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My Life as a Star

Page 3

by Ruth Kaufman


  What if I suck? What if I can’t take the pressure? But there’s no way to say, “No thanks. No part for me, a line will do.”

  How many years have you spent struggling to be an actress? Here’s your chance. Embrace the unknown.

  This is me in a nutshell. Wanting, wanting, wanting, then when I finally get what I think I want either:

  1) I’m filled to overflowing with self-doubt at the thought of actually having it, or

  2) the reality is never quite what I expected.

  Who said, “Be careful what you wish for?”

  The elevator dings.

  “Marla. I must dash. Where may I ring you?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Here.” I dig into my backpack and produce my headshot with my resume stapled to the back. I scrabble for a pen and scrawl my cell number and email next to my agent’s.

  “Right, then. I’m off.” He puts the phone to his ear as he hurries into the men’s room. “Get me Sheila, I need Sheila. Where are you? Can you hear me now? I’m on my mobile. Wait, I’m losing—”

  He’s gone. There are two thoughts in my head as I get in the elevator.

  1) Who’s Sheila?

  2) Will he do it…will Great Scott call?

  Chapter 4

  ILoveMyMistressTheMovie.com

  The official site of Scott Sampson’s production diary.

  Day 1

  Chicago is hot and humid, but welcoming. At least Americans have more ice and air conditioning than the UK. Though I’ve brought some staff with me, most of my crew is local. We held our first production meeting today, during which I explained my process. Unfortunately, we’re on an incredibly tight schedule and budget. The concept is brill. Major roles have already been cast. We’ll hold auditions for lesser roles for local hires here next week. Stay tuned, Scott

  I’m snuggled on my couch reliving the excitement of Scott holding my hand when my phone (yes, I still have a landline…I have a cable bundle) rings.

  “Turn on Channel 4,” Linda says the second I answer my phone. “Right now!”

  I grab the remote. On goes the thirty-six-inch flat screen in my condo’s small living room.

  “Oh. Oh.” I can’t find any other words.

  There I am, fleeing with Great Scott. He’s gorgeous, his legs in particular shown to great effect.

  Pedestrians pause, heads turn and fingers point as we pass. People whip out their cells to snap pictures or take videos. The camera pans jerkily to the GSGs, capturing their vulture-like gazes and waving arms. They remind me of the Hydra, the multi-headed monster Hercules had to kill.

  My fingers itch to check his social media to see if he’s commented.

  The female news anchor chirps, “A tourist captured this Michigan Avenue scene. The man you see running is movie director Scott Sampson. He’s followed by avid, adoring fans known as GSGs, or Great Scott Groupies. To join the GSGs and keep up to date on the popular director’s whereabouts, visit their website at the address below. No one has yet identified the woman.”

  “A woman of mystery. Ha, ha,” laughs the male anchor, now visible.

  Up in the corner of the screen is a snapshot of me and Scott. We’re looking over our shoulders mid-step with our mouths forming Os. “Channel 4’s Celebrity Scene will award $100 to the first person who can correctly tell us who she is.” The number to call and #Whosthatgirl flash across the screen. I’m a hashtag! “In other showbiz news….”

  I’m still holding the phone. Linda says, “So you’re showbiz news now. What’s the real story?”

  My cell rings from where I charge it on the kitchen island. “I’ll call you back.”

  Though I despise when someone hangs up on me to take another call, this is a unique situation.

  My regular phone rings as I pick up the cell. By the time the hullabaloo dies down, I’ve talked to both parents, Catherine, my long-time friend Andrea, an acting friend, two former WZRJ colleagues and my agent Audrey, who was beyond thrilled to hear that Scott’s people should be calling my people.

  I didn’t know so many members of my inner circle watched the local news.

  Whew. I catch my breath and pour a glass of filtered water to cool my parched throat. My cell rings again. As with every time it’s rung, my heart jumps to my throat as I glance at caller ID. Could Scott’s people be calling?

  “Marla? It’s Jeff.”

  Jeff is Jeff Swanson, now an ad agency creative director, who while unemployed was a fellow extra on a major feature film. Long story short, the attraction was there, but partly because of his commitment to his career, we’re just friends who see movies together from time to time.

  “Hey. I’ve been meaning to call, but work, well, you know. When I saw you on the news, it jogged my memory.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Listen, I have an extra ticket to the black-tie FOTA benefit at the Four Seasons tomorrow night. Would you want to go with me?”

  Sort of short notice to ask someone to a major event, don’t you think? What I really wonder is, who was supposed to use that ticket? But then, it’s never a date, not with Jeff. And any event at the Four Seasons must have good food. Free food.

  “FOTA?” I ask.

  “Friends of the Arts. Right up your alley. There’ll be performances by Lyric opera stars and those in the new musical at the Goodman, with food prepared by some of Chicago’s top chefs and a chocolate buffet. Are you up for it?”

  “Sure.” Opera, musicals and chocolate, three of my most favorite things. Plus, the benefit would keep me from sitting around waiting for my phone to ring.

  “Great. I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven.”

  So not-a-date date he won’t even pick me up.

