One: A Simple Fix?
"No. No way."
"Yes."
"There's absolutely no way I'm agreeing to this."
"Y/N, it's the only way."
"I would rather die than sign that piece of paper."
"Do you not think that's a little dramatic, Y/N?"
"If you think I'm seriously about to agree to be Tom's little- little PR girlfriend, then clearly you have no idea who I am."
Your manager raises her eyebrows. "I'm sorry to tell you that you don't really have a choice, Y/N."
You've been a lot of things in your life: a daughter, a sister, a friend - and, more recently, also a BAFTA-nominated actress, Hollywood's rising star, and the media's wild child. But what you've never been - and never could've dreamed you'd become, is Tom Holland's fake girlfriend. You won't allow it.
You scoff. "Of course I have a choice."
There's a rather uncomfortable silence hanging in the conference room, and you don't like the way your PR team awkwardly glances around at one other. With a frustrated groan, you reach out for the styrofoam cup of tea resting on the table in front of you and throw it back. The tea burns your throat, but you bite back your wince and enjoy feeling the ache against your mouth. At this point, you'd take any distraction from reality.
You're in a pissing awful mood. Not only are you so hungover it feels as though there are a hundred tiny men hiding in your skull, chiselling away at your cerebral cortex with sharp, persistent hammers, but it's also 9am, pouring outside, and you're stuck in a stuffy boardroom with management for this 'emergency meeting'. You're sitting here in front of fifteen people, your wet t-shirt sticking to your cold arms, and not even the thick-framed sunglasses you've got balanced on your nose can take the edge off the pain.
This whole situation has been made worse by your manager's suggestion that you enter this ridiculous scheme. Tom Holland's PR girlfriend? You'd truly rather die.
"If you don't comply, we'll have no choice but to drop you from the firm."
Your jaw drops. You stare across to the woman sitting at the head of the table, utterly gobsmacked.
"Rebecca," you cry out. "Isn't that a little harsh?"
Rebecca Thornton has been by your side since you set out in Hollywood five years ago, and she's never led you wrong. Through the humble beginnings of your career to the recent rockier patches, she and her talented team in PR have managed to salvage your image - even amidst the latest trials and tribulations you've been facing. Your reputation has never been worse, and whilst you know it's been causing your team stress, you never imagined it had grown this bad.
The woman shakes her head. Her plush lips lie in a deep, worried frown, and her dark eyes swirl with irritation.
"You had one rule, Y/N: don't make a scene. And what did you do?" She pauses for effect, and the following words mix with your second exasperated groan, "You made a scene! At the Oscars, no less. The higher-ups aren't happy." She clicks her tongue, her fingers toying with a shiny silver pen. "I am your friend, Y/N, but this cannot continue. It makes the entire company look bad to have a liability running around."
You don't know if you want to scream or cry.
"Look, what happened last night was... Not ideal, I get it. But it was a mistake! Can't we just run some bullshit story and call it a day?"
"No." Rebecca opens up a large manila folder, and she slips a few images out towards you. "What story could we possibly provide that would explain this?"
The paparazzi photographs she presents you with make you cringe. A hot, powerful spike of regret twists itself into your chest as your eyes reluctantly skim across the captured shots. The photographs show the alleyway behind Vanity Fair's Oscars After-Party that took place the night before. It's dark, but the illumination from the cameras captures the scene perfectly:
It's you, resting up against the wall, a burgundy suit jacket wrapped around your shoulders. Standing opposite is Tom Holland. The photos depict a series of unfortunate events: first an angry confrontation, full of tight-lipped grimaces and harsh words, then the way you reach up to wrap your arms around the man's neck, and finally the way Tom surges forwards and finds your mouth in a steamy, consuming kiss. The first photos are blurry and vague, but there's absolutely no doubt that it's you and him, wrapped up in each other's lips.
This is an issue for several reasons. The sexist standards of Hollywood aside, the fact that you've been caught making out with Tom Holland of all people raises many questions. It's no secret either to the media or to him that you cannot stand him - and in return, everybody knows his feelings towards you are similarly uncomplimentary. You understand why there has been such a media frenzy, as people can't comprehend why you've been caught kissing him - and if you're honest, you aren't too sure yourself.
