Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Taking off my sunglasses, I pick up the tube. I glance back over at the gaggle of girls. Red looks my way with a flirty smile, and I wave the bottle at her. After all, I can’t do my back alone.

  “I don’t want to see her hands putting cream where it doesn’t belong,” Janie calls as she walks away.

  “Fine,” I call back. She didn’t say anything about her lip—

  “Or her lips. Or any other part of her anatomy. And by cream, we are talking sun cream only.”

  Shit.

  My sister is good.

  ***

  The island is idyllic. Tall palm trees form a wall that lines the white sandy beach. A cliff rises stark and bold in the distance. Even the driftwood appears as if it’s been strategically placed to create the perfect beachside setting.

  Then again, maybe it has. After all, those set dressers have to do something to earn those cheques.

  Janie marches up the pier to the hotel reception and sorts the room shit out while I take out my cell and step through the reception to the street.

  The “street” is a sandy track. Golf carts park in a line out front of the resort gates.

  A Balinese woman sits on the side of the road, weaving long green leaves together. She’s focused on her work, 100 per cent—she pays zero attention to me as I watch her. To her side, a child squats. He’d be no more than six, and he tugs on his mother’s braids, his dark skin blemished by flies as they zoom in and out.

  They’re both skinny. Ribs pop like xylophones along the boy’s side. His mother’s arms are so thin I could wrap my hand around her wrist multiple times.

  The boy looks up, and dark, inky eyes stare into mine.

  “Hi.” I give a small wave.

  The boy frowns and chatters away to his mother in a language I don’t understand. She looks up at me and frowns, then gathers her belongings in a backpack, as if somehow I’ve interrupted her.

  “No.” I step forward, one hand outstretched. “Don’t go.”

  She ignores me, and I reach for my wallet. I pull out a Benjamin and try to hand it to her, but she shuffles away, her back to me. The boy gives one look back as his mamma tugs on his arm and leads him down the road, but a sharp yank corrects him to look forward again.

  “What the hell …?” All I did was say hi. I hadn’t known it’d somehow ruin her basket vibe.

  Pocketing my wallet, I open my messages and scroll, then dial when I reach Mikaela. My ‘girlfriend’.

  The phone goes straight to message bank, no doubt due to her inter-flight status.

  “Hey babe. It’s me. Tate,” I clarify, although how many other guys she has ringing her from my number is likely nil. “I’m just calling about … well, there’s this chick from my past. She’s an idiot, and—just call me back, okay?”

  Next up, I dig out a number I haven’t used in years. A number I never thought I’d call again.

  And once more, it goes straight to voicemail.

  “Listen, Shade? It’s Tate. Tate Masters. I just need to talk to you about … well, call me back. Okay?”

  I sigh, pulling the phone away from my ear. I’ve never been much good at leaving messages. And yet, this afternoon I think I’ve hit a new low.

  An inability to verbalise to my girlfriend just how badly I’ve screwed up.

  ***

  Madison

  There’s only one last thing I need to do before I leave Sydney, and it’s the one thing that will hurt me the most.

  Visit Mike’s grandmother.

  For as long as I can remember, Betty Storey has been a prominent matronly figure in my life. When Mike and I first started dating, she invited me over for ‘tea’, a thinly veiled attempt to vet her approval over the new woman in her grandson, the last surviving man in her familial line’s, life.

  Since then, she’s become something of an icon to me. I love her with all my heart. Losing her hurts almost as much as losing him.

  Why don’t they sing about that in the love songs? How sad breaking up with family can be?

  I pull my car up the long drive to the home and turn off the engine. Dust motes dance in the filtered afternoon sunlight as my boots hit the gravel, the picture of rural Australia, albeit only a two-hour drive from the city.

  I suck in a breath of fresh country air, and let it all out. Sometimes I wonder how Mike and I ever survived in the city, coming from this small country town where everything was so much simpler. Where life was just so free and easy.

  Then I think of Asos and their delivery zones, and I’m okay with it.

