Star Struck

by Meredith Michelle

  But who?

  You begin to see black spots in front of your eyes, and as your knees give way, you scramble to keep your balance, a difficult task with one leg three inches higher than the other thanks to the shoe you left outside the door. The noise of your clumsy stagger into the wall behind you finally gives you away.

  Hampton spins to face you and with a look of horror pushes roughly back from the person he’s so obviously abandoned you for. You look right past Hampton into the sheepishly grinning face of the crew member you know only as “Patrick,” one of the director’s many assistants.

  Bile from your empty stomach rises sickeningly to your throat as you stumble back out of the trailer, leaving the door swinging open. You run unevenly across the dusty back lot, pushing past the few crew members who have stopped to stare. Everyone else seems to have assembled around the edges of the set, huddled together and whispering to one another, waiting to watch the main event to unfold.

  Did everyone know? And if everyone knew, why didn’t you? You catch a glimpse of Nigella peering closely at you as she leans her head to whisper something to Justin, and once again you see a tiny smile on her painted red lips.

  Some of the crew members have their smartphones trained on you and you know this ugly scene is moments from going viral. Feeling like a trapped animal, your only instinct is to run and never stop. You force yourself to think. You are an actress, after all, perfectly capable of hiding your emotions and presenting a happy face to the world, even if you are falling apart inside.

  What you need to do is put on a brave face, climb back into the waiting car, and send a quick text to your publicist. He’ll know how to spin the story so that this all ends up helping your career. Despite what might be posted online, no one aside from you, Hampton, Patrick, and Justin know the whole truth, and none of them will want the story to leak. But you are so angry, so incensed that Hampton Rhodes would use you, lie to you, and then cheat on you—with a man no less!—that you cannot think clearly.

  One call to the press would out Hampton for the cheat he really is. There were always rumors, speculations surrounding almost every actor in the business. But you never believed they were true. Now you wonder. Was your whole relationship some kind of publicity campaign designed to advance Hampton’s career, with no regard to yours?

  You know you have a choice to make—one that will seriously impact Hampton’s career, your career, and both of your public images. You can go on and act as though nothing serious happened, quietly break up with Hampton, and let the press spin it however they please as you decline to comment. But maybe the best idea is to deal with Hampton directly, and to deal with this now. You turn on your bare heel and head back toward the trailer. No matter what happens, you’re not leaving without the other half of your sixteen-hundred-dollar Manolos.

  To retrieve your shoe, return to your car, and let fate take its course, turn to page 4.

  To confront Hampton, keep reading.

  Outrage and indignation bubble inside you and before you know it, you’re on your way back across the set.

  Try as you might, the shoe is securely wedged into the trailer step’s metal slat. You wiggle and pull, trying to minimize the damage to the silk-covered heel. Suddenly you are aware of a shadow over you and look up to see Hampton, wrapped in a shaggy brown robe you’ve never seen before, smirking down at you.

  “Need a hand with that?” he has the gall to ask, and from behind you, you hear the low, silky voice of Hampton’s costar.

  “Let me,” Nigella offers as she smiles and reaches for your shoe.

  Trapped between the two of them, you feel both helpless and enraged. You shove Nigella’s perfectly manicured hand away from your shoe but she grabs for it again.

  Then, from the dim interior of the trailer, you see Patrick’s impish face peek out over Hampton’s shoulder. The shamed and at the same time triumphant look he gives you, empowers you with strength you didn’t know you had, and you push Nigella sharply back, take the shoe firmly in your grip, and pull . . .

  Looking back later, you’ll never be able to remember the exact details of what happens next. In the moment, you are aware of Hampton flailing wildly, his hand over his right eye as he falls back into Patrick’s arms. Nigella shoves you roughly aside as she runs up the trailer steps. Your last memory before everything fades to black is Hampton’s howl spiraling higher and higher like a siren in the night.

  * * *

  The next image you recall clearly is a glaringly white, sterile room and the incessantly beeping equipment at your bedside. An uncomfortably cool liquid drips into your hand through a tubed catheter.

  The moment your eyelids flutter open, your driver, Bodhi, looking rumpled and sleep-deprived, and your assistant, Buffy, her hair sticking wildly up at the back of her head, jump to their feet and gently approach your bedside. You’re suddenly freezing and pull the thin bedsheet up to your chin. You note that the door to the room is closed and the privacy curtain almost completely drawn around you.

  “Jeez, Anna,” Buffy says. “You scared me to death.”

  Bohdi rounds the other side of the bed and takes your fingers in his warm, rough hand, so large and comforting. You suddenly feel small and safe with these two concerned friends at your side.

  You smile and Bodhi gives your hand a little squeeze. “There’s my Anna,” he says in a low whisper.

  Is it your imagination or do you see the glaze of tears in his eyes?

  Buffy clears her throat. “It’ll all be fine,” she tells you, locking her eyes reassuringly with yours.

  Something seems to be blocking the words you’re trying to force from your throat. “What?” is all you can manage to ask. You feel tears trickle down your cheek.