For as long as you've known him, you haven't gotten along with Tom. Call it a series of misunderstandings or just a conflict of two competing personalities, but your relationship is as far away from friendship as it gets. But beneath the petty jabs and the hard stares, there has always existed this thick, fiery undercurrent pulsing between you. A sort of irritating sexual tension, only worsened by the fact that you hate his guts. You blame this stupid, consuming attraction for enabling the kiss - as well as the fact that you'd both been downing the sparkling champagne by the bucket.
"Just say it was a drunken mistake, because it was," you try desperately.
"Nobody is going to believe that, Y/N." Rebecca's a little calmer now, her voice softer. "This is the only way we can pull you from this mess. Can't you trust that we have your best interests at heart? This is a simple fix to your problems."
"A simple fix?" You repeat, incredulous. "Bec, a simple fix is doing an interview or sending off some tweets. A simple fix is not faking a relationship with him for six months!"
When the idea had first been proposed, you'd genuinely thought they'd been kidding. But then you'd been presented with a thick folder full of schedules and photos and information, and you'd had the horrific realisation that your PR team were dead set on this ridiculous venture.
"They'll buy it. Every couple has arguments, of course, you and Tom would too. We'll just say that you were having a lovers tiff at the party, went outside for some air, and made up with a kiss. It's simple." Rebecca nods as she speaks, her eyes pleading with you. "This is the only way, Y/N. You heard the questions they were asking. I do not think your image will be able to handle this transpiring as anything else, and you are far too talented to throw away your career over this."
You swallow deeply. Your temples ache, and you reach up to dig the tips of your clammy fingers into your forehead.
"I hate him," you say finally. "No one would believe us."
"You are a BAFTA-nominated actress, Y/N. You kiss people on-screen and imitate those feelings of romance all the time. Why can't you transfer some of those skills to real life?"
"I'm good at what I do," you agree, "But I don't see him going along with it. Tom's too righteous to agree to something like this."
Rebecca smirks. "He's already agreed to it."
You blink in surprise. "He has?"
She nods. "Yes. Tom and his managers understand that this situation will easily snowball into a storm for him too if it's not contained." She pauses, eyes dancing with something like amusement. "He was very mature about it, as well."
Mature. You find your fingers clenching around your styrofoam. Oh, you bet Tom was mature. You can almost imagine his face: that teasing, I'm-better-than-you smirk he wears so well. Tom's voice, so smooth and light, taunting you: "Oh, you aren't prepared to go as far as I am to save our careers? Embarrassing."
You can't let him win. You really can't.
"Fine. I'll do it."
It's as if the room releases a collective sigh of relief.
"Thank you," Rebecca says, looking at you gratefully. Someone pushes the contract back towards you, and you flick through it quickly. "It just says that you'll let us modify your schedule and plant the rumours through our sources. We'll handle everything here. You just have to follow our instructions."
You toy with the heavy metal pen, looking at the papers through your tinted sunglasses.
"How far are we going to take this?"
"We'll say you've been together for five months. The breakup at the end will be amicable, and we'll emphasise how loving of a partner you've been to him. Hopefully, being associated with someone who's regarded so positively by the public eye will elevate your image. All you have to do is act convincingly as a couple."
"Which includes..?"
Rebecca gives you a tight smile. "Kissing, sleepovers, holidays..."
It takes everything you have not to throw the pen away. You hesitate, but then you hear Tom's voice rattling around your skull again, taunting you, and you weigh out your options. Six months with Tom in your life, or a scorned career. Both sound less than ideal, but you've worked too hard and for too long to let a stupid, meaningless kiss ruin your life.
You sign your name to the bottom of the contract.
"Your relationship starts tomorrow," Rebecca says. She gives you a blinding smile. "You've made the right decision, Y/N."
---
Thankfully your headache has subsided by the following morning. Though it's still challenging to pull yourself out of bed, at least you're free of the splintering hangover that had worsened your terrible day. Once you've had your back scorched by a boiling shower and slipped into some casual clothes, you set yourself down at your kitchen table and drink a mug of very strong tea.
A new day brings clarity, as well as a sinking feeling of dread to the pit of your stomach. You're due down at a local park for 11am, where you will be meeting with Tom to 'confirm' your relationship. According to your team, for you to be seen by paparazzi would raise questions about the validity of your relationship, so instead, you have been tasked with walking about the park, acting like a couple until fans spot you and it ends up on twitter. You're sure your location will be leaked by PR.
