“But will I be able to see my mum?”

I groan and throw back my head. I swear to God, if Matthew Berry asks me just one more question, even if he just wants to know the time, the airport police is going to arrest me for murdering a little kid in the body of a grown-up.

I open my eyes, tired. He looks very nervous, and I know it’s just not an impression, ‘cause he actually, really is. That’s fair, but this shouldn't be more than another beard-stunt for him like the ones he’s been doing for a little over two months already. That’s why I answer to him calmly, and that’s also why I leave solely for my imagination the urge to push him into the rolling thing that takes the luggage away before just waving him goodbye.

“Yes, Matthew,” I reply now, “there will be time for you to see your dear mother.”

“But for how long? Will it be like a whole day, or only a few hours? Because I would love to ask my aunts to come too, and maybe my grandad, but only if he’s not fishing...”

When I look up at him again, I try to act like a nice person and remember that biting him would definitely get me fired too.

“Can you please tell me what got you so nervous all of a sudden, boy?”

He blushes because he’s been caught, and I can see his cheeks getting redder behind the big sunglasses he’s wearing as a disguise. That would be really cute if I hadn’t been in a plane for twelve hours without getting one tiny bit of sleep, but that was exactly my situation up until thirty minutes ago, so I cannot be super receptive.

“Well, this is supposed to be us getting real, right?”

I stare at him blankly for ten whole seconds. 

“You mean ‘us’ as in, you and me?”

I am, to be honest, more than a bit sleepy.

“No, no,” he says fast, and he looks even more nervous now, like an awkward teenager. “I mean me and Billie. I was thinking about her, about this whole thing. I’ve been thinking about her the whole trip, to be honest, and now I’m here and I was just wondering… Well. You know. About all that. This is supposed to be the confirmation of our relationship. So I was wondering about what would happen when we say we’re together...”

I nod, rub my eyes and try to hold the ugliest yawn because that would be super rude right after him telling me (again) that he’s worried. I mean, I get it, but we’ve been through this all week and I’ve seen him rereading the notes I made for him during the flight. He knows what to do. He knows everything. He and Billie Grace texted a lot about this, apparently, and both teams have been planning cute dates and the most detailed affection-showing choreographies for days.

I even prepared a list of cheesy tweets and Instagram captions to write before and after people see the first picture of them together. Billie Grace has been here for a few days, and I actually posted Matt’s first London selfie just like five minutes ago, so right now I’m not only waiting for our luggage, but for the little Sherlocks on the internet to find out that the Starbucks you can see behind him in the picture is the one they just opened in Heathrow.

This is going to be stressful, but also so much fun.

“Just keep all that ‘I’ve been thinking about her the whole trip’ thing for later, and you’ll do just fine,” I tell him, nudging his side and softly smiling.

Matt nods and I check his account again.

I remember the moment Molly told me she was sending me here, and then me replying that I was just an assistant, that my job was to tell Matt whatever she wanted him to do, and that I excel at social media, but that’s all. I was nervous about it, I admit it; the longest trip I’ve ever made was from my little Wisconsin town to LA, when my baby brother drove us for days so I didn’t have to take a flight when I moved out of home. 

Anyways, there’s this sadist in Molly that enjoys my suffering and that enjoyed it then, so she shrugged and smiled that placid, little smile of hers before giving me the shittiest reason why I had been chosen.

“You said you claimed him, right? That you’d take care of him. Plus, he just likes you more.”

And I guess I should be glad because Matt trusts me, and because this is a free trip to London and they’re paying me a tiny bit more (yay!) but, to be honest, I was planning on binge watching the whole Community College Musical saga with my friends Trent and Julia this weekend, and now they’re going to have that once-a-year cake by themselves and I’m gonna miss it.

“I just wish she would’ve chosen a closer place to make it public,” I told Molly, trying not to sound too whiny or ungrateful.

“Billie Grace’s team wished that too, but the girl was insistent. Now, just pack up and go, Charlie. Most people would kill for an opportunity like this one.”

I doubt that, but fine.

The suitcases are here, and we start moving fast.

The cab I hired is waiting for us in the main exit, the man holding a big sign that reads “Charlie Green”. I decide to run to it as if the zombies were after us. Matthew’s holding the big bags himself, and I guess he shouldn’t because he’s famous or whatever, but I’m short as a hobbit and I believe being helpful will keep his ego on ground levels. So I’m doing this for him, really. We soon get in the cab and I give the driver the directions, and when we’re safe —when no one’s approached us and I check there are no pictures of us in the airport— I rest against the window and fall fast asleep.

