stack of papers on her lap… don't tell me she's the PA again? And what happened to that movie producer guy I thought she was working for?

That's so pathetic. I'm not even saying that to be mean, it's pathetic if Chelsea took that job back when she got treated like shit and it's beneath her anyway. See? I'm not just being mean if I still admit she's better than that job. I don't care if it's mean, though, when I say that I'm now even less happy about being here than I was before. I don't want to spend the day with the woman who played me along and then acted like she was ashamed of me.

This is going to be a long, long day.

***

It's not eavesdropping if they're right next to you and it's impossible to ignore them, right? Rachael has totally abandoned my ass (maybe I should consider a pay cut) to spend all her time chatting to Chelsea and Sophie. Rachael doesn't even know Sophie. Rachael agreed from all my tales of Sophie that Sophie sounded like kind of a bitch. Why has she abandoned me to go sit with her then? Especially since there's nothing to do here and I'm so bored I'm reading this copy of FHM for the second time today?

Unless… has Chelsea been back with Sophie for a while? Because if she has… shit, has my cousin being hanging out with Sophie Lumos behind my back?

Whatever. I'm bored, this is dull as hell. It's only mid day and I must be on my fifth set of clothing. These lights are so hot I'm sweating out half my make up, but at least I'm not Sophie who has to be redone from scratch every time she changes outfits - women's make up is complicated. With me they're just evening out my skin for the shots, but for her they've got to get work make up and casual make up and going out make up… it's really complicated. I'm so glad I got a Y chromosome. Sitting in the make up chair is mind numbing enough even when all they're doing is covering a few zits or whatever.

"So what exactly is it you're doing now?" Rachael asks Chelsea. They've been discussing this production company Sophie's setting up for the last twenty minutes or so. I have not been eavesdropping for twenty minutes, because like I said before it's not eavesdropping if you can't help overhearing.

"I'm going to be a production assistant but I'm also going to handle Sophie's admin and her side of the business," Chelsea explains. "I'm kind of like a weird cross between a PA and a junior producer."

"So what are you doing here?" Rachael asks. "I mean, not that you're not allowed…" All three of them laugh together, which makes Sophie's make up artist scold her for moving her lips.v "She's just hanging with me. Though she did bring a ton of papers for me to sign too, but these days she's just kind of along for the ride sometimes, her actual job is exclusively on the production stuff. She's not with me all the time and I'm not making her fetch my coffee any more."

"Damn straight," Chelsea snorts and they all burst into giggles again. Oh… so she's not a PA any more? I can't keep up with this whole thing. Part of me is itching to know how they even made things up at all, let alone started working together again, but I quickly realised from the way they were being that Rachael was already aware of all that and thus it wasn't a topic they'd discuss. Since I'm sure as hell not asking, I'm going to have to grill Trace later. I bet he knows.

Not that I'm interested. I mean, I am, but not out of any, like… I'm only curious.

God, I sound so freaking obsessed, even just to me in my own head. I hate that. I'm so over this whole ridiculous situation and all the wasted energy I spent on it, but when I'm stuck in a room with two of its main instigators it's hard to think about anything else. Also, I keep feeling Chelsea's eyes on me. Maybe I'm just imagining it, but I don't think I am. In this business, with all those paparazzi skulking around, you develop a sixth sense for when you're being watched. Whatever, it's making me uncomfortable and I wish she'd stop it.

"Oh, do I need to call Robert?" Sophie asks Chelsea.

"Oh no, he said it could wait until the meeting tomorrow."

The talk of phones puts me in mind of something else I wish she'd stop: sending me texts or leaving me voicemail. She's not one of those ceaseless stalkers who do it every hour, but still every few days or so she'll leave me something and it's bugging me. It also confuses me that when she sees me she won't do a damn thing about it; she just looks awkward and says nothing. If she wanted to talk to me why doesn't she attempt it in person?

Though, I guess if I'm being fair I do keep walking out of the room whenever I see her. Maybe if I was in that situation I'd be looking at the phone as a safer tactic too.

They're chit chatting away about some book Sophie wants to get the rights to for the company's first movie, and I admit that my eyes keep flicking over to Chelsea. She's in one of those floor length summer dresses that seem to be all the rage right now, a black one, and her hair is scraped back from her face into a tight bun. There's a healthy pink flush to her cheeks and the make up is minimal, the face adorned with a smile and not much else. She looks preppy, even for her, but she looks happy. Pretty much every time I see her these days she's frowning - probably because I keep blanking her, I admit it - but she seems really relaxed with Sophie. How the fuck did Sophie manage that?

"Justin and Sophie to the set please!" I hear the call and it jolts me back into reality. It turns out I didn't even notice that the make up artists have long since stopped on both me and Sophie.

I stride on over, happy for the excuse to concentrate on something else. But as the photographer directs me and Sophie into our first set of poses and I realise we're going to be pressed up and cheek to cheek, it quickly occurs to me that this isn't much of an improvement. We're standing on a large roll of white seamless, which no doubt will have some New York backdrop imposed on it for the photos. Not a single part of the movie was shot in New York, but this is the glory of Hollywood.

"So how are you, Justin?" Sophie asks politely as there's yet more messing with the lights.

"Fine, thanks. You?"

"Fine. So what you up to besides this right now? Anything in the pipeline?"

Oh good, awkward small talk. "No. Looking at a few scripts but nothing's grabbing me."

"Having a dry patch with them myself, that's why I'm so glad we're getting this company up and running so I can create my own projects," she says cheerily. How is this woman always so cheerful? It's not natural.

"That's good."

"So what are you doing with your time then if you're not working? Anything exciting?"

Sophie must be one of those people who just can't bear silence, I've decided. That can be the only reason that she persists in trying to make conversation. "Not much, just having some fun and relaxing, going to a few parties and stuff."

"Yeah, I read that thing in the paper. Don't worry, nobody believes her anyway."

Oh, sting in the tail - I probably should have seen one of those coming. Thanks for the reminder there, Soph, you're a pal. "I'm not worried."

"Have to be careful who you keep around in this business; that's why I'm so grateful for Chels, she's got an eye for those types and she always steers me clear. God, how long does it take to fix a light?"

Okay, she has SO been told that story because it cannot be a coincidence that she just said that. I suppose that means that Chelsea has finally had some balls and told her the whole sad tale. Little late, but I guess you can't have everything. Got to love the little touch with the lights there too, trying to act like the first part of what she said was no big deal. Did I mention before that I hate women?

"Well, let's hope we can get this all over with as soon as possible," I gripe. See? She's not the only one who can take barely concealed shots at somebody.

Maybe the photographer heard, because finally he calls for us to pose and he starts clicking. Sophie and I are standing holding each other but with the front side of our bodies slightly tweaked towards the camera to give him a better shot. Her head is bent so that her hair lightly brushes my chin, and we're both staring down the lens like we're having a competition with it. I'm briefly distracted for a moment when I see Rachael and Chelsea whispering about something, both staring my way, but then I realise it's not my way it's our way - we are the subject of a photo shoot after all, everybody's looking at us. Plus the photographer just yelled at me for it.

"You know, I can't figure you out," Sophie says to me breezily when the lights need to be readjusted yet again before our next pose.

"Excuse me?" What's she going on about this time?

"You get mad because she's not giving you whatever signals you want or whatever, but now it's blatantly obvious the girl's in love with you and you don't want to know. And they say women are weird."

"Excuse me?" I repeat.

Sophie gets out of answering me when the photographer decides that this time he wants us back to back.

***

I'm not quite sure how I got stuck in an elevator with Chelsea all by myself, but I don't appreciate it. Especially since I think two certain broads who shall remain nameless conspired for it to happen this way. I'd accuse Chelsea of being in on it if she didn't look so much like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. To add insult to injury, the button seems to have been pressed on every floor of this pretty tall building and this elevator is slow. It's taking forever.

Actually, no - the insult is the music playing in the background. I recognise my own damn song when I hear it, and What Goes Around was never meant to be played by an ice cream truck. That's what it sounds like, like they taped an ice cream truck playing my song. That song is my biggest masterpiece to date and they're playing it like a kid's nursery rhyme. What the fuck?

"Is that your song?"

"I think so," I nod.

"What the hell did they do to it?" She asks wondrously. See, even she's seeing how bad this is.

"I know, right?"

"You should sue," Chelsea says as she wrinkles her nose in distaste. For a second I'm about to tell her that's a good idea, and then I remember that I'm not talking to her. I just want to get downstairs so we can go on our separate respective lunch breaks like we're supposed to.

Still, it's tempting to temporarily ignore that self imposed rule… I certainly have a few things to… fuck it, I'm talking.

"So you're back with Sophie?" I ask.

There's a funny little jerk of her head, almost like she's surprised I've initiated any further conversation. Well she should be surprised, I am too. "Yeah," she says. "I bumped into her and we talked it out and she offered me this new job."

"Must have been some line she spun, make you forgive her for that." Did that sound as curt as I think it did?

"Long story short, she did a bad thing with good intentions. I prefer to judge people on their hearts rather than their mistakes."

I'm going to pretend I did not hear the sharp edge to that comment or see the somewhat bitter expression that flitted over her face. She does have a pretty good visage going on, that little Hollywood mask she can slip over her emotions, but I at least like to pride myself that I got a little closer than she wanted me to and I can see through such things. Good, I'm glad I pissed her off. Well okay, I'm kind of annoyed that she thinks she's got the right to be pissed off by me, but I'm at least glad I have the ability to bug her.

"And you're back working for her again, after all that."

"I forgive and forget. Fresh start." She's starting to grit her teeth, I can hear it in her voice.

"Hmm. Not something you're known for," I mutter. I don't even care if she heard me. I would dearly like to know why Kennedy and Sophie who did all this shit to her get so easily forgiven and yet I who did nothing but like her got punished for her ex boyfriend's crimes. Not that I care, I mean, I'm over her now, but it's the principle of the thing.

