Clustered around, on the sidewalk, are about a dozen people with cameras around their necks, and they all turn as we pull up, peering into the car's windows, already snapping pictures.
Panic suddenly wells inside me, bubbling up as I watch these people close in before the car even stops.
I knew this was coming, but I have this sudden sense of being surrounded, of eyes pinning me down as they scrutinize me, my second-hand purse, my drug store lipstick, my shoes from Target. Not to even mention the fact that we're faking this whole relationship and I'm not even an actress, just some student who needs money.
I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
In the driver's seat, Gavin looks out the window and sighs.
"Here we are at the circus, then," he says, sounding resigned.
I don't answer, because I'm staring past him at the paparazzi, so close they're practically fogging up his car window.
What the hell have I done? I think, still frozen. Oh my God, I'm going to be in tabloids and on the internet and they're going to post horrible, unflattering photos of me, they'll probably say mean things and they're going to know this is fake in three seconds flat-
"Marisol?" Gavin's voice breaks through my crazed inner monologue. "You all right?"
I look at him and clear my throat.
"Yeah?" I say, though I couldn't sound less convincing.
He reaches over and takes my hand in his, warm and calloused, and squeezes it.
"They're bumblebees," he says. "Buzzy and irritating but so long as you don't try to fight them off, they're harmless. Just smile and wave and it'll be over in a flash."
"Right," I say, and take a deep breath. "Harmless."
He gives my hand another squeeze.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say, and Gavin lets me go.
He unlocks the doors and the valets, two men in deep red vests, open them. One offers me his hand and I take it, thanking him to the click click click of cameras, and I look up directly into a round, black lens.
The lens lowers, and there's a frowning man behind it, his black hair pulled back.
"Who are you?" he asks.
I just smile and hope I look normal, not crazy.
Gavin walks around the front of his car, a knot of people with cameras following him, all shouting at once.
"Gavin! Are there any more Dirtshine shows planned?"
"Gavin! Does the new album have a title?"
"Are you still clean?"
"Is it true you assaulted your former best friend Liam?"
"Is he pressing charges?"
Click click click click.
He just smiles, holds up one hand, and keeps walking.
"Just trying to get to dinner," he says, and then he's at my side, one hand on my lower back, and I remember to move forward.
"Gavin, who's the girl?" someone shouts.
He opens the big glass door to the restaurant and I step through, the frantic clicking cut off when it closes behind us, and for a moment, warm, fuzzy relief washes over me.
And then I look around.
This is the fanciest place I've ever been, and it's fancy in a sleek, modern, California kind of way - lots of highly-polished surfaces and sharp vertical lines, the architecture wood and slate at right angles. One wall is sheer glass, and it's facing the ocean, nothing but beach between the window and the water.
"Welcome to Noru," says the very pretty, polished hostess as she looks Gavin up and down, clearly recognizing him. "If you'll give me one minute I'll be right back with you."
"Not a problem," Gavin says, putting his hand on my lower back again as she walks away quickly.
Then his voice is quieter, closer.
"You did great," he says.
"I didn't do anything," I point out.
"Exactly," he says. "It's impossible to win, you can only draw."
"Sorry for panicking," I say. "I knew what to expect, I just... wasn't expecting it."
He chuckles quietly, his hand still around my hip. Like we're an actual couple out for a very fancy dinner.
"You're doing loads better than me already," he says. "The first time someone tried to take my photo like that was after a show in London, and I was shitfaced and stoned. So naturally, I showed him my John Thomas and he snapped a picture of it."
My face heats up just at the thought, and I laugh to cover it up.
I definitely imaged-searched Gavin. And I definitely didn't see that one. I probably shouldn't. Seems unprofessional.
"It is literally my job to be the respectable one here," I point out.
"And you're doing a bang-up job of it," he says as the hostess walks back toward us, smile still plastered on her face. "Hardly even a flash of ankle."
She steps in front of us, wearing massive fake eyelashes, which she bats at Gavin.
"I'm so sorry about the wait," she says. "Right this way."
We're the ones who were half an hour late, I think, but I don't say it out loud. I get the sense that apologizing is somehow déclassé.
Gavin's hand on my back nudges me forward and I follow the woman past a room full of people to a table by the huge window, looking out over the ocean. He pulls my chair out for me, and I bite back a teasing comment about studying up on manners before we came.
There's already sparkling water in an ice bucket on the table, and the hostess pours us both glasses before she leaves. I guess they don't just know who he is, they know his entire back story as well.
"Cheers," Gavin says, lifting his up, and I do the same. "To making it this far."
"You know it's bad luck to toast with something non-alcoholic, right?" I ask without thinking.
Gavin grins at me.
"Except for people in recovery, cheers!" I say hurriedly and too loud, lifting my glass off the table.
"So I tell you that I once drunkenly flashed my todger to a paparazzo, and next thing I know you're trying to get me on the sauce," Gavin says, his eyes dancing.
I turn scarlet, my face like the surface of the sun. Any possible response dries up in a sudden storm of nerves, and I'm left, staring at Gavin, practically gawping.
It feels like everyone in this restaurant is watching us, like I'm an exotic bug under a microscope, and they're listening to Gavin tease me about wanting to see his penis.
Which I don't. He's sexy and charming and oddly sweet, but I've never even thought about his penis. Except when he mentioned it a few minutes ago.
Really. Never crossed my mind. Not for even a second.
Okay, maybe one.
"I'm just teasing, love," he says, leaning slightly forward, and it breaks the spell of my awkwardness.
We clink our glasses together and take sips, but I can still feel everyone's eyes on me. When I look around at the other tables, I'm almost certain everyone glances away just in time, murmuring to their dinner partners.
Probably wondering who the hell Gavin Lockwood is with and why she's got a three-year-old purse and fake leather shoes, I think.
To make matters worse, almost everyone in here right now is white - there's a black guy at a corner table and an Asian woman laughing along with a Caucasian man, but that's it. I stick out like a short, brown, poor sore thumb in this sea of tall, well-dressed blondes.
"What sort of bad luck?" he asks.
I blink at him for a moment, because I've got no idea what he's talking about.
"The toast," he says. "What sort of bad luck am I to expect now?"
"Oh, right," I say, and look down at my place setting. "Just regular, I think?"
"It's not something specialized, like seven years of shoddy cocktails or always getting to the subway platform as the train pulls away?" he asks.
My shoulders relax a little.
"You'll break slightly more dishes than you would normally," I say.
Gavin smiles. He puts his hand over mine. I realize I was twisting my napkin through my fingers, and I stop, his hand warm and solid and comforting.
"No one in this restaurant gives a shit that you're here," he says, his voice soft and a little raspy. "I promise they're all far too busy hoping to get noticed themselves to think about who you are or what you're doing."
I can't help but smile, shaking my head a little.
"Sorry," I say. "I've never been on a very expensive date with a very famous person before. It's kinda weird."
"It's weird as a frog in trousers riding a bicycle," he says. "But you're managing a bang-up job of it."
"Thanks," I say.
Someone steps forward silently and waits to be noticed. We notice him.
"Welcome to Noru," he says. "My name is Aidan, and I'll be your server. Would you like to hear the specials?"
Gavin doesn't let go of my hand.
The waiter suggests the Chef's Tasting Menu, so that's what we both end up getting. I'm not exactly a sushi expert - it's expensive - so anything that keeps me from having to figure out the difference between all the different fish is perfect as far as I'm concerned.
It also doesn't take me long to remember that I'm not crazy about sushi. I don't exactly dislike it, but something about the taste and the texture just doesn't do much for me, and this is... creative sushi.