Hanging out with Emma Stone!

The restaurant Emma Stone has chosen is dark, cramped, but somehow still cozy; it’s unashamedly hipster, with menus stuffed in old aluminium cans and artisan plumbing protruding from the ceiling. But there’s a reassuring smell of sizzling beef coming from the kitchen, and you can at least pronounce the menu this time around. That said, there aren’t any regular chairs, just bar stools nestled in tires, and you can’t help noticing that the blackboards over the bar are suspiciously devoid of any price information.

But the booths dotted around offer some nice privacy, and the guy polishing the bar doesn’t even blink when you and Emma walk in. They probably get a lot of celebrities in this part of town, you think, imagining the monthly rent and trying not to wince.

‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asks casually, setting aside his cloth. ‘House special is a 1979 cognac, and water’s on the house. Burgers start at twenty.’

Twenty dollars?

Emma probably sees your eyes pop, because she switches on a radiant smile. ‘Could we just have some water while we decide what to order, please? We’re waiting for a friend.’

The bartender smiles conspiratorially. ‘Right. Just head down back – you’ll find her in the second booth on the right.’

Emma Stone is already halfway through a burger by the time you reach the table. ‘Hey, guys,’ she says cheerfully through a mouthful, stretching out a hand to Emma Watson. ‘Really nice to finally meet you! I mean –’ she swallows, blinking slightly, ‘we’ve, like, met at awards shows, but only across the room. Great to actually hang out at last.’