The Elle shoot was a snap compared to the Vanity Fair shoot the day before. For one thing, I at least had a little bit of an idea what I was supposed to be doing now. Plus, I didn’t have to smush my boobs against anyone this time, or wrap myself around anyone else’s physical person (such as Brandon Stark). This time, it was just me.

 

Don’t get me wrong. I still had to smile just the right way, but it was more important that the gowns I was wearing flowed right. I swear, every two minutes I heard, ‘Wait – hold on –’ and someone was running over to adjust a fold or smooth a wrinkle. It was a little maddening.

 

And even though I don’t particularly care about fashion, I sort of get it now. I mean, about why other people care about it, and why it’s interesting and sort of important to some people.

 

The truth is, fashion can be sort of . . . well, fun.

 

I know! I never ‘got’ fashion before. Clothes were just things you threw on to keep from being naked or cold.

 

But the dresses – I mean, gowns – that were at this shoot were so gorgeous, I actually caught my breath when I saw them on me. I can’t even imagine where you’d WEAR a bright red long dress trimmed with dyed black ostrich feathers with a neckline that plunges to your sternum. I mean, except maybe to the Oscars.

 

But I couldn’t help but be curious about who’d designed them – which surprised the people at the shoot, because they said I should have known without asking, just by the feel and look of them.

 

But then Kelly reminded them quickly of my head injury (which the hairstylist, Vivian, had already found). And then they all wanted to talk about that (my interview was going to run in the same issue, but I wasn’t meeting the journalist who was doing it until Saturday).

 

Anyway, they all took great pleasure in telling me about the designers who had gowns at the shoot, and other favourite designers of Nikki’s as well. And I have to admit, their stories were kind of interesting. Like, even my MOM would have gotten a kick out of the story of Miuccia Prada, a feminist mime who took over her grandfather’s leather goods company in 1978, making ‘Miu Miu’ one of the thirty most powerful women in Europe (according to the Wall Street Journal), with an estimated fortune of 1.4 billion dollars.

 

And Coco Chanel, who popularized the little black dress for women and founded a fashion empire, becoming the only fashion designer ever to make Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People of the Twentieth Century.

 

All this – plus the lecture the make-up guy gave me about the dark circles under my eyes, thanks to my lack of sleep, and the fact that my mom would not stop calling (but I couldn’t exactly pick up in the middle of a fashion shoot), my employer is maybe (OK, probably) spying on me, and the tugging and wrenching and holding my breath required to get me into the corsets I needed to squeeze into some of the gowns – was enough to keep my mind off what had happened in school earlier that day with Christopher. The fact that I nearly passed out several times, the corsets were so tight, and that I could barely move helped too.

 

The truth was, I don’t know how Nikki did it. I was supposed to stare off into the distance as if I was gazing at a far-off star (when really what I was looking at was a piece of paint peeling off the rafters on the ceiling) while NOT thinking about how I couldn’t breathe and my feet hurt and how tired I was . . .

 

. . . and, oh yeah, how everyone saw me being carried out of Cave last night like I was the drunk one, not my so-called boyfriend, and that the guy I’d actually like to be dating by the way doesn’t know I’m alive?

 

No, I mean, literally doesn’t know I’m alive. He thinks I’m dead, and I can’t tell him I’m not. And he isn’t too impressed with the new body I’m in. In fact, he might just be the only guy on the planet who’s not.

 

How can anyone concentrate on looking beautiful when all that is going on around them, and inside their head as well? Modelling isn’t easy. Modelling is actually really hard. Modelling is ACTING. You have to ACT like you’re actually enjoying yourself, when the truth is, every single inch of you is hurting and uncomfortable . . . most of all your heart.

 

I mean, if you’re me.

 

I was almost sagging with exhaustion when the art director, Veronica, said, ‘I think that’s all we need, Nikki. You can go now.’

 

I swear I nearly ripped that last couture gown off, I wanted to get out of there so badly.

 

‘ . . . you’ve got the Vogue shoot tomorrow at three . . . ’ Kelly was telling me as I ran down the steps to the limo.

 

‘I know,’ I yelled over my shoulder.

 

‘And don’t go out tonight,’ she shouted at me as I collapsed into the back seat. ‘You need to get some sleep! You looked awful today.’

 

‘I won’t!’ I slammed the limo door behind me. Finally! We didn’t have much time.

 

‘We’re making a stop before we go to the loft,’ I said to the driver. ‘The computer store on Prince and Greene.’

 

The driver looked at me sceptically in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock, Miss Howard.’

 

‘I know,’ I said. ‘The store is open late on Thursdays.’

 

I sank back against the leather seat and watched as we glided along Park Avenue, making our way downtown. I’d realized as I’d been standing there ‘gazing at a far-off star’ that I couldn’t take Nikki Howard’s Stark-brand hot-pink laptop to school tomorrow for Christopher to set up my email account on. For one thing, it was just too embarrassing. I mean, seriously – hot pink?

 

And for another, how could I be sure it didn’t have some other kind of tracking software built into it with which Stark Enterprises was watching my every move online? No. I needed a whole new, non-Stark computer. Just like I needed a new, non-Stark cellphone on which to talk to my parents.

