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“I would never use argan oil on my hair.” She ran her hand through her wavy blond mane. “I think it’s gross. But now a whole bunch of girls are going to try it, and their hair is going to be all greasy and sticky, and they’re going to say to themselves: ‘Why doesn’t my hair look as fabulous as Audra Kelly’s?’ ”
“I don’t get it,” Patrick said.
“Oh, it’s just a silly game I play with myself.” Audra waved a dismissive hand and threw herself dramatically down on the couch beside him. “I mean, why would I give my actual secrets away? Until a makeup company pays me to shill for them, I’m just making up shit as I go. We can’t all be the Girl Next Door.”
Patrick didn’t know what to say to this—but that hardly mattered. Audra was on a roll.
“And that’s just women’s media. A walk in the park, I tell you, compared to the creepy fuckable-little-sister act the guys expect. Never mind the fact that I have an Independent Spirit Award. The real performance of a lifetime is convincing everyone that I love pizza and beer despite looking”—she looked down at her tiny waist—“like this.”
“Oh, right.” Patrick nodded. “The relatable thing.”
“Yep! I’ve gotta be one of the guys and love sports, and comic books, and video games. But not other women, apparently. The average Wonderverse moviegoer doesn’t like it when girls exist for themselves or each other. Makes them uncomfortable. Honestly, some days I would love nothing more than to tell them that I’ve never seen Star Wars and prefer caviar to hot dogs, just to see if their heads explode.”
“Now that I’d love to see.”
“Ugh. I just hate all this ‘pick me’ bullshit, you know? You have no idea how exhausting it is.” She leaned back against the sofa cushions and exhaled forcefully, lifting her glass to cool her forehead.
Patrick bit his lip. Don’t I? he thought. Affable, unflappable charm was his thing. In other words, a focus group put together by his manager, Simone, had determined he would be most appealing if he leaned into the laid-back, humble-but-not-disingenuous, well-shucks-I’m-just-a-boy-from-Jersey brand of heartthrob.
“What’s wrong with being myself, and saving the acting for when I book a job?” Patrick had once asked. Simone had laughed a real laugh, a rare moment of authenticity, considering she tried not to convey more than twenty percent of an emotion at any given time, if she could help it.
“Sweetie.” She had touched his arm with genuine affection. “This is the job.”
He drew in a breath, ready to tell Audra that he knew how she felt, but she was still gesticulating with her vodka on the rocks as she pontificated to the ceiling.
“I was in the TIME100 last year,” she said. “Why the fuck should I have to be relatable? I don’t want to be fucking relatable! I want to be stoned out of my mind on an island with Rihanna—preferably being fanned by men in diamond-encrusted thongs. But apparently that is not the kind of answer people like to hear you giving in ‘72 Questions with Vogue.’ ”
“People want to feel like we’re just like them,” Patrick offered weakly.
“Well, here’s the very simple problem with that,” Audra said. “We’re not.”
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up.
“Not that I’m saying we’re better,” she added hastily. “Just…richer. Prettier. More successful.”
“More neurotic, anxious, and insecure, too,” Patrick added.
“Definitely not better,” she repeated. “Maybe even worse, in some ways. I mean, we’re fucking spoiled, aren’t we? But we are certainly not just like them. For one thing, I bet if I were just a regular girl, I wouldn’t have to consult with my management team before getting a tattoo or cutting my goddamn hair.”
“Your hair? Seriously?”
“My hair, Patrick.” She flicked a honeyed lock over her shoulder for emphasis. “But with all that said, what would I rather be doing with my life? Waiting tables? Acquiring crippling student debt? Getting married to some lunk who resents that I’m smarter than him, then giving up my minimum wage job because, bam, he got me pregnant and we can’t afford day care?” Audra shuddered.
“Isn’t there anything you miss about your life before fame?” Patrick asked. “I don’t know, being able to go for lunch with your family without someone taking your picture?”
“Please. One of the perks of this life is not having to deal with my mother.” She caught his surprised look before he could hide it, and tsked. “Let me guess, Patrick Lake is best friends with his parents.”
“My parents are nice people,” said Patrick instinctively.
“Good for you.” Audra pursed her lips, swirled her glass. “My mother doesn’t have my phone number. When she wants to contact me, she goes through my agent.”
“Are you kidding?”
“He negotiated her down to a visit every other Christmas.” She looked up with a dry smile. “That man is worth every cent I pay him.”
Audra knocked back the rest of her vodka and abruptly rose from her lounging position on the sofa.
“Get up,” she said, crunching on ice. “We’re going out.”
