by Roxie Noir
Well, not that much. I’ve got to do my reading for my next class, write a paper for my Special Topics course, prep for next week’s mock trial, review a few hundred pages of documents for my research assistant job, and edit a very bad twenty-page undergrad essay for my side gig, but at least I don’t have two hundred dollars hanging over my head.
Plus, this weekend I told my parents I’d come out to Highland Park and spend Saturday helping them look for a new apartment.
So, yeah, I’m busy, but at least I’m not stressed. I’ve just gotta get it done.
I’m heading past the library, sun shining, birds singing, when my phone rings with a Los Angeles number I don’t recognize. I answer.
“I’m calling from Diamant and Skeller on behalf of Lawrence Diamant,” a polite female voice says.
I stop in my tracks instantly, back straight, holding my breath as if she can see me somehow.
“It’s nice to hear from you,” I say, the first polite phrase I can think of.
“I’m sorry for the short notice, but are you available to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon?” she asks.
“Yes!” I say, nearly shouting. “Yes, of course, what time?”
Even though I’m standing on the side of a walkway, I drop my briefcase, kneel next to it, and dig out paper and pen, writing down meeting details like a crazy person while students swarm past me. Once I’m scheduled, the receptionist and I say our polite goodbyes and hang up.
Then I jump up and down, pumping one fist in the air. A couple people look at me weird, but I don’t care.
Even though I’m friends with Larry’s wife, I didn’t seriously think they’d call me about this position. For starters, the posting says they prefer someone with 1-2 years of experience, and I’ll be fresh out of law school when I start.
Plus, they’re a huge, wealthy firm with one of the biggest and most respected immigration law practices in town. They’re hired by Saudi oil barons and Japanese bankers, people with lots of money to drop on getting green cards and citizenship.
I almost can’t believe my luck today. I feel like I should head to Vegas or something and try the roulette table or something.
You need to prepare, I think. For job interview questions, about law, about where you see yourself in five years, and you need to do laundry, make sure your shoes look good, put together your resume and CV and work samples, brush up on the names of everyone who works there...
My to-do list swirling through my brain, I practically run to the bus stop.
The following afternoon, I get there half an hour early, which means half an hour to anxiously walk around Century City, the part of Los Angeles where virtually every business big enough has its offices. While most of Los Angeles is low and flat, with buildings two or three stories at most, Century City is all shining high-rises, steel and glass, people in suits bustling back and forth.
There’s hardly a flip-flop in sight, which is pretty strange for L.A.
Finally, five minutes before I’m due, I head up to the twenty-first floor of the Chaplin building, where Diamant & Skellar have their offices. Then I check in with the receptionist, sit down, and wait.
I try to sit still, but I’m as nervous as a box of bees after several cups of coffee, so I look around the small, expensive-but-tasteful waiting area, and try to find something to occupy my hands.
A magazine on a glass coffee table catches my eye, and I frown, tilting my head.
It’s Rolling Stone, in the middle of a spread of Sunset, The New Yorker and The Atlantic, so it’s already out of place. But that’s not what catches my eye.
Gavin’s on the cover. At least I’m ninety percent sure it’s him, so I reach out and pick up the magazine.
Definitely him. And he is definitely not wearing a shirt, just ripped jeans, boots, lots of tattoos, and a glare that I feel inside my ribcage, even though it’s only a picture.
Well, I think, trying not to let my eyes linger on the lines of his body even as I ogle this picture, he’s both the hottest and the most famous person I’ve ever screamed profanities at.
Not to mention he sent a replacement copy the next day. I should send a thank you card.
I scan over the page. The rest of the band is there, too, all in various states of disarray, glaring at the camera under a headline that shouts:
Dirtshine: The Rebirth
The band on death, departure, and drummer drama.
Vaguely, I wonder who died, but it’s probably someone’s dog and they wrote a sad song about it.
Those abs, though, I think, giving Gavin’s picture one last good look. Jeez, he’s got that V where the muscles on his hipbones point straight down to—
“Marisol,” Larry’s voice booms. “Glad you could make it.”
I practically throw the magazine at the coffee table, my face already heating up at getting caught staring at a half-naked man.
“Of course,” I say, standing. “It’s my pleasure.”
We shake hands, and he leads me out of the reception area, down a hallway. The offices are modern and high-end — half-frosted glass walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, everything white and steel and pristine and uncluttered.
Larry’s office is at the end, a corner office, the walls completely frosted so I can’t see inside. He opens the door and gestures me through, my heart beating double-time, maybe triple-time.
I’m not even past the threshold when I stop short, because someone’s already in here, sitting in an expensive white chair, facing Larry’s desk.
“Cheers,” Gavin says.
My mind goes perfectly blank with surprise. There’s a long delay before I finally speak.
“Hi again,” I say.
I glance at Larry, because I thought I had a handle on today, but suddenly Gavin’s here at my job interview and I don’t have a single solitary clue what’s going on.
Am I going to be working his immigration case? I wonder.
Does he have an immigration case?
