Stepping out with Emma!

‘This,’ you say under your breath as you pass under the enormous marble archway, ‘is literally the swankiest place I’ve ever been in. Like, in my life. I’ve been thrown out of places less fancy than this for wearing the wrong sneakers.’

Emma nudges you slightly with her elbow. ‘Relax,’ she giggles, which isn’t easy when there are a hundred flashbulbs going off every second. The paparazzi are cordoned off behind red rope to either side, but that doesn’t stop them yelling.

‘Emma! Emma!’ Most of them are keeping it fairly civil, but every so often one shouts something less-than flattering in the hopes of catching her eye. ‘Who’s the new squeeze? When’d you dump Justin? Is this one for real? Emma!’

Emma’s hand tightens on your elbow for a moment – then relaxes. ‘I really hate paps,’ she says through her teeth, still beaming out at the crowds of fans on the sidewalk. ‘I hate them so very much.’

‘I could yell something back, if you want,’ you offer. ‘I mean, I’d throw something, but security confiscated my bags of shit at the gate.’

Emma laughs out loud, and all the flashbulbs go off again as the paps fight to get the shot. ‘Yeah, they took all my bags of shit, as well. Killjoys.’

‘I kind of just always assumed you did this for fun,’ you confess as you finally make your way past the press pen and into the gleaming, banner-draped entrance hall. ‘You as in celebrities, I mean. I thought you got a kick out of dressing up and going out to these places.’

‘Sometimes I do,’ Emma replies, looking slightly wistful. ‘Sometimes it’s fun to put on a nice dress and have a posh dinner, you know? But…’

‘But?’ you prompt, your eye suddenly caught by a colossal ice sculpture on wheels being steered by two harassed-looking waiters.

‘Well, tonight I’d much rather just curl up and watch Netflix with you,’ Emma admits. You snicker.

‘Netflix and chill? Jeez, why didn’t you just say?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Emma murmurs, but she’s smiling. ‘And, anyway, this one’s contractually mandated. I have to do a certain amount of public appearances before the movie comes out. You know how it goes.’

‘Corporate ****,’ you nod. ‘I get it. Say no more.’

Emma smiles ruefully. ‘Sometimes it feels like it. Although at least we get fed. Want to try the buffet?’

The atmosphere inside the ballroom is decidedly strange, you think, as you stand by the buffet table holding a plate. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the friendliest faces are the staff, who seem taken aback that you’re not just treating them as living cup-holders. Most of them are wearing the kind of professionally glazed-over expression that says they’ve done this a hundred times before, but after you stop to chat to a few of them, you get some genuine smiles.