‘Why does it always smell like weed?’
‘My neighbours smoke it incessantly – and it’s the first thing you smell whenever you open the window. You’d think I’d be more relaxed, really.’
‘And you don’t smoke it?’
‘No, I generally avoid drugs. I used to smoke weed when I was younger but I’d get too hungry afterwards.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’
‘Well, yes. Maybe. I don’t know. But I once smoked it with a group of boys who had no food at their house apart from frozen garlic bread. I ate the entire thing and haven’t touched weed since.’
‘That sounds sensible.’
‘Do you like them?’
‘What?’
‘Drugs.’
He shrugged. ‘Some are okay. But I try not to get caught up in that anymore.’
‘Anymore?’
‘I used to do a lot.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘Coke, MD, ketamine. The bad stuff.’
‘Bet it was high quality stuff though.’
‘It was actually. But my God, those comedowns aren’t something I’m in a hurry to repeat. It’s a cliché but when I was younger and thrust into this scene it was just all there on a platter, sometimes literally.’
‘How very predictable of you.’
‘Almost as predictable as a middle-class south-London girl working at Firehouse.’
‘Guess I deserved that.’
‘In all fairness, you don’t strike me as the Firehouse type.’
‘What is the Firehouse type?’ she asked, knowing the answer.
‘Well, they all know each other, don’t they? All from the same private schools. All friends with the same people. You know people call it Nepohouse, right?’
Of course Rose knew this; Minnie was always trying to get tabloids to stop putting it in their headlines whenever something mildly unsavoury came out about the company.
‘I’m not part of that,’ she said.
‘I can tell.’
As the journey stretched on, Rose continued regaining her ability to form clear sentences. Soon, she and Milo were chatting properly, quickly and enthusiastically in the way people do when they’re in the throes of an unexpectedly great first date. They spoke about whether or not astrology is a con (Milo said it is, Rose said it can be helpful as a guide), where they both were when Trump was inaugurated (Milo was at home alone in LA, Rose was in the office, watching it on Minnie’s computer screen), and why calling yourself a pescetarian is obnoxious even if it accurately describes your diet (they both agreed on this one). Conversation continued like this for twenty minutes after they arrived outside Rose’s flat.
‘Shall we have a drink at yours?’ Milo asked.
The words repeated themselves in her head. Had he really just asked her that?
‘I don’t think we should, no,’ she replied, suddenly feeling the urge to be alone. ‘My housemate is a fan. She will probably scream and push you to the floor and lick you or something.’
‘Are you a fan?’
‘I’m still deciding.’
‘Cool.’ He paused; the silence hung between them like it wanted to ask Milo for a selfie. ‘It’s been fun, Rose. Until next time.’
‘Right, yeah. Goodnight.’
Rose closed her front door and wondered if she’d dreamed it. It had been too surreal to be that close to him. Too strange to breathe the same air. To accept that he was a real living person who wore seat belts and listened to the radio in cars. Someone who had asked to come into her flat, a home that was lovely but still had cracks in the walls and a toilet that smelled like sewage whenever it flushed.
Of all the people that evening Milo could have chosen to direct his fame particles towards, why her? It wasn’t like he needed to get into Firehouse’s good books. Or anyone’s good books, for that matter. Milo’s reputation was pristine across the board. Vulture called him ‘one of the music industry’s good ones’ in a recent profile filled with adoring quotes from people he’d worked with. One of his managers described him as ‘just a really genuine, salt-of-the-earth guy’. Whatever Milo’s motivation, to have his full and complete attention had kick-started some sort of adrenal reaction in Rose so that every fibre in her body had been electrified. He had chosen her, even just for a moment. And it felt like she was fizzing.
Tucking her duvet underneath her feet and burying her head deep into her pillow, Rose replayed every conversation they’d had in her head several times. She searched for something to cling onto in each exchange, scraps of evidence she could weave together to prove that it was real. There was the way he looked at her when she teased him. A soft smile, the kind you give to someone before you lean in to kiss them. The way he kept saying her name. Wasn’t that something men had been told to do in order to get women to think they were into them? The way his eyes lingered on her legs every time she tugged her dress down. She agonised over her decision not to let him into her flat. If she’d said yes, would she be having sex with Milo Jax right now?
Rose had never quite mastered the art of feeling attracted to someone without letting it slip into obsession. It was a problem and it happened often. Even someone she would catch eyes with on the Tube would, within ten seconds, be the subject of an elaborate fantasy ending with them tearfully watching her walk towards them down the aisle.
Over the years, Rose had started to obsess more consciously, knowing it wasn’t healthy and probably had something to do with her father, but also knowing she couldn’t stop herself. It had become a part of her nightly routine. Cleanse. Moisturise. Fantasise. It wasn’t just the appeal of endless possibility. There was also a sense of fulfilment in it; the men in her head did everything she wanted them to. They pushed her up against walls, crushing her ever so slightly as they lightly kissed her neck. They whispered the things they wanted to do to her, hands roving on hips before spreading legs apart. Slowly at first, and then faster, more urgent. Rose moaned, loudly because Luce would be fast asleep by now. She would be on her back, a kitchen table, maybe. More gentle kisses, this time on her thighs. Milo’s hands reaching up to caress her torso, the corners of his shoulder flexing on her flesh. His skin smooth and moisturised. Rose let out a small cry as she pushed her fingers deeper inside herself. Shortly after that, she curled her toes and collapsed, weightless and limp on damp sheets.
Later, she reached for her phone and opened Instagram. @milojax followed 210 people and had 52.3 million followers. Luce followed him, as did several people she went to school with and everyone she followed at Firehouse. The people he followed were mostly musicians or models or both. There were a few names she didn’t recognise. Old friends or the secret accounts of fellow celebrities, she presumed. Underneath where it said ‘Followers’ it said ‘Message’. Rose tapped it, surprised at how easy this was. She typed:
