The F List: A celebrity romance Read online

  “No one has,” Vidal snipped. “But their ad budgets are limited to micro-influencers, so that makes them of interest to us.”

  “Can’t I just do energy drinks and teeth whiteners?”

  He put down his pen and linked his long tan fingers together, looking at me with an expression befitting of world trade talks and not lipstick and bathing suit accessory lines. “Listen to me very carefully, Emma. Every brand that you align yourself with tells the world something about you. And in this world you are only allowed to make a mistake once or twice before you die.”

  “Before I die?” I laughed.

  “Die.” He put air quotes around the world. “Lose relevance. Drop followers. Cease to exist in the public awareness.”

  That was how serious he took it. How serious every fame-chaser in Los Angeles took it. I looked back at the list and shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”

  I don’t know how Vidal did it, but I made three thousand dollars that month, spread over fourteen posts. I posed at the Santa Monica Pier, holding an ice cream cone from Eddie’s Creamery. I tucked my hair behind my ear and displayed a bracelet made by Erica Saint. I kicked a pair of fourteen hundred dollar heels up on a theater seat while holding a popcorn bag, the theater location and account tagged. All for baby paychecks, which Vidal said didn’t matter—not at this stage. What mattered was the pipeline we were creating. The social proof. The baseline of engagement that we could measure and then start to grow.

  I spent that three grand on a camera and backdrop and converted the long wall in my living room into a set. And there, under the demanding eye of Vidal, I filmed my first live stream.

  18

  #nofilter

  EMMA: 72,440 FOLLOWERS

  That first broadcast was scathing. I’ll be the first to admit it. I took all my pent-up emotions of Cash and dunked them in acid, then spewed them onto the screen. I talked about his mother. His lack of job. His attempt to connect with commoners when we all know he was born with everything. I even told them what he said to me on our date. My voice—on that part of the video—trembles a little bit. No one caught it then, but later, once I had fangirls and the documentary and a giant microscope perched above my head… that line was dissected. Ran through voice analyzation programs. My slight hitch of breath was turned into a Jonah Whale of emotional blubber.

  “Easy,” he had said, leaning close into me so that no one else would hear. “Your white trash is showing.”

  That… that stupid line is why I was able to do it. His tone was what fueled every horrible thing I said about him. Just thinking about that line, and even now—my skin gets hot. I feel like a failure. I’m taken right back to every moment in my childhood where I was picked on. Laughed at. Pushed down a ramp and onto my knees in the dirt. Ridiculed for having the same pair of tennis shoes two years in a row, or having to eat a peanut butter sandwich every day at lunch because my parents hadn’t paid my lunch account. I was, and still am, white trash. And Cash Mitchell taught me that hearing the truth hurts the worst.

  The only thing I didn’t mention in that video was Wesley. And that night, after it was posted, and after the views and followers started to tick into ridiculous and unimaginable numbers, I drove out to the Ranch and shared a bucket of strawberry ice cream with him. Not because I was a good person, but because I was bad. I knew making that video was wrong, but I willingly stepped over that line, desperate for another splash of attention.

  I wasn’t a good person, but Wesley couldn’t tell.

  “Her first show is still online—you can watch it in the archives of her site. It was back when she always filmed in front of that blue backdrop, where all you focused on was her. And she was pretty, you know—but nothing special. I remember almost turning her off once. But that was the thing about Emma, you couldn’t turn her off—because you never knew what she was going to say. She was ruthless about people, but it was all true. It was all that horrible stuff that you think about people, but you don’t voice, because oh-my-god you’d get murdered. But she didn’t care. And that first video was about Cash Mitchell, OF COURSE. Which, I guess made sense, because back then, the only followers she really had were from that date with him. So anyway, that’s what that video is. Fourteen minutes where she dissects him and… it’s rough. Like, really cruel. But it’s also hilarious. See, the thing is, she’s funny. Like, seriously funny. Even if you hate her when you’re laughing.”

  Dan Robbins, The Hollywood Reporter

  20

  #CashMitchellOfficial

  CASH

  My team hated that video and its title. It was called Why You Don’t Want to Date Cash Mitchell. We all knew what it was—a pathetic attempt at attention, just like our first date had been—but the public didn’t know that. I lost almost two million followers when that video went viral. It was the white trash comment that really got everyone enflamed.

  And okay, so I shouldn’t have said it. But she had accused me of ignoring Wesley, of being ashamed of him. Screw that. I love my brother more than anything on this planet. If she’d been a man, I would have punched her. Instead, I hit out with the only thing I had. I could tell that she didn’t come from money. So I said it. And I’d like to say I regret it, but when I think about what she said about Wesley—I don’t.

  My manager wanted me to reach out to Emma, to apologize to her. That was never going to happen, and I told him that. I’m not sure how the MTV Movie Awards thing happened, but I’m pretty sure it was a joint event between my camp and hers. They all knew what was about to happen, but I didn’t. Maybe she did. All I knew is that I walked into that theater clueless. And there she was, standing alone on the red carpet, in a dress that could take a man’s breath away.

  There were a series of gossip posts over the years that described the type of girl I liked. Like… a Breakdown of Cash Mitchell’s Dream Girl or… 5 Hollywood Starlets Cash is Dying to Date. And they were always the same. Polished and perfect porcelain dolls, the kind you tripped over daily in Beverly Hills. But the journalists had it all wrong. Just because I’d dated women like that didn’t mean that they were my ideal—they were just the most common occurrence in my world. Emma was different. I meant what I said to her at my party—she was beautiful. Raw. Wild. Untamed. You don’t see a woman like that and forget her. And that night of the movie awards, she was stunning.

  21

  #EmmaattheEmmys

  EMMA

  We started campaigning for the award show season a year in advance. Which was tough because my numbers were weak though my name recognition was growing. The first few shows we faked. I posed in outfits before a green screen while Vidal’s photographer snapped me from different angles, then photoshopped me into the red carpet shots. It’s funny that my most popular Getty image shot—one where I’m winking into the camera at the Emmys—happened at an after-hours studio three streets off Sunset. The after-parties were next to impossible to fake, but a ticket could be easily bought, assuming you knew who to call.

  It was at the HBO Emmy afterparty that I first brushed elbows with Margot Robbie. We literally touched, me turning sideways to squeeze past her as she chatted with a bearded guy who looked familiar but I couldn’t place. She said “excuse me,” and I fought the urge to dance in place like a crazy woman and tell her how much I loved her. Instead, I gave a polite smile and moved on, as if it was normal to be next to a movie star, as if that happened to me every day. There were so many stars there, but also… so many people like me. Loners gripping a glass of punch, their eyes nervously darting about, trying to look at everyone without being noticed. Even the stars were a bit awkward. They stood in line for a drink and fidgeted with earrings, adjusting the neckline of their gown as they searched the area desperately for someone they might know. When they spotted one, there were overdone hellos, air kisses, the same conversations about Los Angeles heat, and compliments on the show, and general ass-kissery until the line moved up, and they were able to secure a drink.

  After the first pain
ful party, I recruited Bojan to join me. He could care less about the celebrities but liked “banging posh bitches” so he agreed, with the understanding in place that he would abandon me at the first chance of getting laid. He made an impressive date, with the right clothes, the right watch, the right swagger—and my nerves immediately relaxed as he reclined comfortably on the corner of a sectional that I would have never dared to sit on.

  “Come on.” He patted the seat next to him. “Cozy up. Take off those ridiculous heels and rest your feet.”

  I awkwardly perched next to him and smoothed the hemline of my dress. He watched me and laughed. “Emma, you’ve got to get that stick out of your ass.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and his grin widened.

  “Here.” He held out his drink. “Take this and down it.”

  I took the heavy tumbler and looked over the Emmy afterparty. “We should take a video. Something for my channel.” Vidal had given me a strict schedule to follow, one that had mandated a post every fifteen minutes, at minimum.

  “We’ll take the video in a bit. You’ve got to start having fun first.” He nodded at the glass. “Go ahead.”

  I tilted back the glass, then recoiled at the taste. “Disgusting,” I spat out. “What is this?”

  He moved closer, his legs brushing against mine, and pushed gently on the bottom of the glass, bringing it up to my mouth. “The best bourbon money can buy. Just sip it slowly. Try to enjoy it. You’ve got a thousand dollars in that glass.”

  I widen my eyes at him, but took the long sip, trying not to shudder at the sharp bite. I pushed his hand away and coughed, my chest burning as the hot liquor moved down my throat. He chuckled and watched as a model-thin brunette in a mini-skirt walked back. I snapped my fingers in front of his face, and his dark eyes came back to me. “Uh-uh,” I cautioned. “Don’t leave me yet.”

  “Emma,” he chided, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry.” He nuzzled his face into the side of my neck. “I’m not going anywhere until you get drunk.”

  Not getting drunk had been Vidal’s next rule—one he had repeated three times before leaving my apartment. I watched as Bojan flagged down a shot girl and unlocked my phone, capturing the moment that he reached forward and grabbed two shots off the tray. He pivoted toward me, and I caught another shot, the dim lighting picking up the profile of Russell Crowe, who was in the backdrop.

  “Put that up,” he ordered. “You look like a fucking tourist.”

  I obeyed, then took the shot he gave me. Within ten minutes, my anxiety had mellowed, and I was tucked into the arm of his YSL suit. I rested my head on his shoulder and inhaled the expensive musk of his cologne, watching as Rachel McAdams laughed at something Nicolas Cage had said. “This is surreal,” I mused. “Can you believe we’re here?”

  It was a stupid question to ask him. Bojan didn’t care about celebrities because he was a minor one, part of the club enough to get the access and women that he wanted. He dismissed me with a snort, then kicked a designer boot onto the golden inlaid table before us. “You’ve got to learn Hollywood, Em. The more you don’t want to be famous, the more you will be.”

  It was, quite possibly, the stupidest statement I’d ever heard. Completely untrue. Still, it was interesting enough that I stole the line for the following day’s live video. I dissected the idea while listing three celebrities who fit his statement, and three that didn’t. I asserted my opinion that Bojan was wrong—it didn’t matter if they wanted it or didn’t want it. All that mattered was if they were beautiful and interesting. My viewers agreed with me, and the photos I posted from that Emmy afterparty exploded.

  After that, Vidal approved Bojan joining me on all awards events, and we made a serious push to get me a ticket to an actual show. The easiest was the Film Independent Spirit Awards, but I had my eye set on something else. Something Cash Mitchell was slated to be at.

  The MTV Movie Awards.

  “Once an influencer passes 250,000 followers, that’s when we start looking at them. And in terms of brands and impacts, there’s always a fit for someone, no matter how controversial they are. Emma Blanton was what we considered a C-List opportunity. Her audience was an interesting mix of males and females, her engagement was through the roof, but almost everything was built on drama. The things she said about other people. The events in her personal life. The fact that her quote-on-quote “best friend” was Bojan Frost. Who, by the way, is impossible to promote through. The guy wouldn’t tag Maserati if you gave him a brand new one. But Emma would. Emma would tag and location and hashtag the shit out of something, and for a relatively inexpensive amount. And for that reason, we overlooked the fact that she was unlikeable. We took a chance and threw some ad dollars her way. And the results were fantastic.”

  Merci Plymouth, Plymouth Media

  23

  #personalday

  EMMA: 269,112 FOLLOWERS

  “That’s Becky.” Wesley nodded at a girl who sat at the edge of the basketball court, her attention on a tablet in her hands. She had Down’s Syndrome as well, and wore a sparkly pink tiara that perched atop her black braids.

