Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  I rub at my temples. Fuck, why do I have to be hungover for this? I should never have gone to back to Johnny’s place. He always knows how to party.

  Helen closes the interview with an announcement to camera, then the lights dim and finally, fucking finally, I can see again. She turns to me, and the smile on her face isn’t the one that landed her this gig. This smile is vicious.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask, pushing to my feet. “You know my publicist is going to have your ass.”

  Helen shrugs. “You’re the douche who slept around, Tate. Not me.”

  I could defend my honour, but she doesn't deserve it. I shake my head and walk to the side of the set, pulling my phone from my pocket. Five texts, all from Janie, berating me for being a dick and thinking with one, too.

  As I walk past the audience, still seated in their chairs, the heat of angry gazes warms my back.

  That’s the thing about Hollywood. They love to love you—until they don’t.

  The turn of their hatred can be a thousand times more intense.

  Chapter Five

  Madison

  When life falls apart, most women have two sure-fire feel-good solutions: Chocolate and vodka.

  I am lucky enough to have three.

  Chocolate. Vodka. And my new best friend, Chase. No. Space.

  No.

  Jase.

  “One more.” I push the empty glass back across the wooden bar top to Jase, the bartender, who is apparently here in Sydney at the Clockwork Orange for the night ‘filling in for a friend’. Ha. Whatever that means. Is that what the girl sucking Mike off today was doing? Filling in for a friend?

  Jase looks at me, cocking his head to the side.

  Ha.

  Cock.

  That’s such a funny word.

  “Are you sure you need another?” he asks in that slow, sexy drawl he has. Or, I think it’s slow and sexy.

  Cock.

  That’s a funny word.

  “I lost my job. My fiancé cheated on me. And I don’t have any shoes. See?” I lean back against my seat and wiggle one bare foot in the air high above the bar for Jase to view the proof. “I am work-less, love-less and shoe-less, Chase. My life needs more vodka.”

  “You know if you’re not wearing shoes, I shouldn't be letting you in here.” The man behind the bar sighs as I yank my foot back down. Oops.

  He walks over to a bottle on the back bar, then pours me a nip, pushing it across the counter. “Straight up. You need a shot.”

  “Thank you.” I nod, and take the glass, my twelfth—or is that twentieth?—of the night, shooting it back. It’s fresh and smooth, so smooth it—

  “You gave me water, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did.” Jase nods. “And I’m about to call you a cab to get you home safely.”

  I shake my head, my hands dropping to my sides. “Job-less. Love-less. Shoe-less. Home-less. And now …” I direct my filthiest glare in Jase’s direction. Or, I glare at one of him. The closest one. “Now I am vodka-less, too.”

  “And tomorrow, if you keep doing these water shots, you will be hangover-less.” Jase refills my glass with more water, and I scowl and knock it back, wiping my hand across the back of my mouth to catch any spills. He takes a sip of the beer that’s been sitting in front of him all night—seriously, how long does it take someone to drink a damn beer?—and gives me a smile.

  I clutch at the bar as the room moves about for a little, then settle farther into my seat. It’s been so long since I drank like this. I don’t drink. I go to functions, sip on champagne and smile for the cameras. Always in control. I have one glass of red with Mike after dinner, because it’s good for heart health. I have—

  “The odd cheeky drink at lunch, I know.” Jase nods, and I pinch my wrist. Apparently, I was speaking aloud. “We have discussed all this.”

  “No one likes a know-it-all, Chase.” I shake my head. “That will not win you the ladies.”

  Jase shrugs, and an easy smile crosses his lips. He’s really quite handsome—no, wait. I squint—yes, he’s a babe. What a hottie. Maybe he should be my fiancé.

  “I don’t seem to have any complaints from my girlfriend.” He picks up a glass from the wire rack in front of him and grabs the tea towel from his shoulder, polishing it. “Although it doesn’t hurt that she’s far smarter than me.”