  Bodhi leans in and with a single, gentle gesture, wipes the tears away. “Anna, you’re going to be fine.”

  Suddenly, vague images of what happened jump sharply into your conscious mind.

  “What about Hampton?” You search both of their faces for an answer. “Is he okay?”

  “Anna, you—” Buffy’s answer is cut short by a brief rap at the door.

  Suddenly your doctor is at the foot of your bed, clipboard in hand. “Good to see you’re back with us,” he says in a hearty, too-loud voice. “Your blood results are in. Your iron’s a little low, but you are definitely not pregnant.”

  You grimace slightly. “I could have told you that.”

  The doctor glances down at his notes. “My prescription is for rest and hydration. I’m also going to give you an iron supplement and something to help you sleep. Only take it if you need it. I want to get the rest of those fluids into you and then you’re free to go. You should be out of here by this afternoon. I trust one of you will take her home?”

  “I will,” both Buffy and Bodhi volunteer.

  Four hours later—although it feels more like twelve—you are waiting to be officially discharged. For some reason they’ve brought you a wheelchair, even though you feel perfectly fine. “Hospital policy,” the nurse explains. As you sit waiting, a shadow darkens the threshold. You look up to find Hampton standing in the doorway.

  Clothed only in a hospital gown, he looks frailer than you’ve ever seen him. The bandage wrapped around his head and covering his right eye adds to the impression.

  For one crazy moment you expect him to apologize—maybe for cheating on you, for lying to you, for so many things—but instead he grabs the handles of your wheelchair, pushes you roughly to the corner of the room and sits down firmly on the vinyl-clad bench beneath the window, inches from your face. He looks directly at you with his single uncovered eye. His words are curt and clearly rehearsed.

  “Here is what is going to happen,” he instructs. “I will release a statement to the press. You will neither agree nor disagree with any of it. Your only response is to be ‘no comment.’ You will never speak a word of what went on between us. Don’t worry—I’ll make it look like I called off the engagement. And this”—Hampton gestur
es dismissively toward his bandaged eye—“will not be mentioned. You will agree not to be seen publicly with another man for a period of six months. In exchange I will refrain from suing you for everything you might be worth and effectively ending your career.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “Agreed?”

  You tear your eyes from his bandaged face and look down into your hands. You feel smaller and sadder than you ever have in your entire life. “Hampton,” you begin, “I am so sorry about your eye . . .”

  “Save it, Anna.” The coldness in his words sends shivers through your body. He turns on his heels and exits into the stark, white light of the hospital hallway.

  * * *

  It’s midnight, ten years later. You’re buzzed from the giddy high of the applause still ringing in your ears during the opening-night standing ovation you’ve just received as the headliner of a new Broadway play, Regrets. Such a pithy title, you think: Regrets. Though really, you don’t have any. Your career is better than ever and you have your choice of projects as well as leading men. With so much success and endless accolades, you are rarely alone, very rich, and very happy.

  You slide into the back of a yellow cab and direct the driver to head to a trendy NYC bar above which, in a private room, the rest of the cast and your closest friends wait to celebrate your Broadway debut. You smile to yourself as you anticipate the night ahead, filled with flowing champagne and maybe a little fun with your current fling. You don’t really care what the reviews say tomorrow. You’ve always been your own worst critic anyway.

  Before the cab can pull away, your latest leading man and fellow cast member, the extremely good-looking and slightly younger Birkin Kramer, slides into the cab beside you and tosses the latest issue of WE Weekly in your direction. The glossy cover features a photo of Hampton with his picture-perfect family trailing through a crowded LA airport. There’s Nigella in oversized sunglasses and skinny jeans, carrying her single biological child on her hip while three adopted kids cling to her thighs as the cameras flash around them.

  You have to hand it to Hampton, he knows how to keep the PR machine well oiled, and you certainly don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for Nigella. She knew exactly what she was getting into. As you study the photo, you notice only one of Hampton’s eyes meets the camera directly. His signature smile reveals a row of flawless whitened teeth and provides a perfect distraction. You wonder whether anyone else notices the extra glint in his right eye. The prosthetic is really very good. If you didn’t know the truth, you would probably never even notice it.

  You should thank him one day. Without his help you might never have grown the thick skin that has allowed you to make tough, sometimes painful decisions and to proceed forward without second thoughts into a career filled with successes.

  The car heads downtown and Birkin stretches his muscled dancer’s arm behind you.

  “Hmmm . . .” you purr as you settle into his embrace, tossing the magazine lightly into his lap. “What a beautiful family.”

  Birkin lifts the magazine to catch the light off the street outside and studies the cover, never looking in your direction as he asks, “What really happened between the two of you anyway?”

  You smile to yourself as you gently ease the magazine from his grasp, run your fingers through his hair, and repeat the response you’ve given so many times before. “It’s a long story.”

  And one you’ll never tell.

  THE END

  To take Anna on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.

  From page 60 . . .