  I wave at Tammy on the front desk as I head down the hall to Betty’s room, as I do at least once a week. She’s one of my favourite humans, and even though Mike is often too busy to make the trip out to see his grandmother, I always have room in my schedule for a Betty visit or two.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I knock on the door and pause in the doorway. Betty opens her lake-blue eyes, looking over at me. “Maureen?”

  I purse my lips, pausing for a moment. “No, Gran, it’s me. Madison.” I walk into the room, folding down into the seat beside her bed and holding out the cupcakes with faux glitter on top I bought from Sparkle Cupcakery in the city. I love the mini cakes for their decadent decoration; Gran no doubt adores them for the lack of teeth required to chew their light and fluffy goodness.

  “I got red velvet, cinnamon apple, and vanilla with frangipani.” I open the white box, balancing it on the small table in front of my fiancé’s grandmother.

  Ex-fiancé.

  God, it’s going to be hard to get used to doing that.

  “Thank you.” Betty rubs her hands together, her eyes alive and alert.

  “So, has Mike been to see you recently?” I ask, trying to be as subtle as I can. Has he told her yet?

  Betty pauses, her lips pursed, then shakes her head. “No, no. Not since he dropped off my invitation to the engagement.”

  Somehow, I’m not surprised to find out Betty is just as in the dark about our crumbling relationship as I was. “Well, unfortunately, Mike and I are …” I trail off and bite into the red velvet cupcake. Even though I know it’s moist, the crumbs turn dry in my mouth. “Well, we’re on a … break. For a while. Just while we sort things out.”

  While I travel to a tropical island and hope your grandson and only living heir gets over the office skank.

  “Oh.” Betty frowns. “That’s unusual.”

  I shrug, as if my fiancé and I going on a break happens all the time.

  Ex-fiancé.

  Frick!

  “Well, you know men. Sometimes they just need some space to find themselves,” I hedge.

  “Dear, I do know men.” Betty grasps my wrist, her face turning serious. “And I just want you to know that I love you, okay? No matter what that dickhead grandson of mine has done.”

  My heart shatters, and I bite my lower lip to stop the tears from falling. Somehow, without me saying a thing, Betty has seen what I tried to keep secret.

  And I love her all the more for that.

  Chapter Ten

  Tate

  I pull the phone away and hit end call. Relief lets my shoulders drop, some of the tension fading away. I’ve done all I can. I’ve called both women. I’ve left voicemails.

  Now I just have to sit and wait … right?

  I swallow down the question in my throat and hit refresh on my emails when I hear it.

  Snap.

  Snap, snap.

  My skin prickles. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  My head snaps up. Two guys race toward me, cameras at the ready.

  “Tate! Any comment on the cheating rumours?”

  “Tate! What message would you like to give the mother of your child?”

  I turn on my heel to head inside the hotel. This island was supposed to be deserted. Watertight. The most media-free place to shoot.

  The roar of voices fills the air. With one hand on the lobby door, I turn my head over my shoulder. Ten, fifteen, no�
�twenty men and women with cameras run up from the doors of the resort. Their voices are loud and brash as they call out. Words like ‘whore’ and ‘bastard’ and ‘cheater’ disturb paradise. Birds screech as they fly away, rattled from this fierce interruption.

  And me?

  I stand there.

  Frozen.

  This hasn’t gone away. This hasn’t all blown over, like Janie had said it would. And worse? I feel guilty. Even though I know that deep down, I haven’t done anything wrong.

  Only risk your sister’s baby’s future.

  My palms clam up.

  “Security!”

  Janie’s voice is shrill by my ear. She races in front of me and pushes me back toward the hotel, toward safety, away from the noise. But they don’t stop. They step closer, cameras flashing, voices calling, a wave of noise that makes me feel worse and worse with every passing moment. It doesn’t matter that they don’t know the truth. Somehow, each of the names they call me become my own. They become my titles, and I wither under their glare.

