Page 13 of Famous for a Living

She got the call once over a two-minute walk outside in a pair of house slippers.

“I’m going to call management on him if you keep this up, Serena.” But it’s the same threadbare threat on my lips as last week, and the week before, and we both know it.

“Are you reading the news again?” she says, ignoring me.

I can’t speak the words for several seconds. It just . . . it feels as though once I do, I’ll be speaking them into existence. Confirming that everything before my eyes is not some horrible hallucination but reality.

I’d like very much to keep that sliver of hope that I’m really just mad for a few minutes more.

I’m clinging to that hope, I realize.

Desperately wishing I’ve just lost my grip on reality.

“Are you?” Serena presses.

I force hot breath up my throat.

Force words to form. “I wasn’t aware it was up to $46 million now.”

“Go back inside, Cat. You hear me? Back. Inside. I’m on my way, and I’m coming with news.”

Her final word snags my attention. Still, though, my feet don’t move. “What kind of news?” I ask suspiciously.

Across the street the light turns, and I note a young girl grabbing the arm of her friend midstride. Gaping at me. Pointing.

“Are you moving?” Serena says, just as a taxi horn blows.

The young girl’s hand slips out of her pocket and begins snapping pictures faster than paparazzi in training. I tilt the umbrella over my face as a shield.

“What are you wearing right now?” Serena snaps.

What am I wearing today? The days all string together now.

I look down.

Seval black boots—a brand that broke contract to disown me three months ago, at the first rumble. A Degas Regalis trench coat cinched tight around my waist—one of the five who dropped me when the rumbles grew louder. Gold stud earrings by Story Luxe. Disowned three weeks ago. Necklace. Given by Uncle Terry that fateful night.

Umbrella.

“Nothing. Just black.”

“So you are standing under an umbrella in all black, staring morosely at some newspapers like you’re at a funeral? Perfect, Cat. Just perfect. You’re really nailing this Keep It Positive motto we just discussed.”

I catch my reflection through a dripping shop window. She’s not wrong.

“Are you at least wearing lipstick? If you’re going to walk around like that, can you at least pull an Audrey Hepburn and wear some good red lipstick?”

I feel in my pocket for a forgotten tube of lipstick. “What’s the news?” My fingers brush against one and I pop the cap off, forcing my feet to move back along the sidewalk as I return to my apartment. Intrinsically my head is already beginning to duck at the sight of people inside.

I itch to reach in my pocket for my sunglasses, but it’s too gray of a day. Too conspicuous. Shows weakness.

More, I suppose, weakness.

The gleaming doors of the Montana wait for me as Chad, the doorman, holds the door.

“Welcome home, Miss Cranwell,” he says, though I’ve only been gone a matter of minutes.

Home.