"What happened to that big producer you started working for?"

She flinched again, and this time it was even more visible. I clearly hit a nerve. "Fired."

"Too bad. Why?"

Ahh - she's stood there and taken the pretty abrupt inquisition quietly up until now but this I guess was a question too far. Or maybe it was the slightly mocking tone I just took. "Why do you suddenly give a shit?"

"Excuse me?" I play dumb. "Just making conversation…"

"No, you were just being an ass," she mutters unhappily. "Do me a favour, Justin, I know you hate me now but can you just lay the hell off? You won, okay, I'm the loser and you want nothing to do with me, you made that more than clear from the way you keep blanking me and refusing to let me talk to you about any of this. Do you have to go out of your way to hurt me now, too?"

"Well why the fuck are you still trying then?" I throw back at her. "I didn't make you send all those messages."

"Why am I still trying… good question."

The elevator opens and she rushes out without even stopping to see that we've still got a floor to go. Her flip flops are hitting the floor with a frantic smacking sound as she dashes for the stairs, but I'm more caught by the strangled noise that just came out of her throat and the hand that's clutching at her head. It's not long before her retreating back has totally disappeared - for a woman in a dress she's moved fast. Call me crazy, but I think I just made her cry. And maybe now I think she did know we had a floor to go.

Why is it that annoying her made me feel better but making her cry just made me feel like shit?

"There you go," I grunt as I hoist my niece from the ornately carved horse and deposit her back on the ground. Man these kids of Lisa's are getting too big. Abby may have to become my favourite on grounds of still being a toddler and thus easy to pick up.

"Bye Lily Rose," Becca says seriously as she pats the horse. I don't have the heart to tell her that her story book isn't real and Lily Rose will not be coming alive tonight.

I take my niece's hand and together we stroll along the pier, away from the carousel she's just ridden. I point out a few stalls, hook a duck and the like, but she's not interested in paying out to win cheap plastic prizes. She's a smart kid, this one. She's also pretty quiet, which is why Lisa asks me to take her out every so often. She has this theory that the twins kind of overshadow her and that's why she's so quiet, and that being taken out solo will open her up. I have a theory that her theory is crap and Lisa's just got herself a daughter who takes after her sister rather than herself. Becca reminds me a lot of me, and I turned out okay.

Still, I like these solo visits because I love my niece and she is a great excuse for me to do kids' stuff. Who else am I going to take to a Disney movie, Trace?

For a moment we linger by the railings. Becca peers intently down at the waves beneath us, and when I ask her what she's doing she says she's looking for mermaids. She's a little girl with a big imagination. It wouldn't surprise me if she winds up writing books one day, she reads just as much as I used to (and still do) but she's also very creative. I was more of a practical person, even at that age. I'm working behind the scenes of movies, helping to make them happen, but Becca would be the one coming up with the big idea and finding the words to put it into a script - you know, if she was full grown and not eight years old. I may be getting a little ahead of her here.

I stand behind her for a while, arms locked around her shoulders, just watching with her. I'm a little less convinced than she is that we'll see one of Ariel's pals, but I guess that's the difference between innocence and age. With one thing and another I've been feeling a lot of disappointment lately… well, more than just lately if I'm honest. For a very long time now. A lot of it is my fault, I have to admit that, but still it weighs heavy on you after a while. In a lot of ways I envy my young niece - reality hasn't forced her to give up looking for mermaids yet. Here's hoping it never does.

Eventually I figure that's enough staring down at the water and I tug her away, leading her back along the boardwalk. "So what do you want to do next baby?" I ask as I hold her hand and she trots willingly alongside me.

"Can we go somewhere else?" She looks up at me with impossibly big blue eyes as she asks. "I've been on all the kids' rides already and the rest are too big and scary."

This is another way in which my niece reminds me of me - even at this age, she has this set thought pattern of weighing risk and deciding what she should and shouldn't do. Obviously it's a lot more immature and less full of emotional issues than mine, but it kind of makes me sad in a way. It's times like this I understand Lisa's worry - this kid needs to be a little more carefree while she still can. She's eight, not eighty. That said, I have to agree on her assessment of this pier - she's been on every ride here except the ones she's too small for height wise, and even I'm starting to get sick of cotton candy (also known as sugar in its purest form).

"Sure. So where does Miss Becca want to go?" I ask her as I swing our joined hands.

"Ice cream?" She looks hopeful but I cannot believe she wants to consume more sugar. Is she trying to make me ill? Even I'm feeling kind of sick right now from all the crap we ate on our way around, and I got a pretty darn sweet tooth.

"Hmm, maybe…" I'm distracted by the ringing of my phone, and I have to fumble in my pocket left handed in order to grab it. "Hello?"

"Hey, chica."

"Hey Soph, what's up?" I ask. I see Becca's eyes go wide - she adores Sophie because of this kids' fairytale thing she did called The Last Unicorn. It's cheesy as hell and really old, but she loves it and me working for Sophie is the best thing ever in her eyes. That's why I'm the cool aunt.

"Not much, I was just wondering if you were free to hang this afternoon."

"Sorry, I've got a date with my niece. We were just at the pier and we're trying to work out where to go now."

"Hmmm… do you think she could be convinced to go to the movies? I really want to see the new Pixar but I have no kids to take and so no excuse. I usually have to wait until it comes out on DVD and order from Amazon, save my reputation."

I can't help it, I bust out laughing. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." Even as she says it, I can tell she's smothering giggles too. "I am officially inviting you two to the movies."

"Hey Becca," I ask my niece, "Sophie wants to know if we want to go see a movie with her."

The dark haired child looks up at me as though I just announced that Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are all going to be coming once every week from now on. Her eyes are like saucers and her little pink lips have fallen open in surprise. Her free hand is fisting itself nervously in her sweater, which I have learnt means 'I want to but I'm scared to ask' in Becca Body Language. She nods tentatively, like she thinks I'm going to laugh in her face and tell her it was all a tease - which funnily enough sounds like something her brothers would do.

"I think that's a yes from her Sophie so where are we meeting you?"

***

"She's so cute," Sophie mouths at me as we stand outside the bathroom stalls, waiting for Becca to be done.

"I know," I whisper back with a smile. My niece might be shy, but in the process she's the most charming little thing ever - not so much like me, there. She's so quiet and polite and unassuming that everybody always adores her. The twins, her brothers, are so big and loud that they can be seriously annoying (but then they are boys and every girl knows that boys are just trouble).

"So what are we doing now?" She asks in a more normal tone.

"I have to drop Becca home and then I said I'd go drop those papers into the office."

Sophie's production company, which has now been officially named Light Source (Lumos, light, get it?), has a small set of brand spanking new offices, not far from the Paramount lot. It's all very much a fledgling operation and the vast majority of what we're doing right now is the paperwork to get everything up and running and staff hired. Still, I've got involved because by total luck Sophie's manager came across a script that hasn't been optioned yet, a chick lit book adaptation named The Chocolate Lovers' Club. It's a sure concept for the next big girl movie and by all accounts the script is really funny, but Sophie's probably going to have trouble getting the rights because there are some far bigger players in the industry after it too. None of us are getting our hopes up, but we're going to try.

As a result of all this my new job hasn't involved me doing a heck of a lot just yet. Until we're up and running and have some projects in the works, I don't have much to do. The resulting free time has been both wonderful and yet kind of dull. I'm not used to having so much time off, and I'm finding it hard to relax. I keep feeling like I should be up and doing something. It's weird, I spent all that time as a PA wishing I had more free time and now I have it I can't cope with it. Typical, huh?

To be fair I'd probably have more to do if I wasn't avoiding Trace and Rachael, but I'm never stepping foot in that house again. Not after that whole elevator thing. I'm not ignoring them, we still talk on the phone; I'm just weaselling out of all suggested get together scenarios.

There's a flush of the toilet and a click of the lock, and Becca shuffles out.

"All done sweetie?" I ask. She nods and moves obediently over to the sink where I help her soap and wash her hands - they're a little tall for her. I also grab the hand towels which are out of her reach and dry her hands off.

"Motherhood suits you," Sophie teasingly whispers in my ear only to get a mock glare from me. If only she'd seen me the last time I had Abby and she got sick while under my care, she wouldn't be saying that. I was a mess, panicking it was meningitis or something and watching obsessively for a rash when actually she just had a cold and a little fever.

"So what now?" Sophie wisely changes the subject.

"It's about time I got this one home," I answer.

"Aww…" Becca complains, tugging at my sweater, and I feel a brief moment of smugness. Okay, I'm sure a lot of this has to do with the wonderful Sophie Lumos (or Giselle of Shornwood as Becca first knew her), but I'm taking all the credit. It's nice to know I'm popular with somebody.

"Sorry sweetie, we'll go out again soon." I lean down and kiss the top of her head as we stroll out into the foyer.

"Oh mierda…" Sophie breathes out in a low moan as she sees the wall of paparazzi crowding the glass entrance. At least they weren't allowed in - and at least Sophie had the sense to swear in Spanish and not English. I think Becca probably understands English swear words.

"Where did they come from?" I ask in horror. It's like this solid wall of them, and I don't understand how they knew we were here. We come to this Cineplex all the time, and we never have any trouble - they're smart here, they know that if they don't tip the goons off we'll keep coming back. Not every shop owner or manager or whoever we've come across is that smart.

"I swear to God there wasn't a single person on me when we got here!" She's clutching at her hair and biting her lip. She knows as well as I do that when there are that many waiting, you're going to get swarmed. This isn't even just a handful, it's a horde.

"They're not here for you," a voice says wearily behind us. Sophie and I both turn on our heels, me gripping my niece a little too tight.

"They followed you?" Sophie asks Trace.

"Yep. I don't think they even realised you were here, they just got a serious bonus," he says grimly. Justin is nowhere to be seen but you can bet your ass that the vultures outside aren't here for Trace.