  Ugh. He has that dreamy lovesick look in his eyes that some guys get when they talk about the women they love. That some guys—

  “There.” I snap my fingers and point at his face. “That look right there. Mike never had that with me. He was kind of …” I school my features into the steadiest poker face I can muster. “Here. Not this.“ I relax my cheek muscles and let my face go all slidey and gooey and lovey. Or, I think it goes slidey. And Space—no, Chase seems to find it amusing.

  A phone rings, and Jase fishes in his pocket then holds the cell to his ear. “Lia. Hi.”

  I take my phone out of my purse and stare at it. No new messages. No missed calls.

  That’s how little the man who was supposed to marry me in two weeks’ time cares. Not even enough to call.

  Anger wells inside me, and I have an irresistible urge to throw the phone, to watch it smash and break into a million little pieces. To let this hurt that’s bubbling inside me out.

  I do the next best thing.

  I walk over to the beer that’s been sitting in front of Jase all night, then I place my phone in it.

  And I turn on my bare heel, and leave.

  ***

  Someone has taken a baby bird and stuffed a megaphone down its throat, and is squeezing its little chest until it screams.

  “Shut up.” I pull the blanket over my head, desperate to create a physical barrier between me and the incessant bleating.

  It’s muffled.

  It’s not quite as piercing as it was before.

  But damn it, it’s still there.

  I snake one arm out of the safety of the blanket and flail about wildly, hoping to make the noise stop. Hoping to—

  Oh God.

  Not hoping to hit human flesh.

  I jerk my hand back to the safety of my chest. Memories from yesterday come flooding back in. Work. Courtney getting my promotion. Mike and the blonde. My body weight in vodka at the bar with some bartender named—

  Jase?

  I poke my head out the top of the covers and squint one eye open.

  The tuft of blond hair looking back at me is sadly too familiar, and not belonging to a sexy bartender after all. Not that I feel as if I could have taken him home, anyhow. Five-year plan girls don’t do one-night stands.

  I fling the covers back and jerk to a sit, then flail around, trying to hit cancel on the alarm clock. It takes me at least three attempts before I end up yanking the black cord out of the back and throwing the clock in rage.

  Softly.

  Onto the quilt, because the idea of making more noise right now hurts my head.

  “Hey, baby cakes.”

  Mike’s morning voice is gruff as always.

  Sexy.

  I used to find that sexy.

  A pang of sadness washes over me again. He cheated on me. On my birthday.

  I do a quick glance down at my body. Thank God I’m still wearing panties. Then I scowl. I was drunk as all get-out. Why the hell didn’t he try and have sex with me?

  Oh, hell. What sort of a screw-up am I? Who gets upset that their cheating fiancé didn’t take advantage of them?

  “I’m glad I found you.” His hand is warm as it circles my lower back, but I don’t turn back to look at him. I can’t. “Really, we’re going to have to get used to seeing each other around. I mean, Clockwork Orange?”

  He gives a soft laugh, and I sigh. He has a point. Clockwork Orange is a bar known for the amount of press people who go there. It’s like a meeting point, where deals are struck and stories shared. Am I going to have to stop going there to avoid him?

  Then I think of everything els
e. The premieres. Launches. Even though I’m now working on a magazine that’s rooted in a more alternative lifestyle, there will still be crossover events.

  My stomach knots. “I guess we’ll see each other at lots of things …”

  “Of course.” Mike nods. “We were just talking about the Scanlan luncheon last night. There’s Storey Wines later in the week, too. It’s all part of the game.”

  Only I’m not so sure I want to play anymore.

  I glance around the room, trying to piece it all together. My pantsuit is puddled on the floor, my Tiffany earrings glinting in the corner of the stark white space. The small bin in the corner overflows with chocolate wrappers—Kit Kats, a mini Mars Bar, and a whole packet of Tim Tams. Mike’s mobile rests on the bedside table next to me and—yep. His most recent call is from a random Sydney number I can only guess is the bar.

  I drank vodka. I drunk dialled. And then I ate too much chocolate. Stellar effort, Madison. And I wonder why I’m not being promoted to deputy editor of Lola.

  “Here.” My cell lands in my lap, the screen blinking to life. “You threw your phone in the bartender’s drink, but he managed to dry it out.”

