PS: Finally.
Camila stared up at the structure in front of her and let out a shaky breath. Finding Lauren Jauregui's apartment building hadn't been hard. It was a brand new development on the Upper East Side and Camila had passed by it several times before and wondered what it would cost to live in such a place. She took in the sleek and modern architecture and tall, shiny windows and focused on breathing.
She glanced at the time on her cell. She was early, but not too early, and after a couple of calming breaths she made her way toward the doorman.
"Ms. Jauregui is waiting for you," he said, after she'd convincingly proved her identity. He opened the door and tipped his hat.
Camila stepped inside. The lobby was busy with people in business suits talking on cells or with each other. There were chairs and couches that made Camila think of IKEA furniture but that probably cost much more. What am I doing here? Camila wondered as she started toward the elevators. She couldn't have felt more out of place. She thought of her own building: dark and dingy and falling apart; the light past the front door flickering in and out. Any day now she'd walk in to find no light at all, and then it would take a week or so for the landlord to bother fixing it.
Camila called for the elevator.
A woman in a pink velour track suit walked up. She fixed her perfect blonde curls in the nearest reflection she could find and glanced Camila up and down out of the corner of her eye.
The doors opened and an older woman walked out yelling something at the two men behind her, who apologized severely for whatever infraction they'd committed. Their voices echoed in the lobby, mixing with the others in a chorus of pretention.
Camila stepped into the elevator after the track suit lady, who waited with a bored expression to see what button Camila pushed.
A model-perfect brow lifted slightly at the sight of the other lit button on the panel. "Are you sure you've got the right floor, honey? There's only one apartment up there."
The tone aimed for politeness, Camila guessed, but fell short. "I'm sure," she said.
"I heard a movie star moved into the penthouse," the lady said conversationally, her tone softening ever so slightly at the thought that perhaps she was standing beside someone who knew someone important.
Camila only offered a tight smile in reply, and waited quietly for the doors to open on the eleventh floor so the lady would leave. Nothing else was said between them, and the ride to Lauren Jauregui's penthouse apartment was blissfully free of interruptions.
The elevator doors opened into a brightly lit hallway and finding the actress' door was simple enough. Knocking was decidedly harder, and Camila looked at the time again just to make sure she wasn't late. She could always call and say she couldn't make it after all, that life had thrown a curve ball and her time would be swallowed up by other matters. She could always change her mind. There were other artists. Better artists. Artists far better suited to this type of work and this type of lifestyle.
It would be a lot easier on everyone if Camila changed her mind before Lauren Jauregui changed hers.
But then the door opened and Lauren Jauregui was suddenly standing in front of her wearing a big green sweatshirt with a giant "Y" and the word "Bulldogs" emblazoned at the center and baggy light blue jeans that were frayed at one knee. She looked so different that Camila almost didn't recognize her.
The actress was looking at her apologetically. "You looked like you were about to bolt back to the elevator."
Camila must have looked confused because the actress pointed to the camera above the door.
