Ruby stopped her. “You’re under contract with Kreation. Snap a photo. They’ll love it.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” Sometimes, Ruby didn’t just manage, she micromanaged. Then again, Jasmine never thought having such a big web presence would be so much work. Back when she was just on TV, things weren’t like this.
It was a trade-off. If she wanted to do what she loved—acting—then she had to embrace everything that came with it. Like today: there were three changes of wardrobe in her trunk. The outfits depended on where Jasmine was in the city, and who she thought might photograph her, and what she wanted to wear for her Instagram and Snapchat Stories at a particular time of day. Jasmine had people who styled these looks—and usually, yes, they were quite colorful, to keep with the Lulu C brand—but Jasmine wanted to be involved just a little, because if she left it to the professionals, they’d totally overdo the Lulu, and Jasmine would look ridiculous.
All of a sudden, Ruby’s eyes bugged at something on her screen. “I can’t believe it.”
She turned her phone for Jasmine to see. An unknown Instagram account showed a blurry succession of images at the restaurant within the Evensong Hotel. A couple sat at a banquette, the guy’s face visible, the girl just a mass of dark hair and a crossed leg. As the shots progressed, the guy laughed, then gazed at her lovingly, and then he leaned over like he was about to kiss her.
“That’s Jack Dono!” Ruby exclaimed.
“Scarlet’s Jack?” Jasmine squinted. That girl definitely wasn’t Scarlet Leigh.
“People are going to freak.” Ruby’s eyes gleamed; she adored scandal. “You should comment. Side with the shippers. You’re Team Jacklet, right?”
“It’s their business. I’m staying out of it.”
Ruby pouted. “You need to put more relationship stuff on your pages, Jazz. You realize that’s the number one thing searched about you on Google? Jasmine Walters-Diaz relationship. People want Jasmine to date.”
“You mean they want Lulu C to date.” In her fandom’s dreams, they wanted Jasmine to marry Luke Lording—aka Archer, her old costar on That’s Hot! “Archer” was in “Lulu’s” dance company. All the six seasons of the show were about Archer pursuing pure-as-the-driven-snow Lulu, and Lulu doing something flirtatious but, in the end, telling Archer she was waiting for marriage to even go to first base. Only in the series finale did they kiss. The fandom lost its mind.
But in real life? Well, if Luke were on his deathbed in a cancer ward, Jasmine would totally stop by and chill with him. But otherwise, they didn’t have that much in common.
Jasmine and her crew were pulling up to Nike now. People lingered on the sidewalk, gawking at who might be inside the big car with the tinted windows. When Jasmine stepped out, the crowd became galvanized. “Jasmine!” they yelled, lifting their phones to capture Jasmine’s picture. “Lulu C!” just as many of them called.
Jasmine didn’t bother correcting them that Lulu C was a work of fiction. It wouldn’t matter. To everyone in the universe, Jasmine and Lulu C were one and the same.
After four hours posing with sneakers, Jasmine was finally home, walking through the front doors of the Dove, a sunny, pretty condo building on Vine in Hollywood. Jasmine had bought the condo the moment she turned eighteen; she liked it for its beautiful views from the rooftop deck, its walkability to all her favor-ite shops and grocery stores, and its brand-newness, everything shiny and dust-free and not showing the rot that most of LA worked so feverishly to hide. The zero-edge pool on the sundeck was often empty. There was a dog run for her miniature poodle, Cosmo, and then a dog wash if his paws got dirty. Jasmine’s penthouse felt like home the moment she walked in—way more like home than where she grew up. But, well, that was another reason why she chose the place: it wasn’t far from where her family lived. She didn’t want to fight crosstown traffic every time they needed her.
Not long after Jasmine moved in, Fiona Jacobs, an influencer friend she’d grown close to, had her parents cosign a purchase for a condo on a lower floor. Fiona wasn’t yet eighteen—so technically, she couldn’t live there on her own—but she was there often enough, doing shoots, filming content. More influencers migrated there, too. It was as if they were all trying to re-create the ultimate dorm life—a life, ironically, most of them chose not to experience. It was the kind of herd mentality that was so prevalent in this world—when one person was doing something that looked amazing in photos, the community followed suit, even if it meant completely uprooting one’s life. Still, the light inside the apartments was great for flat-lays and outfit-of-the-day shots, for baking videos and quick clips showing how to do the perfect ab crunch. It was also only a few blocks from the YouTube and Instagram offices. Building services hired artists to regularly repaint the murals downstairs, and each apartment had a different unique structure—which provided opportunities for content.
So it was great for networking, anyway. It was also why fans of Jasmine and others saw all their favorite social stars posing together on Instagram so often. They literally lived on top of one another.
Jasmine took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor and greeted Cosmo at her front door. “Okay, okay,” she cried, gently nudging the little dog away from her calves. “I’m so sorry, baby, but I’m not staying long.”
Cosmo followed Jasmine to her bedroom, where she stripped off her rainbow everything, plunged into her closet, and perused the 90 percent of clothes she couldn’t wear for public appearances. These items were made of rich leathers, sexy silks, clingy denim; their colors were dark and moody, which suited her olive skin, light brown eyes, and sleek, dark hair. Her collection of colorful shoes, many of which had absolutely no wear on the soles, stood at attention on shelves. They were like her private art collection—most were way too sexy for Lulu C’s innocent feet.
She grabbed a pair of stiletto sling-backs, a pair of skinny leather leggings, a black, cropped T-shirt, and a long cashmere duster, which was essential. When she was done, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked more angular without all the bright colors against her skin.
Cosmo danced around her as she selected a new handbag and located the Amazon box that had come in the mail. Inside was a black, bejeweled satin mask. She lifted it out and slid it over her eyes. Now she really looked like someone else.
She used her second phone to call an Uber. Ruby didn’t know she owned this second device; she used it to log on to her private social accounts. Jasmine wished she could leave her real phone at home, but that would raise all sorts of red flags if Ruby tried to reach her in an emergency and couldn’t track down where she was.
The Uber arrived quickly. Jasmine climbed into a red Toyota Prius, said a terse hello to the driver, and then begrudgingly glanced at why her “official” cell phone was binging even more incessantly than usual. The screen was full of notifications from Ruby, DMs from fans, and a snap from Fiona about the “Mystery Girl” Jack Dono had been spotted with. Scarlet is going to be pissed, Fiona had texted.
Jasmine started to type Serves her right but then erased it. It was bad karma to relish someone else’s scandal, even if it was Scarlet Leigh. Scarlet had always been one of those girls, though. She’d always had something against Jasmine, acting aloof and snobbish whenever they were in the same room—which was often, because they turned up at the same events and both lived at the Dove. Jasmine knew Scarlet was just jealous—with the help of her mother, Scarlet had been fighting very hard to be someone since middle school, and she’d certainly achieved that. But she and Jasmine were in different leagues.