Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tate

  For two hours, Madison surfs with me. At first, she can barely paddle out, but by the end of the session, she’s gained some kind of balance, and even pushes to her knees twice without falling off. She takes to surfing like a duck to water, and as the grin spreads across her face when she nails that first drop, I want to fist pump. Hell yeah!

  “That was amazing!” she breathes, her brown eyes alight with a fire I haven’t seen since I met her. She drops the board on the sand and does this little jump thing, as if she’s just that damn happy.

  God, she’s hot. Something about her, something that goes beyond her looks just speaks to me.

  “It’s a rush.” I can’t help but smile along with her. Her excited energy is contagious.

  “I just—I’ve never done something like that before! It was like flying, and—”

  My lips have a mind of their own. One moment, I’m standing there, like a normal guy who's watching some insanely hot bunny revel in the joy of her first surf; the next she’s in my arms, close to my chest, and my lips make a beeline for hers, desperate to connect.

  She stills, the smile on her face slowly falling. Her lower lip, so plump and pink, trembles, and damn, do I want to take it between my teeth, tug on it, then make it better. Her eyes hone in on my mouth, which moves on cruise control and powers toward hers.

  At the last minute, I come to my senses. My lips jerk up and press against her forehead, but it takes willpower, so much willpower. She shivers in my arms, and I draw her a little closer as if I can protect her from myself.

  Then, I push her away.

  And pushing her away is hard, but keeping her in my arms is harder. Yep. You can take that one all the way to the pun bank.

  “Looks like you guys certainly had some fun out there.”

  Shit.

  Mikaela.

  I turn around to see her saunter down the beach, an easy smile on those collagen lips. The question in her eyes is clear, and I struggle to remember why I let Madison come out surfing with me in the first place.

  “I was just … when I got here you were late, and I …” Madison trails off. Mikaela slinks an arm around my waist, then pulls it back a little so she doesn’t get too damp. I notice, and from the way Madison’s eyes widen slightly before she schools them back into line, she notices, too.

  And I hate that I don't hate that.

  As if sensing my thought, Mikaela’s grip around my waist tightens. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  In silence, the three of us walk up toward the pool, Madison stopping to collect her handbag and dress on the way. When we reach a reserved table with a view of the ocean and the sky that’s painted in pinks and yellows above it, we slide in, Mikaela and I on one side, Madison pausing on the other.

  “Can I have a minute?” she asks before sitting. “I just need to … freshen up.”

  “Sure,” Mikaela says, and Madison leaves.

  As soon as the reporter is out of earshot, my “girlfriend” turns on me. “Can you not drool over her in public?” she hisses.

  “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

  “You looked like you were going to make out with her before I came and interrupted on the beach.”

  Oh.

  There was that.

  “Well you weren’t fooling her, either. The way you moved your arm so I wouldn't get you wet after the surf?” I scoff. “How is it possible you could cling to me for the months it took to get this role, and yet now you can’t stand close enough to convince one young reporter for five seconds that we’re in love?”

  “Sorry.” Mikaela shakes her head. “I guess it’s just a lot easier to do when you act at least a little interested in me, Tate. When you’re making goo-goo eyes at someone else, my motivation slips.”

  “How very ‘actor’ of you, darling,” I say, smiling, then putting on a high-pitched voice in mimicry of her. “What’s my motivation?”

  “Right now, it’s a huge pay check.” Mikaela winks at me and straightens her shoulders, a smile plastered on her face. Madison walks toward us, her hair now secured in a bun on top of her head. “So shut up and play the part.”

  ***

  Madison

  “Okay, Madison. Get a grip.” I brace myself against the white porcelain sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Strands of hair clump around my face, and my cheeks have this red glow—I look like I’ve just been screwed, or like I want to be.

  When he pulled me against him on the beach, I lost all sense of time. I thought we were about to kiss—and then he held me in his arms instead, tight against his hard body. I shiver, remembering how perfect that felt. Like danger and safety, all rolled into one.

