Angelica Hunt was waiting for me in the living room of her closet. Yes, her closet was large enough to contain its own living room. In fact, her closet had a living room that even had its own, smaller closet off to one side. I resisted the temptation to inquire whether an even tinier living room existed within in some kind of recursive living rooms with closets MC Escher nightmare that went on forever.

“Zoey!” Angelica cried, as if we were old, dear friends. She kissed me on the cheek.

Angelica Hunt was totally stunning. I’m one hundred percent straight, but damn. No wonder she married a billionaire.

She had delicate features, vivid blue eyes, long, flowing blonde hair, and the cheekbones of a supermodel. Perhaps two inches shorter than me, she was still plenty tall for a woman, and boasted a slim, toned figure with a waist to hip to bust ratio that could only be achieved via surgical intervention or extremely aggressive corsetry. Knowing her practically unlimited wealth, I’d bet the former.

“Oh my god you’re so beautiful,” I exclaimed, “pictures just don’t do you justice at all!”

“You’re too sweet,” Angelica replied with false modesty, “I look just awful today. My tennis workout was killer.”

“Ms. Hunt,” I replied, hoping my notes were correct and she despised being called ‘Mrs.’, “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m really excited to be here. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. Our readers adore you.”

Angelica beamed.

Sadly, it was true. This gorgeous creature with the face of angel was the biggest gold digging tabloid queen since Anna Nicole Smith. Her nudes went for a fortune, and gossip on her was worth almost as much. The readers of JuicyNews absolutely devoured content on Angelica Hunt. She was fascinating in the same way a train wreck is fascinating. You couldn’t look away from her impending self-destruction, and she seemed to have an uncanny skill for coming out on top of situations that ought to ruin someone. Back in my former life as an investigative journalist, that would have been my angle for this profile. Now, however, I was relegated to writing a fluff piece on her pampered daily routine and insipid opinions.

“Of course!” Angelica was saying, “I’m always happy to chat. This will be so much fun. I can’t wait! Have a seat,” she said, sweetly gesturing to one of the plush, lavender velvet armchairs. Then, to Tara she barked harshly, “Go get us some coconut waters!”

Poor Tara scurried off. Underneath the bad makeup and ugly clothes, I had a suspicion that Tara was actually an attractive woman. Angelica probably made her dress dowdy, so she’d look better in comparison. I’d met a few starlets that did the same thing. Being the personal assistant to someone like Angelica Hunt was my idea of hell. I don’t care how much it paid, I would never spend my days fetching coconut water for some spoiled bitch who can’t say ‘please’.

I attempted to perch delicately on the chair, but it sucked me hungrily into its cushy depths. It was hideous, but it was without a doubt the most comfortable chair that my ass had ever experienced. I gave up on ladylike posture and let it have its way with me.

Take me, comfy chair. I’m all yours.

If I couldn’t have Nathan Breyer, who was way out my league and had probably already forgotten me, at least I could enjoy the chair.

“Ms. Hunt,” I continued, trying to banish the memory of his incredible blue-green eyes by staring into Angelica’s empty sapphire ones, “the format and duration of this piece is totally up to you. Again, our readers just want to know you, to know what it’s like to be you. You’re a phenomenon. I was thinking we could do ‘A Day in the Glamorous Life of America’s Princess’. And, of course, we’ll do a short piece on your house for the Style section, too. What do you think?”

I could tell by her vapid giggles that I was hitting the exact right tone with Angelica. She smiled like she’d just won the lottery (although it would not even make a significant impact in her bank account these days). I was getting depressingly good at this.

“Oh yes,” she replied happily, “I think that would be a wonderful direction to start with.”

No one goes two hundred thousand dollars into debt getting a journalism degree from Columbia to be a gossip columnist. This was never my plan. But after graduation and being laid off from three papers in one year, I was straight-up broke. Twenty months ago, I promised myself this would be a temporary gig, just until I could find another full-time news job. But financial stability and the ability to occasionally afford luxuries like fresh fruit, coffee, and gasoline had me hooked on writing gossip. It’s not so bad if you just smile your way through it. Smile widely enough and you can suppress the activation of the muscles that govern your gag reflex.

“Awesome!” I said enthusiastically while grinning from ear-to-ear, “so tell me, what does a princess eat for breakfast?”