Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  “Don’t worry about it.” I shrug. The sound of the rest of the room speaking and laughing seems particularly loud as a silence stretches out between us. “Here.” I hand her the glass in my grasp. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Courtney takes it and gestures to the cart with her head. “Are you going to …?”

  “No. I … I think I’m going to go … wedding stuff. You know how it is.” I shake my head and turn, then skirt around a cluster of people from accounts and head out of the room.

  I press the door shut behind me, even though I want to slam it, then I walk toward my desk, one foot after the other. The air is cool out here, and I suck it in.

  Light boxes with magazine covers line the walls. Magazine covers I was at the shoots for when I was just editorial assistant, first starting on Lola. Magazines I helped make.

  A brand I will no longer be working for.

  I think of the fashion room, where we store all the outfits in between shoots. The prize cupboard, stocked with the latest perfumes and beauty products, all waiting to be tested out. The view from the Lola floor, just that much higher than Live Well floor’s view …

  One glimpse at the bouquet that still sits proudly on my desk, one inhale of a waft of rose perfume thick in the air, and I can’t handle it. I have to leave. I need my Mike. He’ll know what to do.

  Now.

  The elevator ride seems unbearably long. When I get to the bottom floor, I scoot past the intern who replaces last week’s Gossip! cover featuring some supermodel’s bad Botox job to a new one announcing an up-and-coming Hollywood golden boy’s cheating ways.

  Outside, I hail a cab and slide into the back seat. Keeping it together. I am keeping it together.

  All I have to do is keep it together until I’m safe in my fiancé’s arms.

  And hope like hell I can find a solution for this.

  Chapter Three

  Madison

  The ride from Williams & Co to my house is short—twelve minutes. Twelve agonising minutes where I twist the new turn my life is to take over and over in my mind.

  I can do this. It’s a stupid hippy magazine, but I’ll find something else. Hell, Mike is on a good wage. Maybe I can even take some time off. I mentally reassess my five-year plan; is it too early to start having kids?

  No. I am a career woman. It’s definitely too soon.

  I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor and pad down the carpeted hall, sticking my key in the lock when I get to number 528. Our home.

  I twist open the door …

  And everything about my bad day gets worse.

  Because there are some things in life you never forget. Some things that stick in your mind, over and above all else.

  I’ll never forget the sight of my fiancé’s penis.

  Especially as it pumps in and out of another woman’s mouth.

  Pink talons clutch his arse as some blonde lady goes to town on his cock. Mike’s head is back, his eyes shut, his hands fisted in strands of her hair.

  I drop my keys to the floor, but the carpet softens their landing. My heart lurches to my throat and sticks as the sick feeling from earlier twists my stomach once more. Excess saliva fills my mouth, and I wonder if I’ll vomit before they realise I’m standing here. What the ever-loving hell?

  “I …” I clear my throat, but they don’t hear me over Blondie’s groans. I try again. “I came home early …”

  Snap.

  If you could photograph a moment, lodge it in your memory, this would be it. Mike’s eyes, wide open. His hands lifting in the air, as if by dislodging his hands from the woman’s hair he will somehow be less guilty. The blonde turns to me, her brows in a V but no lines marring her forehead. Botox. The pop sound of Mike’s dick as it’s suctioned out of her mouth.

  Thoughts seem to war over Mike’s expression for an endless few seconds, then he jolts to action. He pulls his tan chinos up and belts them around his waist, shaking his head. “Happy birthday, darling.” He steps closer, as if nothing has happened. As if I haven’t just caught him halfway to orgasm in someone else’s mouth.

  “No.” I hold out my hand to prevent him coming closer. I’m losing control. How is this happening?

  As if reading my mind, Mike gives a small shrug. “Oh. This?” Mike turns to the woman on the floor, who rises to her feet, pushing her white skirt down over tanned thighs as she goes. “This isn’t anything. You’ve got the wrong idea. This was an accident.”

