2. Emma
TWO
Emma
Turns out, being one of Hollywood’s best-kept secrets isn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounds.
I’ve been writing for Golden magazine for five years now. What started as a part-time gig covering celebrity fashion and ‘red carpet moments’ somehow evolved into a full-time, anonymous gossip column uncovering the city’s biggest scandals.
Ironic, isn’t it? In trying to expose everyone else’s secrets, I became one myself. It’s the only part of my life that’s a mystery. Aside from that, I’m an open book—inherently explains why I hate almost every celebrity I meet: they’re too fake.
It’s not exactly what I imagined when I graduated with a journalism degree, but hey, at least my days are varied; a couple in the office, the rest out on the field with a front-row seat to chaos. Not bad, considering it pays the bills.
Besides, digging up dirt on celebrities isn’t hard. Leaves me plenty of time to write what I actually care about—on my personal blog. I have about twelve consistent readers, two of whom are my mom and Julia. So, yeah. Pulitzer, here I come.
I groan and force myself out of bed. I could technically work from home today, but I already milked that excuse all last week while helping with the wedding madness. Which means, even in my still-exhausted, post-party haze, I need to show my face at the office.
The traffic’s a nightmare, but I manage to get downtown in under thirty minutes. Summer’s in full swing, the sun’s out, the doors of my Jeep Wrangler are off, and the ocean breeze almost makes up for the honking. Almost.
I pull into my employee spot, grab my purse and laptop, and head for the elevator. All the way up to the sixth floor. My stomach knots as I wonder what mood Martha, my wonderfully unhinged boss, is going to be in today.
It could go either way, honestly. Her attitude depends on a complex formula involving commentary on previous issues, ad revenue, online ratings, and even the exact taste of her morning coffee.
Statistically speaking, the odds of having a full conversation with her that doesn’t involve at least one complaint are roughly the same as winning the lottery.
“You don’t want to be here today,” Kate says, pushing off the wall as I step out of the elevator, almost giving me a heart attack.
“You’re right.” I laugh, striding toward my desk. “I don’t want to be here. But if I skip another day, people might start forgetting I actually work here.”
“I’m serious,” she insists, stepping in front of me and forcing me to stop. “There are articles everywhere, and Martha—”
As if on cue (or thanks to her supernatural hearing), Martha pops her head out of her office and points directly at me.
“Miller. In my office. Stat!”
I sigh. “Well, whatever it is, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” I tell Kate, who gives me a pitying look.
Unlike most of my coworkers, meetings with the boss don’t faze me. My online ratings are too good for her to fire me, and I don’t mean that in a cocky way. Just… factual. Sucks that I have no prospects of moving upward, but at least I’m secure.
I drop my purse on my desk and make my way to the back of the room, where Martha’s glass-walled office overlooks the floor. Through the pane, I can see her pacing, clutching a stack of magazines like she’s about to start selling door-to-door.
Martha’s the human embodiment of Cruella de Vil.
Her faux-fur coat has been hanging dramatically in the corner since the last time she wore it.
Her jet-black bob is cut to perfection (although it’s not the legendary half-black, half-white).
One could never catch a single gray strand on her.
It would ruin the illusion of eternal youth.
And I’m convinced she copied her makeup straight from the 1961 movie. Extremely defined eyebrows, dark green eyeshadow, crimson lipstick, and enough contour to make her face look photoshopped.
I take a deep breath before pushing open the door.
She whirls around dramatically, as if she hasn’t been watching me walk across the room for the past twenty seconds, and drops the stack onto her desk with a loud thud.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” she says, scandalized. “It’s such a disservice to Golden that you’d keep something like this to yourself.”
I glance down at the magazines, and it hits me. It’s right there on the front page.
Julia and Harrison.
More specifically, Harrison.
“Look, Martha,” I begin, “Julia’s my best friend, and I’m always going to respect her privacy, and by default, Harrison’s. That’s one thing I’ll never budge on. I’m sorry you didn’t get the exclusive, but—”
“Dear, as much as I do appreciate a good-looking man, Harrison’s in the bleachers now that he’s behind the scenes,” she cuts in, taking the top magazine and flipping it open to the article.
Oh, no.
Right there, splashed across half the page, is a photo of Julia and Harrison leaving the chapel—followed by Matt and me. The second I see it, I know what she’s thinking. And it’s much worse than I realized.