  Kevin and Bob, two security guards Global Film Enterprises have hired, come barrelling out. Bob pulls one door closed while Kev radios for backup, from who I have no idea. And still I stand there, frozen. Protected from full focus by my pregnant sister.

  I am the worst scum there is.

  “Go!” Janie hisses, and shoves at my shoulder.

  This time, the word sinks in. Leave. I have to leave. “I’ll go to my room.”

  “The room’s been bugged. I have someone on it now.” Kevin shakes his head. Janie shoots daggers at him, as if Kevin compromised the room himself.

  One reporter sneaks under Bob’s massive arm and comes up close. His camera flashes in my face, too bright, too near, too loud.

  “How does it feel to fall from grace?” he asks. He smells like cigarettes and sweat. “You like taking advantage of women then leaving them to pick up the pieces?”

  “I …” I work my jaw. I have no idea how to answer that. No idea what I should say.

  It turns out, I don’t have to. Because while I’m standing there like a dickhead, my sister is busy kneeing the reporter in the balls.

  “Go!” She jabs an elbow into my side.

  “I’ll head down the beach, away,” I whisper.

  “I don’t give a shit where, just take a bloody hat and a fuck-off pair of sunnies,” Janie swears quietly, then raises her arms above her head. “Everybody! This island has been cleared for private use by Global Film Enterprises, and if you don’t get the hell out of here, I am calling the cops.”

  The voices continue as I make my great escape. Kevin follows, keeping a close eye on me. My heart hammers and I race along the sand, guilt making my stomach churn. This could be the thing that ruins the perfect deal. This could be the way for the Global heads to cut me loose once and for all.

  I’ve built my brand on being the golden boy.

  And now I’m almost at the top, there’s just so far to fall.

  ***

  Madison

  The flight to Bali is on one of those budget airlines where you have to buy your own food and bring your own headphones and sleep mask. Because the magazine booked it, I’m expecting to be seated in business.

  I’m not expecting to be sitting in cattle next to a man with a waist that folds over the seat rest between us and encroaches into my personal space.

  Nor am I expecting him to be chain-eating peanuts.

  I hoist my carry-on luggage over one shoulder and attempt to throw my bag into the overhead lockers, which I can barely reach thanks to my five-foot-nothing frame. The space left free between the other passenger’s bags is decidedly narrow, and the momentum from pushing my Guess overnighter forward sees me all but falling on Peanut Face when my bag refuses to jigsaw into the tiny space.

  I have at it again, hoisting and squishing and pushing like there’s no tomorrow, until a cool touch on my arm causes me to stop.

  “Miss? Why don’t you do this later so other passengers can get through?” The air hostess is all smiles as she indicates the line of tired and cranky travellers behind me.

  “Because what if there’s no space left?” This is a problem I’ve never had to deal with before. Usually, Mike stows the luggage overhead. He’s tall; I’m short. It is just one of those cute things about us.

  Was.

  Was one of the cute things about us.

  “I’ll take it for you and stow it somewhere farther down the plane.” The flight attendant wraps her hand around my bag’s leather straps.

  I tighten my grip. I don’t have Mike here. How will I even get to my bag when the flight lands? What if someone takes it? What if—

  “Please let go, ma’am.” The flight attendant keeps her Colgate smile in place, but I can see the daggers in her eyes.

  “I really want it to go. Up. There.” Each word is punctuated by a tug in my direction.

  “Lady, just give the hostie your bag,” a man behind me says, a sigh clear in his tone. Down the line, agreement ripples. Panic knots my shoulders. I tug at the bag, but what’s the point? I can’t put it up top. I can’t even lift the damn thing without feeling like I’m going to sprain a muscle. More people grumble about the hold-up.

  I’m on my own.

  It’s me against the world.

  My fingers unlock from around the bag. The flight attendant staggers back, and this time she doesn’t hide the anger in her eyes with a smile.

  “I’ll pop that somewhere safe for you.”

