‘Hi. It’s Milo, Joss gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.’
‘Of course, yes. Good evening, Milo. Are you here?’
He made a sound that resembled laughter. ‘Good evening,’ he replied. ‘I’m just about to arrive.’
‘Great, I’ll meet you by the car.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Rose.’
‘See you soon, Rose.’
Rose felt her cheeks burning as she hung up. Good evening? Why had she said good evening? She thought about what Milo might say to her when he arrived. There was the usual ‘Where’s the bathroom?’, ‘How long does this thing go on for?’ and ‘I really need to be sat next to this person and not that person so you need to make that happen.’ There were the equally common but more discreet requests, like ‘What kind of champagne are they serving? I only drink Dom Perignon’ and ‘How much trouble will I be in for snorting this at the table if I give you some first?’ And occasionally, there were just downright bizarre things, like the time Rose greeted a Hollywood actor and told him who he needed to thank in his speech and he kept asking why her dress looked so soft and could she send it to him later so he could take a nap on it. She managed to pass him off onto Minnie, who later told her that he was on magic mushrooms.
So far, all the celebrities Rose had expected to be lovely were monsters. And all the ones she’d expected to be monsters were lovely. With the exception of a few people, it was the ones on the precipice of fame with the biggest egos, wildest demands, and the flappiest publicists. The major stars didn’t seem bothered by any of it any more, perhaps because they didn’t need to be. It didn’t take long for Rose to realise that fame only means as much as someone tells you it does.
She headed outside to the red carpet to meet Milo, hands not moving from the bottom of her dress. The last thing she needed was a paparazzi photograph of him arriving with her M&S knickers in the background. A Mercedes-Benz with blacked-out windows pulled up and the air around her changed instantly. It was as if something had inhaled almost all of it. Rose put one hand on her chest and tried to take a deep breath.
The crowd of teenage girls who had been lurking behind the barriers on either side of the red carpet since 5 a.m. started shrieking, their limbs shaking wildly like caged animals. There were always fans waiting for celebrity arrivals outside Firehouse events. But they were usually a mix of ages and genders, reflecting the wide-ranging clientele that usually attended the parties. Tonight though, it was almost entirely young women and their mothers.
A bodyguard emerged, seemingly from nowhere, and opened the car door facing the start of the red carpet. A man was climbing out, the shrieks growing louder and banshee-like now. Rose resisted putting her hands over her ears and stood there, smiling. Black patent loafers emerged first, then a purple trouser leg, a purple suit jacket. And then there he was. Dark curls framed angular cheekbones, full lips perched beneath a small but sharp nose, and those impossibly light eyes that scanned the scene with familiarity and detachment. He was not of this world.
Milo stopped to chat to a few fans, smiling politely when they shoved screens in front of his face. Some of them were sobbing now, gasping for breath as they clutched their hands to their chests. Rose winced when she saw one of the older women reach out from behind the gates to touch his thigh. He lightly side-stepped and moved on to another row of fans. He was good at this, giving everyone equal attention, photographs and eye contact. It wasn’t just a routine he’d practised countless times. There was substance to it. He showed interest, an awareness that a single look or comment from him would metastasise into a life-affirming anecdote that would be retold and re-lived for years to come.
Eventually, he waved goodbye and blew some kisses to the crowd – ‘Impregnate me!’ shouted one alarmingly young voice – and started heading towards the entrance, his eyes scanning again. Rose edged towards him, feeling a thousand eyes on her. She waved at him tentatively but he didn’t see.
‘Hi, Milo,’ she said too quietly for him to hear. She cleared her throat. ‘Hi, Milo!’ she shouted, surprising herself.
‘Hello.’ His gaze found Rose. ‘Rose, I’m guessing?’
Hearing him say her name was unnerving. ‘Yes. Rose. Hi. Sorry for shouting.’
‘It’s important to get your voice heard. Nice to meet you.’ He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, placing his hand lightly on her arm. He smelled like the kind of lavender soap you’d buy in a French airport.
‘You too. How was the journey?’
‘The journey?’
Rose felt her throat clogging up again as she tried to work out from his tone of voice if he was making fun of her.
‘I mean, have you come far?’
‘I like your dress,’ he replied.
Rose became very aware of the feeling of the hot velvet rubbing against her skin. There was sweat slipping between her thighs as she walked. ‘Thanks, it’s my housemate’s. It’s actually a bit short.’ She tugged at it again. ‘I like your shoes.’
‘My shoes?’ he said, looking down, shrugging his shoulders at the least interesting part of his outfit.
‘Let’s get you to the red carpet,’ Rose replied, hurrying him inside.
She introduced Milo to the photographers. ‘Hey, mate!’ He smiled at them before getting into position in front of the step and repeat. He knew exactly what to do, posing obediently while jibing with the press, pandering to them while also maintaining that degree of separation that Rose figured was not only inevitable but necessary. Ignoring Joss’s instructions after the photos were done, Milo bounded up to a trio of male journalists.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Milo,’ said Rose, sidling next to him. She hated having to do this. ‘But Joss said no interviews.’
‘Of course, Rose,’ he said, smiling back at her. ‘Thank you for keeping me in line.’
She felt her face flush. It was hard to tell if he was flirting, or if this was just how he spoke to everyone. The latter was more likely, she reassured herself.
‘Who are you looking forward to meeting tonight, Milo?’ attempted one of the journalists, completely ignoring what Rose had just said.
Milo turned back to face him. ‘Sorry, guys. Next time!’ he chimed, swinging around on his heels to face the mass of twinkling bodies impatiently awaiting his arrival. Rose mouthed ‘sorry’ to the journalists, who stared blankly at her like she’d just punched them in the face.
‘So tell me …’ Milo said, walking strangely slowly beside Rose.
‘Tell you what?’
‘What’s your story?’
‘My story?’
‘Yes. Tell me about it.’
She laughed to hide her discomfort.
‘I don’t have one, I guess. Not yet, anyway.’
‘And why’s that?’