 

I’d pick up both on the way home. Thank God the Apple store was open until nine on Thursday nights.

 

And I had Nikki Howard’s platinum American Express card.

 

There were perks to being rich and famous after all.

 

Especially when you’re rich, famous and have your face plastered all over a Stark Megastore a few blocks away from the computer store, and everyone in there recognizes you the minute you walk in. Even late as it was, there was a queue. But when you’re Nikki Howard, I’m sorry to say, you get treated differently from everyone else. A salesperson came right over to me, almost before I’d gotten ten feet into the store, and I heard the usual buzzing that started everywhere I seemed to go. He asked if he could help me, and I told him what I wanted.

 

And he told me to wait right there while he went and got it.

 

As much as being Nikki seriously sucked sometimes, it could seriously rock at other times. I had my new laptop and phone and was out the door ten minutes and fourteen autographs later.

 

It was as I was waiting for the limo driver to swing around and pick me up (he’d been forced to circle while I shopped due to the number of mounted cops in the area) that I heard a voice behind me say, ‘Nikki?’ and I turned around expecting to see another autograph hunter . . .

 

. . . and was shocked to see Gabriel Luna instead.

 

‘You!’ I cried.

 

He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

 

‘Are you stalking me?’ he asked in that adorable British accent. But he was smiling, so I knew he was joking.

 

‘I think you’re stalking me,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

 

‘I live just up the street,’ he said. ‘I’d ask what you were doing here, but it’s obvious.’ Always the gentleman, he took hold of the enormous boxes I was carrying. ‘Here, allow me. Are you trying to find a taxi again? You’ll never get one at this corner, you know.’

 

‘No, I have a ride,’ I said. ‘He’s just circling. But thank you.’

 

‘Oh,’ Gabriel said. ‘So you’ve recovered from last night?’

 

Remembering in a rush the last time I’d seen him, I said, sticking out my chin, ‘That was . . . I wasn’t even . . . Gabriel, I don’t even drink. Seriously, you can ask any of the bartenders. Next time you go to Cave, have them pour you a Nikki.’

 

He blinked at me. ‘A what?’

 

A Nikki. It’s just water. ‘And I was only trying to get Brandon out of there. I mean, Brandon’s just – we’re friends.’

 

‘Oh.’ Gabriel stared down at me. He looked confused. ‘I see.’

 

‘I’m not who you think I am, Gabriel,’ I said. I could see the headlights of the limo sliding towards us. It was stuck behind a traffic light, but coming inexorably towards us. Still, there was something I needed to get off my chest. ‘My idea of a fun night is playing computer games. I didn’t even want to go out last night. I just did it because Lulu threw a surprise welcome-home party for me and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings because she’s been really sweet to me. I’m going to go home tonight and do homework. That’s my wild, crazy life. Really.’

 

‘Look,’ Gabriel said, his expression unreadable. ‘Don’t be angry. I know I come off as a bit of a prat sometimes. It’s just . . . well, it’s like those girls we ran into the other day. The ones who were chasing us. They look up to you. I worry you don’t realize that.’

 

‘Well, I do,’ I said. Was that traffic light ever going to turn green? Then I shot him a suspicious look. ‘Wait a minute. What were you doing at that club at two in the morning anyway?’

 

‘Oh,’ Gabriel said, looking embarrassed suddenly. ‘I was giving the DJ a copy of a new song I wrote the other day. To see if he thought it would work as a dance mix.’

 

‘Oh,’ I said, smiling. ‘And? Did he like it?’

 

It was hard to tell in the glow from the windows of the computer store. But I think Gabriel was actually blushing a little. ‘He loved it actually. He played it on the spot. It brought the place down. Everyone adored it.’

 

The limo finally pulled up in front of me and the driver sprang out from behind the wheel.

 

‘I’m so sorry, Miss Howard,’ he said. ‘I got caught behind one of those tour buses . . . ’

 

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Could you take this?’ I took the huge boxes from Gabriel and handed them to the driver, who hurried to put them in the boot. Then I turned back to Gabriel and said, ‘Well, here’s my car.’

 

‘I can see that,’ Gabriel said, taking in the long black limousine with raised eyebrows. It had attracted the attention of quite a few people on the sidewalk as well, many of whom had stopped to stare at it, and me too.

 

‘I owe you a ride,’ I reminded Gabriel. ‘So if there’s anywhere you need to go . . . ’

 

‘Not tonight,’ Gabriel said with a funny little half-smile. ‘But I’m going to hold you to that.’

 

He could not have shocked me more when he leaned over and kissed me – on the lips, but lightly, barely brushing my mouth with his – and whispered, standing just inches from me, ‘Don’t you want to know the name of my new song?’

 

‘The name of your new song?’ I stared up at him, my mouth still tingling from the fleeting kiss. Even though he wasn’t touching me, it was as if I was bolted into place.

 

‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s called “Nikki”.’

 

And then he was gone, disappearing into the hordes of people who’d gathered on the sidewalk to stare at me and my limo.