Hollywood Parents

by Kristina Adams

  Ugh. Drama queens.

  “One minute.”

  I ran a brush through my hair and got dressed. Jeans and a T-shirt from my floor would have to do. I opened my door a minute later to find him holding a coffee. “Brought your usual,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. While I appreciated the gesture, it felt like a bribe.

  “So, how’s things?”

  I stared at him. “You want to know what’s happened.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  He wasn’t used to me being so direct.

  I sat on the sofa in the living room. He sat beside me.

  “You’re missing out on auditions, Tate, and no offense, but they’re already drying up. You can’t afford to say no right now.”

  “What if I want to?”

  He frowned. “Why would you want to?”

  “Because I don’t want to do the same old shit?”

  “What about your music? You’ve almost finished your new album.”

  I scoffed. “Please. We both know it’ll suck.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s getting accused of cheating when I didn’t, finding out that my parents are divorcing, then learning I’m adopted, that my birth mother hates me, and I only exist because of rape. Did I mention I learned all of that in three months? And now I’ve been accused of being a diva because I lost my temper while trying to process it all. Just maybe I need some alone time to deal with all that.”

  Mike stared at me, wide-eyed. He hadn’t known about anything other than the divorce. It was hard to avoid the divorce given it was all over the gossip magazines. The rest, by some miracle, we’d managed to keep quiet. So far.

  “I…I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “No. You didn’t. Because I didn’t want you to know.”

  “If you’re hiding like this, people will want to know why,” said Mike. He sipped his drink, then put it on the coffee table. “Everyone is worried about you.”

  “No they’re not. They’re worried about the money they’re not making,” I said. I hugged my coffee, inhaling the comforting scent of hazelnuts and coconuts.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find a way to stop people from thinking I cheated on Jack and therefore blacklisting me because I dared to have a love life and a vagina?”

  “You know I would if I could,” said Mike.

  “Would you? Then what, exactly, are you doing to recover my reputation?”

  “I’m trying to find you some work! If you worked with me on that, we might just get somewhere!” he said. “You never used to be so picky.”

  “Things have changed,” I said. “I’m done being told what to do all the time. Find me the roles I want, or find some other schmuck to manage.” I put my coffee on the table and stood up. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.”

  “Tate—”

  “You can leave now,” I said. It was the sternest voice I’d ever used on someone superior to me. But honestly? I was so done.

  20

  Tate

  It’s one thing to have opportunities

  It’s another to embrace them

  But when you’re tired of the outside world

  Why can’t you delay them?

  — “Life on Hold” (unreleased), Tate Gardener

  “Stanley Pomorski, one of the producers from KMG, wants to meet with you. Think you’re up for it?” asked Maria. I didn’t deal with her much; messages usually came through Mike. Was her calling me a last-ditch effort to get me out of my apartment? Or did they think the female touch might be more effective? Maria was the least sympathetic person I knew, so if that was their plan, it wasn’t going to work.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “Some new film they’re making. It’s one of those super-edgy Oscar-type films. Thought it might be up your street,” said Maria.

  An edgy Oscar-type film. That was the kind of role I wanted. Not the bullshit teenybopper films they kept offering to me.

  “When and where?”

  “I’ll email you the details. Be careful what you wear.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You want to look the part, right? Dress older. More mature. Wear more makeup, shorter skirts, that sort of thing. I’ll come help you pick an outfit out if you like.”

  “No, it’s fine. I can do my own wardrobe.”

  “If you’re sure,” she said. I could practically hear her trying to hide the sigh in her voice. “Just remember that you’re trying to look more mature, right?”

  What did “more mature” even mean? What was wrong with my wardrobe anyway? What was she trying to say?

  Ugh.

  As if my confidence wasn’t low enough already.

  *

  I stared at my outfit. It was so not me. I looked like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and that wasn’t a good look on anyone in the 1990s, let alone now. Sigh. Maria said it was the only way to get taken more seriously for grown-up roles. Right. Because making yourself look like a prostitute that got saved by the man at the end of the story was exactly what would get me to the top of the career ladder.

  Truth was, I didn’t even want to go to the stupid meeting. I wanted to stay at home, curled up in bed, reading crime novels. It was the one thing that took my mind off how awful I felt. No matter how terrible my birth parents were, at least they weren’t serial killers. That I was aware of, anyway.

  But the role could help my career. And no matter how crappy I felt, I was still desperate to make a success of it. More of a success of it.

  The car arrived downstairs, so I climbed in and waited as I was driven to my meeting. It wasn’t even an audition, just a meeting. What did that mean? I was going to get the part anyway? They wanted to see what I was like first? The description of the meeting that I’d been given had been vague.

  We got to the studio lot and I was taken to the meeting room. It was covered in old-style wood and really needed a makeover. Didn’t they get the memo that it wasn’t the 1850s anymore? I stared through the Venetian blinds at the view below. It was on the fifth floor, so everyone and everything looked tiny, but the view was great.