  “An accident?” I scoff, my brows almost reaching my hairline. I grip the chair closest to me, desperate to hold onto something while everything else in my life falls to pieces. “Like she tripped, grabbed your pants to stop her from hitting the floor then hung onto your cock in case she got carpet burn?”

  Mike seems to consider the idea for a moment, and I shake my head.

  “I can explain,” he tries again. He grabs a black clutch from the dining table and thrusts it at the woman who takes it, pulling it close to her chest.

  She looks from me, to Mike, to the door, then says, “Do you want me to—”

  “Yes!” Mike and I answer simultaneously, and she all but runs from the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

  We’re left in silence. Well, the apartment is silent. My head is not. It’s filled with the rapid thu-thumping of my heart and the blood roaring in my ears.

  At the same time, I feel as if I’m looking in on the situation from somewhere else. I’m an innocent bystander to my own life.

  “I’m so sorry, Maddie. It was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again.” Mike steps closer, his arms outstretched. They’re hot when they land on my shoulders.

  “Then … why?” My voice is small, and I have to concentrate to stop it from squeaking over the last word.

  “I just …” Mike shrugs and runs a hand through his blond spiked hair. “You’re always so busy with work. Canada pays attention to me. Does things I like to do, like eat burgers, and watch sports.” He sighs, and if I hadn’t just walked in on what I did, I’d be tempted to comfort him. To try and rub those worry lines from his forehead. “You control our lives, from where we live to what I do, and I just wondered what it would be like to be with someone who … but I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. You’re going to be my wife.”

  “I … am?” I don’t know who I’m asking—Mike or myself.

  “Of course. I mean, that’s what you want, right? Everything’s set for two weeks. And hey, how’d your promotion go?”

  The knife twists in the wound. “I didn’t get it.”

  “Oh honey, come here.” His arms widen, and the weight of the soul-crushing disappointment I’ve felt since the meeting this morning washes over me. In a moment of weakness, I sink into his embrace. Because for just one moment, I want him to take care of me for a change. I want all the suck that has happened in this most suck-tastic of days to disappear, and to just spend some time with the man I loved.

  Love.

  Don’t I?

  I inhale, his usual pine cologne scent mixed with—

  I freeze.

  He smells like sex.

  His beard smells like sex.

  I push against his plaid shirt. My throat closes over and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can barely move.

  I’ve lost my job.

  I’ve lost my fiancé.

  Happy fucking birthday.

  Tears well in my eyes again, and this time there’s no holding them back. I turn on my heel and I run, flinging the door open. I bolt down the corridor to the lift, kicking off my heels as they sink too far into the plush cream carpet.

  “Maddie! Wait!”

  I jerk open the emergency exit stairwell door. The soft soles of my feet smart as they smack against the concrete, a sound that echoes as I fly down step after step. Tears blind me, and my breath bundles up tighter than a knitting ball somewhere in my chest.

  At the final landing I push the door open and stagger out onto the street. Dark clouds loom overhead as excess saliva
fills my mouth once more.

  Thunder claps so loud I jump, and from the corner of my eye I see the blonde woman from earlier walk back into my building. Overhead, the skies open and rain pitter-patters on my shoulders, my hair, then buckets down in sheets.

  Bile rises in my throat and I swallow, fighting to keep it down, but it’s no use.

  I stagger to the nearest trashcan, and I throw up.

  I hate him, with every part of my being, but I feel like I need him. I’m not me without Mike. Despite everything that’s happened, as I stand on the sidewalk, soaking wet, my throat aching from vomit, my heart aching from everything else, I want Mike to come after me. I want him to check I’m okay.

  He never does.

  Chapter Four

  Tate

  There are few things worse than television lighting, especially when you have the hangover from hell. Bright white spots sear straight through my eyeballs and drill into my brain, buzzing against the headache that’s already pounding away there.