  I turn to face Mike. A sleepy smile pulls at his lips. Stubble lines his jaw, and I hate that seeing him hurts. I hate that he can look so sexy, that all I want to do is crawl into his strong, safe arms when that’s the last place I need to be.

  I want him to hold me.

  Instead, I utter the four worst words in the human language.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We do.” Mike glances down at his hands twisting the bed sheet.

  I suck in a deep breath. “What you did was a real dick move, Mike. I’m not impressed.” I pause, pressing my lips together. “But just give me a reason, say sorry, tell me this was a once-off, and—”

  “Madison, stop.” Mike’s soft hand wraps around my arm. “Just stop.”

  “Stop?” I widen my eyes. “Don’t you think that’s something that you should have done yesterday?”

  “I should have.” He shakes his head. My hands twist the sheets, the desperate need to hold onto something, anything, consuming me. Who am I without Mike? Who am I without my job?

  “The thing is, I should have ended things earlier. I thought Canada was a one-time thing, that yesterday we were just fooling around, but then …” Mike runs his hands through his hair. “I felt free when I was with her. She made me feel like I was the man, and like what I said mattered.”

  Something inside of me shatters. Please, stop talking. Don’t finish that sentence, Mike.

  “Then I realised that I need some time. I need a break from us. From you.”

  Oh my God. Tears race to my eyes and I blink them back, desperate to stay in control.

  “Look, just give me a few months. We’ll postpone the wedding, organise a—”

  “We can't just postpone a wedding, Michael.” I shake my head. “We have everything organised. It’s two weeks from now!” I clutch at straws as panic fills my chest. “Everyone’s invited. Everything’s booked.”

  The words leave my mouth, but I’m not so sure I mean them. How can I marry a man who likes someone else?

  “Then let’s not postpone it,” he says, and I nod. “Let’s just break up.”

  His words wallop me in the gut. I clutch at my stomach as my world falls to pieces, each one slicing at my heart. But I love you.

  “I need time to just … be me.”

  “But I love you.” My voice is so small, but I know he hears it. “After what you did I wish I didn't, but I do.”

  He doesn't reply.

  And then, I break. No matter how hard I try to turn my feelings off, to stash them away, I can’t. I sob against his chest and he holds me close, the familiar pine scent washing over me. It’s comforting and soothing and everything I love—and it’s in the one place where I don't want it to be.

  He traces gentle circles on my back. And then, when the tempest has subsided and my tears reduced to a single sniff every few minutes, I leave.

  He lets me.

  Chapter Six

  Madison

  I passed the delivery of my new couch on the way up to floor five. Not floor eight. Floor eight, where the white leather beauty will be being installed in Courtney’s office.

  I know she’ll send it down. Say she doesn’t want it, that it’s mine. But I can’t have it. Firstly, because it was the couch of success. Secondly because I can no longer afford it, without Mike’s inheritance money behind me. Now, it will just be a reminder of the job and the man I don’t have.

  Thirdly, because Yoko is apparently anti-all leather goods.

  As I’m discovering right now.

  “Put. It. Down.” She frowns, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes narrowed at me.

  I look at my beloved Coach. What has it ever done to her?

  “Now.”

  All the fight has left me. After this morning’s emotional confrontation with Mike, I’m as empty as a packet of drunk-binge-eaten Tim Tams.

  I would know.

  With care, I rest the black bag on the floor by the giant blue yoga ball she has pointed to as ‘mine’. Courtney’s photos are still in frames all around the desk—her with her boyfriend. Her and I at some function or other. Her beautiful blonde hair shining in the sun on some tropical island.

  I pick that one up, and look closer. Palm trees create a canopy overhead as she sips God knows what out of a pineapple. It looks like heaven. That’s right. She went to some island retreat for Live Well last year.

  Maybe I can be sent on a research trip …

  “Are you going to lick that photo? You look like you’re about to lick that photo.”

  I manage a half-smile and turn to face my new boss. She’s wearing Crocs.

  Ew.

  “Probably not.” I place the photo back down. “Not unless someone wraps it with bacon.”

  The poor woman looks as if I just slapped her.

