Jess, striking a pose, chipped in, “High-key's ace. Makes me look, like, glowing. Is my hair alright?”
“Hair's mint,” Mike reassured her. “You're looking great all around. Just relax, yeah? Imagine you’re walking down the street, feeling like a million dollars. Own it, Jess!”
Later, during a break, Emily pulled Mike aside. “Mike,” she said quietly, “where did you learn all this stuff? And where did you get this place?”
Mike shrugged, trying to look casual. “Oh, you know, just picked it up. Always been into photography. And the studio… let's just say I know someone who owes me a favour.” He winked, hoping she wouldn't press him.
Emily wasn't convinced. “That's a bit vague, isn't it? And those clothes… they're designer. Don't tell me you “picked them up” too.” She couldn't help the slight edge in her voice. She was starting to feel seriously out of the loop.
Mike sighed inwardly. He was trying to keep things simple, but Emily was too sharp. “Look,” he said, lowering his voice even more, “it's a bit complicated. Just trust me, yeah? It's all part of the plan. The website's paying for everything. Think of it as, like, a sponsorship deal for Jess.”
“Sponsorship deal?” Emily repeated, raising an eyebrow. “For a girl who hasn't eaten a decent meal in weeks? That's… messed up.”
Mike ran a hand through his hair. “I know, I know. But the point is, it's working. Look at her, Emily. She's actually smiling. This whole thing is helping her, and that's what matters, innit?”
Emily looked over at Jessica, who was laughing with the make-up artist. She had to admit, Mike had a point. Jess did seem happier, more alive. But something still didn't sit right. “Okay,” she said slowly, “I'll trust you. For now. But you better not be messing with her, or with me.”
Mike met her gaze, his eyes earnest. “Never. Cross my heart.” He hoped she believed him. Because the truth was far more complicated, and far more risky, than he was letting on. And the dream he had the previous night was a true one and he desired her and her love.
Chapter 9: Preparation for a change
The chipped mug warmed Alex's hands, but he still felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Tonight was the night. The night he was supposed to, according to this website he'd found, give a little gig – a proper live concert – at the local café. He kept glancing at his guitar case, propped against the kitchen wall. His own songs. The thought still felt surreal. Maybe, just maybe, this was it. Maybe this was the start.