Your face aches from all your frowning as you wander back into your bathroom and give your teeth a good, thorough scrub. In the mirror, you practise some of your best expressions. You are good at what you do, and you are by no means inexperienced when it comes to acting, but there's no doubt in your mind that embarking on this relationship with Tom is going to be the hardest role you've had to execute.
The mere sight of his face makes you feel angry and resentful, and those feelings have only thickened now you've been roped into this deceptive plot together. As if you didn't hate him enough to begin with, now you've shared that kiss, you have a concrete reason to detest him.
That kiss...
If you think about that kiss for too long, it makes your head hurt. It had been a good kiss, you have to admit. His lips were supple and warm, and they'd shifted over your mouth quite nicely. But it was a mistake, and it has cost you greatly, so it doesn't matter how much you may have guiltily enjoyed it - that kiss has ruined everything.
You grimace at your reflection as you pick up the snapback Rebecca had gifted you - apparently, it's one of Tom's. It's black, and it reads the word Knockemstiff, which you presume to be some kind of obscure reference only he would understand. It settles over the crown of your head uncomfortably. It doesn't matter how you position your hair or loosen the headband - you look weird and wrong, and the hat smells like Tom, but you'd agreed to wear it, so you have to make it work. It looks a little better once you've slid your sunglasses back across your eyes, but you still end up scowling into the mirror.
You're quiet in the car. You try to waste away the time scrolling through Twitter, but all you see are tagged photos and nosey comments. There's a whole swathe of hate and degrading opinions, so you have to turn off your phone and put it aside, all whilst blinking away a few tears that pool in your eyes.
It isn't fair. You are not the person that the media demonise you to be. Both you and Tom were involved in the kiss, yet where he's being called a legend and top dog for getting it on outside the party, you're being labelled a slut. The topic of the internet's discussion is suddenly your entire romantic history. You've made mistakes in the past, and you've paid for them, but you hate that they're constantly brought up whenever your name is mentioned in a discussion. You hate that the only way out of this mess is to retreat into a man's arms and have him 'save' your image.
By the time you emerge into one of LAs parks, you're practically incessant with rage. The hot Los Angeles sun beats down across your arms and your shoulders, and already you can feel your body heating, your skin feeling thick from the humidity that wraps around the air.
You spot Tom standing by the gate to the park, and you feel your breath knock from your lungs.
It's interesting how your body decides to betray you. You've spent the past 36 hours seething, and regretting, and cursing out Tom's name, but the second your shielded eyes find his figure, it momentarily fades away. You have one, prominent thought pressing around your mind: he looks good, and the fact that this is your first reaction just makes you feel angrier.
He does, though. Look good. He's in a pair of blue jeans and a tight white t-shirt, and even from a distance, you can make out the line of one of your favourite chains hanging around his neck. Your teeth dig into your lower lip as you approach and the chain draws sharper - you'd been gifted it by Danai Gurira after you'd wrapped on your first big film. On the end of the thick silver chain lies a small charm - an intricate rose. It looks dainty and pretty when it's hanging from your neck, and on Tom it makes him look boldly handsome. You have to give it to her - Rebecca is a genius, and her insistence that you both trade and wear the other's signature pieces was a stroke of intelligence. As she says, it's all in the details, and if the media are to believe it, every single moment and feature must be analysed.
Tom spots you after a moment, and he slips his phone into his back pocket as you near. Unlike you, he isn't wearing any sunglasses, so you're able to see the way his eyes trail up to his hat perched on your head like a crown, and it makes you smirk to see his nose scrunch up in disapproval.
He boycotts all formalities, dragging a hand through his wavy hair as he greets you with a scowl. "I want my hat back," Tom tells you.
You chuckle humorlessly. "It's mine now." You step in, glancing at your surroundings. It's a busy morning at the park, but there's no one in your direct vicinity, so you press your palms to Tom's shoulders and lean in to whisper into his ear, "I will never, ever forgive you for putting us through this," before shifting over to kiss his cheek. It's an action you've performed countless times, and it makes you glad you can instil the movement with some kind of personalised message.