  “Shit, sorry.” I rub at my temple. A strand of brown hair falls across my face, and I flick it back into place. For the first time in years, I didn’t wash it before work. Instead, I spent time packing some things into a small overnight bag, ready to go to the one place no twenty-three-year-old ever wants to return to for an extended stay—my parents’ house.

  “Look, I know this isn’t what you’re used to upstairs, but I try to live with minimal impact on the environment, and while you’re a representative of the Live Well brand, you’d do well to keep in tune with what we stand for. Sustainability. Animal-friendly … handbags.” She glances at the piece of leather that cost me one month’s rent. “And shoes.”

  “Got it.” My tongue is thick against my teeth.

  The morning is spent with Yoko as she shows me through the magazine, what they’re up to, and what she expects from me during the first month. Since Courtney has the more dramatic change in role and needs to get a thorough handover from Kara, they’ve just moved me right on over with no transition period. Goodbye, fashion. Hello, fairtrade.

  “Hot products. I know it’s traditionally a spread for juniors, but I thought it’d be a good introduction for you to the magazine.” Yoko places a silver key on my desk. “This is for the storeroom. All the items we’ve been sent for this issue are in there. I have them catalogued and inventoried; this isn’t like how they do things upstairs. We notice if things go missing.”

  I widen my eyes. Seriously? Yoko thinks I’m going to steal her hemp hand cream, or whatever other eco shit they have in there?

  My fiancé just left me, I want to scream, but the words stick in my throat. I couldn’t care less about pilfering her products.

  Unless she has an eco vodka.

  Then, despite my hangover, maybe I’m interested.

  I make my way to the storeroom and shut the door behind me. Piles of boxes and bags are littered over the polished concrete floor. I think of Chloe and an unorganised mess like this. She’d have a heart attack.

  A
brown paper bag has a cute red bow on top. It’s sweet and unassuming—very on trend. With hands that shake due to alcohol deficiency, I pull the ribbon loose. Inside the bag is a jar of something white and creamy. The lid twists off and I lean forward to take a sniff, only I’m dizzy, and the tip of my nose dips into the gel inside.

  “Get it together, M,” I mutter to myself, then wipe the cool cream in, trying not to ruin my rushed makeup job from earlier this morning. The cream is thick and smooth, and the cold temperature is heaven on my alcohol-ravaged skin. The scent of honey wafts up my nose, and I smile. Maybe I can still enjoy beauty products after all. Maybe working on this mag won’t be so bad, especially if there are more products like this one.

  Standing, I lift it up, holding the jar under the light so I can read the small-print label better.

  “Placenta cre—argh!”

  I drop the jar. It smashes against the hard concrete. Pieces of glass and cream explode around me. I’m the volcano in a placenta explosion.

  “What on …” The door flies open, and Yoko’s concerned face looks in. She eyes the mess at my feet, then looks up at me, one eyebrow arched.

  “Sorry.” I grimace. “I’m so sorry. I’ll …” I trail off. Do I really want to clean placenta? That’s been in someone’s vagina. I’m not anti-lesbianism, but seriously. Placenta.

  I look up at the ceiling, as if I can see straight through the concrete floors to the Lola offices. Please take me, dear god of fashion. Beam me up, Gucci!

  Thankfully, Yoko calls an intern in to tidy the mess I’ve just made, and I make my way to the bathroom, where I spend a solid thirty minutes trying to get globs of cream from my pants, my shirt, and, delightfully, my hair. Then, I head back to the storeroom, ready to select some more products to feature.

  When Yoko ducks out for her mid-morning yoga break, I jump on the computer and begin one of the most painful tasks of my life.

  I cancel my wedding.

  ***

  At midday, the elevators ding open and Courtney walks out—and she looks good. Blonde hair is blow-dried in ringlets over her shoulders, and she’s somehow gotten her hands on the new Camilla dress—I know they’re near impossible to get because I’m wait-listed myself. It’s as if she underwent one of those makeovers that only happen in bad teen movies—this time yesterday she was just a regular magazine employee. Now, she’s a freaking supermodel, well on her way to becoming the next Anna Wintour.