Love Your Life(89)

At once I’m greeted by online howls of despair.

WHY DID THEY BREAK UP?????

I know. They were so cute!!!

The cutest EVER couple.

Who broke up, Matt or Genevieve?

Matt’s gay, it’s all a big cover-up, my bf works there and told me.

Who’s going to the new Harriet Reveal Manchester event? Because I feel like boycotting right now? Just sad.

I guess it’s their business?

It’s our business too. I follow Genevieve.



    I blink at the screeds of chat, then hastily click off. My head is whirling. I don’t even know how to process this. Matt finishes his call and says to me, “OK, let’s go to the Green Room.” Then he looks at me again. “Ava? What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing!” I say, trying to stay calm. “I’m only wondering, Matt, why you didn’t tell me that a whole bunch of people were apparently devastated when you and Genevieve broke up?”

“Right.” Matt looks evasive.

“Apparently you were the ‘cutest ever couple’?”

“Ava, don’t look at those gossip pages,” says Matt, sighing. “It’s just online rubbish in a tiny niche world. A few obsessive fans thought they owned us—oh, hey, Genevieve.” His face tightens into a dreadful fake smile. “Good to see you.”

Shit. She’s here?

I wheel round to see a vision in pink, with clouds of blond blow-dried hair, accompanied by two guys in jeans with headsets. I recognize her from the book, but she’s even prettier in real life. She looks phenomenal, I have to give her that, all petite in her perfectly fitting pink trouser suit and sky-high fuchsia heels.

“You must be Ava!” she exclaims, as though meeting me is the high point of her life. “So good you could come!”

“You too,” I say feebly as we shake hands, and her face squashes up in mirth as though I’ve said something hilarious.

“They couldn’t really stage the event without me, could they? Of course I will,” she adds charmingly to a hovering little girl in a Harriet’s House hoodie. “Just an autograph or would you like a selfie?” She poses immaculately with the awestruck child, then turns to Matt and says, “Let’s hit the Green Room.”

    “Genevieve!” calls out a nearby girl. “Can I have a selfie?”

“Sorry, guys,” says Genevieve regretfully. “Be back soon!”

As the two men in jeans silently accompany us through the crowds, I realize they’re some sort of security. Genevieve is wearing a headset, too, I notice, and ducking her head as she walks along like some sort of A-lister. Meanwhile, every thirty seconds some nearby fan calls out, “Genevieve!” or tries to grab her. She’s like the Beyoncé of Harriet’s House. I don’t know whether to laugh or be impressed.

The Green Room is a separate area from the conference hall, with sofas and a snack table, and it’s stuffed full of people in suits. I recognize Matt’s parents and Walter, talking intently on the far side of the room, but all the others are new to me. I guess they’re all Harriet’s House corporate types. Matt instantly gets swallowed up into a conversation and everyone greets Genevieve effusively, but she seems to want to stay with me.

“Let me get you some coffee, Ava,” she says kindly, ushering me through the throng. “I expect you’re overwhelmed! I remember my first Harriet’s World Expo. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I was six,” she adds with a laugh. “Hardcore fan here.”

“How long have you been an ambassador?” I say, trying to make polite conversation.

“I started the YouTube channel five years ago.” She smiles reminiscently. “But I’ve only been full-time ambassador for three years. It’s gone stratospheric,” she adds with satisfaction. “Matt must have told you.”

    “Not really,” I say, and Genevieve’s eyes flash in slight annoyance.

“Well, it has. I can say this to you….” She leans forward as though imparting a delicious secret. “My commission is through the roof. There are some very big celebrity collectors. And I mean huge.” She hands me a cup of coffee. “You’d be amazed if I could tell you. Obviously I can’t, but let’s just say, household names. Let’s just say, private jets.” She shakes her hair back and checks her reflection in the back of a teaspoon. “There’s one celebrity I assist with her collecting—I mean, if you knew who it was, you’d die.”

“Wow,” I say, trying to sound suitably impressed. At once Genevieve’s eyes narrow, as though she suspects I don’t believe her.

“I can show you what she wrote to me,” she says. “I can’t show you her name, but I can show you the kind of relationship we have. I’m not just her Harriet’s House consultant, we’re friends.”

She whips out her phone and finds a page, then shows it to me, one manicured thumb plastered firmly over the name at the top. There’s one text, and it reads: Thanks, babe.

“See?” says Genevieve triumphantly. “I can’t tell you her name, but that’s an A-lister.”

Plainly, she’s waiting for a reaction. What am I supposed to do, fall to my knees and kiss the phone?