  Then Mikaela came along, only now that I suspect foul play, I noticed things. I saw the calculated look in her eye as she assessed the situation, and the way she wrapped her arm around Tate’s body but didn't get close enough to dampen her outfit. It was confirmation that this was just for show—a photo opportunity not to be spoiled by a bit of misplaced ocean spray.

  Now, I just have to go and sit down with Hollywood’s hottest up-and-comers and convince them to share their secret with me.

  Oh. And somehow not trip, slip, and land on Tate’s dick in the process, no matter how much my stupid body seems intent on doing so.

  I twist my hair up into a bun, hoping it helps me look somewhat more professional, and slip my white dress over my head. My arms shake as I move, my pulse pounding at my wrist. A mixture of adrenaline and nerves has me skittier than a cat on a tin roof.

  I need to calm down, stat.

  And that’s when I think it. Yoga. I can do this. It’s all about deep breathing. In through the nose. Out through the nose.

  In through the nose. Out through the nose.

  I can do this.

  I can.

  I raise my shoulders to my ears and then roll them back, straightening my spine. “You got this,” I say, just as one of the B-grade actresses I recognise from the movie walks into the bathroom, giving me a strange look.

  I don't let it rattle me, though. I’m in control.

  I push through the doors and walk over to the table, now in shadow from the dark storm clouds swelling overhead. Sitting, I riffle through my bag for my phone, placing it on the wooden surface between us, ready to record.

  Tate and Mikaela are ready for me, game faces on. She smiles up at him, and he has an arm around the back of her chair. They don’t realise the game’s about to change. Two might be company, and three is very much a crowd.

  “I suppose you’d like to know the truth about that silly video it looked like Tate was in.” Mikaela laughs, a tinkling elegant sound. “It’s amazing what Photoshop can do these days.”

  “No.” I glance down at my phone, but I don't hit record. Not yet. “I want to know the truth about why you’re faking this relationship.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tate

  Mikaela stiffens. Her eyes dart to the phone then back to Madison, but her expression stays neutral. Madison’s eyes don’t leave my own, and I hate and love her for it simultaneously.

  “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Mikaela shrugs a slim shoulder. Too slim. The woman needs a cheeseburger.

  “I haven’t pressed record yet. I’m giving you guys the opportunity to come clean, and then we can formulate a plan on how we’ll break this. To give you some time to get your story straight.”

  Mikaela’s mouth works like a goldfish, and she repeats herself. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

  Madison pauses. She holds my damn career in her hand.

  I can’t let her screw this up for me. I can’t let her ruin things for Janie. My brain works overtime, trying to think of a way to stop this interview nosediving into disaster.

  Luckily, I don't have to. Madison saves me from her own arrow.

  “I was just kidding,” she says lightly. “It’s easy to see you two are very much
in love.”

  “Oh, we are.” I emphasise the word. I let myself get carried away back on the beach, but this is real life. It’s not a game any more.

  And that’s why I wrap my hand around Mikaela’s neck and bring her lips to mine.

  Even though I can feel the hurt in Madison’s gaze.

  ***

  Madison

  As soon as the interview ends, I hit the dirt road and I run. My flip-flops slap against the dirt and my bag wallops against my body, colliding with my sensitive left side. The air is thick and hard to breathe, but I run, faster than I’ve run before, faster than I ran with Kiara on the beach.

  It’s hard to run away when the thing you’re hiding from is in your mind.

  It’s only when the white triangular tips of the retreat peep above the canopy of trees and corrugated shacks that my pace slows. Sweat and dried ocean salt cover my body, leaving me feeling thoroughly dirty.

  As I reach the home stretch, a single drop of rain falls, splashing on my nose, and then one more on my cheek. I eye the grey mass above me. Of course it would rain now. After the hellish day I’ve had, of course it would end like this.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” I ask the clouds. An ominous growl of thunder ripples through them, before the heavens break.