  And to top it all off? Helen Grady, the reporter who’s currently looking at me as if she plans on eating me alive, stinks like tequila. Every time she leans closer, a waft of it creeps up my nose, making my stomach lurch.

  I’m fairly sure she’s done it just to spite me.

  “Tell us about the preparation you’ve done for your upcoming movie. And are you looking forward to it?”

  “Absolutely.” And I am. Being on an island, the sun beating down, women strutting ’round half-naked … it sounds like a dream. “I’ve had to work out”—I pause, and give a subtle flex of one of my triceps. Hopefully the guy on camera three got that—“a lot. But it’s what you do for art, you know? You push yourself.”

  “This movie will change everything for you, taking you from acting wannabe to Hollywood elite. Do you find it hard to believe that this time twelve months ago, before you and Mikaela started dating, you were just another actor on the street?”

  The hairs on my arms prickle to attention. Talk about a catty remark. “I admit, dating an ex-Victoria’s Secret angel hasn’t exactly hindered my career.” I pause for a laugh from the audience, and am rewarded in a timely fashion. “But before that I did perform in a few smaller-budget films, and some local stuff. You remember, don’t you, Helen?” I ask pointedly.

  “Mmhmm. So tell me, though, what do you consider to be your biggest career accomplishment to date?” Helen links her hands over her knee, leaning in as if truly interested in my answer to the question.

  She’s not. She already told me as much backstage when she brought up our romantic encounter on a beach in Barbados eighteen months back. We’d both agreed then it was a one-time thing, never to be mentioned again.

  It appeared she’d forgotten the “never to be mentioned part”.

  But the real trouble came when she discovered I’d forgotten the “sex” bit.

  “Well, Helen …” I pause, and flash her one of my smiles. You know the one. The one that’s all pearly whites. The one that graces the covers of magazines. The one that sells underwear, and convinces girls to drop their own.

  It doesn’t work on Helen, though. She simply arches one eyebrow and stares at me, waiting for my response.

  “Every role I play means a lot to me. I’ve loved them all, whether they’re bigger- budget productions or smaller-scale indie flicks. But more than loved—I’ve learnt from them. Each movie has taught me something about the world, about life—about myself.” About how many clichéd lines I can fit into an interview. “And how many people get to say that about their workplace?”

  “Not many.” Helen smiles, saccharine-sweet. Her nails press against her toned flesh, causing small grooves to appear on the backs of her hands. They’re nice hands—smooth skin, red nails, and from what I remember, after she jogged my memory, they know a thing or too when it comes to taking care of business. For a brief moment, I wonder if it’s worth going back there. If the sex was that good. “Unfortunately, most of us have more …” she clicks those fingers, as if searching for a word, “more professional careers to focus on.”

  No.

  I was right the first time.

  Screwing her had been a mistake.

  “Are you implying acting isn’t a proper profession?”

  “Not at all. I’m simply saying some of us have jobs that rely less on looks, and more on—”

  “So when Charlize had to wear the fake teeth, and had the bad skin in Monster. That was a role that relied on looks, right?”

  Helen licks her lips. “Well, yes, but—”

  “Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder? It was his stellar body that sold that role, wasn’t it?”

  You want to spar? Let’s do it, bitch.

  “I think you’re taking what I’m saying a little out of—”

  “And you. You’re a good-looking woman—are you saying that if you were larger, maybe a little disfigured, you’d still be hosting Entertainment Weekly? That you’d still have the opportunity to meet some of these ‘less’ professional actors?”

  Helen blinks, and for a moment I worry that she’s about to lose her contact lenses. Then she schools her features back into that calm and collected look she’s nailed so well and flashes me her deadly smile. “Tate, I’m sure you’re aware that this is an equal opportunity workplace. I have a unique set of skills—”

  “Ha!” I laugh. “Okay, Liam Neeson. Good to know I can call you if I get taken.”

