"CLA-RYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

I raised my head and slid my sunglasses further down my nose so I could peek over the top of them. Isabelle Lightwood was waving furiously at me, the latest IPhone clutched dangerously between the fingertips of her swinging hand and a precariously high pile of pink suitcases that matched her tight fitting, skimpy business suit. Her shriek had turned every head in a 200 metre radius toward her. Every boy's eye followed various bouncing body parts as she ran toward me, faster that I could imagine anyone could go in French-fuchsia seven-inch spiked heels, and threw her skinny arms around me in a death choke of a hug. She was already a head taller than me without the shoes, but in them she was so high up that my face was ploughed right into her abdomen.

Kissing both my cheeks firmly, her high-speed chatter started at once.

"OhgodithasbeenforeverClaryhowwasItalyohgodwhyamIevenaskingitwasobviouslyamazingwerethepressundercontroldidyoumeetanycuteguyshowwasthephotoshootdidyouseeyoumadethecoverIfrickingtoldyouI'dgetyouthefrickingcover!"

"Whoa Izzy," I laughed as she paused for breath, hugging my publicist and friend back tightly. When she had said it had been forever it had more or less meant it had been a week and a bit, but I'd missed her all the same, "I'll tell you everything on the plane, 'kay? And wasn't this blue last Monday?"

Isabelle flicked the dark pink tips (Which were the exact same shade as her outfit and bags, obviously) of her ebony hair behind her angular shoulder, "Blue went out, like, two days ago Clary. Do try to keep up honey. It was super annoying. I'd just bought, like, an entire set of luggage to match this cute skirt and top set," she sighed like it was all too much, "God, being America's Best Dressed was never going to be easy, but Jesus Christ…"

"Whose that?" I interrupted. Unless you got in early, Isabelle Lightwood could go on about her wardrobe for hours on end, "Your latest?"

I'd long since stopped referring to Isabelle's boy toys as her boyfriends. There was a new one every fortnight. Last I'd seen she was attached at the hip to Meliorn, a pretty longhaired bass player of a rising band, Seelie Court. Or attached at the mouth would be more appropriate, looking back. My poor, innocent eyes.

Isabelle looked back at the attractive dark haired boy she'd been standing with, who was struggling to stop her mountain of luggage from tipping over, "Oh! No. Nonononono. Ew. Come on, you two have to meet!"

"Still with Meliorn then?" I asked as she dragged me by the crook of my elbow.

"God no. He's long gone, thank god. He was so boring," she waved her hand

dismissively.

If a person who had been living under a rock for the last two years examined Isabelle and I, they'd definitely imagine Isabelle was the Hollywood treasure. With her expensive, colour coordinated clothes, expertly styled hair, and natural beauty, paired with the confident way she held herself and that sexy, perky walk that drew every male eye to her, she was definitely the easy choice as the famous one. I walked in a more skip-trip fashion with hunched shoulders, about a foot shorter than Izzy, my furious red hair tangled by the strong winds that had greeted me when I'd gotten out of my taxi outside the airport and wearing a simple pale blue t-shirt and jean skirt, with huge sunglasses hiding my eyes. But everyone who saw me would immediately recognise me as Clarissa Fray, the big screens shining prize, winner of eight Oscars in the last two years and several more nominations for my latest film, including best actress. The reason for my simple attire was simply to avoid attention from the paparazzi while I was on my way to catch my private jet to Australia to star as Liberty Jets, the female lead of Jace Herondale's new film, Not Quite Immortal.

Do not think about Jace Herondale.

The boy Isabelle wanted to introduce me to was now attempting to hold up her pile of baggage by hugging both arms tightly around them.

"Clary, meet your co-star and newest hottie of Hollywood," she threw her arms around the boy's neck affectionately, "And my big brother, Alec Lightwood."