  Drop.

  Drop.

  Drop-drop.

  Downpour.

  I laugh, standing there, staring up at the sky and letting the water hit my skin. I drop my bag to the ground, stretching my arms wide. My eyes close and for the first time in my life, I stop fighting. Ever since I can remember, I’ve fought. To get the right grades. To be the perfect girlfriend. To attain the perfect career.

  Twenty-three years of fight, and now this is where I am. This is what I’ve become.

  I just let the rain fall.

  Because what else can I do?

  ***

  On an idyllic island in the Indonesian waters, you can learn to find inner peace. At Deep Springs Wellness Retreat, I’ve spent the last five days cleansing myself with a natural diet, stretching my body and lengthening my spine, and gaining spiritual enlightenment through meditation. For anyone looking for a break from the nine-to-five, Deep Springs is the perfect solution.

  From there, I go on to type more. About the menu. About the classes. About the crystal-blue ocean that stretches on forever and ever. Of course, I don't mention the torrential rain, the cheap bar in town or the run-ins with Hollywood movie stars. It’s not exactly Live Well’s style.

  By the time I hit send and get the piece of to Yoko, it’s after eight-thirty. I open the fridge, desperate for a drink to take the edge that I know will come with doing nothing off, but there’s nothing there. I’ve drank it already.

  Instead, I try to occupy my mind. I grab my phone and text Courtney, but she doesn't reply. Probably out at some fabulous fashion function.

  Instead, I set my mind to writing the feature on Tate and Mikaela, but as I stare at the white screen, the cursor blinking, waiting for my encouragement, I’m at a loss for words. Memories of this afternoon flash back into my mind thick and fast. Surfing. Tate’s eyes. His smile. His belief in me.

  All my life I’ve prided myself on my ability to report the truth, to do my job well.

  How can I write a love story I don’t believe in?

  I slam the lid of my laptop shut and open the windows. Outside, the storm still rages, and the hammering of the rain onto the wooden deck soothes me somewhat, but it still isn’t enough. I know if I lie down, my hurt will be waiting. It’s ready on the sidelines now, limbering up, prepped to remind me just what a failure I am.

  Instead, I grab a bottle of water—always a bloody bottle of water—and head down to the yoga studio. Surely there’s some sort of a class going on right now—something I can do to wear out my body so my mind has no choice but to let it sleep.

  I smile hello to the older couple walking hand in hand to the bungalow next to mine, but stop when I see Jacqui leaning against the doorframe of the classroom, her thumbs moving at rapid-speed over the screen of her phone.

  “Hey.” I smile.

  She looks up, then frowns when her eyes make contact with mine.

  “I’m sorry again about before. I didn't mean to upset you.” I lift my arm to give her shoulder a squeeze, then think better of it. She doesn't look as if she wants my physical affection. Hell, she doesn't look as if she wants to share the same air as me.

  “I’m just gonna …” I nod toward the building.

  Jacqui gives a short smile. “See you in there.”

  Inside, yoga mats are laid out in rows. Four are occupied, and six remain blank. Trevor smiles when he sees me and gestures to a green mat right at the front. I oblige.

  “Welcome to our stretching session,” Trevor says in his melodic voice. Four other women I vaguely recognise from the breakfast room stop their talking and turn to face him, ready. “This session will go for around half an hour, and conclude with a light meditation.”

  My shoulders stiffen. Meditation. More time for me to think about the huge mess that is my life.

  Fabulous.

  Then he begins. We roll our shoulders, twist our bodies, and lengthen our spines, a series of poses that flow one to the other in seamless sequence. Or, it should be a seamless sequence. Instead, my stretches are jilted. I feel like a Lego soldier surrounded by a room of ragdolls, and when we stretch back into the triangle pose, Trevor comes over to correct my body placement. My hands, feet, hips and shoulders are all wrong.

