I swear to God, famous and rich people just have the worst taste for everything.

“Matthew, man, this is the ugliest house I’ve ever seen”.

Matt Berry looks at me with those big, baby blue eyes that are winning over teenagers all around the world. I take another three seconds before I look back at him; he has no power over me, not even with the little unintentional pout, but I know he’s not trying to make me pity him or anything: that’s just his real, actual face, and everyone could see it’s adorable, and the fact that he’s not faking is what is helping him climb up places in the music charts.

Well, I mean, he sounds really great and I genuinely love his music, but we have to admit that all those girls falling in love with him are helping the kid a lot.

“But it... it was so expensive,” he mutters, confused, looking around like it’s the first time he’s been to his own place.

I have to hold a little laugh that would definitely hurt his feelings.

“Might’ve been expensive, my dude, but it looks like the Cullen house. Do you ever spend time in this living room?”

“I mean, the telly’s great for video games?”

The telly. Ugh. But yes, okay, I guess I have to give him that. The TV is as tall as me, and that’s impressive even if I’m five feet two and I do not look like much, but I guess the scale is different for girls and screens.

“What about the sofa, though?” 

“The sofa looks horrible, but I guess I may spare it if it’s comfy.”

When he’s silent, I smile and walk ahead of him because I don’t want to look too smug about winning.

The white-clean kitchen is my favorite room of the house. The only one I actually like, to be precise. This is only like the second or third time I’ve come here, and I make sure to comment on how hideous this place is at every single chance I get, but I never find the courage to say something bad about this particular space. It’s probably because of the window on the ceiling, and the beautiful, beautiful light, and the scratched surface near the fridge that always makes me feel like this is a place where someone actually lives, and not only some human-sized doll house. There are always dishes on the sink and little food in the fridge shelves, just like any other college boy’s kitchen would have, and it’s not like he’s young enough to be in college, but it makes the place feel less like a vampire’s lair.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, shyly. He doesn’t know how to handle guests and it’s really cute. “I’ve got a secret stash of Nutella, I can share some.”

I know he does, I saw it in one of my previous visits when I was snooping around. I wonder if he offers some to everyone that comes here or if I just look super trustworthy, but last time when he said the exact same thing to me was when I knew I could tell him his house was ugly without getting myself fired.

“I’m okay, thanks. And I also won’t tell Molly if you have some right now.” I believe she forbade sugar for him, but come on: the guy looks so skinny, he’s gotta eat! A bit of chocolate can’t be that bad, can it?

He thanks me and it looks like he could cry, but he doesn’t.

“Okay, so we’re kinda tight on the schedule, but I think we’ll make it just fine,” I say, taking out my laptop and opening it as if it was some kind of Pandora’s box. He makes this face that makes me believe he’s thinking the same thing, and for a moment I feel sorry for him, but this is just a job. It’s mine. It’s his. And we’re gonna do it without feeling pity for each other. “You’re supposed to meet Billie Grace tomorrow morning in that little café called The Bus Stop. It will not be very early, but still you’ll have to wake up at like five to make it to New York on time. We’re renting a private jet to do the job this time, so you should be fine and able to take many naps while in the air. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Easy peasy.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. “Bit excessive.”

“Come on, it’s gonna be great. Just a coffee, then you’ll be back here by night time. Also, I’ve been told the pilot’s really nice, if that makes you feel better.”

“Oh, is he?” he asks, still doubtful. “What’s his name?”

I blink a few times.

“What do you mean what’s his name?”

“You know, what’s the pilot’s name?”

What the fuck.

“I don’t know,” I say. I was so not expecting this conversation that I ultimately find myself almost stuttering. “I can ask Molly if you want, but I don’t think it matters. Must be James or Charles or whatever pilot’s are always called.”

“Oh, but I thought you were Charles?”

I was not prepared for that, either. It takes me a moment to react and actually chuckle a little. That was a bit funny, I have to grant it to him. And I guess it’s only fair that he jokes about my name after I messed with his place, but I still reply, playful so he does know I’m joking, just to keep this tug-of-war going on between us.

“Careful, Cullen-boy, or I’ll expose your autotune routine on Twitter.”