"God. How am I going to get her out of here without getting trampled?" I hiss as quietly as I can, I don't want Becca worrying.

"This your niece?" Trace asks. I nod and he crouches down and offers his hand solemnly for her to shake. "Hey, I'm Trace; I'm a friend of your Aunt's."

"I'm Becca," she shakes his hand timidly.

"That's a pretty name," he says, ruffling her hair before standing back up and looking at me sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I tell him. His very presence here makes me feel guilty that it's been so long since I've seen him, but he's been staying at Justin's rather than at his own place and… oh.

You think of the devil and he appears before you. He's wearing a very pissed off expression - this one has never been somebody who deals well with the paparazzi. The problem is it's written all over his face how uncomfortable he is and they use it - they know to pick on the ones who show that weakness and let the chilled demeanour drop. Sophie can front better than he can. The pissed off expression becomes a mightily awkward one when he spots me and Sophie, but then softens on seeing Becca. I breathe a sigh of relief and thank the Lord that I had her here as a buffer - I couldn't take another one of his sarcastic attempts at small talk, I'm still sore from the last one.

I cried all the way down the stairs, to my car and then on the drive home. In hindsight I think it was the realisation of how futile all my messages and trying to reach out to him had been. Once again I find myself loving a man with little regard for me, though it's more my fault this time than with Will who was just an ass in disguise.

"Hey," he gives us both the nod.

"Hey," Sophie says wryly. "You brought some friends, huh?"

I see Justin eyeballing Becca, and I think she's the only thing holding his tongue and the cussing. "You could say that. We thought if we left before the showing finished we'd catch them while they'd all gone for coffee or something."

"Movie was lame anyway," Trace jokes. The joke was lame too. "So what did the manager say?"

"It's a no go," Justin shakes his head. "They're at the fire exits too. They got the whole building covered the…umm, morons."

I glance nervously out at the horde, trying not to turn my face towards them too much. I can see them all gathering at the doors now. At this point I'm struggling not to cuss myself. This is going to frighten the life out of Becca. Hell, it still frightens the life out of me.

"Well, I guess there's nothing to do but run for it," Trace says grimly before turning to Sophie. "You want to follow me, Soph, I can maybe block you a little?"

"Thanks," she says gratefully. "But what about Chels and Becca?"

"Trace can go first, you gals go in the middle and I'll bring up the rear, hopefully we can make a break for it."

Great, I get Justin breathing down my neck. That's going to be comfortable. I'm not sure precisely when this turned into a 'we're all in this together' scenario, but I'm not personally sure it's the wisest idea. These guys already must think they hit the jackpot, what's it going to look like if we all leave together? I'm also worried that the double shot will make them close in all the closer - I have an eight year old in tow. Lisa is going to murder me when she finds out about this.

But apparently the choice has been made, and so I just brace myself and clench my niece's hand as hard as possible. I hear her say 'oww' and relax my grip, but not very much.

As Trace pushes the door open and the yelling starts, I flinch. My muscles go taut and I brace myself for the worst. I put Becca behind me, using my body as a battering ram to clear her way through. She's now grabbed the back loop of my belt as well as my hand, and even in her less than powerful grip I can sense the fear coming from her touch. I can't believe I was stupid enough to subject her to this, I should have known that hooking up with Sophie risked this (even if technically it was Justin who brought these guys here). The paparazzi aren't as restrained as Justin or Trace, and I hear lots of swearing and lewd comments. They're asking if Justin's slept with Sophie, if he's slept with me or if there's been a threesome going on. They're being absolutely disgusting, and in front of an eight year old. There's pushing and jostling coming from all sides, and I really wish we had guards. Trace has barely managed to move us five feet forward.

Suddenly there's this weird break, and Trace manages to barge through with his hand in Sophie's. It's like the parting of the Red Sea, only Moses already brought his staff back down because they've closed ranks again before I can make use of the path they cleared. I'm not as strong as Trace and I'm not getting us anywhere. I can hear little sobs coming from behind me, and I want to cry myself because I can tell without seeing how terrified she is. Justin's become a little less mindful of her too, yelling at them to get out the fuck out of the way.

It's when I suddenly don't feel hands on my jeans or in mine that my blood really runs cold, and the little cry I hear from behind me. I turn around but I can't even see Justin or Becca, some assholes have pushed their way in between.

"Becca?" I cry frantically. "Becca? Get out of my WAY!" I yell and try to push them aside, but I can't get to her.

Then the asshole who just leered at me and ignored me stumbles back into me, clearly caught off balance. I just about save myself from falling on my ass, he doesn't manage the same. Barging through with his shoulders like a football player, Justin becomes visible and with the biggest sense of relief I ever felt in my life I see he has Becca in his arms. She's sobbing hysterically, but she's not on the floor being trampled which is all I care about right now.

Grabbing my arm with his free hand, Justin yanks me away and continues to shove his way through like an angry bull. "Which way is your car?" He asks me.

"Left," I tell him.

Finally, wonderfully, miraculously we manage to get through the worst of it. We finally have the room to move faster. I'm struggling to keep up with Justin's long legs, but we're managing to put a little distance between us. The paparazzi have split into two smaller mobs, all torn between whether to go after Sophie or Justin (Sophie arrived separately to me so she's at the other end of the lot - I have no idea where Justin's car is).

In a daze I fish my keys from my pocket and point my remote at the car, unlocking it. At high speed Justin wrenches open the passenger door and sits Becca in her seat - she seems scared to let go, and I don't blame her. Quickly he belts her in with a 'there you go' and a ruffle of her hair. I hear a very whiny and high pitched thank you come out through her tears - that's my girl. Scared shitless and still remembers her manners. This is so unfair, she did not deserve this. I bet she's not coming out with me again any time soon, even if Lisa doesn't have me hung from the rafters for this.

"Get gone as fast as you can, they won't follow you."

For a moment I feel a broad hand on my back and I catch his gaze, the sad but brief smile he gives me before he starts jogging away, drawing the photographer's attention with him. He's right; the second he started walking away all the cameras started pointing the other way.

Briefly dazed, I shake my head and then practically run for the driver's side door, barely remembering to put my seatbelt on before peeling out of there as fast as I can. I only wish I could run down a few paparazzi while I'm at it.

"Are you okay baby?" I finally remember to ask Becca as we hit the intersection and stop at the light. I turn to wipe some tears from her cheeks with my thumb.

"Who were those men?" She asks with a hiccup. "Why did they want to hurt us?"

"They didn't want to hurt you, baby, they just wanted pictures of Justin and Sophie and they're very rude when they try to get them. Did you hurt yourself? What happened?"

"A man p-p-pushed me," she sniffles a little harder in the telling of it, "and I fell over but your friend picked me up. It hurt my hand."

She holds it out for my inspection. It's hard trying to pull away and look properly, but I manage it. There's no cuts and she's not screaming as I flex her hand, so I'm guessing it was only a light swipe on the ground, not even enough to draw blood.

"We'll go get that ice cream you wanted," I sigh, "will that help?"

She nods tearfully and then goes quiet. Yet again I curse myself for this. I'm cursing myself for letting my niece get into this mess, for not thinking that this might happen BEFORE it did, for not holding onto her tighter… and for the way my heart was banging double time against my rib cage when he touched me. My niece was in hysterics and I was thinking about a guy? I'm a waste of skin.

This whole thing was one big nightmare, start to finish. The last few months have been one big nightmare, start to finish. How did my life end up being this?

If Sophie looks at me like that one more time, I'm going to slap her. I love her, but I will slap her.

There have been a lot of improvements in the way she treats me. My time is much more respected, I'm not being given the grunt jobs any more and she's even stopped telling me that I eat too much sugar. Okay, I can see her thinking it, but she's at least shut up about it so that's good. I have only been asked to do the coffee run twice, and she even told her Dad off for saying my skirt was too short. Knee length is not too short, by the way. Knee length is nowhere near short. Asshole.

My problem with her right now is that she still has not learnt that I am a moody bitch and occasionally, I like to sulk. I need to sulk. Sulking is my way of coping and taking the time out from the world to heal myself. I know this sounds like total anti-social bitch logic, but if I'm moody then people leave me alone for a while and I have time to get it together. Healing in public is not something I have ever been good at - that's half the reason I moped over Will for so long, because I was so busy trying to be Ms Social Butterfly and act like it didn't bother me. Okay, I know that's like crazy person reasoning but it honestly works for me.

Right now, we're sitting at a benefit for the studio. We're only here to schmooze and make contacts. There are a lot of freelance types around here and if Sophie can sweet talk them, that means potential bodies that we can either hire on freelance basis or convince to sign up to us. Not to mention that this is the studio that is producing Sophie's next movie, so se really needs to kiss some ass. I'm just here for support. And also because she says I'm not allowed to mope. Pah. We had to get all dolled up and sit here at this really boring dinner and do you want to guess who the performer for the evening is?

Oh yeah. Can't get away from him. All I need is Will to show up and I will officially be having the Best Evening Hell Ever Dreamed Up.

"Gee, could you look any more miserable?" Sophie whispers to me through her applause and biggest fake smile. We just sat through yet another speech about how socially aware and concerned this studio is. I say if they were so environmentally aware and green as they claim they are their executives wouldn't all own five or six cars plus a private jet each.

"Everybody in here looks miserable," I shoot back under my breath. "This is so boring."

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Oh, so now you're pulling celebrity rank? Nice."

"I'm pulling friend rank. Don't be a bitch."

Great, now she's all pissed at me - though I suppose the up side of that would be that she'll stop talking and trying to make me feel all happy and fluffy. I'm sorry, I'm having a bad mood and I would like to be able to do that without being made to feel guilty for not being Ms Mary Sunshine.

