Billy texted me the following morning while I was manning the reception desk at the agency.

I’ve set up the meeting for tomorrow night, Miss Claire Harrington, the text read.

Immediately, a smile stretched over my face. I glanced up, sensing someone watching me, and saw Jeremy holding onto several props, all angles and elbows. He dropped them at once, scattering soccer balls, basketballs, masquerade masks, and even a fake piece of pizza onto the tile.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked, his voice almost a growl.

“I’m at the reception desk. I think smiling’s a part of my job, up here,” I said.

“Martin’s sending me to Silver Lake Coffee,” Jeremy said, his eyes growing somber. “I don’t know how to bring it back hot for him. Should I—should I buy a carrier case? One of those that keeps it warm…” He trailed off, eyeing his shoes.

I was surprised at how little I cared about Martin. At how little I cared for the job, now that I felt I had a way out.

“It’s your money, man,” I said, with a shrug. “It’s up to you.”

Jeremy balked. I sensed, then, that he hadn’t gotten an acting gig in a few months, and I felt a strange twinge of sadness for him. This was a dog-eat-dog world. When you were on top, you could fall to the bottom in mere seconds. The wrong social media post could destroy you in an instant. You couldn’t prepare for it. You could only hope it wasn’t your turn.

“You don’t think he’ll fire me if I bring in a cold cup?” Jeremy asked, his voice a quiet and defeated.

“Fuck Martin,” I whispered, leaning across the desk. “You’re better than this job. And so am I.”

Jeremy gave me a strange look, then turned, picked up his props, and waddled down the hallway. Perhaps, for the first time in our years of working together, we saw each other for what we were. Just trash, at the bottom of a glittering pile of Hollywood gold.

I reached for my phone and texted Billy back.

All set to go, Mike Mansfield. Our future is bright.

The next evening, I stood at my closet, trying to choose an outfit for this “acting” gig. What would a woman like Claire Harrington choose for an expensive dinner downtown? I flicked through my outdated, weathered dresses and skirts, feeling my heart sink into my stomach. When I’d taken on this job, I hadn’t thought of the logistics. I could act the part of Claire, but I couldn’t look like her. Not by a long shot.

I pulled out my wallet and looked at my credit card—something I rarely used, as it went against everything I knew about my finances. Namely, that I didn’t have any and wouldn’t in the near future. But the difference, in this case, was that I knew I’d have one thousand dollars in my account in the next few days. With the plane ticket to England coming in at around six hundred, I could still afford a nice-looking gown and save some of the money.

Plus, for this plan to work, I couldn’t look drab.

With just a few hours left until Billy was supposed to pick me up, I hopped in my car and sped to the nearby mall. The place was more or less empty, with most of the shops up for lease, but it still had a decent food court and a few upper-tier dress shops on the far side. I decided the best shot was the off-the-rack place, which could offer me a good name brand at a discounted price.

At the store, I chose a low-cut green gown, which flowed all the way to my toes, revealing just enough cleavage and highlighting my collarbones. It was emerald green, a color that spoke of wealth, at least in my eyes. In reality, Coventry hadn’t had many of the “regal” elements that Americans often associate with England. Ours was a grey, cloudy town, with houses that stretched in endless brick lines, making it look a bit more like the American suburbs than anything else.

Thankfully, the dress was marked down to just eighty bucks—which was more than I’d ever spent on a dress, sure, but I needed it. I paid readily, racing back to my house to shower, shave, and dress myself as quickly and nicely as I could. As I washed my hair in the shower, I practiced Claire’s accent.

“Yes, darling, champagne would be marvelous, to start. We’ll be toasting the end of this deal in no time, won’t we?”

I giggled to myself, dancing out of the shower and into the gown.

Billy arrived five minutes early. The doorbell rang just as I swiped the mascara wand over my lashes. Neither of my roommates was around, so I walked, barefoot, toward the front door and nearly gasped when I opened it. Standing on the front stoop was Billy, dressed in an immaculate suit. Although he looked incredibly handsome, I could sense his discomfort. It was clear that he wasn’t used to wearing suits, and I had a feeling that it made him feel stifled. But damn, if he didn’t look sexy.

His biceps strained against the dark fabric, showing his strength. His five o’ clock shadow seemed more like an aesthetic choice, than just due to laziness. As I approached him, his face lent me that charming, cheeky smile. His eyes glistened with excitement. I didn’t know what he was up to, or why he wanted this man to think he was buying some holiday condo. But I didn’t care.

Just looking at him, I was filled with anticipation, as if this was a real date. My breath caught as I hunted for the right words to say. Something that made me seem confident and witty. After a long, straining pause—filled with so much promise—I spoke.

“Hello. Hi.”

He laughed slightly, sensing my nerves. “Don’t think you’ll be anything but perfect tonight,” he said. I shivered, feeling uncomfortable that he could read my mind so well.

I gestured for him to come in. “I just have to grab my shoes. And powder my nose.” I switched to the posh accent, becoming her—Claire Harrington—before his very eyes.

As I turned, his eyes followed my curves, taking stock of my cleavage in the low V-neck of the dress, the cinch of my waist. He towered in the living room as I rushed to my bedroom, trying to keep the conversation flowing. The silence felt dreadful, giving anxiety to my already hammering heart.

I shoved my feet into the heels and then peeked out of my bedroom, gazing into his eyes for a long time. My lips parted, suddenly hungry to touch his. He gestured toward my dress, flashing a confident smile.

“You look fantastic,” he said. “I don’t think this asshole will know what hit him.”

My eyes flickered, suddenly curious. “And what is it we’re hitting him with, exactly?”

Billy shrugged playfully. “That’s not important. All you have to do is play your part, dearest love.”

I chose to laugh at this strange predicament, then eased my arm through his and allowed him to lead me outside. As I locked the door, he hailed us a cab.

“Can’t have him seeing my sister’s car,” he said, pointing at the scuffed, black thing along the curb. “He’ll see right through it.”

The cab slowed to a stop outside my door. Billy led me to the back, popping open the door and watching as I slid in, drawing the length of the emerald green gown beneath me. Billy sat beside me, leaning forward and telling the cab driver: “La Fleur de Ville.” To this, the cab driver scoffed, before pulling the car away from the curb and heading toward downtown, far from the grime of Silver Lake. Into the belly of the beast.

“I think he’s impressed,” I whispered into Billy’s ear, knowing that telling anyone you were at La Fleur de Ville meant you were somebody important, at least in this town. It meant that you held the prestige of Claire Harrington. It meant that you didn’t have an embarrassingly empty bank balance, one that reeked of horrible choices and a nonexistent career.

No. Not tonight. Tonight, I was with Billy. And somehow, we were making magic happen.