  “Yeah?” I glanced at her, then him, noticing the pink heat of his cheeks. “You like her?”

  “I like her A LOT.” He started doing jumping jacks, counting loudly as he went.

  I stifled a smile as he wheezed to a stop, then began a dramatic stretching routine, his attention continually darting to her. “Have you ever talked to her?”

  “Of course.” He bent forward in an attempt to touch his toes. “Twice.”

  “You talked to her twice?” I sat crossed-legged on the bench. “What did you say?”

  “She was running in the hall.” He sat down next to me, his breathing hard. “No running in the halls.”

  “That’s right,” I nodded, the signs visible and large, because running in the halls was undoubtedly the gateway to hell. “You told her to stop running.”

  “I yelled at her,” he affirmed proudly. “Two different times. NO RUNNING IN THE HALLS!”

  “Okay.” I patted his arm. “Calm down. People are going to think you’re yelling at them.”

  We sat there for a moment in silence, the warm sun pleasant after the morning’s chill. I watched the girl, who looked a couple of years younger than Wesley. “I think you should talk to her again.”

  “Should I ask her if she has a boyfriend?” He perked up at the thought.

  “Maybe not right away.” I watched his profile, his attention straight ahead, his mind working. “Let’s come up with a plan. A courtship.”

  “To be my girlfriend?”

  I shrugged, wondering what a relationship with Wesley would look like. “Is that what you want, a girlfriend?”

  He nodded. “My brother says girlfriends are the BEST.”

  I’m sure he did. I tried not to chase down the question, a little fearful that I might start pumping Wesley for information about Cash. This was, out of our four visits together, the first time he had mentioned him. “They can be nice,” I said carefully. “If you find the right one.”

  “Becky is the right one,” he said emphatically. “I am in LOVE with her.”

  Likely. The girl nodded her head along with whatever she was listening to.

  “Let’s start with baby steps,” I suggested. “Why don’t you…” I looked around. The campus was, as much as I hated to admit it, gorgeous. We sat in the shade of a large oak tree, with a view of the basketball courts and open law. Azalea bushes bordered the area, and a nature trail off to the right would take us past the pool, koi pond, and the tennis court. “There.” I pointed at a bed of daisies that surrounded the fountain. “Pick her some flowers and take them to her. Introduce yourself and give them to her.”

  “No.” He blushed and covered his face with his hand. “Too embarrassing.”

  “It’s not embarrassing.” I tugged at his arm. “It’s easy.” This coming from a woman who was secretly spending time with her crush’s
younger brother because she didn’t have the courage to apologize to him. “Just say ‘Hi, I’m Wesley. I brought you some flowers.”

  “And then?” He peeked at me through a crack in his fingers.

  “And then see what she says. And if you run out of things to say, you just say. “Okay, have a nice day. I’ll see you soon.”

  His hands fell away from his face and he repeated the end phrase, the words thicker and slower but would do the job nicely. He was a cute kid, blessed with some lethal genes, even if he did have an extra chromosome.

  “Want me to help you pick the flowers?”

  He pushed to his feet. “I can do it.”

  I crossed my feet at the ankle and watched as he marched over to the bed of bright white daisies and carefully unearthed a few, their roots still attached as he gathered them in his palm and then looked at me. I gestured him forward and held my breath, watching as he stopped beside her and waved. She looked up, then pulled her headphones off, taking her crown along with it.

  I couldn’t see her face but could see the big smile that took over his. And when he knelt to one knee and presented her with the flowers—my heart bloomed with hope for the two of them. It was so sweet; the moment made even more so when he stood, lifted both hands in the air and cheered his entire way back to me. She turned to watch him and clapped both hands in the air above her head, and there was a moment when I envied their unabashed celebration. The real world would tear them to shreds but at that moment—I almost believed in love.