Colm begins to take a few steps but you find yourself rooted to your spot. You feel utterly and completely torn. You take a moment to look at Colm, who you know very possibly could be your future and who genuinely seems to care about you more than anyone else before him has, and you feel a sense of something slipping through your fingers. But looking back at the coastline of the tiny island you’ve come to think of as both a puzzle and a home, you feel Buffy slipping away, too. What should you do?
To move on and leave the island with Colm, turn to page 138.
To say goodbye to Colm, perhaps forever, and continue your search for Buffy, keep reading.
“Colm,” you call from where you are standing. He turns to you, a look of pleading overtaking his handsome features. You look down at the sandy walkway and know this is where you are meant to be. You harness your resolve and look him in the eye. “I’m so sorry. But I have to stay.”
Colm makes one last, futile effort. “Anna, please think this through.”
“I have. Over and over again. I have tried with every fiber of my being to convince myself I should leave. But now that I’m actually facing it, I know more strongly than I’ve ever known anything in my life that I simply can’t. I won’t give up. I hope you can understand.”
Colm runs his fingers through his thick black hair and shakes his head. “I can’t say that I understand. You’ve done everythin’, Anna, looked absolutely everywhere.” He shakes his head again and sighs, a deep wrinkle creasing his brow. “But I can’t convince ye of that. Ye have to know it yourself. And I won’t stand in the way of what ye feel ye need to do.”
Gently, he walks toward you, placing your bag at your feet. He takes you into his arms and holds you for a long moment, then kisses the top of your head and whispers, “If ye change your mind, I’ll be waitin’.”
As he walks away, you angrily fight the tears that fill your eyes. You know you may very well never see this man again, that you’ve made a decision that might change the course of your life. But it’s your decision, and you know in your heart it’s the right one. You turn and walk back to your little room, dark now compared to the dazzling sun outside, unpack your stacks of research, and refocus yourself.
* * *
As the months pass, the ache of Colm’s leaving subsides. You find yourself spending more hours alone in your room. Eventually, you purchase a little piece of property on the island complete with a run-down, miniature house, and you begin to devote some of your efforts toward making it a home. Every plant you add to the garden grows at an unbelievable speed, and soon your little house is secluded by a veritable jungle garden. Even though the lush greenery blocks some of the light in the house, you find you are often relieved to return to the dim coolness of your private sanctuary.
Months turn into years, and the time seems to fly. You barely check your e-mail anymore, and the only TV you ever see is at the little diner you frequent for most of your meals. You intentionally keep yourself away from newspapers and magazines, and instead consume novels you never before had time to read.
You know you’ve gained some weight but take long walks on the beaches to help stay fit. You don’t own a scale or a full-length mirror and are perfectly happy this way. In any case, the shapeless, flowing tropical dresses you wear make you feel elegant and comfortable.
One day, as you return from your morning ritual, a breakfast of pancakes, toast, eggs, and bacon, the glossy cover of a magazine resting on the little island market newsstand catches your eye. Normally you’re able to sail right past the display without a second glance, but this cover makes you do a double take. The silhouette is oddly familiar, though you can’t place it at first. Moving closer, you make out the slightly blurry blue dress, the shot taken from behind the bending figure. You pull the reading glasses you’ve only recently been forced to acquire down onto your nose, peer at the photo, and then notice the headline:
EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF THE RECLUSIVE ANNA CHAMBLISS: INSIDE HER HIDEAWAY!
Your heart pounds as the feeling of violation begins to set in. You grab the glossy rag from its flimsy metal rack and quickly pay the shopkeeper, grateful that he’s disinterested enough not to notice it’s you on the cover.
The run back to your villa leaves you winded. You plunk down heavily into your armchair and quickly leaf through the magazine’s inky pages. You’re relieved to see there’s not much substance to the story, but disheartened to see that it hits a little too close to home.
