Fame Game 03: Infamous

by Lauren Conrad

  “Hey! I’m getting a security team because I have someone so in love with me that he might pose a threat to my personal safety,” Kate said. “So clearly I’m not, like, totally boring.”

  Madison’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  Kate giggled. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you. Trevor called this morning. Remember how I was getting those creepy fan letters? Well, Trevor—or his lawyers, maybe—decided that I needed to have a security detail. Because they think the guy could be some kind of threat or something.”

  For a few beats, Madison was quiet, seemingly shocked. Then she composed herself and said brusquely, “You’re basing the level of interest you have on this show on the obsession of a crazy person?”

  Kate bit her lip. She was slightly hurt that Madison wasn’t more concerned for her safety. “I don’t know why they don’t take out a restraining order,” she said.

  “Because that would only call attention to him,” Madison said. “And for all we know, that’s what he wants.”

  It seemed crazy to Kate. She pictured the Park Towers hallway full of Secret Service men in gray suits and earpieces. Cameras in the elevator. A tracking device she’d carry in her purse. It was so James Bond. And it wasn’t like she was actually scared of J.B. from Studio City. (Though her mother would have told her to be, which was why she hadn’t shared details of her current situation with her family.) Kate was more . . . confused.

  Kate narrowed her eyes at Madison. “You’re not a tiny bit jealous, are you?” She smiled. “Because having a rabid fan is kind of flattering.”

  Madison scoffed. “Please. I don’t look for ego boosts from crazy people.”

  “He might not be crazy,” Kate said.

  “Of course he is,” Madison said. Then she smirked. “If he was sane, he’d be stalking me.”

  Kate stuck her tongue out at her friend, and when that didn’t seem like enough, she gave her a shove with her foot.

  Madison laughed. “The point is, though, you don’t need to worry about him. Especially not if you’ve got security. So let’s get back to the discussion at hand.”

  “Which was . . . ?”

  “Types. Wake up, girl. I know you’re staying up late writing songs for that showcase thing and loving on Drew, but this is important. Do you think Gaby is as ditzy as she acts?”

  “Um . . . yes?” Kate didn’t want to be rude, but the evidence was pretty strong.

  “Well, believe it or not, she isn’t. I mean, she’s no genius. But she’s not the box of rocks you and everyone else might think.”

  Kate was definitely taken aback by this news. “She doesn’t seem that different off camera, though. She’s still pretty ditzy.”

  Madison waved this away. “She just forgets to stop acting. Like Christian Bale stays in character the whole time he’s filming something. He doesn’t even give interviews in his own accent. He’s always performing.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, and Gaby was on pills for the last year, so there was that.”

  Gaby and Academy Award–winner Christian Bale? That was a comparison Kate never thought she’d hear. “You’re sort of blowing my mind here, Mad.”

  Madison laughed. “We have to get you a character, Kate. And your character is obvious. I’m the bitch, Gaby’s the ditz, Carm’s the Hollywood royalty, and you, my dear, are the rocker.”

  “I mostly play acoustic,” Kate pointed out.

  “You know what I mean. Here’s the thing. We have to get you a new look.” Madison reached out and grabbed the end of one strawberry-blond lock. “We have to cut this off and bleach it. Platinum.”

  Kate felt her heart start beating harder at even the mention of such a thing. She’d had long hair ever since she was four (except for a brief period at age six, when an unfortunate encounter with bubble gum ended with her mother giving her a sloppy bob with kitchen shears). Also: platinum? Like Lady Gaga? Like Christina Aguilera? Like Punk Miley Cyrus?

  “You’ll look like such a badass,” Madison said. “Like a rocker.”

  “Don’t you think Trevor would mind?” Kate asked, touching her head protectively. She didn’t want to sound like a coward, so she blamed her hesitation on him.

  Madison scoffed. “Please. It’s your hair. I’m sure he’d love it if you shook things up a little. Anyway, he doesn’t own you.”

  “Well, he sort of owns everything around me,” Kate said, thinking of the apartment and the furniture and the new electric guitar, etc.

