Public Relations

Chapter One

This is fine. No. This is good. No one will notice.

I carefully adjust the auburn wig on top of my head, tucking the last bit of my blonde hair peeking through in the front, making sure that not a single strand is visible. Taking my black-framed sunglasses, I push them up the bridge of my nose as I glance at myself in the mirror.

"Nobody will even notice, Maisie," I whisper under my breath, trying to reassure myself. "Just make it to baggage claim, and everything will be fine."

Taking a deep breath, I grasp the door handle, my other hand steadying my suitcase as I swing the door open and step out of the family bathroom. Sorry, yes, I used the family bathroom, but if anyone knew who I was, they'd understand. In fact, I'm pretty sure they would let me go ahead of them.

I merge into the bustling airport crowd, trying to keep my head down to blend in. It shouldn't be that hard, considering as soon as I got off the plane, I darted straight to the bathroom to change my outfit and put this wig on. I'm pretty sure no one saw me.

The flight from Los Angeles to Boston was, well, it was terrible. Despite being in first class, it might have been the worst flight I've ever been on. We sat on the tarmac for over an hour, sweltering in the heat with no air conditioning, because apparently, Los Angeles is hot all year round. And not only was there terrible turbulence the whole way but halfway through the flight, they ran out of water. Three excruciating hours passed without a single drop to quench my thirst, and I'm dying.

The flight attendants were nice, though. Normally, they ask for pictures and want autographs, and of course, I oblige, smiling my way through it, nodding. Yes, of course, I'd love to.

Because from the beginning of my singing career, when things began to take off, I promised myself I'd never become stuck-up or pretentious like some of the actors, singers, screenwriters I'd met who used others to get ahead. That's just not who I am. It was—still is— very important to me to be as considerate and flexible as possible, even if it feels like I'm suffocating under a thousand blankets.

Hence the reason why I'm speed-walking my way through a packed airport at eight in the morning with a wig on top of my head.

I feel my phone start to vibrate somewhere on my body and I pause, stopping in front of the NewsLink store, frantically patting down the pockets of my sweats and sweatshirt. Not finding it there, I move to the oversized bag slung on my shoulder and start digging through it. My sunglasses slip down my face in the process, and as I go to remove them, they catch on my wig, nearly dislodging it.

"Shit." I quickly readjust the wig to make sure it sits securely again.

Finally, I fish out my phone from the very bottom of the bag only to find it's my manager, Andrea, calling. I groan softly as I press the edge of the phone to my forehead.

Andrea had been asleep during my interview last night on the Tonight Show with Ricky Falcon, but I'm sure her assistant, Rachel, filled her in first thing this morning.