The Fame Game || Tom Holland

seven: little lies

SEVEN: Little Lies (Y)

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With a sigh, you pull up the hem of your turtleneck, grimacing at your reflection in the mirror. You're in a high-rise in central New York, standing in the centre of a very luxurious bathroom in your management's regional headquarters. With New York Fashion Week on the horizon, you've been brought in for a brainstorming session with your team. That means you're buzzed up on caffeine, and you're stressed, trying to disguise the bruised hickeys Tom had left all over you.

No matter how hard you try to tuck them away beneath layers of flaky makeup and your best scarves, you feel the marks, aching. Sometimes you pass your fingers over them, just to feel connected to him. It's a little sad, really. Tom is thousands of miles away from you, and you're clinging onto the memories of him like sand that pours through your fingers.

It's safe to say you're a little affected by your time in London.

You clear your throat, passing the stick of your lip gloss over your lower lip. With slightly shaky hands, you're quick to pack your things away and exit the bathroom. Despite the early morning hour, the floor is alight - buzzing with PAs, and talent scouts, and managers - and they all seem to part for you as you make the long, dreaded walk to the largest conference room in the building. Someone hands you a steaming cup of tea, but not even that can cheer you up - if anything, the reminder of London, and him, and him, and him, makes your mood worse.

"Ahh, finally decided to join us, Y/N."

You roll your eyes as you look at Rebecca, your PR manager. She's messing you around - a large, teasing smirk on her face as she holds court at the top of the oval table. She gestures with a sweeping, manicured hand at the collection of assistants and strategists, most of whom you've never seen before, but look at you like you're royalty.

"Sorry," you mutter. "Traffic."

You take a seat quickly, your fingers pulling up your turtleneck. You hope desperately that it hides the deep blemishes, but you know that's mostly wishful thinking: Tom did a very, very thorough number on your neck, and it lingers on even a week later.

"It's fine. We've just been discussing the plans for next week." Someone slides a folder towards you, and you start to flick through the pages, the sheets of paragraphed information drifting past your tired eyes. "You've got a busy schedule, Y/N. Even busier now Tom's agreed to come for it, too."

Your eyes widen, and you look up to her. "What?"

Rebecca gives you a tight smile. "I know, I know. You hate him, I'm sorry, but the PR opportunity was too good to pass by. If you're seen together, wearing designer sets at the shows, it'll do wonders-"

"I don't hate him," you cut in, suddenly feeling a powerful urge to make that obvious. Rebecca raises an eyebrow, and you flounder. "Uh- yeah, uh, I mean... Yeah. That sounds good."

"Okay?" Rebecca's got her eyes narrowed, and you watch her biceps flex as she crosses her arms over her chest. She's always been able to see right through you. "It didn't take any convincing to get Tom on board, either." She phrases it as an observation, but you feel the question beneath it nonetheless.

"Yeah, we, uh, are friends now." You look away, trailing your fingers down the side of a piece of paper. "What are you getting us to do?"

The conversation spins on for half an hour, and the team brief you on all the press engagements that you're expected to attend. They book you in for fittings and hair appointments and jewellery selections, and it's starting to feel quite exciting until the meeting ends and Rebecca requests you stay behind.