  “Actually he rents,” Madison pointed out. “So. Do you want to go to Rick Roberts or Kristin Ess’ Salon? Kristin is amazing at color, and her place is much more discreet. You don’t want to be photographed leaving the salon. The new hair should be a surprise.”

  “I don’t know about this idea—”

  Madison patted Kate’s knee. “It’s brilliant. Trust me. This is what I do best.”

  Kate thought about it for a minute. Madison was a professional when it came to makeovers—or had been, anyway. And while some people might have reasons not to trust Madison’s motives, Kate didn’t have one at the moment.

  “You pick,” she said. She felt brave and tough and bold.

  “It’ll be a whole new you.”

  “I wonder what Drew will think.”

  “He’s going to love you no matter what, that’s what he’ll think.” Madison paused. “He’s a good guy. You’re lucky to have him.” Her voice was soft and vaguely wistful.

  Kate could tell that Madison’s thoughts had shifted away from haircuts and toward Ryan Tucker. Madison had given Kate the rundown of their relationship back when she was recovering from her lipo. Their story was a perfect rom-com script. Well, almost. Boy meets girl, boy hates girl, boy comes to love girl. . . . But then: Boy leaves girl. That sort of screwed up the expected happy ending.

  Madison maintained that their breakup was for the best, but Kate wondered if she actually believed that.

  “So—no promising specimens on Trevor’s guy reels?” Kate asked.

  Madison shook her head no. “He’s looking for another Jay. Some jerk in an Affliction T-shirt and questionable facial hair that all of teenage America will inexplicably fall in love with.”

  Kate laughed. “It’s a tough life,” she said.

  “He texted me, you know,” Madison said suddenly.

  “Who?”

  “Ryan.”

  Kate sat up straight. “And?”

  Madison sighed. “I didn’t text him back yet. He says we should talk. That he still cares about me.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Kate said gently. “It sounded like you guys really had something.”

  Madison picked at the silk fringe on a throw pillow, seemingly lost in thought. “What’s the point? What’s good for me professionally doesn’t necessarily fit with what’s good for me personally. Although—who am I kidding? The guy broke my heart, Kate—as much as it’s possible to break it.” Here she offered her trademark Madison smile. (But was that a slight tremor in the corner of her mouth? A hint of vulnerability?) “So maybe he’s not good for me personally, either.”

  Kate nodded understandingly. She wished she’d actually met Ryan so that she could offer her own piece of advice. But he was like some mythical creature: There were plenty of stories about him, but no actual sightings.

  “I think you should text him back,” she said. “You’re in a stronger place now. Maybe you can have it all.”

  Madison smiled. “Oh, I’m going to have it all,” she said. “But I’m still working on exactly what ‘it’ is.”

  “I hear you. Hey, maybe that’s your theme song.” Kate picked up the guitar again and plucked a few notes. “Sometimes I’m your therapist / Sometimes I’m just a bitch / Do I want love or stardom / I really don’t know which . . .”

  Madison, laughing, threw a pillow at her but missed.

  Kate couldn’t help herself. “I’m on a show called The Fame Game / Can’t throw a pillow cuz I got bad aim—”

  Then Madison, squealing, pic
ked up another pillow. This one was a direct hit.

  12

  AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT PERSON

  At first Trevor hadn’t recognized her. Who was that platinum blonde with the pixie cut talking to Carmen—another one of Carm’s hair-and-makeup pals? Someone (hopefully) more interesting than Fawn and more telegenic than Lily?

  Then the blonde had smiled a familiar smile, and Trevor had done a giant double take. That little creature, that punk-rock elf, was none other than his own Kate Hayes.

  He’d about fallen out of his chair. Why hadn’t anyone warned him? It should have been the first thing he heard about the moment the crew showed up to shoot. But Stephen Marsh was apparently still too new to the job to figure that out. Or too stupid, or too intimidated, or something. Either the man lacked common sense or balls. Trevor wasn’t sure which was worse.

  Now he got up and tossed a few punches at the speed bag he’d had installed in the corner of his office. (He’d gotten into boxing lately; it was fantastic stress relief.) Kate’s new hair was going to cause a major continuity problem.