“I don’t know him,” I lie quickly, before she can say anything else.
She shushes me. “Nonsense. In Hollywood, you never truly know anyone,” she dismisses with a wave of her manicured hand. “You, of all people, should know.”
I tilt my head. “True. But he’s too close to me. I can’t write a column about him. It’d be putting my life in a blender and hitting purée.”
“We’re not writing a column about him,” she says smoothly. “We have to look further, bigger. This can be our one chance to break through the rating plateau.”
Fancier, I add internally.
Once Martha gets an idea in her head, it’s over. She’s like a designer-clad robot, and she’s impossible to reprogram. If she could stylishly tattoo ‘If it bleeds, it leads’ on her forehead, she absolutely would.
Whatever she wants from me, chances are she will get.
Still, I’m not ready to give up yet. Not when it comes to him. I straighten and close the magazine. “Okay. What exactly do you need me for? I’m listening.”
“I want to do a feature on Matt Hunt. I’m talking cover page, full investigative piece,” she explains, tapping her fingers together like she’s auditioning for the role of evil mastermind number one. “And that’s where you come in.”
“You need a contact to orchestrate it.”
“No, dear. I know enough people to arrange it myself.” I blush because, of course, I opened my big mouth.
She smirks, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
“I need you to write it. Matt Hunt is the celebrity right now. Everything in Hollywood is revolving around him and his latest movie. If I send anyone else, I’ll get the same dull, cookie-cutter interview every other outlet is running.
I want something never been seen before. ”
“I can’t write the front cover,” I blurt, rubbing my hands on my pants to hide the clamminess creeping in. “There’s no way. If I have to work closely with Matt and then the story runs, he’ll know it’s me behind The Golden Scoop.”
“You’re right,” she says, far too pleased. “This was never intended to be anonymous in the first place.”
The words hit like a bombshell, delivered with the satisfaction of someone who’s just explained their master plan to destroy the world.
“You mean… me writing an actual article? Openly? Under my name?”
She nods, and a mischievous grin spreads across her face.
“I can’t do that! Everybody around me thinks I’m an editor for Golden, not a writer,” I protest, panic rising in my chest. “Even Matt!”
“Not a problem. We’ll tell everybody you’re trying something new. It’s not uncommon for editors to dabble in writing from time to time.”
I scoff. “You don’t think it’s weird someone who’s never been on a page is suddenly writing the front cover?”
“Maybe a little. But it’s not like you’re an actual editor. Your writing is good enough to be on the front cover anyway.”
I should take that as a compliment, but it grates against every nerve. She knows I’m more than capable of writing something—anything—other than The Scoop, and yet, she won’t promote me. She never considers me for other assignments… unless it suits her own agenda.
“You know what? Fine. You’re the boss, after all,” I say, letting the attitude drip.
So what if I’m stuck with Matt for a couple of days?
This would be the feature of the year. Fans are obsessed with him, producers are fighting to hire him, and every single glitter-covered bachelorette in L.A.
is lurking to get a piece of the cake. If we land something fresh, something no one else has, it launches the magazine.
There’s no way Martha would ever let this slip.
“But if I do this, and it goes well, I’m not going back to gossip. I want to write about things that matter.”
“That’s not possible. I don’t have anyone else to cover that section. And it’s one of our strongest performers.”
She’s bluffing. There are plenty of people here who could take over. Sure, it’d take them a bit to build the right contact list, but it’s not hard if you actually try.
“Then I’m sorry, Martha, but you can count me out.” I stand up and push my shoulders back. “My contract states I write my column and my column only. I’m not obliged in any way to take on this article. I’ll stick to what I was hired for.”
I exhale. This could go brilliantly… or end with me packing my things in a cardboard box. Stay cool. I turn around swiftly and head toward the door. I’m one step away when her voice cuts through the room.
“Okay, okay,” she snaps. “If this goes well, I can move Rachel to the gossip column—if you agree to help her transition.”
“I can do that,” I say, biting back the grin tugging at my mouth. “And I’m assuming this promotion comes with its respective raise?”
“Ten percent. Starting next month.” Martha looks pained.
She could do better, but I’m not about to overplay my hand.
“We have a deal.”
Using Matt as a stepping stone in my career? Honestly, shouldn’t be too hard.
“I’ll confirm the details and send them over by tonight. Expect to start tomorrow.”