Page 2 of Scotlander

As she stuck her finger in her mouth to suck away the blood, she saw that Priya was giving her a knowing grin. ‘You and Ben, huh? Buds forever?’

In lieu of waiting for an answer, Priya gave Willa a proper once over, sucked in a double lungful of air, then heaved it all out with a weighted, ‘God, you’re looking good. Stick thin, you lucky thing! That dress is hanging super sweet. Who is it? Vera? Rosa?’ She scrunched her features into an adorable dare-I-say-it-out-loud face. ‘It isn’t from Goop, is it?’

Willa looked down at the dress she’d bought at Target three years ago. A basic, flowery midi she’d definitely strained the seams of a few months back. She was generally a size ten in a size-zero town, so this should feel like a compliment. For some reason it jarred.

Priya did a happy, wiggly dance. ‘Seriously gorge. Look at your collarbones. They’re popping.’ She leant in and asked, sotto voce, ‘Have you been on the mushroom smoothies?’ then did a double take at Willa’s bewildered expression. ‘Oh god. Sorry. You’re not . . . sick . . . are you?’

There were a number of things she could say here.

No.

That her heart was broken and she had no idea how to put it back together again.

Or, perhaps the most relevant: now that Valentina was gone, she was beginning to wonder if her life here in Tinseltown was as soulless and unfulfilling as the rest of her family made it out to be.

All of the above were true. But the only words threatening to tumble out of her mouth were, I’m so sad. So unbelievably, bone-achingly sad.

She didn’t give in to the urge. Being honest meant she’d start to cry, never stop, cause a scene and get fired. With everything she’d lost recently, she at least had the wherewithal to know her job couldn’t be next, so instead she put on her best you’ll-never-believe-it face and said, ‘Mushroom smoothies are so amazing.’

‘Really?’ Priya stepped in a bit closer, her voice turning confessional. ‘I was tempted, but I always thought they sounded kind of gross.’

Oh thank god.

Willa wiped some invisible sweat off her forehead, stupidly grateful for the rare moment of honesty. ‘I lied. Never had one. Never plan to.’

Then Priya looked at her. Really looked at her. ‘You know? I’ve seen you at, like, a million of these things and we never get to chat. Would you like to grab a smoothie sometime? A good one? And not to talk business, just to – you know – start an anti-mushroom smoothie campaign or something.’

The invitation landed like a salve she hadn’t known she’d needed. ‘Yeah. I’d really like that.’

‘You’ve got my numbers, right?’

Willa patted her pocket, the international sign for got them on my phone. ‘I’ll text you.’

And then, before either of them could find a way to extract themselves from something that felt very much like the beginnings of an actual conversation, another publicist flew to the door and called Willa’s name.

Chapter Two

‘Look at your shaggy little bedhead.’ Charlie Foster, a long-term producer from an ABC affiliate, plopped a plate piled high with bacon and two suspiciously vodka-scented celery sticks on to the table, then folded himself into one of his long-limbed origami poses on the chair next to Willa’s. ‘You’re so lucky you’re not on camera.’ He air-patted his own heavily done-up face, then washed the air in front of hers. ‘It must be so nice not having to worry about your looks.’

Willa smiled but they both knew it wasn’t a compliment. They’d started on the junket circuit about the same time, eight years ago. Despite his periodic on-air appearances when their own ‘talent’ was unavailable, Charlie had always had his eye on a job at TiTs. Specifically, Willa’s job. As such, their relationship was that type of saccharine sweet I’m-being-nice-but-underneath-you-know-that-I-know-you-stole-the-life-I-was-meant-to-be-living.

‘Sooooo . . . ?’ Charlie poked at his bacon with his index finger. He looked disturbingly close to an immaculately dressed, oversized kitten batting a ball of string. ‘How was Bennnnn?’

She flipped her hand in a so-so gesture then made a sad-clown face.

Ben had actually poured his guts out about his former marriage, his current marriage, lessons in humility he’d learnt as a parent and, more recently, as an advocate for Paralysed Veterans of America. Then, wiping actual tears from his eyes, told her she was like a maple-syrup-scented truth serum and invited her to help next time he hosted a soup kitchen for another one of his charities. But the interview was embargoed until tomorrow night so she couldn’t say anything.

Which was hard considering her opening question – Hey, Ben. Which side are your eggs flipped on today? – had elicited such an outpouring of emotion.

Not that this was the first time something like this had happened. It was known as The Willa Effect at TiTs. An ability to ask an entirely bland question only to have a celebrity respond like a person in desperate need of a confessional. Aubrey said it was because stars felt ‘deeply unintimidated’ by Willa’s ‘mid-Western presence’.

Geography was not Aubrey’s strongpoint. Nor was tact.

‘No, seriously,’ Charlie persisted. ‘What did he say?’

‘The usual.’

Charlie tsked her answer away. ‘Willa Jenkins! Do not withhold crucial pre-interview information from me. I heard he was hugging it out with some Canadian reporter when he was on the way to his room and my boss wants soundbites on . . .’ He held out a hand and started ticking off fingers. ‘. . . both of the Jens, the kids, the charity stuff, and something about mocktails at an after-party on a yacht fuelled by French fry grease. We’re doing a segment on Sober-Eco-Friendly Celebs.’ He shuddered at the last bit, then, giving his bacon a glance, curled his lips and said to the room, ‘Could someone get this away from me, please?’