“Have a seat,” Larry says, gesturing at the other chair in front of his desk. He sits heavily, unbuttoning his jacket while I perch on the edge of the white leather, my heart thumping in my ears.
“You’ve met Gavin already, and this is Valerie and Nigel,” he goes on, waving at the back of the office.
There’s two other people there, one in another chair and one sitting on a couch. I didn’t even see them, but they both stand and we shake hands.
“I didn’t know this was a group interview,” I manage to say. At least my voice isn’t shaking.
Larry laces his fingers together atop his desk, his mouth a straight line.
“This is a different kind of interview,” he says.
No shit, I think.
“Is it still for the junior immigration attorney position?” I ask, trying to regain a handle on this situation.
“It’s not only for that position,” Larry says, starting to speak in his most convincing, cajoling Lawyer Voice. “Rest assured that Diamant and Skellar is, in fact, very interested in making you a part of our team, but today we have a slightly different proposal in addition to that one.”
Oh, God, this is going to be some sort of weird sex thing.
My face instantly feels like the surface of the sun.
“Nothing salacious,” Larry says quickly, though it doesn’t help much. “But I’m afraid it’s somewhat sensitive. My client Mr. Lockwood here is... in need of a suitable relationship partner for the media.”
I stare at Larry, because I don’t think I can even look at Gavin right now.
“A media partner?” I echo. I have no idea what that means.
“My client needs someone respectable with whom he can be seen around town, going on dates, holding hands, that sort of thing,” Larry explains.
But why am I here?
There’s silence again. Probably the most uncomfortable silence I’ve sat in since I cluelessly asked my mother what a blowjob was at age eleven.
Finally, Gavin speak
s up.
“I need a fake girlfriend,” he says.
“Okay?” I say.
I can tell that there’s something huge here I’m missing, some important aspect of this conversation that’s going straight over my head, but I don’t have a clue what it is.
They think I can help Gavin find a fake girlfriend? Is that it? Why on earth do they think that?
“I don’t really know anyone, but I could ask around,” I say tentatively, because I want to help — and I still want this job — but it’s not like I know anyone who does this for a living.
Do people do this for a living? Is fake celebrity girlfriend a job?
Gavin grins, leans back, and pushes his fingers through his hair.
“Jesus, we’re bollixing this up,” he says. “I’m not asking for a reference, love.”
Wait.
“I’m asking if you’ll do it,” he finishes.
9
Gavin
There’s a rather long pause. This whole meeting has been half pauses, I think, but it’s an odd topic so I’m not surprised.
“The fake girlfriend job?” Marisol finally asks.
She’s sitting bolt upright in a swivel chair, looking from me to Larry and back, and even though now she’s in full attorney gear — high-necked light green blouse, gray suit, trousers, sensible heels, hair tied back — she’s still fucking astounding.
I have to force myself not to think about peeling her layers off, her warm skin on my lips, the way her blazer would look perfect in a pile on my bedroom floor.
“The very one,” I say. “It’s not much of a job, really. We’d go out once or twice a week, dinner dates, smile for cameras, you’d be back home—”
“I’m not an actress,” she says.
Her face is flushing again, and I think this time her voice is trembling.
Fuck, this is going wrong.
“We don’t need—” Larry starts.
Marisol cuts him off, standing, one fist balled tightly at her side, her jaw flexing.
“If you’d like to talk about the junior attorney position, I’m still very interested in being considered for that job,” she says.
Her voice is tight, rising in pitch, and I can tell it’s hard for her to keep it under control.
“But I’m a law student, not someone desperate for fifteen minutes of fame, so I’m afraid I’ll be declining the fake girlfriend position. Thanks for the interview.”
She nods once, briskly, and strides out of Larry’s office. I jump to my feet.
“Marisol!” I shout after her.
I’m an idiot. This is how you approach someone like Daisy, not a girl like Marisol, and now she’s angry and she’ll never say yes.
That’s not how it was supposed to go. Not at all. I thought she’d be surprised but I didn’t think she’d be angry, not at something simple like getting paid to go on a few dates a week with a famous bloke.
But it’s not like I know a lot of girls like her. That’s the whole idea.
“Marisol!” I call again, but she’s out the office door as her shoes click down the hallway, quickly. Like she can’t wait to get out of here.
I can’t let her leave. I need her for the band, for the record label.
And I simply don’t want to watch her walk away.
“Marisol!” I shout, striding after her, my voice echoing down the glass, steel, and marble hall. Heads turn, but not the one I want to turn. That one just keeps going, walking faster if anything.
I break into a jog and a young man carrying a file box dodges out of my way. Two professionally-dressed people scatter to either side of the walkway and then she’s there, almost to the end of the hall and I dodge in front, turning to face her, holding my hands up.
“Marisol,” I say again, though I’m not shouting this time.
She doesn’t even make eye contact, but her eyes are filled with tears, threatening to spill over as she moves to her left, trying to get past me.
“Marisol, please.”
She dodges to her left without responding, but I move in front of her that way too.