I'm sat here with my hair curled nicely and wearing Dolce & Gabbana. The theme for this evening is - and I can't even believe this - Pimps and Hos. Clearly whoever thought up the theme has absolutely no class, as have a great many people in this room given the stripper outfits on show. I mean, I know it's the theme, but you can be a sexy Moulin Rouge kind of ho or you can be a cheap ho. Too many women have chosen the latter option. Sophie's pretty much totally ripped off Mya's outfit from the Lady Marmalade video, so she's well covered, and I decided that I would embrace my inner Pimp as an excuse to wear pants. Also, this fedora gives me something to hide under.

Ahh… I shouldn't be such a grump. It's just that… well… life sucks. Everything should be so much better, especially compared to where I was this time last year. I'm out of the sucky job and into a new one which is more in line with what I actually want to do. Sophie no longer treats me like a slave. Okay, she's not suddenly the most sensitive person in the world, but she's taking a little care with me and that doesn't go unnoticed. I'm getting paid more. Kennedy, on the basis of all this, is actually being a little nicer to Sophie. Not a lot, but it's better than it was. Even my mother seems to have chilled out lately - I have actually had perfectly pleasant conversations with her lately.

And yet the misery continues. A big chunk of it is that my niece is now scared shitless of me. Lisa's only just getting over what happened. Maybe it's only that the film me and Sophie were chasing after got sold to one of the big studios, maybe it's just all this upheaval, I don't know. I only know I hate it. I just feel like… all these changes that I've been wanting for so long have finally happened and none of it's making me happy. Am I just subconsciously determined to be miserable or something? I don't get it, why doesn't all of this good stuff mean anything any more?

Oh yay. It's time for the musical stylings of Justin Timberlake. Somebody shoot me.

***

I've decided I prefer the white chocolate vodka, out of all the flavours Trace and I have tried this evening. He says that's girly and that the cherry is totally the way to go. I say that shit is way too sickly.

I also say I've tried way too many shots this evening. This gig has been a total bore from start to finish. All night there have been a ton of lame movie offers being pitched at me, and I've had to talk to a lot of really boring people. When I performed the audience had about as much energy as a corpse and to top it all off I am in a room with no less than three ex-girlfriends. Monica, Jessica and Chelsea are all running around this place and it's starting to get really awkward. Monica's avoiding me like the plague while trying not to look like she is in case it starts off those rumours again. Jessica said hi for two seconds and then ran off to go kiss up to some director. I haven't actually seen Chelsea yet, but I know she's here because we saw her and Sophie on the seating chart. I'm trying not to look too hard at any bustier clad blondes I see in case she's one of them. This whole Pimps and Hos theme is really lame - whoever organised this clearly didn't count on the fact that no woman over 30 (unless she's a Hollywood actress) can get away with any Ho costume.

"Oh that's nasty," Trace grimaces as some fat executive's forty something wife walks past with her shorts crammed up her butt cheeks and her ass squeezed into a pair of too-tight fishnets.

"Tell me about it," I grumble as I take another sip of my JD and Coke. "Why are we still here?"

"Because your driver's stuck in traffic," he responds, flipping his phone open for the millionth time in case he missed the 'I'm here' text. Of course he didn't because it's quiet over here and he's had the phone glued to his hand, but I guess it never hurts to check.

"This whole evening has sucked," I mutter under my breath.

"True that. I don't know why they bothered hiring you when everybody was just gonna be eating. Why didn't they get John Mayer or some shit like that?"

"Maybe they just wanted a name to boast about? I mean, not that John wouldn't be but…"

"Nah, I think that whoever picked this age inappropriate Pimps and Hos theme picked age inappropriate music too," Trace snorts. "Fucking morons. These people are all old; they want fruity jazz bands and crap like that. What the hell do they…" He's interrupted by his phone going. "Man, finally!"

For a moment I wonder when Trace got a Beatles ring tone, but I think nothing of it as he flips his phone open and checks his text. I only start thinking at all when his eyebrows shoot up and he starts laughing.

"What the fuck?" He turns around and shows me the phone. I don't recognise the number and clearly neither does he, but it's a message saying 'u slut.'

"Gee. Which hormonal bitch did you piss off?"

"Fuck if I know," he shrugs. He flips the phone back shut and ignores the text, focussing instead on his drink. "So what you want to do tomorrow about the fittings?"

We're getting closer and closer to our next unveiling, so Trace has been working double time on everything. I only dragged him out tonight instead of Rachael to give him a break. Of course, when we unveil new shit that means we have to wear it for pretty much the next month straight, so we go in and they measure everything they can think of. Trace's argument is that if we get ours custom fitted rather than off the rack, we'll be putting our best foot forward because I'll be looked at way more than our print ads. I have to admit, he's got a point. Our business partners always rub their hands in glee any time the magazine blurbs mention what label I'm wearing.

His phone goes off again, and Trace looks at it critically. "Same number. And that's so not my ring tone."

"Well did somebody else change it?" I ask. I doubt Hey Jude up and decided to make itself his ring. The phone's been going for a while too, when is his damn voicemail going to kick in?

"No. I had my phone all day, except when I… shit, this must be Chelsea's."

"Chelsea's?" I ask in confusion. "So when were you with Chelsea and who is calling her a slut?"

"Hey, Ayala!"

As if she knew she was being talked about, Chelsea appears out of nowhere. I'm glad she didn't go for the ass squishing booty shorts - she's actually dressed as a Pimp. Trust her to be different. That's probably why I never spotted her earlier; I was looking for somebody dressed as a Ho. There was me thinking I was just getting lucky and the Gods were letting me avoid her.

"I dropped some stuff at her place earlier and we got talking," Trace mutters. That's one question answered, but it's the far less interesting one. They have identical black Motorolas so it's easy to see how he'd grab the wrong one. I just want to know who's calling her a slut and why. Has she been seeing somebody?

Not that it would bother me.

"Hey Chels," he greets her as they do the whole hug and air kiss thing. She pretends I'm not here, which is probably a good thing.

"I got your phone." She holds it up and he takes it from her whole handing hers over. "I didn't realise until it went off just now and I got an earful of Hannah Montana."

"What?!" Trace yells out in horror as I crack up laughing.

"I kid, I kid, it was your lame old Snoop or whatever. You got a text by the way."

"So did you, but, uhh…" The munchkin is visibly squirming and she's not stupid. She's not even saying anything, just tapping that pointy toed boot of hers and giving him the 'out with it' look. I used to hate that look. Rachael gets that look too. It's either a PA thing or a woman thing. "It wasn't very nice," he finishes feebly.

With a frown, Chelsea flips open her phone. "I got a voicemail alert… you listened to my voicemail?"

"No, he just read the text below that one thinking it was our ride," I butt in. "I guess they left the voicemail after the text because the phone went off again straight after.

Umm… wow, why did I just speak up? Not that it matters, because by now Chelsea has obviously read that text and she looks very confused. I guess she's dialling her voicemail, because she's immediately got the phone to her ear.

"Dude, our ride's here," Trace says as he checks out the message he missed.

His words register, and yet I make no movement. My limbs seem strangely rigid as I watch the look on Chelsea's face. You can actually see the subtle progression across it as she listens to the voicemail. First, we 'what the fuck' with scrunched up eyebrows and a little disbelief. Then her face slackens off into a more shocked expression, a little paler than it was. Next, outrage flashes crimson in her cheeks for a brief moment before full horror sets in and she signs off the call. Back when I was with her, I struggled to figure her out. Every other moment I was having to readjust my view of her, because something new would come out or we'd go one step forward and two steps back.

Now, a child could work out what's going on. She just got bad news in extremis.

"What?" Trace asks.

"That was Michelle."

"Who?" He asks. I'm glad he did that, I wanted to but couldn't.

"Will's wife. How in God's name did she get my damn number?"

WHAT? Her ex's wife is calling her a slut? Fuck, has she gone back to that asshole? That would totally explain why she screwed me over.

"What did she say?" Trace asks. Again, that was an excellent question from the short dude.

"She… I…" Her hands are gesticulating wildly, but unless this is some weird sign language the two of them have developed I don't think it's an answer. "Will's left her and told her it was because he's still in love with me and is leaving her for me. Naturally she assumes I must have been boning him. GOD it's like that bastard is out to screw up my entire life. He's going to be doing this when I'm fucking fifty!"

Wow, she got really high pitched - kind of loud, too. A few people have started looking at us. She picks up her phone and calls somebody.

"Hi, Michelle, this is Chelsea returning your call. I have no idea what the fuck Will has said to you but I haven't seen or spoken to him in weeks and I will be happy to never see him again in my entire life. Don't worry sweetheart, the bastard's all yours. I have NOT been sleeping with him and I wouldn't even if you paid me like a bazillion dollars. So, you can take your nasty little assumptions and shove them where the sun don't shine, because I have NOT been screwing your husband. If you send me any more abusive messages I will bring every last one of Sophie's highly paid lawyers down on your ass. Hope all that work you did stealing him from me seems worth it now. Buh bye."

From the sounds it, I guess she got voicemail too. Or maybe she didn't try to actually speak to her, I know Trace tried to show me how to send voicemail instead of just calling somebody but there was this really hot girl walking past and I didn't pay much attention. There's some conflict brewing within me right now. Part of me wants to laugh, but the other… no, actually, that part wants to laugh too. I'm sure she doesn't find it funny but that last little jab about him being worth it was classic. Like I told everybody, what goes around comes all the way back around.

"GOD." She flings her arms in the air and sends a glass flying back off the bar, leaving it to shatter on the floor. "Sorry!" She winces as the bartender immediately whips around to see what happened.

Well, me and Trace are both standing here like complete dicks because neither of us has a clue what to say or do. It's giving me some trouble, I have to admit - why would he say he was leaving his wife for Chelsea when clearly Chelsea hasn't spoken to him in an age? Sophie's the actress, not her. Besides, if it had been true then she wouldn't have told us what was in the voicemail or made that call in front of us, she'd have just lied and run (yes, sadly, I have been the victim of and also perpetrated a few such decoys so I know one when I see one - that wasn't one). So what the hell's he up to? If he's planning to come crying to Chelsea he's in for a nasty surprise, because she doesn't look too thrilled about all this.

