So the things are now like this:

First and most important, Billie Grace is prettier in person, but also way more intimidating than when she’s just being nice to fans and holding puppies and doing whatever else she does when she’s not singing, which I don’t know and I also don’t care about.

Second, the plan is now completely changed because apparently no one in the room was able to tell her no, myself included. Like all the good, perfectly tied marketing strategy we spent weeks preparing was nothing, the golden girl snapped her fingers and decided to go on a simpler, also way more straight-forward date with my boy, have a shitty fake-argument during the dessert, and then dramatically leave. And everyone clapped gladly like monkeys. I mean, not literally, no one did clap, but they all seemed so happy and I had no other choice but to agree with them.

Third, even if Matt looked real confident back when we were in his room with Billie and her preppy girl, he’s now hiding in mine and he’s nervous as a rat, and I can’t really stand him.

At least I’m thankful he offered to help me unpack.

“Do you think I should hold her hand? During the date?” he’s asking. “Before, or after?”

“Are you asking me that for real?”

I’m about to mock him, smirking from over my phone and thinking of saying something like “Haven’t you ever flirted with a girl, or what?”, when I realize the answer would very surely be “No”, and I close my big, loud mouth just in time. He took his guitar with all my things and I’ve been listening to his singing while I worked; I had to tell Molly what the new plan was, and then I tried to convince her that it was way better than all the other options we had for releasing the big news. It’s not been easy, dealing with her through the phone, but at the same time… what is she gonna do? Fly all the way from the other side of the world and scold me for not fighting against famous-pop-star Billie Grace? I don’t think so.

When Matt looks up at me after my last question, he’s all big lamb eyes and soft mouth. I feel bad for him, and sorry, and I understand that he’s just nervous. No, of course he never has flirted with a girl in his life, just as I’ve never done the same with a man, thank God. That’s exactly the reason why we’re together, now, I guess, stuck here in London in this ridiculously smaller room and preparing the grand charade: solidarity.

Because, and I’m sorry for the devastating news for all his fangirls,  just because he sings like that about love doesn’t mean he knows how to treat a girl. I guess that must be a really good thing about singing to a “you”: that they don’t need no pronouns or a name if you don’t want to give them one.

“Yeah, you should probably hold her hand at some point,” I say after a minute, recoiling. “Maybe over dinner. Or dessert, right before you fight. That would be nice, and cute.”

“Okay, thanks.” The boy sighs and runs his fingers through his curly blond hair, stressed. “I just never know how to act around her, that’s all. She’s so…”

Matt doesn’t finish, but I don’t need him to.

“Yeah,” I say, and I sigh. “Yeah, she is.”

“Did you expect her to be like that? Did you have an idea of how she was before you met her?” Matt asks, genuinely curious, probably, since he found it so funny that I stayed ‘controlled and silent’ the whole time with her.

“I don’t know. Probably, I guess. Aren’t all celebrities like that to some extent?”

“I’m not,” he says, and I have to give him that.

“That’s fair, you’re not. What about you, though? Did you picture her like that?”

“No. But I think she’s overwhelming in a good way, you know? And I feel a little lucky that she chose me.”

Matt is right: meeting Billie Grace didn’t quite feel like meeting other famous people and, honestly, now I understand it all. The love. The stares. She’s so explosive I feel like she just revived something dormant in me, and now I can’t stop thinking about her old cover of that Joy song she did years ago, when I was younger and obsessed with the teen-musical show and I had my first big oh moment. 

That song changed my life. Well, maybe not quite, but I remember getting in all those joyful forums after they first played it and meeting Vic under the ‘conspiracy gay theories’ tag. Everyone thought the actress that played Dianna was gay, and that might’ve been the first time I read the word ‘lesbian’ in my life. I got so obsessed, I started reading and then writing tons and tons of fanfiction about her character with other girls on the show. Most of them started to have Billie’s songs as the titles. Working with her now is… well, kind of an outer body experience, I’d say, plus embarrassing, ‘cause it’s bringing me back to those baby-gay moments of my life. Everything was so much different back then, and much safer. And less serious. And less life-threatening.

I try to shake off the memories and to remember that I’m not here to fantasize about old crushes and intense research.

“Yeah, I get it. I guess she definitely makes you feel like the lucky one. Also, I can’t stop thinking about the plain Barbie, I wonder how she got the job in the first place. The plan, however, is good, and you’ll do great: hand touching or not you’ll ace it, I just know.” I stand up, fix my hair and give him a soft, encouraging smile. “I can’t imagine you making anyone sad or lonely ever, but it should work. And then you’ll go to your mom’s, and your fishing-grandpa will be able to see your stinky, pale face.”

His lips curl up in a tired grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes.

“I feel kind of bad for not telling her all this,” he mutters, talking about his mom.

“I know,” I say, “but you can’t.” My voice is urgent cause I worry he might do something dumb over feeling guilty. And I get it, because no one likes lying, but this is important. He needs to do this. And he knows. Molly’s had this same conversation with him over a hundred times, but still I add: “It’s better like this.”