Another unflattering and blurry shot of you bending over your garden hogs the page opposite the thin column of text. The photo has obviously been altered. There’s no way your backside is that wide. Inset is a trade photo of you before, in full glam mode. The caption reads, “An unrecognizable Anna Chambliss in her island hideaway.”
As you skim the ugly words, a numbness sets in.
Little has been known about the whereabouts of one-time headliner Anna Chambliss since her disappearance from the Hollywood scene almost ten years ago. Now, she’s been discovered living a hermit-like existence in a tiny hut on the island on which she filmed her final project. A rustic hut, overgrown with vines and weeds, has served as a hideaway for the reclusive star, whose weight has ballooned over the past decade. Recent photos of the actress reveal her fuller figure and her once-famous tresses now streaked with grey. “No one here really knows who she is,” says an island local. “She keeps to herself.” A Hollywood source tells WE, “Anna went a little crazy after she lost her best friend years ago. She shut the world off and clearly prefers her privacy.” What will be next for Anna now that she’s been rediscovered? Only time will tell.
You toss the magazine into the nearest garbage can. You know you’ve gained some weight, but it’s certainly not as bad as that silly magazine makes it look. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you take a good, hard look at yourself. It’s true, you can only see your reflection from the waist up, but still, you aren’t blind. You know you’re no longer a size two, but you’re also not a size XL either. In fact, most of the island shops’ size Large dresses fit you just fine. And you can’t help that you’ve been blessed with the ample bust that makes that size a necessity.
Your eyes move higher and you turn your head slowly from side to side, running your fingers through the unruly mass of your hair, wild from the island’s perpetual humidity. There may be a few silver strands here and there, but certainly not the “grey-streaked tresses” the tabloid describes. Satisfied that it’s not as bad as all that, you curl up in your comfy corner chair with your latest murder mystery and soon fall asleep.
When you awaken, the angle of the sun tells you it is at least late afternoon. You slip on your flip-flops and saunter out to the garden. A sharp yell makes you whip your head around, “Anna! Anna! Over here!”
A sound you haven’t heard in years sends your stomach into a plummet as the click and snap of camera shutters surrounds you. “Get off my property!” you yell, before ducking back inside and slamming your door. Your heart hammers as you pull the blinds and lock the shutters to keep the prying eyes outside.
You jump at every noise that night and arise bleary-eyed the next morning. You open the shutter of your front window just a crack to peer outside and are relieved to see no signs of prying eyes. Just in case, you make a quick trip to the bathroom and unearth an ancient foundation, mascara, and lipstick. You apply just a little and then run a brush through your hair. Unable to tame it, you decide to tie it into a messy ponytail. It will give them less to work with, you think, if you’re a bit more presentable.
As you leave for breakfast, you turn onto the little crushed-shell walkway and are pleased to find no paparazzi lurking. You make it all the way to the diner and take your usual seat on the covered terrace, enjoying the smell of sizzling breakfast food while a light breeze sweeps across your face. You thank the waitress as she brings you your plate, heaped with fluffy scrambled eggs, stacked with pancakes, and piled with crisp bacon. You salt and pepper the eggs, give the p
ancakes a healthy dousing of syrup, and begin to eat. As you do, something catches your eye from the corner of the patio. Are the palm leaves moving more than makes sense in the light breeze, or is it your imagination? No, you’re certain the breeze isn’t that strong... Then you spot an ugly telephoto lens protruding from the foliage and wielded by a cowardly paparazzo. “Hey!” you shout, advancing on the cameraman. “Hey! Get out of here!”
The waitress reappears and backs you up, “Git, you slitherin’ snake!” she shouts. The cameraman is gone as quickly as he appeared. You sit back down to your breakfast, grateful for the help of the waitress, but find your appetite has disappeared.
Almost a week to the day later, a new photo appears on the front of WE, and this time it’s even worse than before. An image of you leaning in to devour what looks like an enormous plate of food dominates the cover, while a smaller photo in a box below shows you in attack mode, wielding your fork as you advance on the photographer. The headline reads ANNA CHAMBLISS’ CRAZED RAMPAGE! WHAT SENT THE RECLUSE INTO A RAGE?