Alec looked up and greeted me with a sweet smile. I smiled back, but I was a little confused. On the casting call, the main male character of Not Quite Immortal, Gary Gray, was described as 'dark, rugged hero type with confident swagger and aura of sexiness surrounding him', no joke. Although Alec was definitely a looker, with mesmerising blue eyes which, paired with Isabelle's shiny dark hair, was a gorgeous and unfortunately rare combination that made my heart beat a little faster, the brownish sweater with worried away sleeves and absentminded nervous tapping against his thigh didn't exactly ooze sexiness or confidence. When I'd pictured Gary Gray, I picture a more arrogant, self-assured man. Possibly blonde. With a tighter shirt perhaps.

I realised with horror that the image I'd created for Gary Gray was Jace Herondale. I mentally kicked myself. It was because that's what Jace had probably wanted everyone to do. Of course he'd base the hero of himself. He was like that.

Stop thinking about Jace Herondale.

"It's a pleasure to meet you finally Miss Fray," well, at least Alec's voice was strong.

I waved my hand at him, "Please, no formalities. I prefer Clary. Isabelle's told me a lot about you."

"I have?" Isabelle sounded confused, then squeaked as I stepped on her foot a lot harder than necessary.

Alec's eyes lit up, "If you don't mind me saying, Clary, I'm a big fan," he smiled, "It'll be amazing being able to work with you."

I wondered if there was a double meaning behind that. I hoped so.

"I'm a big fan of you too!" Clary lied, "I've seen your movie…er…um…that one with… oh, you were in Jace's last movie, weren't you? Lesbian Chainsaw Vampire Chicks Vs. Zombies?"

Alec's shoulders sank. It was obvious that Jace Herondale's last flop of a movie was not what he'd hoped to be remembered for, "Yeah. Not the best first feature film to start my career. We met at the Oscars. I won Ellen DeGeneres's Pity Award in the drinks break."

"Oh, right!" I laughed, "'The Abs That Saved The Worst Movie Ever'. I remember… We hi-fived! I didn't recognise you without the massive blush."

Alec fiddled with his sleeves, "My parents were in the audience and Isabelle kept screaming 'You go stud muffin'. Plus Aline Penhallow won 'The Boobs That Saved The Worst Movie Ever' and she kept trying to slip her room keys into my pocket. I had a little to be going on."

I burst out laughing, "And I thought it was awkward when Raphael Santaigo pinched my ass on the red carpet. You poor thing. Isabelle yelled at me too. She took a couple of shots in the bathroom."

Alec's grin was comfortable now, "'I made her! Ungrateful bi-atch, I created you!'?"

I buried my ace in my hands, "That was her."

"Hey!" Isabelle was filling her nails, "I just wanted to make sure you appreciated me and all I did for you, Miss Best Actress in a Leading Role!"

I felt a jerk on my sleeve and turned. A little girl looked up at me with big dark eyes, a tangle of blonde hair twisting down her back. She wore a sweet little girl dress and an expression of innocence. Two smiling matching blonde parents stood a little way off, watching her.

"Excuse me miss?" she had the slightest lisp, "Are you… Clary Fray?"

I smiled wide and looked down on her sweetly, in case I was being photographed. The headline in the next paper reading 'Clarissa Fray Hates All Children' that would undoubtedly follow me walking away from a young fan would put a real damper on my morning, plane to catch or not, "Yes, I am sweetie. What's your name?"

"Maureen. Maureen Brown," her eyes were wide with admiration, "I loved your show. Clary and Jonny. I was so sad when it was cancelled."

I couldn't help but scowl. Clary and Jonny had been my first real acting job, when I was sixteen. It had been a kid's show I had hosted with my brother for a year, teaching young children about creativity and manners through ridiculous songs and over the top dance routines. It had been one of the most popular children's shows in America. Then Jonathan had left to study theatre, and I'd wanted to start more serious acting. Cue Jace Herondale. But my Clary and Jonny days still never failed to be my most cringe-worthy, especially since Isabelle never stopped joking about it. At parties she purposely played the Clary and Jonny soundtrack to unnerve and humiliate me.

