Chapter Eight - The Two Emmas

DISCLAIMER: As always, nothing here should be taken seriously; this story is entirely fictitious, it’s strictly not suitable for anyone under 18 and absolutely none of the people, events or anything else described are intended to bear even the most fleeting resemblance to real life.

And if perchance it has offended, think but this and all is mended: that you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear; and this weak and idle theme was no more yielding than a dream.

YEAH I WENT THERE, BECAUSE SHAKESPEARE WROTE EROTIC CELEBRITY FANFIC TOO, I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK EXACTLY DO YOU CALL ANTONY & CLEOPATRA, HMMM

It’s amazing how quickly the whole thing’s come together.

Barely six hours ago, you were still in Emma’s hotel room, and now you’re standing in an old brewery, five floors up from the L.A. streets. The place is creepily beautiful, in that vacant, run-down, abandoned kind of way; once this place would have been packed with workers and heavy machinery, belching out smoke. Now it’s just a huge, rusting memorial to the past.

‘Apparently they rent this place out every few weeks for raves and stuff,’ Emma says from beside you. She’s perched on a fold-out stool, while three or four make-up artists flit around her like fireflies. Any move of her head generates a storm of disapproving clicks, so she’s keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘It’s so massive, that’s all it’s really good for – club nights and photoshoots.’

You nod, still gazing around. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Sunlight glitters through broken shards of window overhead, creating a piercing, high-contrast backdrop without any artificial lighting equipment. Weird graffiti covers every available wall – bright green eyes, Japanese symbols and purple-haired women, and that’s just the stuff in front of you. Giant, peeling pillars stand apart every ten feet or so, while a few female runners scour the floor in between them with brooms, collecting up any sharp fragments they can find.

Female runners, because everyone in this building – with the exception of you – is a woman.

‘I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this,’ Emma says, with a slightly shaky laugh. The make-up artists don’t look up, so you take the opportunity to squeeze Emma’s hand comfortingly. ‘I mean, it’s all happened so fast! A nude photoshoot, on the cover of Vanity Fair…’ She swallows audibly.

‘For what it’s worth,’ you tell her firmly, ‘I think you’re doing the right thing.’

Emma offers up an anxious smile. ‘Thanks. I really hope so…’