Things Are Different Here

nine

Flash.

Click.

Snap.

Flash.

I showed up to Olivia's birthday dinner nearly twenty minutes after everyone else had sat down at the table and ordered their drinks. I heard the cameras before I saw them, and knew Mel had alerted his photographers I'd be coming solo.

Le Salon was tucked between other upscale restaurants on Robertson Boulevard, and the minute you laid eyes on it, you'd know celebrities were swarming about inside. They required a hefty cover charge of fifty dollars at the door—even before getting in and ordering your food. Someone in Olivia's party, thankfully, had paid for everyone's cover. Considering there were twenty two people invited, someone was out over a grand. My first paycheck had hit earlier that morning, but I still wasn't feeling like shilling out that kind of money any time soon. I'd sent Erin my share for rent, enough to cover both my dad's phone bill as well as my own, and Holly's monthly dues.

The restaurant looked exactly like it did in every magazine and TV cameo, with black brick walls illuminated by antique string tea lights. Their patio had a fire ring in the center, and the seating idea was more "let's throw a few benches around" than making sure there were actual functional tables. My eyes skimmed the patio searching for any familiar face, but other than a few influencers, I didn't see anyone from Olivia's regular friend group. I'd had a quick rundown with her earlier about who would be at the dinner and what kinds of questions we'd answer—she was going to do most of the talking—so I mostly knew who I was looking for.

The butterflies in my stomach were running rampant as I walked up to the doorman.

"I'm with Olivia Bryant's party," I stated as confidently as I could, hoping people nearby heard. As many people as you can tell, as early as possible, the better. Mel's words rang in my ears.

"You'd better be the last one. This is definitely twenty two." The doorman snapped grouchily. I shrugged my shoulders and laughed.

"What can I say? My girlfriend is popular." I could feel my cheeks flushing. We hadn't necessarily discussed what our label would be, but throwing it out into the atmosphere was fun. You know, manifestation and all of that.

He was unfazed—his clenched jaw and blank stare told me he didn't care. And he probably honestly didn't, seeing a celebrity every five minutes was a part of his regular job. I watched him let out a gruff sigh and undo the red velvet rope in front of the door, letting me through.

Le Salon was packed. Tables were barely a foot apart, and they were all bursting with people. As nervous as I was to start this lie with Olivia, I was also excited to do it in such a public, closely-watched place. I noticed the center tables first—comprised of A-list movie stars with careers longer than I'd been alive.

I made it. I did the damn thing.

I scanned the room for my soon-to-be fake girlfriend, and felt nervous butterflies erupt in my stomach when I caught a glimpse of her toward the back. Her table was secluded by a row of some kind of indoor trees, but as I got closer, I could make out each friend she'd invited. She had friends from every LA group—musician, to fashion designer, to influencer, to actor. And then there was little old me, making it big from growing up in a farm town.

"Hey, Stacy," Olivia's voice broke me from my trance. Being in a fake relationship with her was going to do great things for my mental health, I realized as my heart continued its syncopated dance. "We've been waiting for you." She added when I got to the table. There was one empty seat left, angled at the corner, right next to her. I cursed myself for being a nervous sweat kind of person, and quickly palmed the front of my skirt to dry my hands. I felt boring dressed in all black, compared to the magenta, aqua and citrus hues that peppered the entire restaurant.