‘Is it true? Is it true?’

      Grace’s sudden squealing jolted me from my phone. While the others had been sitting together, going on about Ella’s party in the last few minutes of our lunch break, I had happily tucked myself away in a corner for some online shopping.

      ‘Is what true?’ I asked grumpily, quickly closing the page of leather skirts.

      ‘This!’ Grace shoved her phone, which was open on some celebrity gossip website, under my nose.

      ‘Skylar Chase is in London,’ I read. ‘So?’

      ‘Look at where she’s staying!’ Grace cried, her long black hair swishing into my face as she leaned over to point it out to me.

      I read further down the piece and by the time I had scanned the paragraph, my desk was surrounded by an excitable, whispering crowd. This always happens when someone super famous stays at the hotel. Everyone at school becomes obsessed with following me around, asking for the celebrity’s autograph or even sometimes just showing up at home. As my school is near to the hotel, this happens quite a lot. Matthew gets all grumpy when he has to shoo them away.

      Ella pushed her way through the group at my desk before plonking herself importantly on the chair next to mine.

      ‘Well?’ she asked, tilting her head curiously.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ I answered honestly. ‘It makes sense that she would be staying with us, though. Where else would she go?’

      ‘Oh my God,’ Grace squeaked. ‘Imagine if you see her in the lobby!’

      ‘Would she give you tickets to her tour?’ Ella asked, shooting Grace a look of irritation as Grace practically hopped up and down on the spot.

      ‘I’ll probably get backstage passes.’

      Grace’s jaw dropped open. ‘Do you think you’ll get more than one backstage pass?’

      ‘Grace, calm down,’ Ella scolded, before rolling her eyes at me as Grace’s face fell.

      I smiled to myself, remembering a year ago when Ella had practically torn my arm off in her excitement of her favourite boy band staying at the hotel, begging me for tickets or a chance to bump into them in reception. Now she had her new minion to impress, she was better at keeping up appearances.

      ‘If I get more than one pass, I’ll be sure to let you know. I’ll ask her if we hang out later.’

      ‘Hang out?’ Grace whispered, glancing nervously at Ella to confirm her tone and pitch were more acceptable.

      ‘Of course.’ I shrugged. ‘Mum often asks me to hang out with the VIP guests, you know, just to be polite.’

      Grace put a hand on her heart as though to steady herself.

      It wasn’t a complete lie, either, Mum did sometimes force me to give up my evenings to hang out with guests, so that part was true. The more questionable part was the VIP side of things.

      What actually happened was that any time Mum wanted to talk to a guest and they had a daughter or a son my age, she would insist I join them – for some reason, Mum seems to think that being a similar age means we will automatically get on. I’ve always had to stand there awkwardly and silently with some loser teenager while our parents talk rubbish until my promised hour is up and I can escape back to my room ASAP.

      I never get to talk to anyone I’ve actually heard of, like famous actors or pop stars. Usually they have so much security it’s impossible to get to them and I’m under strict instructions never to pester them or get in their way. The only time I really get to be in the same room as celebrities is the Hotel Royale Christmas Ball, which is my favourite night of the year and the biggest and best party in the world. Famous people and royal families from across the globe come to the hotel all dressed up in these amazing designer ballgowns, and they’re always all over the front pages the next day. It’s basically the Oscars but way better because there are no boring speeches and no one cries. Usually.

      But other than the Christmas Ball, Mum always says that famous guests come to Hotel Royale to escape the fuss, and it’s important to her that they feel they can relax in the hotel without feeling they’re being watched or scrutinised. So there was no chance that Mum would let me go near someone as famous as Skylar Chase; I was never allowed to bother any celebrities.

      But no one had to know that.

      ‘You know, Flick –’ Ella smiled – ‘if you want to bring Skylar along to my party next week, I wouldn’t mind.’

      Gasps rippled through our audience.

      ‘That is,’ she continued, ‘if you manage to persuade your mum to let you come.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Everyone around us burst into chatter and Ella looked extremely pleased with herself, no doubt dying inside at the idea of Skylar Chase attending HER party. Obviously, it was never going to happen but I couldn’t shoot her down straight away, not with the whole class watching.

      Hey Grace

      Hey Flick! Wassup?

      Not to be weird but . . . are you following me home?

      What?! Course not!

      OK. It’s only . . . I can see you

      What do you mean? I’m on my way home. Which is the opposite direction to the hotel

      I can see you behind that lamp post

      What lamp post?

      The one you’re hiding behind

      That must be someone else

      I just saw you type that text

      Must be someone else texting while we’re texting too. Weird coincidence!

      I can literally see you. Right there behind that lamp post

      Are you sure you’re not following me? No offence, but that’s kind of creepy

      I told you that if I see Skylar Chase, I’ll call you immediately, OK? And when I’m not grounded any more, you can come to the hotel after school

      THANK YOU!

      No worries. You can leave the lamp post now and go home

      I totally wasn’t following you That would be weird

      Right

      I had to come this way to check out . . . this lamp post

      Sure. That makes sense

      It’s a historical gem

      Go home Grace

      When I got home, I couldn’t help but get a teeny bit excited that Skylar Chase might be there. There were LOADS of photographers and reporters lurking around the entrance, getting in the way and ignoring the dirty looks from the doormen, who were attempting to welcome guests. I’m not supposed to talk to journalists, especially not about guests staying at the hotel, and thanks to Mum not letting me do any self-promotion they’re never

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