Heh. So if she was this over Will, why'd she still treat me like shit? I thought that was all residual issues.

***

So I know that this totally contradicts my continual insistence that I'm over her, but… okay, I'm eavesdropping again. It's Rachael's fault really, she's the one who has her on speakerphone. If she was using the handset I couldn't eavesdrop no matter how hard I tried.

(Yes, I'm blaming my innocent cousin for my misdemeanours. Like nobody else has ever done that. Not like I pinned her for murder).

"He was actually there when you got home?"

"I know! I have to chew the super out in the morning because he gave out a key for the building and he's not supposed to do that, nobody visitors are supposed to get in unless they're buzzed in, I had to fill out a ton of forms just to be able to get Trace a spare. At least the bastard wasn't stupid enough to let him into my place."

"What was he even doing there; I thought he lived in New York?"

"The bastard ran out while he knew Michelle would be away for the weekend and left her a note on the fridge, caught a flight here."

"Asshole! That's so low, breaking up with your wife over a note!" Rachael exclaims as she spoons up some Cheerios. It was like she spoke my thoughts.

"At least I got dinner," Chelsea bitches acerbically down the phone. The whole time she's been dishing this out to Rachael it sounds like she's going between sobbing and fits of sarcastic rage. "I just… God, he honestly thought he could swan right back in and I'd just open my arms back up! It's been like three and a half years and he stills thinks my life is nothing without him!"

"What did he say?"

"God, he…" Yep, that was a sniffle. We're about to switch back to the crying. "He was going on about how he knew I'd been so down and lonely, talking like he knows a damn thing about what's going on with me, and how bad my job was and how he was back to take care of me… and he was talking in this sweet tone like this was all really comforting and romantic instead of being totally insulting, that bastard…"

"God, that ass."

See, this is the weird difference between men and girls. Men would be suggesting practical solutions to this and then expect the conversation to end. Rachael's role in this seems to be to let Chelsea ramble and then make sympathetic statements every so often.

"What did you do?"

"Told him that my crappy job makes me more in a month than his bags him in a year, that while he's writing parking tickets and getting bitch slapped by drunks I'm with the Hollywood A list, and that your cousin was way better in bed than he was."

"Good God woman, did you have to tell me that last part?" Rachael giggles.

Wow, Chelsea finally admitted our relationship to somebody. Who thought her capable? Also, for a moment there I almost forgave her completely on the strength of that better in bed comment. I got the skills. Maybe she threw me around like a cheap plaything, but at least she recognises my prowess.

"You asked," Chelsea lets out a strained laugh. "Anyway, I called security and had him kicked out. Told him never to darken my doorstep again and to go home to his wife. Then I called Lisa and my mom and made sure that they're going to tell every last one of our mutual acquaintances the real story before he tries to claim I was trying to jump him or something, I don't know how I was in a relationship with him that long without noticing he's a compulsive liar."

"So what are you going to do?" My cousin is dangling her foot from the bar stool, rocking it too and fro with a thoughtful frown on her face as she listens (and eats).

"Nothing, I guess. Refuse to take any of his or Michelle's calls and go on with my life, only with some new seething resentment for the way he treats me like I'm nothing."

"To be honest, babe, I think…"

I don't hear the rest of my cousin's response because I've been hauled backwards by the collar. I nearly fall on my ass, but when I manage to get my feet back under me I turn around and Trace is there, shaking his head. He may be shorter than me, but when he gets his eyes blazing he's got a pretty wicked little stare on him that gives him a more intimidating aura than his short ass would otherwise have. He looks like he's ready to bust a cap in my ass.

"Grow a backbone and go get the girl back." With another light shove to my chest, he pushes me back through the door and shuts it behind us. "Oh, and stop eavesdropping like an eleven year old girl you pussy."

The last time I recall being this nervous, it was in sixth grade before giving a speech for social studies class. Still, I guess that didn't turn out so bad; I only lost my lunch all over the front of the stage. Personally, I always believed those rumours it splashed onto the front row of the audience were more hysteria than fact.

God, I hope I don't lose my lunch (or more accurately dinner) now. The last thing I need is to face this little meeting with vomit breath and looking green. More than likely I already look green anyway, but if my stomach could quit churning for even two seconds I would really appreciate it. It's already stopped me from indulging in a comforting glass or three of Piniot Grigio - though I suppose facing this little meeting drunk would be about as helpful as facing it nauseous. Being in possession of my full faculties is the key to getting through this little ordeal.

Time goes by so slowly, says Madonna. The bitch ain't wrong; the only other place in the world that time goes by at such snail's speed is in the gym when I'm stupid and program the treadmill for thirty minutes instead of my usual twenty. It's like childbirth; Lisa says there's some biological imperative where nature has to make you selectively forget how painful it is in order to make you stupid enough to get pregnant again. I think there's also one which makes me forget that I'm just not fit enough to cope with jogging that long at that speed, especially if I then plan to get on the cross trainer.

I have already painted my fingernails and my toes a pretty pink. I doubt this is going to help me in the slightest, just like I doubt the nice underwear I wore or the fact that I changed out of my sweats and into jeans is going to help. He didn't give me much time when he said he'd be here in half an hour (currently at three quarters and counting) but I needed to feel like I wasn't a complete slob. I mean, I have been a complete slob today and pretty much all week, but at least I don't totally look like it.

Oh, shit, that's a dish I missed when I ran round to throw everything in the dishwasher. I didn't have time to vacuum.

And oh SHIT that's the doorbell. Oh God. Oh my. Breathe. Need to breathe, oxygen is good.

Nervously and with a few goose bumps rising on my arms, I shuffle over to the door. I look down at my toes as if to reassure myself they're still pink. Don't even ask me why, it's not like that especially matters right now. Anything I can concentrate on other than opening this door is all this is about. Well, I have to concentrate on opening the door because he's there and he's not going to go away. Besides, he knows I'm home so he'd know I was just refusing to open the damn thing. I need to open it. See, it's easy, all I have to do is put my hand on the handle like so, and…

Wow. The door's open and I don't seem to have processed even doing that. Still, I must have, because there he is. Standing in front of me is a six foot something guy with big blue eyes and a really awkward expression on his face. He kind of looks like he wants to throw up, too. It's oddly comforting to know that I'm not the only one, yet conversely a little alarming also. We both want to throw up at the sight of each other - doesn't exactly bode well.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Umm… can I come in?" Oh, yeah, right. Manners, letting people in, not having big discussions on doorsteps… right, I forgot.

"Sure." I gesture Justin into the apartment and with great haste and care he steps past me, careful for us not to brush against each other. That doesn't sound like a good thing, but I'm pleased he did because I think that might have triggered the aforementioned losing of my lunch (or dinner).

Justin strides purposefully into my living room ahead of me but then stops with a jolt, like he's just lost all notion of why he was doing so. For my part I shuffle in behind, still looking down at my feet. There's a toe that got smudged already and I hadn't noticed. Justin rocks back and forth on his sneakers, going heel to toe with his hands stuffed firmly in his pockets. He's staring down at his feet too. I guess I ought to say something.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"So…" I let the word linger, not sure how to follow it. "You wanted to see me."

"Umm, yeah." He scratches the back of his head, knowing it was both statement and question. "Well, Trace said I should. Repeatedly."

That's just great. That's just great. He has no idea what to even say, and I have this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that he doesn't want to be here and wouldn't be if not for Trace. Thanks, Ayala - I just feel like a real peach knowing that. Why has he even bothered? Why didn't he just tell Trace to shove it? Then again, Ayala can be a brat when he decides to bug somebody so maybe he's just trying to shut him up.

"Oh." That's the best and most articulate comment I can come up with.

"I mean, I… shit. I had this all worked out before I got here."

"Wish I could say the same." Okay, I get snappy when I'm wounded, but I really do have no idea what he's come here for and my defences are on purple alert (worse than blue, not as bad as red). There's a possibility he's just here for closure, which means my heart gets broken and I can't take that any more. I only stopped being heart broken over Will a few months ago; I'm not ready to go back there over somebody else. If that's what he's here for, I'd rather he didn't go there and just left me hanging. Even that's preferable.

"I umm… fuck it. Trace and Rachael keep saying I should have let you explain and they even got my own mother ganging up on me saying it, so explain."

Okay, am I the only one he just confused? "Explain what?"

"Everything."

"Well that really narrows it down, thanks." Did I mention I get sarcastic as well as snappy? Did he honestly just walk into my home at this little meeting he called and then demand explanations from ME? I think I'm owed one first.

"Just… I don't get, it Chelsea. I never got it."

"You never got what?" I throw my hands in the air. He hasn't even been in the room for five minutes and I'm totally exasperated. "Why are you even here? You suddenly got a yen to talk to me having ignored me for weeks on end?"

"Yeah." Oh… was totally unprepared for that. "I think it's time you told me exactly why you strung me along for so long and why you were embarrassed to be with me, because continually wondering kind of sucks and I'd like to know so I can forget about it."

Surely it's easier to forget about something you were never told to begin with… never mind. Let's go back to this whole embarrassed thing, because that's where he's got me confused. "Embarrassed? Why would you think I was embarrassed?"

"You hid me from your friends, practically had a coronary any time we did something that could be remotely construed as being together, and then that last night at the club your face said it all."

"Oh? And what was that?" I ask dangerously through gritted teeth.

"You had shame written all over it." He kicks at the pile of magazines I had next to my coffee table, and I ought to be annoyed at him for making a mess of them but I'm kind of stunned.

"You think I was ashamed of you?" He nods and glares at me, hurt written all over him, but all I can do is shake my head. We're both static, standing dead still but for the movement of our heads. "No. Me."

"What?" He doesn't get it.