Tom's hands wind around your waist, and they rest there almost comfortably. His lips bump your cheek in return, before his voice, hot and sharp, drifts into your ear. "You kissed me back, darling," he mutters. "This is just as bad for me as it is for you."
You pull back, eyes narrowing to slits behind your glasses. "How are we going to do this?"
Tom squints in the sunlight and then holds out his hand. "They want us to walk around for a bit, then find a bench and wait to be approached."
"Fine."
As instructed, you pull your sunglasses from your eyes and slip them into your pocket. You eye Tom's outstretched hand, almost sceptically, analysing the soft curves of his calloused fingertips and the expanse of his pale palm. You can feel him watching you, his brown eyes flickering out across your face, reading you, and so you swallow back your reluctance and take his hand. His skin is hot to touch and about as slimy and wet as yours, but you intertwine your fingers and settle at his side.
"Why is it always this hot in LA?" He asks you after a few moments. You're slowly winding your way down the wide concrete path. The park is a large square of grass and trees, right in the city centre, and it feels incredibly artificial.
"This city was made so we'd all suffer."
"Why'd you stay here, then?"
You let your tongue wander out across your lower lip as you hum. "Opportunities, I guess. Most of the studios cast from here. It's easier to just stay in the city than fly back and forth from somewhere else."
"Huh."
There's a tight silence between you, and it makes you nettle. "Do you like my necklace?" You ask, after a beat. You can't explain it, but you feel the need to fill the awkward space.
Tom shrugs. "It's not really my style."
You scowl. "It carries important sentimental value to me."
"Alright." He sounds slightly exasperated. "I didn't say it wasn't important, just that it isn't my kind of thing."
"Well Tom, you walk around wearing glasses you don't need, so I don't exactly regard you as the voice of fashion's rules."
"You certainly are the most charming woman I've ever met, Y/N."
You hum happily as you hear the irritation pulled tight in his voice. "I learn from the best, Tom." It's so hot you can feel sweat breaking across your forehead, so you stop walking suddenly and jerk Tom to a stop beside you, causing a painful jolt to travel up your arm. You wince. "Let's crash on that bench." You point to a bench that catches the shadows of a large tree.
"Fine."
You sit on opposite sides of the seat, and Tom jerks his hand away from yours the moment he can. His slender fingers rub up against his arm, pushing out an ache that looks similar to yours. A sigh escapes you as you bring your knees to your chest as you place your feet flat on the bench. As you rest your side against the wooden back of the bench and turn to face him, you let your eyes shift across his figure. Tom notices your stare, and he raises a ruffled eyebrow in question. His cheeks are flushed a nice, rosy blush.
"What?"
You shrug loosely. "Just trying to wrap my mind around it all."
He gives you a mirthless laugh. "Fair." Tom turns his body to face you, and he brings one of his legs up to perch on the bench. You eye his jeans sceptically as you wonder, briefly, why he'd decided to wear such thick clothes to the sunny park, and you have to accept that, at this point, you will never truly understand why Tom does half the things he does. "I can't believe you agreed to this," he adds.
You raise an eyebrow. "I can't believe you agreed to it."
"Oh, I only did because you did."
Your jaw loosens, and the scowl shifts from your face. "But you signed it first?"
Tom narrows his eyes. "What are you talking about? I saw your signature."
A horrible realisation dawns on you, and you scrunch your eyes up as your hands clench into fists. "They tricked me!" You exclaim.
"Eh?"
You drag your eyes back to Tom, exasperation filling you. "My team told me you'd already signed it, and that you'd been, what was it, mature about the whole thing," you seethe. "Clearly they just said it so I'd be baited into agreeing to this stupid scheme."
Tom chuckles, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I can't believe you bought that."
Your face feels hot from embarrassment as you bury your forehead in your knees, trying not to feel too humiliated by this horrific realisation.
"Whatever. You suck."
"Always a fan of the childish remarks, aren't you?"
"Always such a cocky asshole, aren't you?"
There's a brief moment when you meet his eyes, and you share a despondent laugh. The fire in Tom's deep brown eyes fades out, and you get the feeling that he's just as reluctant and embarrassed about the whole situation as you are. You find comfort in that thought - that though you might be suffering, he, too, is paying for your transgressions.
