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“Six? Jesus. How long were they with you?”

Cerys’s face shadows at the memory, as if I’m forcing her to relive a traumatic experience. “Oh, we’re talking make-up artists, setting up lighting for photos, the whole deal. Nobody warned me about that part, and I’m never bloody doing it again!”

“Crap,” I mutter.

“What?”

“We’re doing the same thing. You seemed enthusiastic about yours, and we thought if Dylan and me showed them something truthful to publish, the scrutiny might stop for a while. Like, if they see what the inside of our apartment looks like, people might leave us alone for a while.”

“Omigod! Don’t. Seriously. Back off.”

My mouth dries. Cerys doesn’t become flustered easily, and her experience isn’t encouraging. I told Dylan not to worry. The interview would be quick and a few pictures. Nobody from the magazine spoke specifics at the time, and I’m beginning to see why.