Like a Love Song

by Gabriela Martins

  “Oh, okay.”

  This is fast.

  I start asking who it is, but Ashley speaks first.

  “The paperwork has been signed on his side, and you’ll sign it today, too, so we have the guarantee of privacy, should either of you choose to break the contract,” Ashley says. “Although I can’t imagine why you would. It’s a very lucrative contract for both of your careers. No need to feel nervous about this.”

  Well, I wasn’t feeling nervous before.

  I clear my throat. “Okay, so…who is it? So I can Google him. If he’s too tall, maybe I should buy some new heels? Trent was tall, but—maybe you’re going full-on basketball player on me, yeah?” I laugh at that. Then I add, “But for a basketball player—no, never mind, he wants Hollywood, so he’s an actor. Or is he?” I narrow my eyes. “But is he that tall? I don’t think I have shoes for a really tall man.”

  “Hold your horses, love.” Bobbi frowns. “Not a man. A boy. You’re seventeen.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say.

  Ashley crosses her legs to the opposite side, in the direction of the door. I read in a body language book once about how that means the person really wants to leave. I try to offer her my version of a genuine smile, this time without any lettuce. Ashley smiles back, but it looks more like a grimace.

  “We’ve got the name right here,” Ashley says, then eyes her assistant. “Christopher?” He goes through his papers quickly—and my heartbeat speeds up—before announcing:

  “Ainsley.” And then, dooming it all to hell: “William Ainsley.”

  “No,” I gasp.

  Christopher doesn’t seem to hear me. “He’s been in four movies, all of them small indie productions, but the action movie where he plays the younger brother of the lead, Becoming the Impossible, has won quite a few awards. He was nominated for best supporting actor.”

  He starts talking about net worth, but my throat is dry. I blink a few more times, trying not to sink in my chair. “That— I’m sorry to interrupt you, but isn’t he French?” I turn to Bobbi, indignant.

  Bobbi raises an eyebrow. “I never said French. I said European.”

  My nostrils flare, and I feel a headache coming.

  Ashley presses her glasses against the bridge of her nose. “So you know this boy?”

  “I—sort of. Not really. Maybe?” I frown. “But he’s so…scrawny. And pale. And soft.” I glare at Bobbi, as if somehow she would understand. “And British. He is British.”

  “I don’t understand. Those are all things that will look good for you right now, Natalie.” Ashley glances meaningfully at Christopher, and I can tell this is their signal to wrap things up. He starts organizing his papers. “You don’t need another womanizer with a James Dean complex. William Ainsley is the anti-Trent. You need him.”

  Every word she’s said is a nightmare.

  As she stands up, I stand up, too.

  “I don’t need him. He needs me.”

  Ashley studies me as if I’m a child. “You need him just as badly, Natalie. Don’t you want to rise above? We want you to.”

  Christopher goes over his papers and promptly offers me the contract to be signed. I’d read a copy sent by email, and Bobbi’s lawyer has already read it, too, so all I have to do is sign. This time, William Ainsley’s name is in the place of “Fake Romantic Partner.”

  To his benefit, Christopher does shoot me an apologetic look when I take the paper from his hand. I sit on Bobbi’s desk, and all eyes are on me.

  My hand hovers over the page. Every cell in my body is telling me to flee the scene, and I’m seriously considering asking for a bathroom break. Bobbi clears her throat, glaring at me, and when our eyes meet, it’s like she’s saying, What’s taking you so long?

  I reply with my eyes: I really thought he’d be stranger!

  “I guess not.” I groan.

  The “sign here” written in pencil at the bottom of the page stares at me.

  “Sorry?” Ashley asks.

  I shake my head. “Oh no, I was talking to myself.”

  Holding my breath, I sign my name. Then I take a check from my wallet and sign that, too: a check for my pretend-boyfriend, a boost of encouragement for him to act real nice and boyfriend-y while respecting the NDAs. I try to do it as fast as I can, like ripping off a Band-Aid, and when Christopher collects both, he mouths, Sorry.

  Ashley and Bobbi exchange hopeful looks.

  “Yay?” I try to contribute.

  I guess I’m dating William Ainsley.

  I’m not nervous about having a blind date with a stranger. I am nervous about inviting paid photographers to spread a lie—and about being seen with someone I’m not sure my fans would approve of seeing me with. I’m almost positive they’d expect someone…bigger. Stronger. Better?

  I could barely sleep last night. I was back on William’s Instagram, going through all his pictures. And I’m right—he is scrawny. All awkward limbs and too pale and so impossibly…Well, Ashley was right when she said he’s the anti-Trent. Definitely no James Dean complex there.

  I’m not sure how that is a good thing. Everyone loves James Dean.

  Three months. Three months of fake dating, just to distract the tabloids until hopefully I write some new music, and they forget the fiasco. Three months of being photographed beside him and attending at least one or two events with him.

  Three months, then, come December, I’m free.

