The Decoy Girlfriend(32)



Taft’s been washing the bowl a lot longer than necessary. Even as she tries to focus on Mandi, Freya finds herself taking notes like he’s a character she’s later going to pirouette into prose: good at domestic tasks, unwilling to break bad news, and possibly an ally against whatever bananas plan is about to be proposed next.

Freya blinks. “And your managers know about me taking your place?”

“God, no.” Even Mandi’s snort sounds sophisticated and succinct. “Gareth would lose his shit.”

Taft nods. “There is no known or unknown universe in which involving them would be a good idea.”

“Okay,” Freya says, drawing the word out. “So what does that mean for me?”

“Taft and I have been ‘dating’ since season three,” says Mandi. Freya’s not sure why there’s a slight inflection. “So Gareth, my manager, thinks that it’s time Taft and I took the next step.”

A shocked laugh lurches out of Freya. “Marriage? Your manager is dictating that?”

Mandi rolls her eyes, as though that isn’t 100 percent what her words implied. “No way. But you and Taft are moving in together. Welcome home.”

The sentence lands like a wrecking ball.

“Ha ha.” Freya waits for Taft to say something, but he just turns off the tap and comes over with an indecipherable look on his handsome face. “Wait, you’re serious?” she yelps.

“Yes, Gareth insists it needs to happen ASAP to combat the bad press. But the public appearances are what’s most important. Just a couple of parties and club invites I’ve already accepted,” Mandi says in a voice that is not soothing, not at all. “Moira and Gareth want us to do a photo shoot for movie promo, and a few excursions around the neighborhood to really sell you settling in. The paparazzi are pretty obsessed with me and Taft, which is why you’ll actually have to move in here so they can catch ‘us’ together. But I’ll be back in time for the premiere! You’ll both need to share some pics on social media together, be spotted in public, something low-key . . .” She trails off thoughtfully.

Freya wants to point out every single reason why there is no way this will work, except, she realizes with dismay, her own actions have repeatedly proved that it will.

“I got you a phone case that matches mine,” says Mandi, evidently nonplussed by Freya’s less-than-enthusiastic response. “Luckily we have the same iPhone model.”

“Lucky,” Freya repeats faintly.

“Well, yeah. So if you have any personal photos as your wallpaper, you’ll need to change that. There are eyes—and cameras—on us all the time. If we don’t get every detail right, down to our accessories . . .”

The implicit consequence is obvious: one false move, and all their cards come tumbling down.

“I’ll log you into my Instagram on your phone so you can post pics, but I’ll handle all the comments.” Mandi waves her hand with a confidence Freya doesn’t feel. “This is all stage direction, nothing to worry about. While I exit stage right, you slip in stage left without anyone spotting the difference.”

Mandi clocks the overwhelmed expression on Freya’s face and hastily adds, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Taft is with you. And you already look and talk like me, plus you’ll have access to my wardrobe, so that’s not a problem.”

Freya is still hung up on the part where Mandi thinks Freya taking her place isn’t a problem, let alone the million-and-one logistics she just threw at her. As though a sunny smile and a can-do attitude are all it takes to pull this off.

“?‘Not a problem’?” Freya pinches herself. Unfortunately, this is all too real. “All of this is a problem!”

For the first time, she sees a genuine smile from her doppelg?nger.

“Yup,” Mandi says cheerfully. “But now it’s yours.”





CHAPTER TEN



Worst moving day ever,” Freya declares to an empty bookshop the next day, sleep weighing down her eyes and a migraine pressing against her temples as she opens her laptop, Hunka Junk, to a throwback background circa four years ago. Her friends beam at her with sparkling-grape-juice smiles and empty flutes, Books & Brambles in the background looking nearly the same as it does this morning.

Freya’s family crowds around her: Her grandfather, black hair and thick mustache long turned white, and his second wife, the blond Southern belle who has never been stepgrandma or stepmom to Freya and her dad, but simply Grams and Mom. Stori, the coolest person Freya’s ever known, who was going through a phase where she dressed exclusively as nostalgic style icons like Margot from The Royal Tenenbaums, all smudged eyeliner and barrettes in bobbed hair and preppy polo dresses. Dad, unshaven and haggard, looking unmoored without Mom, but it’s the fierce pride in his weary eyes that Freya chooses to focus on.

People talk about looking at the past with rose-colored glasses, but that night was pure LA in all her fizzy-champagne, bubblegum, neon mirage. No matter how many bookish celluloid daydreams she sifts through, this is always the one Freya comes back to like an anchor.

There’s a faint stirring of regret as Freya takes in her younger self, so full of promise and a thousand and one ideas to send her agent, sure she was shitting gold. If she could reach into the screen and scream some sense at that Freya, she would do it in a heartbeat.

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