“I grew up playing football on a muddy field filled with gopher holes,” I say. “You’re not going to get around me unless you’ve got fancier footwork than that.”
Marisol takes a deep breath. She lets it out, and finally, she looks me dead in the eye.
“I’ve still got a nasty scar from the time I slide tackled Ramón Bautista in fifth grade soccer and scraped my leg on a piece of broken glass on the field,” she says. “He didn’t want to let me past him either.”
“Slide tackle me and I promise to let you leave without another peep,” I say.
“I ought to,” she says. “Apparently I was invited here because I’ve got a vagina, not because of my GPA, so I’ve got nothing to lose.”
A head down the hall turns toward us, then quickly away. It can’t be the first time someone’s said vagina in this hall.
“That’s not why,” I say. “It wasn’t even a requirement. Frankly I’d get loads more press if I suddenly came out as gay.”
“Are you gay?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.
She looks me up and down, realizes what she’s doing, and looks away. I have to fight back a grin. Marisol could check me out all day if she wanted, no arguments.
“Not at all,” I say. “And I don’t think I could fake it very convincingly for the cameras.”
“So a vagina is a requirement.”
Not even a lawyer yet and she’s talked me into a circle. I’d be annoyed if I didn’t rather like it.
“Yes, all right, it’s a requirement but I didn’t ask for you to be my fake girlfriend just because you’ve got one,” I say.
“You asked because you know so much about me,” she says, more than a little sarcastic.
“I asked you because — bugger, hold on,” I say. There’s a gaggle of well-dressed young attorney-types coming down the hall, toward us, and I don’t feel like begging publicly right now.
I take Marisol’s hand and pull her to the nearest open door, closing it behind us. The lights are off, but it’s clearly someone’s office.
Oh well.
“You’re the first person in weeks I’ve been able to stand talking to,” I start.
Marisol pulls her hand out of mine, and I feel a tiny, sharp pang of disappointment.
“Sounds like a pretty low bar,” she says, tilting her head and crossing her arms in front of herself. She doesn’t look thrilled, but she doesn’t look like she’s leaving.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “It’s that, Marisol, I feel like everyone around me is ready to strike or waiting for me to fuck up for the last time, like they’re wolves crossed with vultures or something, and — I’ve cocked this up already, haven’t I?”
Marisol looks like she might be trying not to smile.
“You could go back to the part where I’m capable of a conversation,” she offers. “Amazingly, that’s been the best thing so far.”
It almost sounds like she’s teasing me.
“I’m not very good at this,” I say.
“No,” she agrees.
I take a deep breath, trying to straighten things out.
If I were good at talking I wouldn’t have wound up a musician, I think.
“I’m a fucking mess,” I start. “During the last record and tour — and, all right, for a long time before that but I won’t go into it — I had a slight heroin problem.”
“Can you have a slight heroin problem?” she asks.
“Okay, I had quite a heroin problem and it fucked up the tour rather dramatically,” I say. “I’ll tell you every detail you care to ask, but I went to rehab, got clean, and the strongest thing I’ve used in over four months is coffee.”
She waits, quietly.
“Everyone I know is pissed at me. The band. Our record label, our manager, our fans. The media is slavering outside my door waiting for me to open it and tumble out, needle in arm, so the record label
wants me to start dating a nice girl who seems like a good influence, convince everyone I’ve turned over a new leaf, yeah?”
Marisol just nods. My stomach tightens, just a little, because even as I talk I’m realizing how much I want this. It’s more than I thought.
It might be way more.
“Only I don’t know any nice girls. Ever since getting clean, everything seems just a little too sharp and pointy, and everyone’s angry with me, and all the new people I meet are interested in me because of what I can do for them, not my charming wit and sparkling personality,” I go on.
“Can’t imagine why,” she deadpans.
“I owe it to the band to stop fucking them over, but I can’t spend a few hours a week with some empty-headed blonde who’ll just remind me why I picked up the needle in the first place,” I say.
“And there’s no possible route back to respectability besides pretending to date someone,” she says, even though she clearly believes otherwise. “You couldn’t volunteer at a soup kitchen or adopt a puppy.”
“I could, but those are obvious photo-ops. Valerie — she’s my public relations minder — says that dating someone is evidence of a lifestyle change, and that’s what the people who buy tabloids from the market checkout really want to see.”
Marisol sighs. She walks to one of the swivel chairs, drops her briefcase, and sits down, one elbow on the arm of the chair, her face leaning on her hand.
“It’s been ages since I wanted to see someone again just to finish a conversation,” I say. “And — Christ, this sounds tawdry — I chased after you on Friday because you were the first person who I didn’t want to see leave.”
She makes a face.
“Sorry about that,” she says, her voice quiet and less angry now. “And thanks for the book. It really helped.”
I sit opposite her in a pristine swivel chair and lean my elbows on my knees.
“That’s all it is,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I like talking to you and I need someone I can spend time with. It’s not a sex thing, it’s not some complicated way of getting you into bed. I need a friend is all.”
We look at each other for a moment.
