Free Map to the Stars by Jen Malone Page B

of his limo streaming through the midday streets of London. I glanced at Mom, who was fiddling with her bag, before smiling and placing my hand in his. We stepped off the plane.
    And then madness ensued.
    â€œGraham, over here!”
    â€œGraham, this way!”
    â€œWho’s the girl, Graham?”
    Photographers were everywhere and the glare of the sun mingled with the flashes of their cameras and left me momentarily blinded. I felt, rather than saw, Graham drop my hand as if I had a communicable disease.
    Springing into action, Melba, from her spot one step in front of Graham, yanked the sweater from around her neck and threw it over Graham’s tousled hair, shielding him from the cameras. As soon as they reached the tarmac, Roddy filled in on one side of him and Melba and the studio lackeys wrapped around the other side, cocooning Graham in the center so they could shuffle as one toward the limo parked a short distance away.
    None of this stopped the photographers from shouting and clicking, shouting and clicking. They even turned their cameras on Mom and me, while we blinked in confusion at the whole scene. Before the two of us had even descended the last step of the plane, Graham’s limo was pulling away and Mom and I were left with a studio executivewho’d stayed behind to take the remaining stretch. A third driver and sedan were waiting in front of the plane to get the luggage.
    What the hell had just happened?
    I was completely shell-shocked from the harsh contrast between the last few dark and quiet and totally amazing minutes in the plane and the complete craziness of our arrival.
    Crap.
    Welcome to London, Annie.
    As our limo cruised toward the hotel in the city center, I tried to shake off Graham’s abrupt dismissal and enjoy the scenery. Mom’s nose was practically smooshed against her window, but I couldn’t concentrate. Everything had happened so fast and he really didn’t even have time to react. I was sure he didn’t mean to leave me in the dust. But if that was the case, why wasn’t he texting me? The studio had ensured we all had international calling plans, so I knew my phone was working.
    To make totally sure, I called Wynn.
    She sounded groggy when she answered, “Annie?”
    Damn. Forgot about that pesky time difference.
    â€œHey, you,” I said.
    â€œWhere are you? Is everything okay? What time is it? Why are you calling and not texting?”
    â€œUm, sorry for the wake-up call. I forgot it’s still early where you are. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
    â€œWhat do you mean early where I am? Last I checked we share a time zone with New York City.” I could hear in her voice that shewas becoming more alert. “And why haven’t you been answering your texts all weekend? You can’t drop a bombshell on me via postcard and then go all radio silent!”
    â€œI know, I’m sorry. I was working the whole weekend and they were taping, so I couldn’t have my cell phone on. By the time I finished I could barely muster the strength to fall into bed and then we had to get up a few hours later and—”
    â€œANNIE!” Wynn shouted through the phone. The studio exec jerked his head in my direction. I mouthed a “sorry” and ducked my head down to speak more privately.
    â€œWhat?” I whispered.
    â€œI need to know absolutely EVERYTHING about Graham Cabot. Do you have any idea how much I’ve been DYING since I got your postcard? Dying! Is he just as cute in person? Wait, what am I saying? Of course he is. Have you talked to him yet? Is he to die for? Am I going to get to meet him when I come to LA for Thanksgiving? Oh my God, tell me he’s just a perfect specimen of male.”
    â€œDown, girl,” I said with a laugh, then lowered my voice again. “I can’t really talk about it here. But I owe you a super-long email and I cross my heart, hope to die, promise to write it