"Do you think we should talk about what happened the other night?" Tom asks, after a few moments of tentative eye contact. You sigh, pulling your head away from your knees.
"Probably." You look him straight in the eye. "We've never been very good at communication, have we?"
"I would say that that's an understatement." Tom breaks off, and you watch as his hands move up to fiddle with the rose pendant hanging off your necklace. He pulls a face as though he's thinking, and you let him take a few moments to compose his thoughts. "It was a mistake."
"Oh, absolutely. We were both drunk."
Tom nods along, relief colouring his cheeks. "Very drunk," he agrees. His eyes narrow, and he releases somewhat of an awkward laugh. "I'm glad we're on the same page. I was scared..." But his voice fades out, and he averts his eyes.
"You were scared of what?"
"Nothing."
You bite back the urge to roll your eyes. "I thought we were trying to communicate."
"Fuck, fine." Tom's voice is harder, riddled with that familiar tone of annoyance. "I was scared that maybe you were secretly in love with me, or something."
All you can do is laugh because, really, that has to be the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "As if," you manage, through a host of laughs. Tom's face is flaming now, his eyebrows all arched and offended.
"Oh, come on, don't act like being in love with me would be that bad."
His remark just furthers your giggles, and it takes you a full minute to calm yourself. Every time you raise your eyes back to his, you take in his brittle face, and it sets you off again. You? In love with Tom? God, could you imagine... You're perfectly in tune with your heart, and whilst you know you find him aesthetically attractive, the notion of ever feeling a positive emotion associated with Tom's personality is hilarious.
"Look, Tom," you finally manage, "No offence, but you are the last person on this planet I'd ever fall in love with. Hell would have to freeze over before I felt anything other than irritation when I look at your face." Tom winces, and his mouth pulls into a tight, insulted frown. You find yourself biting your lip as a shade of regret pangs in your chest. "Shit," you follow up, screwing up your nose, "Sorry, that was a little mean."
Tom makes a non-committal sound, waving his hands in the air as he tries to push through the awkward haze that lies between you. "I was just asking," he says. "No need to apologise, love. If you were wondering, the thought of even being your friend sickens me."
"Ouch, alright." You laugh it off, but the ease in which he flippantly brushes aside the notion of friendship does cause a small ache inside your chest. "Glad we're on the same page, then."
Tom's eyes sweep out around the park, and you watch as his next words die in the back of his throat. "Come nearer," he murmurs, his voice suddenly hurried. When you fail to respond, he raises his eyebrows and repeats the instruction.
"Why?"
"Because we've been seen, and we look the opposite of a functioning, healthy couple at the moment."
You realise he's right, because you're sitting about as far apart as the bench will allow. Slyly, you shuffle up the wood, and Tom meets you somewhere in the middle. You bring a hand down to rest on his shoulder, and in return, he shifts his palm to hold the top of your arm. You take a deep, steadying breath, and stitch a broad smile to your face.
"Functioning, healthy couple," you repeat slowly. You look straight into Tom's eyes, and you're pleasantly surprised to find him holding your gaze. His eyes are quite a pretty shade of brown - all golden in the sunlight, with those deep chocolate tones.
"The love of my life," he mumbles, a grin catching the sides of his lips as he slips into character. "My girlfriend. My... girlfriend." He has to say it twice as if he's convincing himself of the fact, and that makes you laugh.
"How close are they?"
Tom's eyes break away from yours. "Getting gradually closer. The phones are out. They're definitely taking photos."
You find yourself chewing your lower lip. "Do we look convincing enough?"
He runs his fingers over the top of your arm, humming. "I don't know."
"Should we..." You can't even get the words out.
"What?"
He's looking at you as if he knows exactly what you're trying to hint at, but the cheeky fucker lets the silence develop between you until you add,
"Should we kiss?"
The way he smoothly shifts his lips into a smirk makes you grimace.
"Do you want to kiss me, Y/N?"
"No, you dick, I want to get PR off my back." But still, you find your gaze dipping to his thin lips. "Kissing you is just an unfortunate side effect."
"Oh, I dunno, I quite liked it when we kissed the other night," Tom teases. "It was really romantic, don't you think? The paparazzi flashes gave the whole thing such a casual, loving-"
"Shut up," you bite back, but you can't stop yourself from chuckling. You release a soft breath and look at him through pleading eyes. "We don't need to. I just thought it might be a good idea."
