Here’s what no one tells you about idolization: it’s ruthless. Heartless. But it is, above anything else, a deceiving crime. You take someone, anyone really, and whimly turn them into your preferred object of desire. They’re the one thing. The only one. And while you choose them over everything else and laureate them, they rise. They fly above any possible skies, your hands up in the air, their shadow casted upon you.

You send them high above, turn them into heavenly-made creatures. But, then, when they’re up there, there is only one thing left for them to do. Falling. Being torn by the vulture creatures that will watch the corpse of the myriad thing they once were.

Crashing comes just as fast, thunderous. Their light bones sulked into their skins, tearing them apart once they finally hit the floor.

It’s all mythical, isn’t it? Icarus and his inherited cursed wings, flying higher, too close to the sun. 

Us, staring at its darkening shape above our heads right before the fall.

We shape idols into a thing that will do and say what we want to see and hear. Something that will smile and walk the way we need them to smile and walk; wave at strangers and rapidly get in the car. One shot, bang. The perfect one. Can you see that smile? Now, the picture reaches the magazines that wonder and inspect and creep around the details of their new flashing necklace, which is now your new flashing necklace. The picture again, on your phone, a screensaver.

You live vicariously through the notes, asking yourself the questions that could aim closer to the truth you want to believe. What does it say, that you're smiling a little less this time, little bird? Icarus bats its wings. Are there any possible problems in paradise?, the media asks.

The shadow moves.

Today, those questions have become weapons that turn into conversations, and rumours spread swiftly in the vast ocean of news and social media. Idols aren’t flying anymore, they’re skyrocketing themselves into the sun, the spotlight, the stage; an olympus of their own.

And there’s a very clear centerpiece to that particular pantheon, today. 

I’m thinking of Billie Grace, of course. Her music, her songs, her dresses, her red carpet looks. She’s always shimmering, dignified. Everyone knows there’s no one else who can possibly blind the cameras like she does. Anywhere she goes, heads turn and people gaze in disbelief. And she catches them staring, a smile loaded like a gun. She smiles and grants an autograph, breaks a rule or two to take a picture with you. Some say that she is kind. Others deem her calculated and exploitative. 

They’re all looking at her, regardless, whispering. And the stories they tell about her, loud like swarms of bees, mute one another.

After working for her for less than two weeks, I can tell you she’s a hell lot more complicated than any of that.

What terrifies me the most about idolization is knowing that, even if we tried to make people like Billie human, we can’t seem to help it. We all like shiny and unreachable things. We’re mesmerized by golden tragedies. But, what length is the golden calf willing to go to remain virtuous and noble, righteous to its name, sacrificial? What price is the hero willing to pay for the height, for the rush of fame? And most importantly, what will happen when the wheel goes down, the minute she fails?

I remember her, less than a week ago, sitting on an armchair, for an interview. Billie was still wearing her hair long in a gullible updo. The makeup was soft, and she looked young and fair. Somehow, I could believe she was being her most honest when she said:

“Once someone falls out of love with you, there’s nothing you can do to win them back.” She granted a sad but a daringly beautiful smile. “I’m afraid I’ve learnt that the hard way”.

That was the first day she saw me too, all dressed in leather and wearing my sunglasses on my head. When she walked out of her interview, after thanking the interviewer with a firm handshake, she approached us. Me and Lilah. But she asked me, and not anyone else, if I wanted some coffee. 

Perhaps too shy, I hesitated before saying I did. 

She instantly offered me hers, reassuring me that she wasn’t allowed to have dairy anyway but she enjoyed the smell. She didn’t look tired at all, but something was off. And I couldn’t stop myself from staring, wondering if it was the pressure in the air, preparing us all for the crack.

“Is she still in her room?” 

Lilah sounds harsh on the phone at this time of the day.

“I got here twenty minutes ago. The help opened the door. But she hasn’t come down yet, no.”

I can hear her steps above my head, as she moves upstairs. But here I am, still somewhat afraid of making the wrong move.

“Is Emily still there, then?”

I can tell my boss is by the pool. I can hear children screaming and laughing, the splashing of water.

“She gave me the keys and left. But she said Billie was in the writing room when she got here yesterday, and that she hasn’t eaten anything since.” I frown. “Should I worry? Is that new?”

“It isn’t”, she groans. “But listen, Amber, you need to get her to work.” She’s pinching her nose. I can feel it. I know I’m letting my boss down. And while I feel bad about it, I remind myself I didn’t sign up for any of this. I’m just an intern. I’m just here because. I shouldn’t know how to treat a multi-millionaire artist going through a personal crisis. “Call her stylist, and tell her they’re coming. She’s always happy to know Pablo is on the way...”

“Pablo is the stylist, got it.”

“You should already know that…”, Lilah sighs. “Listen, you just need to get her out of bed and on the move. They’ll do the rest for you.” 