  I wonder where that ‘safe’ place will be, and try to quash down my concerns over her throwing it out of the plane, or stowing it in the sewerage compartment, or whatever the hostie bag-stowing equivalent of spitting in your food is.

  Turning, I flop down into my seat, then slam my body to the left as I connect with the sweaty flesh of my neighbour. I press one hand to the bridge of my nose. This is bringing ‘kick you when you’re down’ to a whole new level.

  “Fly by yourself often?” He cracks another shell, and flakes of nut float through the air to land on his maroon T-shirt.

  “First time, actually.” I fly a lot for work, to fashion shows and shoots and events throughout the country, and occasionally overseas. Usually, someone from the team comes with me. Occasionally, Mike will need to go, too, and then we’ll book the same flight. Or sometimes, he’ll just take some annual leave and we’ll spend a few days away together.

  I squeeze my hands together in my lap.

  Chubby fingers wrap around my arm. “Don’t worry. I do it all the time. You’re gonna be fine.”

  I smile up at my unlikely hero. Gratitude. “Thanks.”

  He beams back at me, and something warm inside me shifts. “Peanut?” He offers me the paper bag.

  I don’t eat peanuts. They’re deceivingly fatty and you have to peel them yourself, resulting in possible nail damage.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I reach into the bag and take out a nut, then proceed to spend the following five minutes attempting to crack the thing, finally giving in and listening to a lesson on peanut freedom from my new seat friend and thus becoming better educated in the art.

  Two hours later, and my new best friend is softly snoring beside me, his head lolling on oversized shoulders, and I pull out a notepad and pen from my handbag.

  I open up the moleskin to a fresh page and run my hand over the smooth cream paper. Sucking in a deep breath, I let the smell of crisp new stationery hit me, and I crease down the spine of the book, ensuring the page sits flat. New job. New work journal. New life.

  After scratching out today’s date, I tap the pen against my lip. Seconds later, I start to write a checklist of things to make sure I assess and cover for my article.

  Yoga Retreat

  Accommodation style

  Food

  Location

  Ease of transport

  ‘Zen’ quality

  Number of staff

  Unique factors

  Yoga excellenc
e

  I pause, my lips puckered. How will I assess the quality of yoga, seeing as I’ve never done it before?

  Seconds later, I strike a line through all the items I’ve listed before, and turn to a new page.

  Yoga – a beginner’s guide

  How to achieve inner peace

  Meditation in Miu-Miu/Marc Jacobs

  I smile. That’s more like it. Maybe I can still somehow put my own stamp on this piece after all.

  Rising from defeat with the help of the Downward Dog

  The intro makes me grin. God, if only life were that simple. The reality is, I can’t imagine the ache in my heart ever subsiding. It’s a brutal pain that stabs at me every time I think of Mike. Lola.

  My whole world.

  As the flight attendants walk the aisle, I scribble down one more note about scouting locations for the shoot component. Yoko hired a local photographer to come and shoot the article, but has scheduled it for the end of the first week to ensure I have time to assess the best places and angles for the article’s images.

  Then, I lean back, pressing my head against the leather rest, and close my eyes, the gentle roar of the plane’s engines somehow lulling me into a soft sleep, hoping that when I wake up, everything will hurt a little less.

  ***

  “Welcome to Deep Springs Wellness Retreat.” A tall, tanned blonde clasps her hands together as if in prayer and nods at me. “I’m Annalise. Namaste.”

  “Namaste.” I nod back. I don’t clasp my hands, though. They’re too busy fighting the sweat that makes them slide as they struggle to keep my carry-on balanced on top of my luggage. “My name is Madison Winters, and I’m here from—”

  “Live Well magazine. Of course.” Annalise’s voice is calm. Zen. Annoying.

  She nods again, and I nod again, and then she nods again. It’s like we’re bobbing for apples. “We are looking forward to treating you to nine uninterrupted days of pure bliss.”

  I clench my bag tighter. “Seven, actually.”

  “No, no. I have nine on my sheet here.” Annalise looks at the piece of paper in front of her, but her tone doesn’t change.