  I hated being kept waiting, but I knew why he was doing it: it was a power play. You keep someone waiting, you’re in control. It’s childish, if you ask me. Just be upfront about things.

  I sat down and took out a notebook. If I was going to be kept waiting, I at least wanted to do something productive with my time. That way, when he finally arrived, he wouldn’t have so much control because I wasn’t waiting for him, I was doing something.

  I decided to make a list of everything I wanted to achieve in my life, big or small. Firstly, get out of the child star machine. Secondly, get a dog. I’d always wanted a dog; a little one I could take around with me everywhere would make all the traveling less lonely.

  Next, I wanted to be the lead in a major movie franchise. Or even play the villain in a major franchise. I’d take either. Or both. I also wanted my own fashion business. Either to invest in one or to create one. I just wanted to be a part of the fashion industry. And jewelry. That would be cool.

  “Tate Gardener? Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  I turned around to see a balding man closing the wooden door behind him. He was big, although not as big as Daddy, and he looked like he’d once been attractive. Years of poor plastic surgery had ruined that.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, standing up to shake his hand.

  “Likewise,” said Stanley, putting his other hand on top of mine. Another power play. Ugh.

  “So, shall we get down to business?”

  “Of course,” I said, pulling my hand from his. His hands were like a vise, but I didn’t let him see that it bothered me. I put my hands by my sides and sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. He sat on the other side.

  “So, I hear you’re looking to change your image,” he said.


  “Yes, I think it’s time to move away from the teen soap opera star image,” I said.

  “It’s a tough change to make,” he said.

  I nodded. “But I’m ready.”

  “Let me ask you something: are you a virgin?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  That was none of his business.

  “Things like that, they come across on screen. You seem sweet. Innocent. Prudish.”

  Prudish! How dare he?

  “And what, exactly, are you suggesting to change that?”

  “Well, it’s simple. Have sex.”

  I stared at him. Was he serious? Everything in his expression said that he was. Suddenly I understood why my mom had always wanted to be in meetings with me and why she’d been such a Pit Bull. This was one of the first meetings I’d been to on my own—one about taking on more grown-up roles, no less—and look what had happened. I couldn’t even.

  I stood up. “My sex life—or lack thereof—has nothing to do with my acting career. If that’s your way for me to get more mature roles, I’ll find someone else to help me.” I turned toward the door.

  He stood up too, then walked closer to me. I shuddered. He put his hand on my arm. My brain flashed back to a party I’d been to at Jack’s, where something similar had happened. My whole body tensed. That was not going to happen. It couldn’t.

  “Come on now, Tate. It’s a quick fix.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I spat. I opened the door and power walked out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to run—that would signal that something was wrong. Luckily he didn’t follow me, and there were lots of people milling around to witness anything that happened.

  Had that really just happened?

  I’d been told to dress more mature so that I’d get treated that way. That hadn’t been my definition of mature.

  Desperately needing someone to talk to, I called Trinity.

  “I have like two minutes before they call me to set. What’s up?” she said.

  “I just got hit on by a producer!”

  “Ew. Which one?”

  “Stanley Pomorski.”

  “Yeah, he’s a douche.”

  “You could’ve warned me!”

  “You didn’t tell me you were meeting him,” she pointed out. “Are you OK? Did he do anything?”

  “No, just called me a prude and hit on me.”

  “Gross! I hope you’re on your way to give your agent an earful.”

  “Damn right I am.”

  *

  “What the actual fuck did you think you were doing setting up a meeting for me with that creep?” I snapped, pacing the length of Maria’s office.

  Maria leaned back in her desk chair. How did she look so casual? How did she not care? “Furthering your career like you pay me to.”

  “He hit on me! God knows what he expected to happen,” I said, waving my arms in the air.

  Maria stared at me, her expression blank. “I think you know what he expected to happen.”

  “And that’s OK with you?”

  She shrugged, sitting upright and placing her clasped hands on her desk. “It’s called the casting couch for a reason.”

  “Don’t patronize me. You know I’m not interested in the casting couch,” I said.

  “Look, I don’t know which producers and directors think they’re going to get something when they meet with a hot young actress. I have an inkling, but—”

  “An inkling? He works with Trinity’s dad! What kind of reputation do you think he has exactly?”

  “They’re just rumors. Nobody’s proven anything,” she said.

  “You don’t get rumors like that without something to spark them,” I said.

  “You asked for an opportunity, I got you one. It isn’t my fault it’s not what you were looking for,” she said.

  “Not your fault?” I reiterated. “You know what could’ve happened in there!”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “How can you be so laid-back about the whole thing?”