“I know. It’s just…” I sigh back. “It would be easier if it were you!” 

I’m all dressed up for nothing. Blazer, shoes, earrings. It’s not me who they’re all waiting for. It’s the pretty girl behind the door at the end of the corridor upstairs. Billie Grace, of course. Who’s still home instead of getting on the road. She is the one who needs to perform, not me. 

No one should have any expectations on me, ever.

Not anymore.

“She trusts you, Lilah. Not me. How am I supposed to just walk into her room and...?”

“You walked into her house.”

“I… What I mean is: what if she’s naked?”

“You’ll survive, Amber. I’m sure you’ve seen a naked woman before”, she laughs.

I sigh again, staring at the ceiling.

“This was supposed to be an easy job, auntie.”

“That’s what your father thought of it, but I told you.” Lecturing-Aunt-Lilah is back. To be fair, she did warn me about the job being tough. I just ignored that and took the high salary like a child accepts candy. “Besides, why would you study a whole career on representing people if you can’t talk to them?”

“I was meant to advise on small companies, not...” I can’t swear on the phone. What if she heard me? “The biggest pop girl of the year. Whom everyone is waiting for. Whose career depends on this one stupid thing, apparently… If it was so important to begin with, why did you go on vacation just now?”

I can hear her smiling at the other end of the line.

“I have a family to tend to, Amber. And, as you said, I’m on vacation, so you are dealing with this. Because it’s your job. And you need to remind Billie this is hers. That is, if she still wants it.”

The kitchen is immaculate, except for the open bottle of wine on the counter. I have to stop myself from chugging on it.

“So… it’s getting her up, getting her stylist here, walking her out, making sure we get those pap walk pictures and then we’re all free for the week.” I repeat the plan as if it were easier that way. “Right? I’m not forgetting anything.”

“I’ll tell your cousin Jonah that you miss him, then.”

I laugh. She always cuts me on the phone like she’s getting rid of me, even if very politely. I’m used to this.

“But I don’t miss him.”

“He doesn’t need to know that.” She laughs too. And here comes the warning: “Fix this. Or I’ll fire you.”

I know she’s joking but, when the call is over and I’m left there, alone, I sort of start believing she meant it. She could be serious about firing me, after all. This is a very competitive field and she could find someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

If there is something I know about my job, it is the fact that any small mistake you make will follow you for years. If I mess this up, Billie is going to have to meet Matthew Berry in that little coffee shop called The Bus Stop far more times than she needs to do now. So she’ll probably resent me for that, because that’s what stars do. And then, Lilah will be forced to fire me anyway, right? 

Because Billie Fucking Grace would never forgive me for making her work a double shift.

I take a deep breath and keep my phone in my pocket. I stare at myself in the reflection of the glass cabinet.

I look like a predictable doll: long blonde hair, white shirt, phone in hand.

Billie’s house is lukewarm but in a positive sense. I want to wear something over my shoulders and hold onto it, even if it’s summer. The vintage sweet familiar furniture and the humble distribution of the rooms ressembles a simple family house. Of course, the Grammys on the shelves make it all a little bit pompous. I guess that’s what breaks the spell. As you walk around, the feeling settles and you can’t shake off the illusion that you’re in some kind of film set. 

The director is the one hiding upstairs, trying to sell the illusion of her own tale.

The stairs growl as I take them. 

It’s funny, because I know for a fact they’re not old. She had this house built two years ago. My aunt told me that. She wanted a big garden and a petite place for herself. There’s a living room and a kitchen. Next to the main door, there’s a small room with a piano. She calls it the writing room, and it has the nicest views. There’s a french door that leads to a small nook covered in gardenia bushes. In one of her interviews, she said she loves sitting there, with the doors open, wearing really puffy socks. 

I can tell why.

Upstairs, the place is just as cozy. I hadn’t been there yet. Even when it makes me sick to my stomach, to walk around her house like it’s public property, I’m curious enough to continue.

First thing I see is a bathroom, big enough for a family of three. In the middle of the room, right under the window, there’s a bathtub. The golden faucets are faked to make it look older than it actually is. To my left, a small library, with a sofa and a big armchair. There are no walls to it, but there’s a big window on the ceiling, so the light falls right into the reading corner. I wonder if it’s a good spot for stargazing in the fall. And, to my surprise, I imagine myself wearing a long cardigan in some sort of Jane Austen novel, contemplating life as I walk down the corridor.

The door at the end of the hallway is the one that leads to her room and it is not closed. I don’t know why it surprises me. Why would she close it, anyway? She’s in her own house, alone. Isn’t that enough privacy? Except I know for a fact it is not.

“For fuck’s sake…!” 

A cat passes me by, meowing before I can kick it into oblivion. He seems hungry, but I bet he will survive. I watch the animal walk downstairs and, because I have already broken my silence, I decide to speak. 

“Billie? It’s Lilah’s assistant.”