  It’s been almost half a century since you walked out of Bodhi’s life. After all of this time, the gossip magazines still follow you regularly, but not for your movies or romances anymore. As you lay in your hospital bed at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center you are surrounded by beeping machines and imprisoned by the tangle of wires and tubes that feed you, hydrate you, and medicate you. The days and nights drift by in a blur as you fade constantly in and out of consciousness.

  You find your mind wandering with increasing frequency back to that last day with Bodhi in Kauai. If you had stayed, how different your life might have been. You can’t help but wonder if every small decision you make in some way determines the outcome of your fate. Would a different choice that morning have kept this disease that has laid waste to your energy, your career, your health, and your beauty at bay?

  You’ve made so many attempts in this last year to find Bodhi but finally lost the will to keep trying. If you had found him you would have explained. You’d had to make a difficult choice in that early morning moment, and you decided to choose yourself and your career. The years that followed were a whirlwind. Your brief absence from Hollywood actually managed to increase your fame and your press coverage. Your return catapulted you into more dramatic roles, increasing your longevity far past that of the usual starlet.

  So much has happened, a heady but slightly fuzzy blur of premiers, press, awards, and work, always the work. Looking back now you don’t really regret any of it . . . but still you wonder . . .

  You slip into another dreamless, morphine-induced sleep, and later, much later, perhaps hours, perhaps days, you surface slowly to a feeling of warmth. You blink your eyes to clear the haze and find yourself gazing into a familiar set of topaz eyes. The browned skin around them is more lined than you remember, but the strength in the hands gripping yours is the same.

  Your throat is so dry and you can’t seem to find enough air, but you manage a whisper. “Bodhi. Where have you been?”

  He leans in, his graying hair brushing gently against your cheek as he tenderly plants a lingering kiss on your forehead and climbs gingerly into the little bed beside you, gathering you in his solid embrace and gently pulling up the paper-thin sheet to cover you both. “Anna,” he tells you, as everything fades to black, “I’ve been with you all along.”

  THE END

  To take Anna on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.

  From page 55 . . .

  You dial the number and interrupt Trudy as she answers the call. “I need to talk to Jeff Jeffries.” Yes, you tell Trudy, you are aware he is awaiting your arrival, and yes, it is extremely important that you speak with him now.

  As you hold for Jeff to come on the line, you know you’re overstepping just slightly. Jeff Jeffries’s reputation as a brilliant director, responsible for some of the most successful rom-coms in recent history, belies the short, balding, glasses-wearing man behind the legend. He also has a reputation as a master manipulator, but you’re not about to be manipulated. You hear your heart beating in your own ears as you prepare for battle.

  Finally, you hear the click on the other line. You know you have to be the one to speak first. “Jeff,” you begin. “I’m sitting here on the tarmac unsure about what to do. First I’m told some unknown actor is stepping in for the costar your studio promised me, then your secretary treats me like a recalcitrant child. I’m trying to keep an open mind, but I have to tell you I’m starting to feel like I need to cut my losses. I don’t think you’ll disagree that without my name on your film it’s going nowhere. But I have to be honest: I don’t know that I can work with this Jackson character. I’ve already had more than one unpleasant run-in with him here in LA. In fact, if you knew the details, I think you’d cut him loose in a heartbeat, and I can only imagine what it will be like on a closed set. So, before I tell my pilot to bring me to you, I need to know what you’re planning to do to make this an endurable experience for me. I’m going to require a private meeting with you to discuss the situation when I arrive.”

  There’s a long pause while you wait for Jeffries’s response. At last, you hear a low sound coming from the other end of the line. Incredibly, it sounds like laughter, a nasal sniggering someone is trying to keep in check.

  You can’t believe what you are hearing. Is Jeffries actually laughing at you? “Hello?” you say into the phone.

  “I’m sorry, I just didn’t know I was making your life so
miserable.”

  You cannot believe your ears as you register the unmistakable drawl on the other end of the line.

  “What can I do besides laugh? Darlin’, you are truly adorable when you are angry.”

  You are so enraged you can hardly control your voice. “Is that Jackson?” you ask incredulously, though you know the answer.

  “Anna, I thought maybe I could save Jeffries some time by talking to you myself and pleading my case, but clearly your mind is made up about me. I would tell you I’d summon Jeffries to the phone, but I don’t think he can help. It sounds like you need to talk to a professional.”

  “Excuse me,” you reply as calmly as you can manage. “I do not need to talk to anyone but my manager. Enjoy your time filming a flop.” You are about to hit end on your phone when you hear Jackson again.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Anna, wait!”

  Your fingers itch to end the call, but you roll your eyes and hold the phone to your ear, saying nothing.

  “Anna?” Jackson asks.

  After a long silence you respond, “I’m here.”

  “Anna, look, please come to the set. Everyone is waiting on you and upset that you aren’t here yet. There’s some crappy intern getting ready to sit in for you and I don’t think she actually knows how to read, so we really need you here right now. And it’s not that Jeffries didn’t want to talk to you. I just thought I could give the guy a hand and maybe make things up to you. I know I came on a little strong the other night, but I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. I was hoping we could still be friends. I guess I overestimated.”