  I hang up, ready to call Linda and borrow some sexy black-tie attire. Each year I organize her walk-in closet, which is larger than my home office, aka second bedroom. Though it’s her birthday present, I get gifts in the form of hand-me-ups, including a few items with the tags still on. Once I discovered an Ann Taylor box stuffed with new clothes on her closet floor. That’s just the kind of shopper she is.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in said closet amidst a gazillion custom-built racks, rods, hooks, wood (no laminate or wire for La Linda) shelves and drawers, almost as nice as Princess Mia’s closet in Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement. I’m wrestling with a navy sequin David Meister. Not only does the column style cling unflatteringly to my stomach, it won’t contain my breasts.

  Linda shakes her head. She’s wearing a Lululemon sweat suit bought retail. I arrived in Old Navy bought via online clearance. But their yoga pants are the most comfortable I’ve found. Maybe after my role in Scott’s film I’ll be hired as their new spokesperson….

  There I go again.

  “You’re the one who said I should try this on,” I said as I tug it off. “I told you sequins didn’t pair well with my stomach. What about that one?” I point to a stunning red gown.

  “Hmmm. That’s my new Ro Ro Ro. It cost $900. What about this?” She holds up a different David Meister, strapless chiffon in bright blue, but I’ve got my eye on that red dress. As I reach for it, my cell sings “Popular” from Wicked. I’m not for a minute thinking how much more toned Linda’s body is than mine as I pull the phone from my purse.

  “310 area code! That’s L.A.” Could it be? “Hello?”

  “Marla? Marla Goldberg?”

  I clasp my hand over the tiny speaker and scream, “It’s him! It’s him!”

  “Calm down,” Linda says. “Who’s him?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Yes, this is Marla.” How smooth I sound. I’m impressed. Even though my hands are shaking and I’m in my sister’s closet wearing only a minimizer bra and unattractive but comfortable cotton briefs.

  “Scott Sampson here. Short notice, sorry, but I’ve an extra ticket for a benefit tomorrow evening at the Four Seasons. I don’t yet know many people in Chicago and would rather not attend alone. Would you be interested in joining me?”

>   “Yes, yes, I’ll go. Love to. Thanks.” I hang up and jump up and down. Yes, I’m forty-two. Why should age preclude jumping for joy?

  “Careful, you’ll trip over my Choos,” Linda says. “What was that all about?”

  I stop and stare at the phone in shock. My heart speeds so fast I feel it skipping beats. “I’m going to a Four Seasons benefit with Scott Sampson. Amazing. Now I need an even better dress. Better jewelry. Maybe Mom will let me borrow Grandma’s Tahitian pearls.”

  “What about Jeff, your other not-a-date date? And you didn’t set a time or place to meet Scott.”

  “Oh.” This is what sheer enthusiasm gets you. “Well, Jeff only asked me an hour ago. He’ll have to understand why I need to go with Scott, whose number is now in my cell, so I’ll just call him back and ask where to meet.”

  I get to call Great Scott. As soon as I work up the nerve. We’re going to a fancy, food-stuffed, black-tie benefit. Together. He’ll pluck a large chocolate-covered strawberry from the buffet and feed it to me. I’ll lick my glossy lips and his eyes will narrow with hot desire.

  Well, it could happen.

  I am Cinderella. I burst into the song “Ten Minutes Ago” from the Rodgers and Hammerstein version.

  I will not be discouraged by the fact that Scott asked me only to avoid the awkwardness of going stag to an event where he knows no one. I won’t even worry that this invitation might be repayment of the debt he thinks he owes instead of an audition for his film. I’ll think about it this way: he could have flown in some stunning starlet, but he chose me.

  I have to look stunning. Marvelous. Marvelous Marla. “Hand over that red dress.”

  “Marla, not my Ro Ro Ro, I just had it delivered yesterday. I might need to wear it this weekend. You can borrow any of the others, even the Dina Bar-el. Look, it’s all gold and shimmery on top. You love things that sparkle. I also have that custom beaded gown, if I can find it….”

  She disappears into the hidden depths of her wardrobe, which is so vast perhaps she will end up in Narnia. I snatch the red dress off its padded hanger and slip it on.

  Perfect. The shade of red brings out the red in my hair. Slight pleats hide my stomach without making me look plump. And the plunging neckline shows off my best assets to their fullest.

  I must have this.

  If only I had the sneaky gene and could whisk the gown into a garment bag without Linda seeing me. It is not because she said I couldn’t have the red dress. This is the one I most want.

  My cell rings again. My heart resumes racing when I recognize the number as Scott’s. Thankfully he’s sparing me from having to call him. “Hello?”

  “Marla, I rang off too soon. Where shall I pick you up?”

  What is the best answer to this question?

  1) “In the Four Seasons lobby. Picking me up is out of your way. I’d be happy to haul my designer gown-garbed, high-heeled self into a cab or rideshare. Or I could take the L.” Not that I’ve ever seen anyone in an evening gown on our commuter trains.

  2) “Here’s my address. Why don’t you come up for some Champagne first?” Maybe he’ll seduce me and we’ll be too busy to go to the benefit. How would that impact my line-getting chances?

