[START!] Go pick up Emma...

You don’t pause to question it as you slip the car into gear and accelerate down the freeway, but 18 minutes is pretty far out for a pickup. That usually means the client expressly requested the top tier, which means only drivers with a limo license get to accept. Which means they might, maybe, just might be slightly famous.

Not that you’re expecting to recognize anyone. Your girlfriend went nuts last year when it turned out you’d had some Disney starlet in your car without noticing. ‘Bella Thorne? You got to meet Bella Thorne?’ she kept repeating. It wasn’t much of a meeting; the girl stayed buried in her phone for the whole ride, hid behind a massive pair of sunglasses and hopped out without saying thank you.

Also… ex-girlfriend, remember. Last year. Long time ago now.

(Six months next week.)

*

The freeway’s empty, and it’s barely ten minutes before you pull up in front of the deserted hotel entrance.

And of course there’s no one in sight. You’re about to punch the contact button when the revolving doors spin, and a slim, waifish figure slips out. She looks furtively around, clutching her handbag; then she spots the sedan, and your eyes meet –

Holy shit.

You may not know Disney stars. You might struggle to pick Justin Bieber out of a line-up of similarly autotuned amoebas. But you haven’t been living completely under a rock for the last ten years.

Emma Watson – the Emma Watson, as in, yeah, that one – is hurrying over to your car, cheeks pink. ‘Hi there,’ she says, in her unmistakable cut-glass accent, and it’s obvious from her awkwardness that she’s not used to this. ‘Are you… James?’

‘Here for Emma?’ you reply automatically. It’s a good thing you’ve been doing this for six months, or your brain might have said something intelligent like, ‘who’s James?’

‘That’s right.’ She opens the passenger door and slides in. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’

No problem at all, you think, somewhat dazedly.