  I check my phone, my leg bouncing again under the table outside the cute café. Twitter notifications are off, but I go through some fan accounts anyway. They’re talking about the rumors of William and me. There are pictures of each of us side by side with theories about how and when we’ve met, and whether we’re together or not.

  We’re about to prove to everyone that we are (in fact, liars).

  I start reading an interesting account of my possible romance with William. It says there were eyewitnesses of our first meeting in Moscow, me running in the rain to get to the hotel, and him finding me and letting me use his jacket as an umbrella. We laughed together as we made our way to the hotel. Me, stopping hesitantly in the lobby. Eventually taking a pen from the reception desk and running back to him shyly, writing my number on his arm, then running up to the elevator with a wink.

  There is a number of inconsistencies with this story, mainly that I have never been to Russia, and how incredibly out of character it would have been for me to do the whole shy thing. But it’s a meet-cute, and it’s probably good that so many people are retweeting it. A good meet-cute could make or break a ship. I wonder if Ashley had any hand in planting this story.

  I lock my phone and let out a sigh.

  And then hands cover my eyes.

  I jump, yelling and slapping the hands away.

  William Ainsley laughs, stepping out from behind me, and says, “Okay, then.”

  I scan the crowd. Ashley’s people are definitely here; I can see someone behind the bushes across the street.

  “You scared me.” I force a smile between gritted teeth.

  “Sorry,” William says, not looking sorry.

  He’s obviously come straight from the airport, and judging by the dark circles around his eyes, he hasn’t slept much more than I have. Yet, unlike me, he probably hasn’t dedicated a good portion of an hour to makeup and concealer. On top of stylist-approved makeup, I’m also wearing a black crop top with a high-waisted denim skirt with a black belt. Casually cute. Besides the ring I always wear with my initial, I chose a delicate necklace with a small teardrop sapphire. And boots. Wonderfully comfortable boots, for once.

  He’s fresh-faced, not a hint of stubble on that chin. But he isn’t too bad. In black skinny jeans and an Arctic Monkeys T-shirt, I’d maybe place him as a rocker wannabe if I saw him at a festival or something. Definitely not an actor. That p
art still doesn’t make sense to me.

  William pauses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Your agent told me to kiss your cheek or something. Because. Pictures.”

  I stare up at him.

  He seems so absolutely out of place, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, that I start doubting Ashley’s effectiveness at having found someone fitting for a fake-dating business.

  “I’ll do it,” I say.

  I want the best shot possible for those photographers in the bushes—why the hell are they even in the bushes when we asked them to be there?—so I get up and touch his shoulders. He turns to me. His green eyes widen, and I press a kiss on his lips.

  I pause, so it can be caught on camera.

  He smells good. And he moves his soft lips just a little bit against mine.

  My firm grip on his shoulders softens, and I’m about to let my hands slide down to his biceps when I remember what’s happening and pull away. Opening my eyes, I clear my throat and sit down again.

  “There. You wouldn’t be kissing my cheek if we were really dating.”

  William’s lips quirk, and he murmurs, “Well, I didn’t want to be the person to rush into this with a kiss, out of nowhere. But I guess you do things differently here in the States?”

  Is that supposed to be a joke? Is he trying to be cute?

  Three months of this. Oh, Lord, give me strength.

  Self-consciously, I try to make my hair look straighter by combing through it with my fingers. He raises his hand to the waiter and asks for a lemonade. I already have a smoothie in front of me.

  William frowns, staring at the glass table between us. “So. Do you want to talk about this?”

  I give him an equally self-conscious smile. “Smile. You’re having a great time with your beloved girlfriend.” The words feel strangled, and I almost want to laugh at this absurd situation. “And for the love of God, only whisper when you talk about it. We don’t want anyone eavesdropping.”

  William looks around.

  “Don’t look around!” I whisper-yell.

  He widens his eyes again, staring at me. “Okay, I’m not looking around, fine.” He shows his teeth. “Smiling. Having a good time.” He lowers his voice an octave, “With my surprise girlfriend.”

  I breathe out slowly. “I don’t think you should’ve accepted this deal. I know it’s good for you, but, honestly? It’s weird because we have sort of already met.”

  “As opposed to how normal it would feel otherwise?” he teases as his lemonade arrives. “It’s all right, I’m not entirely comfortable with this, either. But Cedrick—my agent—is sure that it’s going to be mutually beneficial, so.” He lifts his shoulders. “I have to say that…I’m sorry, by the way. I’m really sorry about what happened. Nobody deserves that kind of treatment.”

  I scan him for lies, but so far, the only thing that’s fake here is our relationship. I nod, not really wanting to get into it, but he presses on.

  “Your boyfriend really is an arse. He shouldn’t have done that to you.” He shakes his head, then takes a sip of his lemonade. I cock an eyebrow, forgetting to smile. He corrects himself, “I’m sorry. Ex-boyfriend, of course.”

  I want to say I don’t need his kindness, but instead I say, “Clearly you’re superior to my ex.”