"Me. I was ashamed of me."

"What?" He splutters it out again. "Why would you have to be ashamed of yourself for being with me? You could see it when Sophie walked in, I was your dirty little secret that you were ashamed was exposed."

"God, does everything have to be about you?" Typical Hollywood, that whole comment of his - it was just Hollywood all over. "I was ashamed of myself and that had nothing to do with you. I had sex with you in a public place that anybody could have walked into. Something that Sophie then proved by only walking in like thirty seconds after we had our clothes straightened out, which is why it hit me worse when I saw her. Do you have any idea the media shit that would have happened if it had been somebody else instead of her? I was ashamed of myself for being stupid and acting like a slut, not because it was with you. God, are you that self absorbed? Have you just been assuming this whole thing was about you all the time? It was about ME, okay Justin, ME. I was ashamed of ME for doing something so completely stupid."

"Well… I was there too. So you're saying I was being stupid?" God, he's still trying to make this about him.

"I'm not your mother or your conscience, Justin, so I'm not saying anything. Again, this is not about you." I roll my eyes at him before turning my back and heading to the kitchen, glaring at the counter top as though it were him. This is what this whole thing has been about? He treated me like shit because he assumed it was all about him? "All I know is that one minute we were having sex and the next you were making assumptions out of nothing and dumping me. Lord knows why."

"Why? Why?" I hear the footsteps behind me as I'm pouring Sprite out into a glass by the sink. I even smell him coming before he gets close enough for me to realise that he's standing right behind me. "Because I had to beg you to even go out in public with me. Because I couldn't even get you to admit we were dating. Because at every turn you were pulling away from me when I'd done sweet fuck all to deserve it. And you wonder why I felt like you were ashamed of me? Because everything you did was acting like it."

"God." I turn around and lean against my counter, compulsively sipping at my freshly poured drink. "Did you not listen at all when I told you I was still getting used to dating again and that you'd have to be patient with me? I know I said it very clearly and repeatedly."

This argument plainly doesn't convince him, because he matches my stance with his arms folded and his eyes cold, boring into me. I focus on the spot between them, on his nose, to avoid having to directly stare into them.

"That excuse ran out of juice long before then, Chelsea. You still can't even admit what the problem was now, can you?"

"Fine." I slam down the glass and nearly break it, I'm so incensed. I shove him backwards and get an angry 'hey' from him, but it doesn't stop me punctuating every sentence with another shove. "You wanna know what my problem was? I was head over fucking heels in love with you. The last time that happened…" shove number four goes in there… "it took me years to get over the fallout and I still wasn't over the fucking fallout before it was happening again so excuse me for wanting to go slow!" The next contact is more of a punch to his chest with my fist. "Just sucks for me that you were so busy thinking about what you wanted out of me that you didn't consider that maybe I was trying and that it was just taking me a while to work it all out!"

Well - I was so busy getting angry and being mildly violent that I didn't notice the peculiar look he's got on his face. There's some shock in there, but the rest I can't quite read. His eyebrows are raised and his nose is wrinkled and he keeps chewing his bottom lip.

"You're in love with me?"

The only thought currently running through my head is 'shit, why did I just say that?' It's a severe act of masochism. I said it, I can't take it back and now I've just put myself completely out on the table for him to stomp on, which I'm guessing is going to happen very swiftly from the look on his face. The unreadable expression has evaporated to be quickly replaced by serious amounts of being pissed at me.

"What, you're ashamed of saying that too?"

"No…" Okay, now I'm whining. I just want this conversation done and him out of here so I can go and sob my little heart out. "Just doesn't seem like a great thing to be in love with a guy who despises me and came over here to chew me out for all these crimes I committed against him. Oh God…"

I can't help it, I couldn't wait. I've burst into tears and now my hands are hiding my face, fingertips clutching painfully at my hairline as if the sharp tugging will make me quit crying. I have no idea how I'm still standing up, because my knees feel numb. It feels like all of me has gone numb, with the exception of that stabbing pain in the cursed organ that got me into this whole mess. Maybe I should just swear off love, because clearly said heart is incapable of leading me right.

I'm brought back to attention when he grabs my hands from my face and wrenches them away. "Despise you? What, you think I'm this fucking bothered about a girl I hate? I was hurt because I love you too, idiot!"

Time has stopped again. My brown eyed gaze flew to his blue eyed one and we're both just kind of glaring at each other, breathing heavily. My wrists are still being firmly gripped in the air by his hands, our arms still struggling against each other. Did he just say he loved me and then call me an idiot? Have I dreamed this whole surreal encounter?

"You love me?" I squeak.

"Very obviously for a long time now. No shit, Sherlock."

"And I love you…"

"So you just said."

"So…" My brain slowly ticks over in an attempt to comprehend all this. "What are we fighting about?"

In some intangible way, the entire atmosphere just shifted. Neither of us has moved, even now, but something's different. His face hasn't changed and I doubt mine has either; we're still staring at each other. Yet somehow, from being numb there's something prickling uncomfortably in my limbs, like electricity crackling. It's almost painful.

"I don't know," he finally says.

"Then do you think maybe we could stop?" I ask.

***

"God. Who the hell is that at this time of the morning?"

I ask because her God damned doorbell has just gone off right as I was getting to sleep. I'd finally got warm and comfortable in just the right spot when that fucking thing rang. I looked over at her clock and those bright red numbers did not lie, even through the dark. It is exactly one thirty, and not in the afternoon. No human visitor calls on a person at this time of night (or morning).

"I have no idea." Chelsea lets out a yawn and reaches over to turn her lamp on. Immediately I feel cool air invade the space between us where her body was a moment ago. It was probably only about half an hour ago that the make up sex finally stopped. I felt the need for us to go again because the first time was a little fraught, what with her still half in tears and all. "God, why are none of my clothes in here?"

"Because I got most of yours off in the other room?" I offer up. She gives me a wry look and a light poke before reaching down to grab my shirt. She buttons it up as quickly as possible and then reaches into her dresser drawer and pulls out a pair of shorts.

"God, you're going to answer it?" I ask in disbelief. "Let them come back in the morning."

"It's one thirty. I assume this is important if they're here this late." As if to agree with her, the doorbell goes again. "Back in a minute, Justin."

I watch her get up and shuffle out of the door, half asleep. When she's gone I roll forward onto my stomach, onto the spot she's just departed. It's still warm with her body heat. I breathe in and the sheet smells of her. Tonight was one hell of a fucking night and I still can't believe I'm actually here, with her. Once we'd got to our little screaming match crescendo and both yelled out that we loved each other like it was an insult, there wasn't much else I could do but lean forward and kiss her. We'd stood there for maybe a couple of minutes like we'd been frozen Han Solo style, just glaring at each other like we didn't quite believe it. If one of us hadn't moved we'd have probably stood there until hunger or dehydration set in.

So I broke the moment and kissed her, and then kissed her some more, and then had sex with her. Weirdly I think it helped, because once we'd done that it was like all the bad tension had left the room and we could have a real talk, the kind in which you actually communicate. She said sorry, I said sorry, and I think we now actually understand each other. I get that she was scared and overwhelmed, and she gets that she was giving off a lot of confusing signals. Now I know it seems ridiculously simple, but I guess when you love somebody everything gets kind of blown up out of proportion.

Damn. I guess I really owe Trace now. I only even came over here because he kept yelling at me about being sick of me moping around like 'some pissed off wounded puppy.' He said I was acting like a little girl and I needed to grow some balls.

And damn, she's been five minutes already. I can't see my boxers anywhere, put I manage to grab my jeans and pull them on - shit, unworn denim is kind of cold when you're going commando. I'm guessing it must be Kennedy or Sophie, so I won't bother trying to find my shirt which I can't see anywhere either. God, what were we doing with those damn clothes and where did we fling them off to? My concentration was too firmly on feeling her up.

When you walk out of Chelsea's bedroom and into her living room, it's on the opposite side of the apartment from where her front door is. Her front door is set away from the living room by a little corridor which is attached to her cupboard-like utility room. This is great, because it gives me the opportunity to indulge in one of my many talents - unseen eavesdropping. Why do I need to eavesdrop? Because whoever is at the front door still hasn't been let in after five minutes of being there.

"So… let me get this straight." She sounds a little ticked off. "You've been in a hotel all week, missing work, to try and wait me out until I was feeling better?"

"Yep." Hang on a damn second; that voice sounds male.

"Bullshit."

"What? No."

"Bullshit, Will." Will? Her ex fucking boyfriend is at the door? That's it, he's got exactly sixty seconds to walk away from here before I walk out and pound his face into the tiled floor.

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"You know what I think?" She says angrily. I can even imagine her tossing her head back like she always does when she gets annoyed. "I think you took my advice and went home to your wife, except she didn't want your sorry ass any more. And why would she, after I totally outed you for all the lies you told her about us having an affair? I think you tried that for a couple of days and when she wouldn't have you back you came back here on the red eye to try and worm your way in here again, hence this ridiculous time of night. Am I wrong?"

"Of course you are! I left her for you!"

"You left her because you're an asshole who always thinks the grass is greener somewhere else. Especially when you came back across this grass and realised I was doing pretty well for myself. Go home, Will - if not to your wife then to your mom or something, because you're not welcome here any more."

"Chelsea…" That slimy tone of voice makes me want to walk out there and beat the living crap out of him. He's trying to sweet talk her, I can hear it. "You know we've never really been over."

She lets out a sharp, derisive laugh and in that second I love her a little bit more. "We were over the second you decided that it was worth throwing me aside like I was garbage for the cheap lay you'd been having while I was busy kidding myself and turning a blind eye. And if we weren't over then, we were definitely over when I realised what a waste of skin you are. You need to leave, Will."

"But…"

This is the moment that I intervene. For Chelsea's sake I'll do it with a little less violence than planned but I will beat the crap out of him if he doesn't leave, I swear. "Chels?" I call out before I pop into view at the end of the corridor, walking down beside her and feigning ignorance. "You've been gone a while, everything okay?"