  To make a good episode of The Fame Game, Trevor relied on being able to comb through hours upon hours of scenes from different days—different weeks, even—and edit them down, shaping them into what was essentially a one-hour highlight reel, built around whatever theme or story line he’d chosen to focus on that week.

  For instance, he had a decent dinner party scene from a few days ago that lacked resolution; the Carmen-and-Kate tête-à-tête he’d just watched would have been the perfect scene to attach at the end, since they’d dished about both Madison and Sophia. But he couldn’t use it, because Kate looked like an entirely different person.

  He had to wonder: Did Kate lack all common sense, too? She was usually so predictable. Wherever had she gotten the idea to transform herself into this new Kate? A look that was, by the way, less than one hundred percent flattering. She suddenly reminded him of a Bratz doll.

  As Trevor began to breathe harder, sending bare knuckles again and again toward the speed bag, the realization came to him. Madison Parker.

  Of course it had been her idea—he was sure of it. She was thumbing her nose at him again. Reminding him of her ability to cause trouble.

  He hit the bag harder. Madison’s disappearance had already caused him huge continuity problems. Once she agreed to come back, he’d assumed he’d no longer have such issues. But apparently Madison had decided to show him how wrong he was.

  To make the next few episodes work, he was going to have to pull some major Frankenstein action: cutting here, splicing there. . . . There would have to be some hats and hairpieces involved, too.

  He turned and went back to his desk and sank into his chair. It gave him a migraine to even think about it.

  He called Laurel. “We’re going to do logs,” he said brusquely. “I want a log and photos of every single item of clothing and every accessory the girls wear to a shoot, so if we need pickup scenes we’ll have that information immediately. I even want their nail polish colors written down. This is their job, damn it. I’m not playing around.” He bent a paper clip in two, then pitched it toward the trash. “On second thought, I want the girls to pick a specific color of nail polish and stick with it for the remainder of the shoot. There will be no haircuts. No dye jobs. No visits to Dr. Botox. No more elective procedures until this season wraps. Make that clear to them.”

  Laurel assured him she would.

  “Gaby especially,” he added.

  “I’m on it,” Laurel said, and clicked off.

  Trevor wondered if he ought to make Kate get extensions and dye her hair back to its original color. Then he could film her getting it re-cut and re-dyed. Or else he could make her wear the extensions for the next few months and hope that no one noticed. . . .

  He wondered why, when his more volatile stars finally seemed to be behaving themselves—Gaby staying sober, Madison doing what he asked (with the exception of the Kate makeover)—his supposed Midwestern Good Girl had to go and screw things up.

  And while it wasn’t her fault she’d picked up a stalker, the security team was costing the production a pretty penny.

  He sighed. It was also inconvenient. The camera crew was used to shooting around Kate’s absurd mess, but how were they also going to avoid the burly guys hired to hang around her apartment to protect her?

  If Trevor hadn’t sent Kate back to Ohio mere months ago, he would have certainly done it again. He drummed his fingers on the desk, imagining it. Maybe he’d send Carmen with her, so the two of them could play out their best-frenemy drama on a different stage. He laughed, imagining Carmen’s reaction to a flat landscape of soybean fields and strip malls, where the best restaurant around was a tie between Chili’s and the Olive Garden. . . .

  It was unfortunate he couldn’t make everything he wanted happen. But all in all, Trevor Lord knew he wasn’t doing too badly, and he had the fat year-end bonus and a new Lamborghini to prove it.

  And every week, as reliable as his delivery of Variety, Trevor was sure to open a tabloid and see an item on one or more of his girls. If that wasn’t winning the Fame Game, then he didn’t know what was.

  13

  A REGULAR CUPID

  Carmen was supposed to meet Laurel at her favorite nail salon on Beverly Boulevard, but at the last minute Laurel changed her mind; apparently she’d seen something about flesh-eating bacteria and manicures and was feeling very anti-salon.

  So they rendezvoused at a new boutique on 3rd Street instead, and as Carmen flipped through a rack of fluttery tunics and skinny jeans, Laurel slipped her feet in and out of various pairs of pumps, mules, and ankle boots.