  Ignoring my sarcasm, he makes a face. “I mean, I’d seen some of his movies. He always struck me as an arse, and I am a good judge of character, I guess,” he says. I have the impression he’s only half joking. “Also, I’m no expert or anything, but shouldn’t you have deleted your ex’s pictures from Insta already? I deleted mine. Cedrick told me to.”

  Which means he recently got out of a relationship as well. I wonder what she’s like. Is she also a Londoner like him? Someone hyper family-oriented and quirky, who likes socks or…I don’t know, beanies?

  Then, after a beat: “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. Obviously. It’s just that I’ve already deleted my photos, so I thought it’d be weird if you still had yours. But, again, up to you.”

  Then, his phone rings. I want to call him out on how unprofessional it is that his phone isn’t on silent mode during a business meeting—because kiss or not, that is what this is: a business meeting. But then he takes out his phone, and I can read the screen: big sis. His brow furrows, and he clears his throat, standing up. “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll be back in a second.”

  I watch him leave without saying a word.

  So much for keeping this professional.

  I take out my phone as well and go on Instagram to give myself something to do while I wait. Because he’s right; I should delete my pictures with Trent. But I hate every single moment of it. I hate it because deleting pictures with thousands of likes feels like a setback. I hate it because deleting pictures with Trent feels a lot like deleting what I’ve accomplished, too.

  I put my phone on the table like the opposite of a call for truce and wait for him to come back. He does, distressed and disheveled, hair messed like he’s run his hand over his head a gazillion times.

  Then I remember, again. The first time we met, the things he said…But here he is, cashing in on a celebrity and fake-dating her, too. Chin tilted up, I say matter-of-factly, “Turns out you don’t think all of the industry is stupid.”

  William’s brows come together for a second, then he grins. “I’m detecting some anger. What could I possibly have done to warrant this level of annoyance?”

  Nostrils flared, I tell him, “I just think you’re pretentious. With your”—I gesture at him—“attitude or something. Your pretentious indie-movie-star attitude and being oh-so-sorry about what happened with Trent.”

  “I see.” He nods. “You’d rather I was glad about what happened that day? Should I be wearing a leather jacket and boots, perhaps? Next time, tell me what you want, and I’ll be that. We’re chameleons, we pretentious indie-movie stars.” He raises his glass.

  I breathe out as slowly as I can. “You don’t take me seriously.”

  “I take you for a self-obsessed diva who’s not ready to ask for help even when she needs it,” he deadpans. I scoff, but he’s doing that thing where he sort of grins. “I’m not saying I don’t need help, too. I do. I signed this contract, Natalia, and I want this to work out. I need this to work out.”

  Wait.

  “What did you just call me?”

  The attitude drops. He blinks, confused, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I…your name? It said ‘Natalia’ in the contract.”

  I bite the insides of my cheeks and try to sound calm when I speak.

  “It’s Natalie,” I say, forcing the American accent. “That’s my name.”

  He studies me for a second. Those dark green eyes take me apart and put me back together again. Finally, he nods, and he’s back to focusing all his attention on the lemonade.

  I feel something tug at my insides.

  Why did I agree to this?

  I start playing with my phone, my black nails digging at the protective case.

  William reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “Are you okay?”

  His thumb caresses the back of my hand with the lightest of touches.

  I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from our hands.

  I have a question about to roll off my tongue, something along the lines of why do you care? And a not-small part of me wants to open up and tell him everything I’m feeling right now. Then I catch movement in the corner of my eye, and I hear the click of the camera.

  I taste something bitter in my mouth.

  Smart boy. He’s learning fast, giving the cameras a good show.

  I pull my hand back as smoothly as I can, and give him a bright smile as I answer, “Never better.”

  The one time I need Mom not to be
home, she is.

  I’m standing in front of the red door of our apartment like a stalker. I can just barely hear her sing as she cooks something. I groan, pressing my forehead to the door. Instead of taking out my keys, I take out my phone, wanting to stall this moment. She’s going to ask me about the date, and I…don’t want to have this conversation right now.

  I have lots of notifications. Artists are following me on Instagram again. I roll my eyes at that and delete the notifications with a swipe. I go to my text messages. There are unread messages from Bobbi, Brenda, and an unknown number.

  I open the unknown number first.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER:

  Hi! This is your pretentious indie-movie-star pretend-boyfriend.

  Thought you should have my American number.

  Apparently I’ll be around for a bit.

  The message doesn’t change the longer I stare at my screen. I press my lips together, trying to think of a way to reply, a way that isn’t as stiff as I probably was today, but one that isn’t too something else, either.

  I don’t know what I’m thinking.

  God.

  I close my eyes and say the only swear word I know in Portuguese. “Merda.”

  I decide to reply to William later. My mind’s already enough of a mess after our fake-date today. Or, well, our date with fake intentions. Whatever. I open up the next text.

  BOBBI:

  Super sorry Ashley’s photographers were too late to get you guys on camera

  Hope it was a fun date anyway?

  I frown. I take a step back from the door, staring at the message for a long minute.

  Someone was taking pictures. And if it wasn’t Ashley’s photographers…