"Come on, it looks more believable if we go to mine sometimes," Damon said. "Besides, Jamie's out, I promise. And you already rode the Tube here."
She didn't have the veal piccata. She had what felt like two pounds of tagliatelle and garlic bread, and even more glasses of white wine, and it made Tinsley all too susceptible to Damon's suggestions. She wasn't as miserable as her last overindulgence; wine never made her too vulnerable or angry, just woozy and suggestible.
Although it didn't help that once Juniper loosened up a little when Robbie made a few jokes and threatened to sing 'Bella Notte' to the whole restaurant if she didn't laugh, the two of them and the authenticity of their smittenness (smittenosity? Smittentaciousness?) made Tinsley's heart ache a little with the desire to feel that way again.
She went back in time, to last year, with Drew's head in her lap as she read "She Walks in Beauty" to her and languidly traced her curves with her index finger. To laying out topless in the sun on the AstroTurf lawn they scraped together for their Valley apartment's backyard. To doing somersaults together and singing En Vogue at the top of their lungs while strolling the Santa Monica Pier. To kissing one last time in CBGB as anonymous teenagers, the one place they could go unphotographed as they said goodbye to a romance that could never truly be.
Hence not being able to keep track of her alcohol or pasta consumption. She wasn't plastered; Juniper and Damon had made sure of that. But Tinsley felt fuzzy, light, willing to follow the pretty boy who lead her by the hand through the London Underground station and whispered jokes about Prince Charles and Camilla ordering the tampon'alla arrabiatta.
After all, she felt less than happy to trail behind as a third wheel to the two soppy kids, one of whom had given in to the silliness of her date, sharing spaghetti strands and singing a Lady & The Tramp medley as they exited, to the enthusiastic applause of Mara Berni, the restaurant's owner. Juniper and Robbie were a movie no one would choose to greenlight, an unbelievable rom com, one even less realistic than Romancing the Stone.
Meanwhile, Tinsley felt like a modern day Greek tragedy directed by the Coen brothers, something about hubris and how pride goeth before the fall. And yet, seeing the possible consequences that lay ahead, she put her pride in some indie rocker's hands on the basis of occasional flirtation and pretty eyes.
"You promise Jamie isn't home," she asked.
"He's got a girlfriend," Damon said. "And apparently, our place is a sty."
"As long as you know, I won't mention it," Tinsley said.
"Says the girl with pesto around her mouth," Damon shot back, and as he got his keys, Tinsley surreptitiously wiped her mouth with her arm, and glared at him as he looked back at her.
"You could have told me that before we got papped outside the Tube station," she said. "Dickhead."
"Here," he said, wiping his thumb across her lip. "There ya go, kid."
"Don't infantilize me," Tawni said. "Even though we're faking romance, that's still hella creepy."
"What about 'Here's lookin' at ya, kid,'", Damon protested. "Was Casablanca gross?"
"You're not Humphrey Bogart. You're just barely Billy Crystal in the opening of When Harry Met Sally, when he's an annoying prick."
"You wound me deeply. Now get inside," Damon said, nodding at the lone paparazzo nearby. "He got more than enough shots."
"Fine," Tinsley said. She walked behind Damon up the stairs and into the flat, taking off her platform heels immediately.
"Man, I forgot how short you were without those," Damon said.
YOU ARE READING
Much Ado About Britpop
Fanfiction[RPF - But Not At All Real] Meet Tinsley Hale, American movie star and part time TOTP presenter. Meet Damon Albarn, the pretty boy frontman for Blur. Meet a host of other real and unreal characters that made up Britain's music scene and L.A.'s teen...