  “Do you remember Anna Baker from high school?” Laurel asked as she admired a pair of Proenza Schouler booties. “She got a DUI last night after sideswiping a cop car in an In-N-Out Burger parking lot.”

  “Ouch,” Carmen said. Anna Baker had been a senior when Carmen was a freshman. She was one of the popular girls: By seventeen she’d already starred in two dumb but profitable teen rom-coms. “Was that on TMZ?”

  “Actually her mom ran into mine at yoga in Brentwood,” Laurel said. “TMZ’s got nothing on the maternal grapevine.”

  “Too bad my mom’s not part of that. She actually gets her gossip from blogs, so she’s wrong half the time. But that sucks for Anna—though it seems like everyone has a DUI these days,” Carmen noted.

  “Yeah—if you weren’t already in the tabloids so much, I’d suggest you get one for the sake of the publicity.”

  “My dad would kill me,” Carmen said, holding up a butter-yellow smocklike garment. “He’s still not over Tanktopgate.” The color was lovely, she thought—it reminded her of spring sunshine. “What do you think of this?”

  Laurel shook her head firmly. “Uh-uh. Looks like an apron a kindergarten teacher would wear so she doesn’t get finger paint on her clothes.”

  Carmen put it back on the rack. Okay, so the yellow smock was a miss. She selected another shirt, held it up, and got another no from Laurel. Her third shirt pick prompted Laurel to make a gagging face.

  “Girl, do you need eyeglasses?” Laurel asked.

  Carmen felt herself blushing. This was bad. She hadn’t shopped in ages, ever since her parents cut her ties to the family bank account. (She’d even returned those beautiful boots she’d bought with Fawn and Lily.) Was shopping like spinning class—you had to keep doing it or else you lost your edge? Or was it possible she’d lost her sense of taste? No. Not possible. She must be overtired.

  “Here,” Laurel said, handing Carmen a sleek dress of copper-colored silk. “Try this one on. It’ll bring out your eyes.”

  Carmen did as she was told. She could see Laurel’s feet under the dressing-room door, pacing back and forth. She wondered if she should hire a stylist to go with her new publicist. (She’d shared Sam at Beckwith Associates with her mother for years—but when she and Cassandra had their fight, Carmen hired Sam’s colleague, Lacey Gilmore.) A
stylist could probably get Carmen more free clothes than she was already getting, which, considering her parents’ credit line was off-limits indefinitely, was a real plus. (Had she really blown most of her earnings on fantastic clothes, to-die-for handbags, and a new silver Range Rover? Why yes, it seemed she had!) Carmen made a mental note to do some stylist investigation.

  “We need to talk about your story arc,” Laurel called through the door.

  Carmen zipped up the dress, opened the door, and gave a twirl. “What do you think?”

  “Love it,” Laurel said, but her mind was clearly on business now. Which was why she was an executive producer at twenty-three, or however old she was. Laurel’s life was PopTV. (And her wardrobe proved it—how old were those Seven jeans anyway? Laurel ought to be trying on a few things, too.)

  Carmen, on the other hand, believed in a balance between life and career, which was why she wasn’t rushing out to take another project. “Do you guys have some plan for me?” she asked, adjusting the dress’s belt.

  Laurel shrugged. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a plan. But we do have a suggestion.” She handed Carmen another dress, this one slightly more structured and in a deep jade green. “We think you need to find another project sooner rather than later. Preferably high profile, but not too time-consuming. Maybe a rom-com? We didn’t have enough access to you during The End of Love, and Trevor didn’t like that.”

  “Isn’t my project filming your show?” Carmen asked.

  “I think you know the answer to that question,” Laurel said. “That green’ll look really good on camera, too.”

  Carmen nodded; of course she knew the answer. The Fame Game was about four girls trying to make it in Hollywood—not about two girls trying to make it, one girl trying not to accidentally kill herself, and one girl who sat around and pondered what to do next with her life. The problem was, she still hadn’t come across any projects that interested her. The only thing that had seemed remotely appealing lately was a play, but Trevor had nixed that idea immediately. “Plays are for theater nerds. Movies are for stars,” he’d informed her. “You, Carmen Curtis, are a star, and don’t you forget it.”