“Hey, Charlie, we’re here. Wake up.”

The protocol for getting into the hotel is easy: Matt gets in from the back, I walk him to the room safe and then I leave him there and go back downstairs to check-in myself, because no, we’re of course not sharing the fancy room, and yes, Molly forgot to mention I should’ve booked mine from the agency at home, even if they’re paying and everything, so I have to fix that all jetlagged and everything. Dumb Charlie.

Anyways.

When all the first half of the plan is done, I take the elevator and I softly sing to the tune until the doors open and a really tall, blond white girl walks in, checking her phone and not looking at me once. The place’s not huge, so I press my back against the wall and check my phone as well; her soft perfume fills the space and I can’t help to think that it’s nice, even if every time she bounces her ponytail it hits my face right in the nostrils. Am I complaining? I don’t know, no, maybe. But she’s standing right in the middle of the place like I’m not even here and just because of that I think that, even if she smells nice, I don’t like her.

Hopefully, I won’t have to deal with many rude brits in the next few days.

We get off when we get to the ground floor. I try to walk past her, but she has legs for days and my short ass can’t be fast enough; that’s why she’s the first to get to the main counter, and that’s why she gets to speak to the girl behind it first.

“Hello, yes, I would like to book a room.”

Oh, so she has an American accent. I don’t know how that makes me feel.

The girl at the desk tilts her head and suddenly she’s looking right at me while smiling.

“Will it be a room for two?”

The blonde girl takes a few seconds to realize what she means. When she turns to look at me, her dark, intense eyes find mine and I stop shaking my head no to just stand there awkwardly, not exactly knowing what to do next, only staring back. 

Fuck, she’s pretty. And her nose is really cute. I open my mouth, maybe to say hi, maybe ready to introduce myself or whatever, but then she raises a dark eyebrow and she turns back at the desk, leaning closer to the girl behind and giggling like a jerk.

“Gosh, of course not, give me a single.”

She sounds just like the cheerleaders back at school did. I don’t know what it is, but I suddenly hate her so much that I’m not even sorry.

What’s with preppy girls that are always so hot and rude and annoying?

She leaves fast after that. I’ve been checking Matt’s social media meanwhile, and the rumors of him being in London (and, most importantly, people talking about him and Billie Grace being both here at the same time) are starting to spread. 

Good. 

I’m so thankful to have gotten to the hotel just in time. I’m still kind of nervous about being here and having to deal with Matt all by myself, especially when Molly’s so far away to fix things in case I mess up, but I’m trying to repeat to myself that I can do this. That I’m good at this job. That this will be easy: just a few pictures, showing at a not-too-remote coffee shop, and that we’ll be back home by next Monday noon.

It’s just a few days.

Also, this will be my first time meeting Billie Grace. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a fan of hers when I was a teen and she had just become famous. Also, I know this could’ve happened way earlier with all this beard-situation thing, but Molly’s kept me away from her because she thought my joyful fangirl past and my “special personality” would ruin things. That’s her way of saying that I’m not sophisticated enough for all the famous people I work with —for. 

Sadly for her, not even my lack of manners can get me fired, and I know she loves me for that. My work is good. I’ve never made a mistake. Molly needed some kind of young, gen-Z vision and that’s what she got: a girl straight outta Tumblr, able to decipher messages harder than the Zodiac Killer’s code and who knows how to post the most basic social media without looking like a Facebook mother.

“You’re making me look more interesting than I actually am,” Matthew told me once after I posted some funny tweets that got like 5k retweets in the first minute.

“You’re welcome,” I answered, because honestly being witty on the internet and getting all the attention are my favorite parts of this job.

It’s creative. It’s constant innovation. It’s being cleverer than the next person, and oh boy do I love a good challenge.

When I get back to Matt (I left all my stuff with him so now I have to get it back), I’m surprised to find out he’s not alone in the room.

“Oh, hi!! You must be Matthew’s assistant, Charlie, right? He was just telling us about you!”

The room smells like something stuck in my brain and, even if the most famous singer in the world is flashing her brightest smile right at me, waiting for a greeting or an answer, I ignore her and look around trying to find her.

And my heart sinks when her dark eyes meet mine again and I realize I was not wrong.

“No fucking way.”