The Fame Game, Starstruck, Infamous: 3 book Collection. Lauren Conrad

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      “Don’t sell yourself short, Gab,” Carmen said firmly. “You’ll figure it out. I promise.” She wasn’t actually convinced of this, but Gaby could use a little more confidence and ambition in her life. (Unlike her best friend, Madison, who had too much of both.)

      Laurel yelled, “Great job, ladies!” reminding Carmen that the PopTV cameras were still rolling. She had honestly forgotten since they were in a roomful of cameras that at least one of them was still pointed at her. “You’re done for the day,” Laurel continued.

      After the girls handed over their mike packs and Laurel and the crew started packing up, Carmen plucked her phone from its pocket so she could check her email. There was a new message from Fawn. Something you aren’t telling me? it said.

      What are you talking about? she wrote back.

      Seconds later, she received a link, which, when she clicked on it, took her to a gossip blog splashed with a huge picture of—what? Her and Luke at the coffee shop the other day? NEW LOVE ON-SCREEN AND OFF!!!!! the title read, and the blog’s author had drawn hearts around their heads with Photoshop.

      “No way,” she whispered.

      “What?” Gaby said, leaning closer.

      Carmen tilted the screen toward her so she could see the picture.

      “You’re dating Luke Kelly?” Gaby asked. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Then she smiled slyly. “Oh, I get it. You’re secret lovers, like in the movie. That’s so awesome! That’s, like, perfect publicity once it all comes out.”

      “No, no, no,” Carmen said. “I’m not dating Luke!”

      Gaby raised an eyebrow as far as the Botox would allow her, which was not very far. “You sure look like you are. I mean, you’re holding hands.”

      Carmen shook her head. “No, we’re not. I just grabbed him right then because I was trying to make a point.”

      “A point about how much you looove him?”

      “Gaaah,” Carmen said, slapping her forehead. “No.”

      She looked again at the silly hearts around her head. It was almost funny, the way the gossip sites could make something out of nothing. And it was almost funny that even Gaby refused to believe that she and Luke weren’t together and Fawn assumed it was true (“back for seconds,” she’d written, since of course Fawn knew they’d hooked up—they were all at the club together that night).

      But less funny? Imagining Kate’s reaction. She hadn’t been exposed to the Hollywood rumor mill yet. She didn’t understand the way photos and videos and even direct quotes could be manipulated. And she’d seen the way Carmen liked to flirt. How could Carmen persuade her that things weren’t at all how they seemed?

      Welcome to reality TV, Carmen thought. Where, as the Beatles put it—and her father often sang it (badly)—“nothing is real.” She just hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to convince Kate of that.

      

      “Met you, then forgot—what a crazy night that was / Amid the glitter and the music and the champagne buzz,” Kate sang softly. “Now days and nights and afternoons / Aren’t even all the times I think of you. . . .”

      She let the notes of the chord fade into silence. Did that song suck? She sighed. Yes, it probably sucked.

      She got up and walked over to the window, gazing down at the pool that flickered, aquamarine and inviting, in the late August sunlight. The tune felt familiar, like maybe she was stealing it from somewhere she couldn’t quite recall. And then there was the questionable choice of writing a song about Luke. Things were going great between them, but still—they hadn’t even been going out for a month. Luke might be flattered, or he might think she was completely psycho and trying to move things along a little too quickly. Or both.

      He could have his pick of girls in L.A., Kate thought. He could be with someone like Carmen, and yet he’d chosen to be with her. She didn’t want to do anything to screw it up.

      Like write a terrible song about him.

      She peeled herself away from the window and returned to her spot on the couch. She picked up Lucinda and plucked out a melody, slightly different from the one she’d been working on before. What if the song was about heartbreak, or growing up, or being lonely? What if it was about the new shoes she’d gotten at Fred Segal? What if it was about how good the tacos were in L.A.?

      Kate leaned over and buried her face in frustration in one of the couch pillows. She had to get her act together, because she was going to go into the studio next week. Swing House Studios, to be exact, where everyone from The Donnas to Shakira had recorded. There was going to be a giant mixing board, a million fancy microphones, a badass sound engineer . . . not to mention all the PopTV cameras and crew. She couldn’t go in there and sound like any other nineteen-year-old with a guitar and a dream. The world was too full of those already; she’d been in line with them for the American Idol auditions, and most of them had failed. Just like her.

      She wished she could spend one hour with Carmen’s dad talking through some of her songs. Even ten minutes would do. He would know exactly what was missing and would help her lame attempt become the next big hit. But she would never ask this of Carmen. That would feel inappropriate.

      She looked at her watch and realized that it was time to stop beating her head against the wall (or the pillow, in this case). Her old roommate, Natalie, would be arriving in half an hour. Kate was going to figure out this song before she walked through the door, even if it killed her.

      She sat back up and wrapped her fingers around her guitar, then closed her eyes and began to play.

      “Sorry I’m late,” Natalie said, kissing Kate on the cheek. “I got lost. Cute haircut!”

      Kate laughed. “Thanks. And don’t worry—I still get lost all the time. Come on in.”

      Natalie whistled as she stepped into the foyer. “Wow, this is all yours?”

      “Well, not mine. PopTV’s.”

      Natalie ran her hand along the curved, glossy white wall that led into the living room, with its sleek, modern furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows. “Is that an Eames chair? Is that an Alex Katz print? Dang, if I’d known the digs were going to be this sweet, maybe I would have tried to be on the show, too.”

      Kate laughed. She had no idea who’d designed the furniture or who’d made the art, but Natalie was right: Her place was pretty awesome. There was a jetted tub, a huge walk-in closet, and a state-of-the-art kitchen she had used primarily to microwave frozen dinners on the nights she didn’t go out. (How much was the rent? she wondered. Twice the mortgage on her mom’s house? More?) The only unfortunate thing about the apartment was that it never felt like home to Kate. They had done their best to camouflage the large Kino lights that had been built into the ceilings of each room and were careful to keep all of their extra equipment in its designated room, but it always felt like more of a set than a home.

      Natalie flopped onto a low settee. “Oof,” she said. “It’s not as soft as it СКАЧАТЬ