"Yeah, Will was just leaving." She glares pointedly at him, but he looks too shocked at the sight of me to register what she's saying. You can see him noticing our half naked states and putting two and two together. Take that, bitch. She's sleeping with the A list now.

"What's he doing here?" He splutters.

"What am I doing here?" I chuckle insincerely. "I'm not the one who turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night and woke her up. What time do you call this, dude?"

"As my current rather than ex boyfriend, he has an actual reason to be here. Unlike you. So buh-bye now."

With a quick swing of her arm, she flings the door shut in Will's face. I know I'm wearing the most self-satisfied expression known to man, but she just referred to me as her boyfriend. It's ridiculous that after all the time we spent together with her not saying it that it's now only taken one make up session for her to capitulate, but do you think I care? I finally got her to admit that I'm her boyfriend AND that she loves me, all in one night. I'm on a roll.

She lets out an exasperated growl, still staring at the door, and I wrap my arms around her from behind. She tips her head back into my chest for a brief moment but then laces her fingers with mine and starts walking away. It's uncomfortable walking like this, with me still pushed up against her back, but I have no plans on letting go.

"Heh. All that time I spent getting over him and then he comes crawling back and I could care less," she tells me through a yawn. "Though I'm now tempted to move… but I guess a cop wouldn't have much trouble looking me up."

"All the more reason that you should spend time at my place." I tell her with a kiss to the temple as we make it back into the bedroom.

"Oh, you mean I'm forgiven enough that you won't run out of the room like a little girl every time I show up?"

"Did not," I grumble as I start running kisses along her collarbone.

"You know you did too."

I quickly unzip myself and yank off my jeans, ready to fall back into bed. Chelsea seems to hesitate, but being the gentleman I am I have no problem pulling down the shorts or unbuttoning my shirt for her so she can take them off. I'm selfless like that.

"Are you okay?" I ask as the shirt falls away and I pull her to me. I drop a kiss on her lips and she hugs me back, one of her hands rubbing my back in a reassuring way.

"Yeah. Just been a very long day."

"You got work tomorrow?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Then we can sleep late."

"Good."

Chelsea smiles at me and kisses me again before pushing me back onto the bed. I laugh and take it as a hint that she'd like to get back to what we were doing before Will decided to show up - which, as I recall, was falling asleep. I scoot over and then hold back the covers for her, letting her climb in and turn off the lamp before draping them and my arm back over her.

"So no regrets about sending him packing?" I tease. "I could always run back and tell him to switch with me."

"Ugh," she pulls a face at me, and I can see the disgusted outline of it even without the lamp. "My only regret about that bastard is that my residual issues with him nearly screwed up my chance with you."

I'm sure my smug glow must be lighting up the darkness. "I knew you loved me."

"Sure you did," she snorts as she burrows herself into my embrace. "That's why you had the big girly hissy fit about me never saying it. You were more of a woman about that than I was."

Somewhere, far into the night, I wonder if Trace somehow heard her saying that and is laughing that she agrees with him.

"You realise if you don't make it he's going to be a bitch to deal with, right?"

"Sure, Trace, guilt tripping me is going to make this traffic move faster."

"You wouldn't be stuck in traffic if you'd made the first flight."

"And maybe you wouldn't be such an ass if you'd got laid any time in recent history but no point dwelling on things we can't change, huh?"

The burst of laughter from down the phone lets me know that I've broken the mood and the panic. I don't particularly appreciate him bitching me out for things that aren't my fault, but I love his short ass self regardless. That and I can just imagine what he's been putting up with all day, so I need to cut him some slack. When the Pop Star gets moody, it tends to rub off on everybody around him. I notice the same thing happens with Sophie - I think it's the after effect of having all your jobs and thus lives revolve around one person so much.

"Touché, babe, touché."

"So exactly how much have I missed?" I ask while chewing on a fingernail, staring out of my rain streaked window at the still stationary traffic.

"We're nearly coming up on intermission."

"Shit." Damn, I really shouldn't have chewed on that nail. I've now broken it. "Well… I guess you'd better tell me where you'll be if I don't make it in time."

"Hotel. Randy knows where to take you."

"Okay. See you later."

"Haul ass, woman."

I hang up on Trace without answering the phone. Grumpily I perch my elbow on the dashboard and lean forward, leaning into it as I rest my chin in my hand. It's wet and it's raining and I hate London, I have decided. Normally it's one of my favourite cities in the world, but I hate London. Somebody still needs to explain to me how it could possibly be that out of London Luton, London Heathrow and London Gatwick not ONE of those damn airports is geographically in London. I'm barely in London now - that's how terrible this traffic is. I smirked at the guy in the airport who warned me I'd probably go quicker if I caught the Tube or whatever it is they call the subway here; now I'm starting to wonder if he had a point. I guess this is your typical Friday night.

Except that this is not your typical Friday night for me, I have someone important to go see and I've already missed half his damn show. He's been so irritable lately; I have a feeling he's going to be a bitch for a week if I miss this. It's hard to see Justin at the best of times. Now Sophie's got me in full swing with Light Source and she's got an eye on training me up as a Line Producer (in short, the person who runs the finances on the movie from start to finish) I'm busy as hell. He's also busy as hell, in the studio or on promotion or on tour, and the two just do not mix well. When I'm standing still he's globe trotting, and when he's standing still I'm on location.

It's only going to get worse if I do actually end up as a Line Producer; they're usually one of the first on set and last to leave. A huge part of all this craziness is the fact that Sophie bit off a hell of a lot more than she could chew project wise - way too many way too soon - so we're all stretched pretty thin. To make matters worse, a lot of these projects had already gone pretty far down the production chain (which is unusual) so all our projections about when our first shoots would be were all totally wrong, the business model and progression plan we made was all totally wrong. All in all, it makes for a lot of people running around like headless chickens and the blind leading the blind.

On more than one occasion, I have actually had to pencil my boyfriend into my diary. Ridiculous, huh?

Well, I had him well and truly inked in for tonight and if it hadn't been for that crisis with the damn re-shoots I would have caught the flight I was supposed to. Lord knows how I managed to catch the one I did get - I think Sophie might have dropped her name to get me on it. I'm not complaining. Even though I was crammed in at the tail end of the plane in some less than great turbulence and squashed up next to a really fat guy who snored, I am not complaining. I promised to be here and it's important to Justin that I am.

Listening to the relentless tapping of rain on glass and the low thrum of an idle engine, I think I'm going to go crazy. I just have this constant flashing of salacious headlines going across my eyes, and it's all making me feel yet guiltier for not being where I'm supposed to be right now. It took a very long time for the tabloids to figure out that Justin and I were together (helped by the fact I'm not a huge fan of even the smallest PDA), and as such the rumour pattern is about six months behind schedule. We're at the 'is it for real or just to pass the time' phase of the bullshit and they are relentlessly annoying about it. Unfortunately, having coincided with a lack of us being together and resurgence in the woman beater crap… my boyfriend's been kind of tetchy lately. Me being insanely late when I swore I'd be there will not help.

"Wait… what's the name of the venue again?" I ask Randy as my eagle eye spots a life line out of the window.

"Earl's Court. Why?"

I grab one of the lanyards hanging off the rear view mirror and pick up my bag. I'm about to get very wet, but sadly I don't have an umbrella. "If you don't make it, I'll see you at the hotel."

Before he can protest, I've jumped out of the car and run across the street. I didn't look either way as I did, but in standstill traffic that doesn't matter much. I'm drenched to the skin before I've even gone ten feet, but that's the breaks. I've got another few hundred yards to run anyway so I was always going to be getting very wet on this plan. I really hope I recognised that symbol properly, or this dramatic gesture is going to mean jack shit and will have made me look pretty stupid.

Lucky for me, I find success - it is in fact the train station I was hoping it was. As I throw myself at the ticket counter the young British gentleman manning it looks somewhat bemused. I'm going to take that airport dude's advice and try public transport: better late than never, I hope.

"Hi. I hope you can help me, where's the nearest station to the Earl's Court arena?" I ask him.

"Earl's Court."

"Yeah, that's what I said," I answer impatiently.

"No, Earl's Court is the nearest station to Earl's Court."

"Oh. Sorry. One way ticket to there, please." Great, now I feel really stupid. I could just see the words 'dumb American' flittering across his face. I let him process the transaction and take my newly changed British money in as much silence as is possible on my part.

"So what's the best route for me to take?" I ask out of serious necessity (wouldn't still be talking otherwise, too embarrassed).

"Just get on the District line, goes straight there." Again he gets that 'dumb American' look on his face when he sees how utterly bewildered I am. "The green one. Just look for the signs."

It's a big honking sign, too, says 'District' on it and marks the entrance to the stairwell. Time for me to cut and run before I humiliate myself yet further - I almost want to yell back to him about how I work for really famous people, but I think I'll leave it. He'd probably just view it as more evidence I'm crazy.

***

"Dear God what happened to you?" Rachael doesn't pull any punches.

"It rained. I got wet. How much did I miss?" In the end I only had to go a few stops down the line so it didn't take me as long as I thought it would.

"They're only three or four songs into the second half, you could have been worse," she yells into my ear.

Justin's in full swing with the Rock Your Body choreography, facing the other side of the arena and with his back completely to this VIP pit - perils of playing in the round, I guess, but apparently he liked it so much last tour he wanted to do it again. He, as usual, is rocking his little three piece suit look with that silly hat he likes to wear. Don't ask me why he has to have that handkerchief or whatever it is hanging out of his pants either, he just does. The volume is seriously loud in here, but I'm just grateful for the thousands of people emitting all that wonderful body heat.

"So why are you all wet? Randy couldn't be assed to drive you to the door?"