  “This is Hollywood. People trade sex for roles all the time. It’ll never change.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  She shrugged.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  *

  “Tate? What are you doing here?” my mom asked, her face filled with surprise when she opened her front door.

  I pushed past her, then burst into tears. I couldn’t stop myself anymore. “They…he…”

  She pulled me into a hug and helped me into the living room, where we sat down. “What happened?”

  I couldn’t talk. I was too busy crying. What had happened with Stanley brought back everything that had happened at Jack’s party. Both times I’d come so close to someone else claiming my body as their own. For my agent to react in such a callous way made me hate not what I was doing with my career, but who I was working with. If that was her reaction, was she really the kind of person I wanted in my corner?

  My mom got me a glass of water. After a few minutes, I started to explain to her what had happened. She listened quietly, her face turning into her Pit Bull expression the further into my story I go. “What am I supposed to do? They want to turn me into something that I’m not!” I cried when I’d finished.

  “That’s the entertainment industry for you, honey. You should know that by now.”

  She wasn’t helping. Why had I chosen to visit her? Or thought she’d be any help whatsoever? While my dad had been supportive about me getting into the entertainment industry like him, she’d always hated the idea. The industry was controling and tried to suck the life out of you and maybe she’d had a point. But I couldn’t change that now.

  “What do you want to do? Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  “It’s what I want to do for the foreseeable future,” I said. “But I wonder…is there something else I could do, just in case this doesn’t survive?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well loads of other celebrities have perfumes and clothing lines and stuff. Why can’t I, too?”

  She smiled. “You can do whatever you want to, honey, and I’ll be right there with you whatever you decide.”

  21

  Tate

  I think I have depression

  It’s pulled me into a black hole

  It makes me feel so empty

  and like I’m all alone.

  — “Depression” (unreleased), Tate Gardener

  “Hey sweetie, can I come in?” said my dad through the door.

  “Sure,” I said. I didn’t really want to see anyone, but he’d been away filming for so long I felt bad not spending time with him.

  I quickly brushed my hair and put some concealer on, then answered the door with my biggest fake smile. He had on his usual jolly expression and a sharp suit. And…was that a dog in his arms?

  I stepped aside to let him in.

  “What’s that?” I asked. It was so small that it fit into the palm of his hand.

  He held it out. “She’s for you. I thought a companion would be good for you.”

  I took her from his arms and pulled her close. She had a musky, puppy smell to her. With her big brown eyes and brindle fur, she was the cutest ball of fluff I’d ever seen.

  “She’s adorable,” I said.

  “She’s a Morkie. A cross between a Yorkshire Terrier and a Maltese.”

  “I’ve never heard of them before,” I said.

  “Neither had I, but I think she’s the perfect fit for you,” he said.

  I looked down at her. She’d fallen asleep in my arms, her head nuzzled against my boob. OK, that was cute.

  “She’ll need to be let out every half an hour or so if you want to toilet train her,” said Dad.

  “What? That’s ridiculous,” I said.

  “That’s puppies.”

  “And you think I’m up to that commitment?”

  “I know you are,” he said. “But I did get her an indoor toil
et as well.”

  “A what now?”

  “It’s an indoor toilet for dogs. Great for if they’re apartment-based.”

  I scoffed. “As if that’s a thing.”

  *

  It was a thing. He brought it up, then assembled it in the bathroom for her. It was both weird and useful.

  She wasn’t my first dog—we’d had one when I was younger—but I was on my own now. This was different.

  “Are you sure I can look after her?” I said.

  “I know you can. She might even look after you, too.”

  Except she didn’t. She spent the whole first night barking and howling, and nothing I did shut her up. She was the little dog from hell until I put her on my bed. Then, and only then, did she shut up and let me sleep.

  I woke up the next morning with her curled up in the gap between my pillows on my double bed. She was so small that the pillows were deeper than she was round.

  I reached over and stroked her soft fur. She rolled onto her belly, a contented look on her face. Maybe having a dog wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Or it would, since there was pee on the pillow next to me. Gross.

  “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?” I said to her.

  She gave me the side eye.

  “Well, you’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that,” I said to her. “Hey, that’s a cool name. What do you think about being called Moxie?”

  She closed her eyes again and fell back to sleep. That was as close as I was going to get to approval.

  *

  Having a dog definitely gave me company during my self-inflicted isolation. Much to my dismay, it also forced me out of the house so that she got used to going to the toilet outside. Taking her out meant the apartment was less likely to smell like doggy crap or bleach too. So I took her out several times a day. It forced me to get dressed and put my makeup on just in case someone saw me and recognized me, but I usually had a hat, a wig, and sunglasses on to hide myself. I dressed down, opting for jeans and a hoodie. The more normal I made myself look, the more likely I was to blend in. I wanted to spend all my time in pajamas but I couldn’t. Being forced to get up and get dressed did make me feel a little better mentally, which I guess was what my dad’s plan had been.