Lindsay and _hilary_duff; May 11
The store is fairly quiet with only a few clients wandering, looking at the clothing. Lindsay's signature red hair is tied up in a pony tail and pulled through the back of a baseball cap. Her knee length, baggy shorts with leggings underneath along with her baby doll tee and flats complete the outfit. She's not exactly looking to keep people from recognizing her; Lindsay's given up on that long ago, it's just comfortable and she had been hoping for comfortable when she'd gotten dressed for her day of shopping and getting out alone.
Of course, that means she is only as alone as the paparazzi choose to let her be. Though, she has to admit it seems quiet enough. It isn't until she turns a corner and spies a familiar face that the young actress and singer feels the first bit of doubt that her day may not go as she has planned.
Hilary is engrossed in flipping through a rack of jeans -- all of them that artfully ripped variety she can buy without a second thought to the credit card statement that would most likely give the average person a heart attack. She's dressed as casually as she ever gets these days, blonde hair pulled back out of her face. Occasionally she reaches up, tugging at a lock of it in an unconscious habit that no fan will ever see her employ.
It is that strange sensation, the slight prickling along the back of her neck that makes her realize someone is staring at her. She turns, half expecting to see one of the over-helpful employees. The polite smile she has pasted on slides off faster than chocolate ice cream melting in the Los Angeles heat when she sees Lindsay standing there.
"Well, fancy meeting you here," Lindsay says by way of greeting, forcing a smile as she looks the other teen up and down. She always thought Hilary was cute enough, she supposes, but too perfect for her own taste. They've met only a few times face-to-face; most of the animosity between them has been cooked up by their publicists and the media. Most of it anyway. But not all.
No, most definitely not all. "Fancy that," Hilary says. "I wasn't aware you were back in town. Last I heard you were still on shoot for some movie." She purposely neglects the name.
Lindsay shakes her head, turning to flip through the jeans on the rack in front of them. Sometimes the urge to scratch someone's eyes out was just too strong, she muses. "No, actually I've been back for a while. Though, I never realized you tracked my movements so closely."
Fuck you! is what Hilary thinks even as her cheeks color with embarrassment. "I don't," she retorts irritably. "But with the magazines I read, it's hard to not keep track of you. Though I must say," she adds, inspired, "that you're looking much better than the last time I saw you in the magazine. Stopped puking up your guts, have you?" Hilary says this all in that sweet voice that was as fake as artificial sugar.
"Yes, I suppose I have. But then again I stopped watching your films around the same time. My doctor really thinks the two are related. Says one can only have so much fake sweetness before they get sick." Lindsay turns her gaze to Hilary, refusing to allow the younger girl to see just how deeply her words had hit home.
Hilary's mouth opens, and she is left utterly speechless for a long moment. "I suppose," she says, finally gathering her composure, "that it's a good thing then that I've *never* made a practice out of watching your movies, or listening to your music."
A smirk lights Lindsay's face at that. "Obviously you have a problem watching real acting then. But, then again, what should I expect?" Turning back to the rack, Lindsay reaches out and pulls off a pair of jeans that has diagonal zippers on the pockets and strategic wearing in other spots. She has to admit she likes them. Though, if Hilary is looking at them as well, perhaps they aren't worth what she thinks.
"No," she retorts, turning to study another rack, this one of shirts, "I just have a problem with over-paid, under-talented teen queens. I'm surprised they don't choke on their own egos." She's nothing like that, of course. She'd never see it if she were. Hell, she *doesn't* see that she is, if the truth were told.
"Pot calling the kettle, perhaps?" Lindsay murmurs softly, glancing over her shoulder at the back of the other woman's head. Her gaze slides down over Hilary's back and pauses at her rear before she shakes herself. She is not an option! Geez...has it been too long or what?
"Not the way I see it," comes the confident answer. Hilary is so intent on not looking at Lindsay, that she is unaware of the scrutiny her ass is currently undergoing -- for the moment at least.
On a whim, Lindsay turns and steps up right behind Hilary, bending down just slightly to whisper in her ear, "Not the way I see it."
"Get out of my personal space," she hisses, edging away to hide the slight shiver that runs down her spine. A sensation she doesn't wish to explain to herself, or Lindsay, should she notice.
"Sorry, Princess. I didn't mean to intrude," Lindsay retorts, stepping back and turning her back on the other girl. "Didn't know you were so jumpy." And she wasn't exactly sure why she'd felt the need to do it anyway. It was definitely time to get the hell out of dodge.
"I'm not. I just don't appreciate being crowded by people I don't like." Hilary reached for a shirt without even looking, hell bent on leaving with something in hand, even if she hated it, and going the fuck home.
"Yeah, sure," Lindsay retorts before turning and heading toward the nearest salesperson so she could pay as she tosses back over her shoulder, "I'd get the red one. That color does nothing for you."
Hilary turns, stares for a moment until Lindsay is out of sight, then slowly puts the shirt back. Without even knowing why she's taking the advice of the enemy, she picks up a deep red and walks to the counter to pay for it.
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