Page 1 of Friends with Benefits

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Evelyn Bloom knows she isn’t famous, but it still stings when press photographers lower their cameras the moment she and her sister step onto the red carpet outside the Dolby Theatre. She’d paid for an Uber Black from Pasadena to Hollywood and those thirty-three minutes in a BMW X7 cost as much as the monthly payment on Phoebe. So the least she could get is a photo of her stepping out of the black SUV with the Getty Images watermark stamped across her face. Phoebe is a ten-year-old Mazda CX-3 that she loves with her whole heart, but Imogen called ittoo embarrassing for the occasion.

Now inside the theater, Evie’s phone vibrates with the Uber receipt.

She winces.

Imogen.

Evie follows her to the line for the bathroom, grateful to Imogen for escorting her without even asking. Living with a chronic illness that fucks with your GI tract, for Evie, means a mandatory bathroom stop before any major event. Sometimes two. Just in case. Jules, her therapist, would ask Evie tointerrogate if it’s Crohn’s or the anxiety of a Crohn’s flare that triggers this. Does it matter? Evie doesn’t think so.

“How are you feeling?” Imogen asks, examining her lipstick in a compact as the line moves at a glacial pace.

A bit nauseous, if she’s being honest. “Fine.”

“I, for one, am kind of obsessed with being the plus-one tonight.”

From Uber Black requests to being on a first-name basis with the theater’s security team, Imogen Bloom knows how to navigate a premiere. She works in casting for an unscripted series and networks her ass off, attending premieres and galas and wherever her boss sends her to recruit C-list celebrities and influencers. But Imogen is off duty tonight. She’s here with Evie.

ForEvie.

“Gen?”

Imogen spins 180 degrees and squeals. “Portia? Oh my God, you look incredible.”

Portia Devereaux, a supporting cast member inGinger—the film premiering here tonight—is one of the few reality television contestants who successfully pivoted to a film career. Imogen discovered them when she was a wide-eyed baby intern in the casting department forBig Brother, and Portia’s success on the show directly led to a full-time job offer for Imogen upon graduating from UCLA.

“Working?” Portia assumes.

Imogen shakes her head, blond curls bouncing around her shoulders as she loops her arm through Evie’s. “Nope! Evie is one of the Foley artists who worked onGinger.”

Portia’s eyes meet hers. “Amazing.”

Evie’s natural instinct is to downplay what a major deal this is. “I interned for the studio during post. Right place, right time.”

Imogen rolls her eyes. “Annaliese had a scheduling conflict, so Evie stepped in and did the Foley forGinger. She learned the dances in an afternoon and—”

A stall door swings open, and Evie’s next in line, so she bolts, desperate to remove herself from the conversation before the obvious next question:What are you working on now?Because this night is a total fluke. Evie Bloom is not a working Foley artist. Yet. She spends her days working for a media conglomerate, editing podcasts for former reality dating show contestants turned influencers.

It’s not a dream job, but the benefits are good.

Done in the bathroom, she exits the stall and washes her hands next to Zendaya, who says, “Excuse me,” as she reaches across her for a paper towel and it takes every ounce of restraint for Evie not to blurt outI love you. Well. Even if tonight isn’t a turning point that marks the beginning of a long and successful career, at least Zendaya spoke to her.

“Ev.Zendaya spoke to you,” Imogen says as they take their seats in the mezzanine.

Evie knew that a biopic about Ginger Rogers was going to be a big deal—big-budget movies about Old Hollywood are certified Oscar porn. But it’s one thing to know it and another to see the caliber of celebrities that showed up to the premiere.

“I just. I cannot believe thattheZendaya Maree Stoermer Coleman is going to hear my talented sister dance,” Imogen says.

“And she won’t even know it.”

It’s the truth. She’s not the star of the movie. No. Evie Bloom is not the face. She’s every step on concrete, on linoleum, on carpet. She’s the cadence of Ginger’s movements—the buoyant beat that accompanies running into the arms of any one of her five husbands, the jump of joy when she landsher first film, the crisp, clean shuffles that define her as a tap legend. All the sounds that make a movie magic.

InGinger, Evie is a part of that magic.

Not the face, but the feet.

Shelovesthat magic.

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