“Oh, but that’d probably be way worse for you, Charlie,” he says, grinning. He’s more relaxed now, which is good. “Last week, I read a Buzzfeed article that rated the berries as the most passionate fan base there is”.

“Wait until they get all aggressive with the graces over your love affair, it’s gonna be war!”, I scoff. “See if you still like them that much, then!”

I was just trying to be funny, but the smile on Matthew’s face fades. That’s how I know I’ve fucked up. It’s because I said ‘love’. And ‘affair’. Those words are not exactly forbidden, but my boss warned me about mentioning what happened and what led us all into this situation: the rumors about Matt seeing someone secretly and having their picture taken somewhere in the UK.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he simply turns to the nearest cabinet and grabs the Nutella jar and a spoon to go along with it.

“I just hope this works,” he whispers to himself. And then he starts eating straight from the jar. Honestly? I can’t blame him for doing so. I provoked this, I guess, by my comment, and now I feel guilty.

“It will,” I say sitting in the stool in front of him. “You’re with the best team, and Molly has worked hard to get this perfectly planned. Billie Grace’s team and ours are working together. It’s going to be great. You trust Molly and her amazing brain, don’t you?” When he nods, his glasses slide to the tip of his nose and, suddenly, he looks like a little kid, as if the glasses were not his, but his father’s. “Great! ‘Cause she trusted me, and I got you, and you’re gonna do fine. We just have to go over this a few more times,” I say, pointing at the screen, “and then it’ll be over. A fast ride, some hand touching, maybe, and then you’ll be home. To eat whatever’s left of that Nutella, and to play stupid videogames in that gigantic television of yours.”

Matthew Berry nods quietly and I wonder what’s going through his head, but there’s not much wondering left to do.

He’s just scared.

He’s scared and he’s tired and he’s only starting here.

“I really just wanted to play some music, you know?” he says, and it’s like we were thinking the same thing, like our minds are connected in a twisted way. “It was fun when it was just YouTube and all that, but now… I don’t know. I don’t feel like it’s about the music anymore, it’s… Now it’s more than that.”

I know it is. I don’t think people care about the lyrics or the tunes or the silences now, either. I thought that too at the beginning, when moving to LA and working as a PR assistant/social media manager was the most exciting thing an ex-fangirl could do, but this is exactly like working on a school play instead of just watching it: you see the threads and the paper trees and realize the make-up is not magic, but some well-put paint. There’s nothing exciting about seeing things from the back. But it is also sad, even, and disappointing. And if it feels like that for me, I don’t even want to wear his shoes for a mile.

It makes me sad, watching his hopes crashing like this, but I’m pretty sure something in him is breaking.

Leaving the person you love for a fake-ass dream behind does that to you, I believe.

I don’t know what people see in this scrawny young man when they look at him, but I don’t think they can notice that. I think they only focus on the cuteness, and the guitar, and the curly blond hair that sits on his head very messy, but they don’t see the heartbreak. Or the effort. It’s always like this, probably, but I can’t help to empathize with him because we’re coming from similar places.

That’s why I insisted on picking him, didn’t I? Because Molly brought him to the agency like a stray kitten found in a box and she didn’t really know what to do with him. It got even worse after those pictures were taken, but I knew it from the moment I laid my eyes on him, even before the apocalypse that those photos of him meant: he and I, we are the same. And I know what it is to be stared at and rejected, and I couldn’t let that happen to him, so that’s why I’m here. And that’s why I’ve been thinking about this next marketing strategy for the last month. When I found out Billie Grace was looking for a guy to be her beard, I didn’t have a doubt: my boy was the best option, and I made sure she was aware of that.

I feel like I will always have a weak spot for him, even if I try to act tough when he’s around. That’s why I reach across the table and grab his hand and squeeze it like I’m trying to comfort a dear friend and not an indie-pop singer that earns more a week than I do a year.

And I don’t know what made me think I could just do that, but I do, and he seems to be more grateful for that than the chocolate on his lips.

“You’re going to be fine, Cullen-boy,” I say, and me calling him that makes him smile just a little, and it makes me feel good. “I’m here, okay? I got you. And you’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“You and I should be mates, Charlie.”

I laugh and let him go, wincing.

“It doesn’t really work if you say it out loud… But don’t worry, they’re paying me to be anything you want me to be.” I frown, which makes him laugh. “With limits.”