  The audience laughs, and I know I’ve won them over. I know that our little dalliance will be the last thing on Helen’s mind when the network comes down on her like a ton of bricks because of her inappropriate line of questioning. I know that once more, I am in control, in the spotlight, as I always am in these interviews.

  That’s the thing about celebrity. The people want you to win. Everyone loves it when you succeed, especially when you’re America’s up-and-coming golden boy.

  “You’re such a card.” Helen’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “But it is funny you should mention seeking out someone’s daughter. What do you say to the claims Shade McPherson is making about your secret love child?”

  Silence.

  What the hell?

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that please?”

  “Yes. What. Do. You. Say. To. The. Claims …” She speaks each word slowly, as if she’s talking to a toddler.

  Sweat prickles my forehead. It sticks my shirt to my sides as I work to find the words. “I haven’t heard these claims before.”

  And I haven’t.

  Shade McPherson is a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.

  I like women—that’s no secret. But usually, my affairs are just that—my affairs. For the last twelve months, I’ve been with Mikaela Howards. The press prefers shots of the two of us together, happy love stories about our shared recovery from bulimia (not true), our mutual passion for animals (true) and our kinky bedroom activities (somewhat true, depending on the extent of your imagination—although I can only speak for myself). I’ve been fortunate enough to not have this kind of scandal land in my lap before.

  The news about Shade shocks me.

  Mostly because what if it’s real?

  Every eye in the room is focused on me, and I wonder how long ago Helen stopped speaking. For a brief moment, I panic. Sweat sticks to me like glue. My heart beats the hell up in my throat.

  Then, I regain control.

  Because that’s what I do. It’s what’s ensured I survive in this cutthroat town long before I was the subject of media attention.

  I flash that award-winning smile, and I straighten my muscled shoulders just like Janie, my publicist with the mostest, told me to.

  Deep breath in …

  Deep breath out.

  “I haven’t heard anything of those claims.”

  “So you did cheat on Mikaela with this woman?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “You absolutely did not have sex with this woman?”

  “Well, I—”<
br />
  “Then how do you explain this?” Helen turns to the screen behind her. A dark picture comes to life, two bodies moving back and forward against each other. A muffled groan plays over the speakers. A shaft of light from a curtain casts a spotlight that focuses right on my face—right as I throw my head back to the sky and shut my eyes, my face twisting in orgasmic glory.

  It’s not the scene which is the problem, however. It’s the time and date stamp—February 21, 2015. Three months into my relationship with Mikaela.

  Fuck.

  This time, it’s my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

  The clip pauses. The room is silent. You could hear a pin drop.

  Or a Golden Globes nomination for Helen.

  “Well?” Helen tilts her head to the side. Her blue eyes flash accusingly, and I wonder why I ever thought she was attractive. Now I see her for what she is—someone out to become the next big thing. Entertainment Weekly is a small show local to California. I should be thanking my lucky stars that Shade didn’t sell the tape to E.

  “I’m surprised they let you play that during prime time,” I say, stalling while I try and collect my thoughts.

  “Of course, we have this edited for television viewing at home, but I thought you’d appreciate seeing the full show for stronger impact.” Helen smiles again. “So? What are your thoughts?”

  It’s hot, too hot. My collar tightens around my throat, and I grip the arms of my seat as if it’s a life raft. Shit. Don’t panic. Just breathe. Don’t say something stupid. Don’t—

  “It’s not one of my better performances.”

  The audience is silent. Something hard clatters against the floor. I’d guess it’s a clipboard, and that Janie’s just walked out.

  “Do you think cheating is funny, Mr Masters? That women like Shade and Mikaela, your loving girlfriend, are to be laughed at?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then why did you cheat? Why did you abuse Mikaela’s trust?” She’s a dog with a bone, only twice as vicious.

  “Abuse seems a little rough …” I mumble, but it’s too late. Voices rumble in the audience, and the faces that looked at me with adoration before now cloud with anger and disappointment.