You don’t even bother to read the article. Instead, you head for the local hardware store to purchase NO TRESPASSING signs, which you post in front of your house. You spend the rest of the day in a state of agitation and worry.
The next few days only get worse. One photographer turns into three and then five. You realize the sensational photos must be worth a lot for these parasites to travel all this way. You begin to order your meals in and you leave the house only when you have to. A prisoner in your own home, you now truly feel like the recluse they’ve made you out to be.
One day a week later, you have no choice but to leave the house for a few essentials. You decide to make the trip into town at night and only after you’ve washed and brushed your hair, applied your makeup, and put on your prettiest dress, plus your largest pair of sunglasses. You hope for the best and think perhaps you’ve made it when about halfway into town you’re accosted by incessant flashing.
You’re momentarily blinded and stumble onto the sharp shells of the little path. You brush the fragments from your knees, hold onto your pride, and continue gamely to the store. The flashes follow you all the way, no doubt documenting your every purchase. Back at your house, you finally lose the cameraman, who is wise enough to stop at the edge of your yard.
Your heart pounding, you drop the little bag of groceries, sink to the floor, and cry. You’ve worked so hard to set up the perfect shelter, to remove yourself from the negativity of Hollywood and the media, only to have it find you and ruin everything. You know in your heart you’ll have to do something drastic to make them leave you alone, but short of ending your own life or ending one of theirs, you don’t know how to do it—and neither seems like a particularly good option. Maybe it is time for a change, you think, and try to figure out what that change should be.
* * *
One morning the next week, there’s a knock on the door that interrupts your breakfast. You put down your coffee cup and warily approach the front door. Without opening it you shout, “Who’s there?”
A deep, male voice rings from the other side of the doorway. “Anna, I’m not a reporter. I’m here on business. I have a proposition for you that I think you’ll find interesting. If you’ll give me fifteen minutes of your time I’ll explain it all. Have you heard of a television show called Sashaying with Celebs?”
Five weeks and one signed contract later, you find yourself being buffed and prepped for your debut on SwC. Your spray-tanned body is stuffed forcibly into the sturdy foundation garment for your embarrassingly skimpy, tassel-and-glitter-covered costume. The makeup team applies a second set of false eyelashes, carefully dotting the glue along your eyelids. You step gingerly into your costume and sit carefully (the only way you can sit without losing the circulation in the lower half of your body) and allow one stocking-covered foot then another to be strapped into a shiny, silken dance shoe.
Though everything feels like it’s chafing and too tight, you can’t help but gasp a little when you catch your reflection in the mirror. Your hair has been colored, cut, and styled to its former fullness with the help of glossy amber extensions. Your skin looks perfect, and the spray-tan has even added some definition to the upper arms you were so worried about exposing. You give a little twirl and squeal when your hunky but very homosexual dance partner, Alexei, sidles up to you and slips his muscular arm around your waist. “Magnificent!” he growls, apprising your newly glammed look.
The few minutes on the flashing ballroom stage feel like seconds and before you know it the crowd is on its feet in applause. “What a comeback!” declares the notoriously hard-nosed British judge from behind the bench. You score solid 7s and are pronounced the contestant with the most potential. You go to bed that night feeling light and joyful for the first time in ages.
The grueling weeks of practice and rehearsal are worth it. The weight falls off and your costumes get smaller and more revealing. Before you know it, the costume designers are even cutting out the midsection of one gown to bare your newly taut tummy.
You make it to the semifinals and then move on to the very last show, this small accomplishment making you happier than you can remember ever being. Agents approach you with memoir proposals, sitcom pilot scripts, and even a supporting movie role. Your head is spinning with the opportunities that lay before you, and only in the very darkest hours of the night do you feel the guilt creep in for the friend you lost and for the life you left behind in your tiny island abode.