He looks like he’s the saddest person in the whole of Great Britain.

“I know. But I can’t help but think that… that this is all my fault, you know? Like this wouldn’t be necessary if only I had been more careful. Because we could’ve stayed at my place that day, and if we had, we wouldn’t have to be like this right now. And I feel like I’m dragging Billie down too, and I hate that because I like her. For real. She might be intimidating, but she’s great. She’s great and I’m dragging her down.”

I don't tell him Billie Grace has been carrying her own rumors for the last couple of months, if not years. Starting with that very Joy-maybe-gay actress, she’s had a fair amount of gossip following her almost since she started singing. But I don’t think it’s my place to talk to him about that, and I believe Molly’s told him just enough for him to get that this arrangement is profitable for both of their careers. That’s all he needs to know. 

Still, I feel touched by the fact that he’s so sad and still has room to care about other people.

Matthew Berry is the tiniest human on Earth right now. He is also the one deserving this the least. I don’t want to because it’s not fair, not really, but I can’t help but feeling sorry for him all the time, and that sucks. He deserves some rest, and freedom, and I’m sure that he would give it all up to get back at his roots and his lover and disappear, but he can’t. It’s not his decision now, nor will it be soon. It’s his owners, the people who hold the other end of his contract.

The worst autograph he’ll ever give.

“Don’t worry about Billie, Matt. You don’t have to carry all the weight of the world on your shoulders,” I mutter, unsure if that’s okay for me to say. I don’t know if I can be that honest with him. I want to, but I’m not sure it is proper, or fair.

“I can’t help it. That’s just how I am.”

“I know. And I love you for that,” I whisper, smiling fondly and making him smile too. “But now is not the time to overthink it much, so please leave that guitar aside and get ready.”

Amber —that’s Billie’s assistant— sits right beside me at the restaurant, but I make an effort to pretend I do not notice her doing so. Twitter deserves more my attention anyways.

“Oh, so we’re sharing now?” I tease, though, and I instantly hate that it came out like that, ‘cause it was almost playful.

She scoffs and I look up at her for a moment. She’s very shiny. I swear I could kill her.

“Do you want me to get a single?” she replies, and there’s this boring look in her eyes that she makes sure to spark up with a soft smile. Her face looks so uncomplicatedly confident it’s a little hard to look at her directly, so I hide my face back in my phone and grumble a shadow of a reply.

I can’t believe she dressed up for this. I mean, she has, right? No one dresses like that on a regular basis. No one wears dresses unprompted, and definitely not those, that’s for sure. And now I feel so boring and ordinary next to her, which is just perfect. If we were cops, we’d be on duty or something like that, doesn’t she get it? She’s not supposed to bring attention to ourselves right now. She’s not supposed to have all the men and some of the women in the restaurant shooting looks at her as they pass by.

And there’s this tiny possibility that I’m being a bit too paranoid, yes, I am aware. No one really knows who we are or why we’re here for, that's for sure, but since I’ve decided I hate her I think I have the right to complain about her outfit.

“I hope you can really take pictures,” I mutter, and I glance at Matt and Billie Grace’s table, where she just sat and is now touching his hair. She’s a natural next to him and he’s an absolute awkward clown, but at least his nervousness works well with the date and all that.

The click from the camera surprises me and, when I look at Amber, her smirk seems smug.

“I can.” She points at the menu, amused. “Now, choose something and shut up, we’re chaperoning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Turns out, watching someone else’s date is boring as fuck, but at least we both have enough work to do, since it’s noon back in the US and our bosses are at peak hour now. Both Matt and Billie take pictures of each other and send them to us to choose the best one to post; when I lean towards Amber to check the one she’s showing me, her perfume fills my head just like it did the first time and I barely pay attention to what she’s saying before agreeing to whatever. And. Uh. I don’t like that. 

We end up posting things that don’t really show people much, only the food, if anything, but good eyes will catch that the ring in those long, thin fingers in Matt’s pic is the same one Billie was wearing in her mirror selfie this afternoon.

“You’re not too bad at this,” Amber says when I explain that it’ll be enough to give the fans that little info.

She would hate to say the word ‘good’ to me, uh?

“I know, that’s why I’m getting paid,” I shrug, and then go back to doing my thing.

When they finish eating, we send them the final text (the green light one) and they pretend to argue about something. Matt tries to grab her hand and Billie moves it away looking hurt and lonely. When she stands up, it looks like the ceiling is gonna fall over us, her heartbreak looking so real.

Amber takes her picture as Billie leaves, and she’s such a good actress I have to control myself so I don’t run after her to check if she’s alright.

Some people follow her with their gaze, curious, and then glare at Matt.

When I raise my phone to mimic Amber and take his pic, he looks just like an abandoned puppy who wants to be picked up. 

Oh, Matt.

I see him typing something on his phone and, a second after, mine suddenly starts to vibrate. 

“Can we go back to the hotel now? I feel bad about this,” Matt’s text says. “Please tell Amber to really check on her, she was… she was crying. Also she said she would be somewhere called... the Garden?”