Page 18 of Anyone But the Superstar

She snorts then faces forward, her contradictory bright but demure smile ready for the cameras. ‘You do that.’

Ron takes his seat to Amanda’s left and the murmurs around us die down. He checks his watch and glances at the empty seat next to him. ‘Well now, shall we start?’ Ron adjusts his mic, holding his hand over it and murmuring, ‘The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be done.’

Amanda and I share a smile.

Lowering his hands, Ron addresses the members of the press, front and center in the crowd. ‘Who wants the first question?’

Every single reporter raises their hand.

Keep smiling. Just keep smiling.

Feeling very much like Dory swimming through a sea of naval mines, I loosen my shoulders and act unfazed as a reporter asks a question.

It’s an art, really, this press thing. You need to give just enough of yourself to seem genuine, but not so much that you end up on a therapist’s couch or a gossip blog. Or even more gossip blogs than usual, in my case.

‘Miss Willis, any concerns as a romantic comedy veteran about your co-star’s recentaction-packedpast?’ It’s been ten minutes and with most of the standard questions asked, I’ve started to notice a sharper edge to the reporters’ queries as they begin to dig.

Ron’s lips purse, his fingers drumming the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, Jack shifts in his loafers.

Amanda, acting unfazed, shares an anecdote about her first film and how supportive her co-stars were. ‘I would love to say that I’ll be mimicking that support with Felix, but let’s be honest, Felix doesn’t need it. He’s a pro and I’m not the least concerned.’ She nudges my arm with her elbow, giving the impression of camaraderie to all those watching. ‘I’m actually very much looking forward to everyone seeing a lighter side of this guy. Y’all are going to love it.’ She raises a hand to her rounded mouth as if surprised. ‘I guess Texas is already getting to me. That was my first y’all, y’all.’

Everyone chuckles, thinking her joke unpracticed.

With a confidence I don’t feel, I adjust the smile I’ve perfected over the years while shaking my shoulders while I laugh, as if I too am caught off guard by Amanda’s perfectly timed, Southern twang surprise.

A different reporter raises a hand, and once called on, steps forward in the crowd. There’s a slight reshuffle, with the tall crew member from before sidestepping to make way for the journalist, my brain going into shock when the person standing behind him is revealed.

Anne.

Everything stops. My laugh, the din of the room, my ever-present smile.

Even with her head down, hunched over her phone, I know it’s her. Hair up in a high ponytail, the end of it curls under her left ear and rests on her shoulder, giving me an unobstructed view of the pert nose she looked down at me with disdain just a few days earlier. Toned legs, one of which had emasculated me, extend from a pair of jean shorts in a firm stance.

‘Mr Jones, what drew you to your role inCountdown?’

I barely hear the reporter, my eyes glued to the woman who’s taken up the majority of my thoughts these past three days.

Why is she here?Howis she here?

‘Mr Jones?’

Only crew and press are allowed on site.

My hands feel clammy as I watch her thumbs fly over her phone screen.

She’s a reporter.

The image of me, half-naked on the floor, curled around my balls, flashes before my eyes, this time next to various tabloid headlines, all written from a first-hand account.Anne’saccount.

Amanda’s foot nudges my own, reminding me where I am.

‘Well…’ I replay the question one more time, hoping it looks like I’m giving the question serious thought rather than having a silent panic attack.

Clearing my throat and affecting a thoughtful tone, I meet the reporter’s gaze. ‘It was the depth of the story, the realness of the character.’ I maintain eye contact with the reporter as I speak, hoping it will give my rather rote answer more credibility. ‘I mean, what is life, without all its messy, funny, beautiful twists.’

Like having a one-night stand show up uninvited to your press junket.

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