The final show looms large. You’ll have to perform three dances and you’re praying you remember each step you’ve rehearsed so many times. Your stomach feels like it’s filled with the world’s largest and most ferocious butterflies. As you enter the glittery little holding room to sit beside your competitors, excitement overwhelms every other emotion. Alexei steps gracefully to your side and plants a tender kiss on your lacquered cheek. “We got this,” he whispers into your ear. You return his sentiment with a huge smile and feel an overwhelming sadness at the thought that this is it, the last night of all this brilliance.
As usual, the show goes by in a blur. You shiver with nerves backstage as the judges tabulate the results to decide who the winner of the coveted bronzed top hat trophy will be.
As you nervously pick at the edges of your solidly lacquered nail gels, a voice interrupts your thoughts. “Uh, excuse me, Ms. Chambliss.”
Something about the voice sends you into an even greater state of anxiety and your heart feels as though it’s about to freeze in your chest. You know you should turn around to face the speaker but for some reason you seem to be completely paralyzed.
Alexei squeezes your shoulder, breaking your trance. “Anna, someone’s here to see you.”
Slowly, you turn your head in the direction of the voice. He looks almost as you remember. The same rugged features, the same perpetual five o’clock shadow, the same piercing grey eyes, the same shock of dark hair falling over his forehead. Maybe a few more lines . . . but when he speaks, the same gorgeous brogue sends a chill through you to your toes.
“Hello, Anna. Would you have time for an interview?”
“How did you—” you begin. In answer, he holds up the laminated media pass hanging from the long lanyard around his neck.
Much later, as you dust off the glitter and confetti clinging to your hair and set your newly acquired bronzed top hat trophy on the vanity table in your nicely appointed hotel room, you feel as if everything has come full circle, or almost.
Colm sits on the vanity bench, looking a bit like a bull in a china shop, but it’s the only place to sit in the little room, aside from the bed.
“Congratulations,” he tells you, “you sashayed like a pro.”
You laugh, feeling the years apart slipping away. He rises from the delicate bench and takes your hand in his. “Would ye sashay a bit with me?”
He begins to spin you around the room then pulls you in more closely, so closely that you feel the delicious
scratchiness of his stubble against your cheek. You remain like that for a wonderful moment, feeling the years of icy boundaries begin to melt in his arms.
Chills run through you again, this time ending not quite so low as your toes, when he whispers gruffly into your ear, “We have to do something about all this makeup.”
He pulls you into the bathroom and turns on the shower. Steam begins to roll in gorgeous clouds as he slowly undresses you. For a moment you are frozen with self-consciousness. You know the Anna he will be seeing is not the Anna he remembers. Nervously, you turn your back and allow him to lower the zipper of your dress. You try not to think about what his reaction will be when he sees what lies underneath. Even though you’ve lost quite a bit of the weight you gained during your years on the island, you’re nowhere close to the size you once were, and you know your age will show.
Colm reads your hesitation and gives you your time, then slowly turns you to face him. He gently knocks the straps from your shoulders and lets the dress fall to the floor. His eyes run up and down your body and you feel more naked than you’ve ever felt in your life. You can’t seem to meet his gaze when his eyes return to your face, but he takes a finger under your chin and lifts your eyes to meet his.
“Anna,” he tells you, his voice husky with desire, “you’ve never looked more beautiful.”
As you shower together, he uses a soft cloth to gently wipe the makeup and tears from your face and holds you until you finish crying. Then he slathers the loofah with soap and works it in delicious circles all over your body, concentrating on your breasts, your belly, your buttocks, and thighs. He kisses you as the warm water runs over you both, and your heart thaws completely in the warmth of Colm’s embrace. Finally, you allow yourself to look at him. His body is beautiful; his arms elegantly muscled, his legs and backside firm, only his belly shows just the slightest softness.
Star Struck Page 17