"Randy's probably still stuck in traffic somewhere," I shrug. "I got out and ran to catch the subway." Now it occurs to me that I really should have checked if my eyeliner was okay. Quickly I root in my bag for my mirror and am relieved to see that it has miraculously stayed on - note to self, do not wipe eyes until face has dried off.

"You got out in the pouring rain to catch the subway here?" I nod, and she throws her head back and laughs - not that you can hear her too well in this din. She even reaches up and wrings out my hair; there's a not small puddle of water behind me after she's done. There's a few girls looking our way and I know they're trying to work out who I am and why I'm cosy with Rachael; here's hoping they don't realise I'm the girlfriend. Last time that happened, I got insulted a lot.

"So what happened, anyway?"

"Well…" I'm not even pretending to watch the show at this point. I'll pick it back up from his next song - this is why I hate walking in halfway through things, I find it hard to pick up the thread. It's also annoying because this is the first show I'll have seen and I was really looking forward to it. Lucky for me I'll be around long enough to see the next couple as well.

"There was this huge crisis where somebody stole a whole afternoon's worth of film reels… or at least they think they did, otherwise somebody's just lost the damn things." There's a suitable gasp and an 'oh no' from Rachael before I continue.

"We had to organise a last minute re-shoot and we didn't have the permits to stay that late and I had to pull a miracle out of my ass to keep us from getting a huge fine. As it is I think it's going to cost us at least fifty grand in penalties even before you think about the actual cost of redoing the scenes. I missed check in for my flight by like ten minutes and they were complete sticklers about it, so Sophie pulled some strings to get me on the next one, but then we got here and London traffic is so awful… I seriously have no idea where Randy is right now."

I vaguely hear a 'how you feeling London' in the background and I gather that Rock Your Body is done, but I'm too intent on shaking my head at Rachael and rolling my eyes. It was like this grand conspiracy to keep me away from here, I swear. Weirdly, I busted my ass to be in this spot at this moment and now I'm here all I want to do is walk out, get one of the guys to drive me to the hotel and sack out in bed. Suddenly I'm very tired.

"So, y'all mind if I slow it down a little right now?" A volley of screams is Justin's answer to that question, so he just grins and says "didn't think you would." My boyfriend is such a cocky so and so. Bizarrely, I love that.

He starts playing, and as he does I think a slow song could be the worst thing he could play right now because the piano is so soft and soothing it's having the old lullaby effect. One of the tricks he's re-using from the last tour - or so he tells me, I never saw his last arena show - is this revolving platform for his piano. Slowly it comes round to face us and though he seeks out Rach (I assume that's who), he finds me instead. A broad grin stretches across his face, all white teeth, and he mouths 'hi' at me. I'm tired and cold and a little achy, now I think about it, but still my lips curve upwards and I mouth it straight back. The beaming smile on his face warms my bones a little.

Oh yeah… that's why I did this. I'd nearly forgotten what with the freezing my ass off.

***

"I still think you're insane," I tell Chelsea without really meaning it as I wrap a towel around her and rub her arms briskly.

Between the show and being bustled straight out of the arena and then back into the pouring rain, she never really had a chance to get dry and she's still pretty damp. I spotted her shivering a little in the car. Buckley is trying to lick the water from her leg, as if to help her dry off, but I hustle him out and shut him in the second bedroom with Brennan. Rachael put their beds and stuff in there so hopefully they won't chew the place up or anything.

"No, just desperate," she responds as she reaches out for a hug. Willingly I put my arms around her because I'm so psyched she's here.

For the whole first half of the show I didn't see her. My eyes kept scanning the pit for her, and a couple of times Trace even caught me and started shaking his head like 'you sad bastard.' I knew there'd been a delay, so I was kind of bummed out on stage thinking she wouldn't make it at all. I mean, I still gave a hundred and fifty percent, I didn't let on, but I just kind of felt it within myself. In my defence, I'd been so hyped up to see her earlier that when it looked like she wasn't coming it was a serious come down. Yet I look up in the second half and there she is, as promised. Okay, she looked like a drowned animal of some description, but I didn't care. I care even less now I've heard why - call me cheesy but it makes me feel special, you know, the big dramatic dash to make it to my show.

Of course she could have just met me at the hotel and seen the show tomorrow - might have saved her the potential hypothermia - but chicks just aren't that logical.

After a long cuddle interlude, Chelsea pulls away. "I think I need to get under the shower and warm up. Can you entertain yourself for a minute?"

"Can't I just watch you in the shower? That'd be entertaining."

Her response is to slap my arm and head for the bathroom without me. "Hopefully the food will be here in a minute. I won't be long."

I already ate at the venue - I don't pay those nice catering people for nothing - but apparently Chelsea hasn't eaten since God knows what time so we ordered some room service for her down at reception. People think this life we lead is glamorous, but actually this is about as exciting as it gets on the road. People coming in at all sorts of weird times, your internal clock getting thrown off, meal times at whatever insane hour you can grab them… not exactly living the life. It's all pretty inconvenient and hard to fit in time for the people who matter - especially when they're getting as busy as my girlfriend is. I shouldn't complain though, her career is finally moving in the direction she's been wanting it to for years. Much as I begrudge the time away, I know this is what she needs to do so I'm right in her corner.

I just cope by bitching about it when she's not around to hear me.

Still, the hotel room is pretty sweet. I haven't stayed at The Dorchester before, though I'm told Michael Jackson likes it when he's in the city. As per her prediction, she's just exiting the bathroom in one of their fluffy white robes when the door goes and the food is delivered. From then on we go for the always exciting 'sit and watch TV while eating and chatting' thing. I think I'm probably eating more of her fries than she is. Sometimes I catch myself watching her, watching her lips as she eats or talks. I'm like a lip pervert or something.

There's a few subjects we purposely avoid, and a particular channel (one I didn't even think they got in this country, namely E!) that we turn over almost as soon as it comes on because they're busy discussing the latest rumours about us. Apparently we're fighting because she wants to move in but I'm too commitment phobic and was only looking for something light. Stupid bastards. Sometimes I wonder how much longer I'm going to be able to take that crap, how many more rounds of album promo I can go through before the benefits outweigh the pitfalls. I have a shelf life, I guess.

"I'm sorry, J," Chelsea sighs as she reaches over and pushes the plate as far away on the nightstand as she can manage. "I know this wasn't exactly what you had planned."

"Meh. Plans can be changed," I shrug. "I just changed the reservation for tomorrow."

It's funny, I was blowing up at Trace earlier and ranting how catastrophic it was that everything had gone so wrong, but now Chelsea's here and actually in front of me for the first time in a month I could care less. My mom said that I was just projecting my frustration about Chelsea not being there onto the unimportant stuff like the restaurant and once she got here I'd forget all about it - I hate it when her psycho babble shit is accurate. It was just way past time for me to see my girl; I feel like we haven't spent any time together in an age.

"So there was food involved? Oh, wait, with you there always is."

She pokes her tongue out at me and gets tickled for her slight. In response she just grabs me and squeezes me round the waist until I give up and just settle into the hug with her, both of us stretched lazily out on the bed. Woman's not wrong though, part of my big plan was taking her out for a deeply extravagant lunch. It's a thing I do. If I don't see my girlfriend for a while I like to splash out on a big date - been like that with every girlfriend I ever had and I don't see it changing any time soon.

"Seriously though…" She trails a finger over my cheek and ear. It'd be sexy if it didn't tickle so much. "You're not mad that I basically missed our anniversary? I know you had so much planned and I feel awful for being so late."

"Shit happens," I shrug. "Besides, you got here. And you, like, battled the odds to do it or some shit which just goes to show how awesome you think I am."

"Clearly having twelve thousand girls scream your name every night has inflated your ego since the last time I saw you." I see her big brown eyes roll at me, though she clearly thinks I didn't.

"Wanna make tonight's count twelve thousand and one?" I waggle my eyebrows.

"You're a dirty, dirty man," she says through a wide yawn. Damn it - I'm guessing that idea's out. She does look kind of sleepy. Honestly, I wait a month to get laid and now I still have to wait until the morning? Sheesh, who on high hates me? I got a serious case of blue balls here!

Heh, I can wait. Much as I was kidding about the 'how awesome she thinks I am' shit, I mean every word when I say that knowing she busted her ass to make sure she was here for even a few hours of our anniversary means a serious fucking lot to me. Considering that a year ago I was struggling to get even the smallest sign that she cared out of her, when she does stuff like this it makes me insanely happy. Maybe I'm finally growing out of my insatiable horn dog phase when I say that's enough. She's still not the most demonstrative person in the world and I've come to terms with the fact that she and I just differ that way, it's just how she is, but I still appreciate a little display of the amore sometimes.

Though… now I think about it, is it a sign that I've gone way too Hollywood that all she did was catch public transport and I'm acting like this is a huge sacrifice on her part?

"You wanna go sleep?" I ask her. Her yawn is infectious, because now I'm doing it myself. Still, I just did a two hour show; I have an excuse to be tired. Chelsea nods wordlessly and I can see her eyes are half closed already.

She manages to stay coherent only long enough to peel off her robe and crawl under the covers, so it's left to me to reach out and turn off the lamps. I do so and the room goes dark, leaving only the barest light for me to make out her outline with. I run a hand along it, up her thigh and over her hip until I reach her rib cage. Folding my arm over her middle, I shift and fidget until I find myself in our usual position, me spooning her and the crown of her head just brushing my lips. In the foreign setting of this room, one in a long line of faceless hotel suites, the familiarity of it is like that warm rush I get when I'm sat at home in Memphis with my Grandpa and we're sharing a bottle of good whiskey. I breathe in and the smell of her hair hits the back of my throat just like that shot would.

"Love you." I thought she was gone already, but she's managed to stay awake just long enough to turn around and give me a quick kiss goodnight.

"Love you too."

"I'll make it up to you in the morning."

I let out a low chuckle, one of my dirtiest, and let that speak for me.