  Every time we do a twist, my side burns from where I fell against the sand, and I bite down on my lip to dull the pain. It festers inside me, my body taut as I wait for the next pose instructions.

  “Remember to breathe,” Trevor chants, and it’s only when he does that I realise I’ve forgotten. My lips spring apart from each other as the air caught in my chest releases. It’s a relief and a punishment all at once.

  “In through the nose. Out through the nose,” Trevor says, and I try to follow the instructions, even though it’s deceptively tricky at first. “In through the nose. Out through the nose.”

  We reach the meditation part of the session and I sit quietly, trying to still my mind. I think of the rain. Of men with beautiful smiles and kind eyes who flatter me with their belief.

  “If you’re having trouble just letting go, of truly quieting your mind, try focus on a singular point. Your happy place,” Trevor says.

  I think of the ocean. Crest a wave. Slide down a wave. Crest a wave. Slide down a wave.

  And then I get lost in thoughts of Tate Masters again.

  ***

  Bleary eyes blink open in this hellish paradise. I’ve tossed and turned all night again, although this time it wasn’t visions of Mike that kept me awake. It was everything else.

  Struggling with writing.

  Struggling with morality.

  Failure.

  A rock lurches in my stomach as I realise with absolute certainty the date. November 22nd.

  This was supposed to be my wedding day.

  The happiest day of my life.

  “I’m such a screw-up,” I mutter as I rub at my eyes, then stretch out for my phone while still in bed. It’s hardly the positive morning affirmation I’m no doubt supposed to indulge in at a place like this, but it’s all I’ve got.

  Six a.m. Way too early for the sun to streak through the hut like this.

  My thumb finds its way to my emails and I hit refresh, desperate for a distraction from the wedding bells tolling out a funeral dirge in my head.

  From: hair4u@holidayhair.com.au

  To: mwinters@magazine.com

  Subject: Your upcoming appointment

  Dear Madison,

  This is a courtesy reminder that your stylist, Patrizia, will be arriving at your apartment at ten a.m.

  We wish you all the best with your wedding.

  The team at Hair For Yours

  “Shit.” My thumbs race to type out a cancellation. Ho
w did I forget to cancel my hair?

  Actually, scratch that. It’s a wonder I haven’t forgotten more things.

  As soon as the email’s sent, I scribble down a list of things I had in motion that I’ve already canned, trying to see if there’s anything else I’ve forgotten.

  Guests

  Dress

  Pastor

  Reception venue

  Photographer

  Cake maker

  Florist

  Car hire

  Honeymoon

  Band

  Pony hire

  Fireworks team

  Makeup team

  Then, just for good measure, I add the word ‘husband’ to the end of the list. Unfortunately, that’s one part of the job that cancelled itself.

  Satisfied for now that I haven’t forgotten anything else, I go back to my email and look at the remaining two new. I delete the offer to marry the Nigerian prince of my dreams (although if I do decide to take him up on it, I now have a comprehensive list of things to rebook) and click open the new piece from Yoko.

  From: yhitachi@magazine.com

  To: mwinters@magazine.com

  Subject: Article submission

  Dear Madison,

  Thank you for sending your submission.

  Unfortunately, this needs a lot of work. I want you, not a rehashed version of the company website. Less promotion, more inner peace.

  Please revise and resubmit. I’ve granted you a one-week extension.

  Yoko

  I swallow down my tears. Looks like I can’t even do a fluff piece right. Is it any wonder I was passed over for the promotion at Lola?

  From the window, the strains of “Paradise” by Coldplay filter through, and so do the unmistakable grunts and thuds that can mean one thing and one thing only—people having sex. My mind flashes back to the silver-haired man and woman I nodded goodnight to on my way to yoga the evening prior.

  Old. Together. In love.

  My life is so far from right. Still, I pull myself out of bed, throw on a pair of sweats and head down to meet Kiara at the beach. That’s the good thing about reaching rock-bottom—there’s nowhere left to fall.