His eyes shift back to the fans, and then Tom slowly nods his head. "We should," he agrees. His face is the picture of reluctance as he slides further towards you. "We should probably kiss for a while. Might take them some time to get the right angles, and everything."
"Yeah, of course."
It's very awkward. Your skin prickles and your movements feel janky and wooden, but you try to imitate an easy freeness that you'd typically have if you were five months deep in a relationship with Tom. Your hand slips away from his shoulder and up to cup his warm cheek, and after sharing a steadying look with him, you tilt your head and meet him in a long kiss.
Your first thought is how much easier it'd been to kiss him when you'd been alone, and buzzed up on expensive champagne. Your second is how awkward the angle is, and how uncomfortable his fingers are resting on your shoulder, so you bring your other hand up and reposition his palm. You press Tom's hand to your waist, and you move in closer, deepening the kiss as he pushes back against you. Unsure of how long Tom meant when he suggested kissing for 'a while', you decide to continue kissing him until he breaks it off.
Tom doesn't move away for a very long time. Instead, you gasp into his mouth as you feel his tongue poke against your lips. You part them eagerly, your hand slipping up to curl around his thick hair as you let Tom slip his tongue into your mouth. You make out with him slowly at first, allowing his tongue to explore you as his thumb brushes small, teasing circles over your waist, and it gradually begins to grow in fervour. The grip you have on his hair tightens as you find yourself inching closer, craving the feeling of his mouth on yours, revelling in the sensations of your bodies moving together. It feels right, to be wrapped up in his lips, and though that thought confuses you, you decide to focus more on how nice it is to be sat here, fiercely bringing your lips together over and over.
You're breathless and reeling when Tom finally pulls away, and you have to blink several times until his face drifts into focus. He's looking at you with wide, apprehensive eyes, and you note how pretty and pink his lips are now.
"That was..."
"Intense?" You offer.
Tom gives you a slow, gentle smile, and it almost reaches his eyes. He squeezes your waist. "Yes. And it worked. They're coming over here."
You clear your throat and let your hand fall back to his shoulder, trying not to notice the way your heart screams in your chest. Your eyes keep going back to the slopes of his puffy mouth.
"Hey? Excuse me? So sorry to interrupt, we're really big fans of- of both of you. Is it okay if we talk to you?"
There's a timid voice behind you, and you crane your neck around to see a group of three girls standing there, looking at you anxiously. You do your best to look surprised as you give them a small smile and nod.
"Of course. Do you want to have some photos with us?" You offer.
All three faces light up. For a few minutes, they alternate which of them holds the phone and which of the other two slide onto the bench between you and Tom, and you do your best to appear as least frazzled as possible. You chat with them lightly, and Tom has an animated discussion about Spider-Man before one of them brings up the awkward topic.
"Are you both dating?" She asks, glancing nervously towards you, and then Tom.
You look at him. Tom clears his throat, and he reaches out to jauntily offer you a hand. You giggle as you take it and comfortably link your fingers together.
"Yes," you confirm, smiling widely. "Tom's my boyfriend. We're dating." The words are awkward in your mouth, but they sound convincing as you release them into the air.
Tom hums. He meets your eyes, his own dancing with mischievous energy as he raises your hand to his mouth and scatters three warm kisses to your skin.
"Y/N's the best girlfriend I could ask for. I love her very much."
The three girls squeal excitedly. You can't keep your eyes off Tom, and the tender way he's holding your hand in his, with his eyes all warm and gentle.
As much as it had felt like you'd signed away your freedom when you'd put your name to the contract, you know now that this is the moment that starts it all. Being here, admitting your love as photographs of you kissing Tom begin to circulate, is the beginning of everything. For the first time, you aren't angry about it. Instead, you feel a fear so consuming that it almost knocks you out. Regret and anxiety shoot through your skull, and you realise immediately and obviously that you have bitten off way more than you can chew.
Tom kisses your knuckles a final time, peering at you with wide, concerned eyes. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" He really is pulling off the performance of a lifetime - you could almost believe that he cares.
You swallow. Somehow you manage to pull your composure back together.
"Of course," you respond easily. "Never been better."