I forced back my smile, "I was really sad when it stopped too, Maureen. I love dancing and singing."

Maureen's eyes lit up, "Can you sing The Little Blue Car for me? It's my favourite song. Pretty pretty please?"

A flash of panic shot through me, and it took all my strength not to bolt to the safety of the VIP terminal and hide forever. Luckily Isabelle, despite all her usual teasing, came to my rescue.

She crouched down to be eyelevel with Maureen, "Clary would love to, honey, but her plane is going to be going soon. You don't want her to be late for her plane, do you?"

Maureen considered this, "Missing planes is bad. Mommy missed a plane once, and she said lots of bad words at everybody and the police had to come and zap her with ray guns and punch her until her front tooth came out."

"…exactly," Isabelle managed after a long hesitation, "Do you have something you'd like Clary to sign, honey?"

Maureen thrust out a Sesame Street colouring book and I scrawled my curly signature across Elmo's face on the front page, along with the message Isabelle told me to write to everyone so it looked personalised 'Dear [Maureen] Keep smiling and always follow your dreams!'.

Unfortunately, the signing with Maureen bought a lot more unwanted attention. Underdressed females called out to Alec, who went red and hid his face. People got out phones of all shapes and sizes and stated snapping away. As we made our way quickly to the VIP terminal, Isabelle's masses of luggage along with Alec's worn black backpack and my blue velvet case rolling bag in tow, the crowd of followers waving various objects to sign in my face and begging for selfies and photos grew. The airport security kept them at bay, but we weren't even free in the VIP seating of the private terminal, with screaming fans handing over the red rope holding them back. Alec slid further down into his seat at every cry of 'Alec Lightwood, Marry Me!' or 'I Want To Sit On His Face!' or 'My Ovaries Are Exploding!. He obviously wasn't ready for this part of fame. Unusual for an actor that attractive, with abs that looked hard enough to break rocks on. His chest, as well as that of his fellow actress Aline Penhallow's, had been two sole saving points of a multi million dollar movie that had thrown Jace Herondale straight into the jaws of hungry critics, and forever branded Herondale Films as 'The Film Company That Made The Worst Movie On Earth'.

The only thing that had edged him up from the pit of bankruptcy, although I'd never tell them, was probably the thousands of home copies sold to sad lonely teenagers who only bought them to masturbate to Aline's incrediably low cut and often ripped open shirt and old creepy men who wanted to drool over Alec's ridiculous amount of shirtless screen time.

Not Quite Immortal had a lot of pressure to succeed. Another bad zombie movie from Jace and he'd be booted straight into the pit of arrogant, pathetic and asshole directors for all eternity.

Like he should have been years ago.

I remembered the last time I'd actually spoken to Jace Herondale. I'd seen him everywhere, magazines flaunting the shining star of media, accepting awards for best movie, and recently, tripping his way up on stage at the Razzies award ceremony to accept the Worst Movie, Worst Director and Worst Screenplay awards all in one.

But the last time we'd actually been face to face, skin touching, really there together before we were both just memories and news stories to each other- I'd been fleeing a premier cinema, face red with fury, angry tears pouring out of my cheeks and Jace on my heels, grabbing my hand, saying, Clary, it was an executive decision…

Me, turning and kicking him square in the groin as hard as I could, So was that, asshole.

Him, face contorted with pain, Clary, I love you.

Clary, I love you.

Clary, I love you.

"Clary!"

I blinked my way out of my daze. Isabelle was shaking my shoulders, "Wake up hon. Plane's here! Do you need to eat something? You look kind of pale…"

I shook my head, "I'm fine. Just…let's just go, Izzy."

Her eyes showed concern, but she snapped around and hustled her brother along. Fans still screamed in the background.

I remembered the text Jace had sent me to let me know I'd gotten the part. Not an email with details or even a phone call. Just a text.

See you soon Liberty

See you soon indeed, Jace Herondale.

Far, far too soon.