  Linda hasn’t resurfaced from her intra-closet dive so I can’t ask her opinion.

  “Marla?” Scott asks. “Can you hear me now?”

  Chapter 5

  greatscottgroupies.com/Chicago

  Yesterday #GreatScott filmed some lame commercial with dancing vegetables. Don’t you wish you could’ve seen him in shorts like we did? Check out our pics!! A few of us followed him up Michigan Avenue to get his autograph and selfies. But we lost him in the crowd. :-(

  4celebrityscene.com

  #Whosthatgirl More than 10 viewers correctly identified the woman seen running with film director Scott Sampson earlier this week as Lincoln Park resident Marla Goldberg. The first 10 callers will receive $10 each.

  Will Scott show?

  I’m in the Four Seasons lobby, in the Ro Ro Ro I finally convinced Linda to lend me, forcing down anxiety. He wouldn’t stand me up. Would he? Or worse, show up with a real date. A skinny, beautiful, young one. Talk about being all dressed up with nowhere to go.

  Yes. There he is, and on time, too. Hotter than ever in a satin-lapel tux, smiling and posing for the occasional selfie or signing an autograph. That smile. Mmmmm.

  I can’t stop smiling as he makes his way to me. I lock my knees so I don’t melt. How lucky am I?

  “Marla. You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” Scott says.

  My knees waver anyway. Those wonderful words coming out of his mouth in his incredible accent might be the nicest anyone has ever said to me. Even my ex, back when we thought we were in love.

  He holds out his arm. “Shall we?”

  As I take it, I assume a sophisticated mien, instead of what I want to do, which is smile so wide my face would probably crack. His bicep is firm beneath my fingers. I will not squeeze.

  Through the open ballroom doors, I hear a Strauss waltz. The line of upscale guests prevents me from seeing much. Scott looks and smells unbelievably incredible. His long hair hangs loose, the way I like it.

  Tonight he reminds me of Adrian Paul in the early seasons of Highlander. If you don’t know who he is, look him up. He’s one of the most handsome men on Earth, and nice, too. I had the opportunity to meet and talk to him when I went to Lithuania to freeze all night as a homeless washerwoman in Highlander 5: The Source. But it was worth every minute.

  My tongue is tied as I bask in Scott’s presence. I need to calm down so I can think of something intelligent yet witty to say.

  A white-wigged guy in a grey satin suit with pants ending just below the knees introduces each couple as if this were a ball back in Regency England.

  “Please welcome Mr. Anderson Ellsworth, President of Monarch Manufacturing, and his wife, Dr. Theresa Baxter-Ellsworth,” his radio-announcer-like voice pronounces. “Ms. Alison Abercrombie, CEO of Chicago Bank Fifth and her guest, Mr. Philip Butler, Esquire. Dr. Edward Green, chief of staff at Northside Hospital, and his wife, Dr. Cynthia Astor-Green, president of the Opera Guild.”

  It’s our turn. Scott takes my hand. His is warm and a bit damp. Is he nervous too? Maybe he chose to work behind the camera because he doesn’t like to be on display.

  “Award-winning film director Scott Sampson and…. And guest.”

  Even though the major domo doesn’t have my name, I’m higher than a kite. Heads turn as we pass. Of course, they’re all thinking, “Who’s that with Great Scott?”

  Let them stare. Let them think. Though anonymous, for once I am the center of attention and I’m going to enjoy every minute. Cinderella makes her grand entrance on the arm of her Prince Charming, and every woman wishes she could be me….

  Let’s not carry this Cinderella analogy too far. I don’t want to be running down the stairs at midnight and losing one of Linda’s oh-so-high-heeled shoes.

  The ballroom has been transformed into a magical fairyland. A multitude of candles and huge arrangements of white orchids and lilies decorate the vast space. Tall, Baroque, gold-framed mirrors line the walls, reminding me of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. They reflect candle flames, flowers and already swirling dancers. A sizeable orchestra takes up most of the raised stage. On each white cloth-covered table rests a centerpiece of white orchids and some glittery branches.

  We introduce ourselves to the other couples at our assigned table, all older than we are, very conservatively dressed and very pleasant. The women wear the largest engagement rings I’ve seen outside of The Bachelor. I catch sight of Jeff, who managed to scrounge up a sleek blond companion after I told him about Scott. We wave.

  The evening progresses in a whirl. I mostly keep my mouth shut because the conversation revolves around Scott and his movies. I notice everything from his smile to the way he eats. The European way, of course, with the fork upside down.

  The social setting puts a new ligh
t on his personality. On set he was brisk, his sentences short and his words clipped. His tone was demanding and firm, and he rarely smiled. Even sweating with the rest of us, he exuded calm control and total authority. I don’t think anyone would’ve dared to cross him. Now he reminds me more of James Bond: debonair, dashing and delicious English-accent articulate. An intriguing half-smile lifts his lips. What is he thinking?

  I am in heaven. The food and Scott are equally scrumptious. I want to lick him and my plate of goat cheese soufflé. The brief concert after the main course (we chose rack of lamb) was amazing. I lost myself in the glorious voices and music.

  “At last. There he is,” Scott says after we devour flourless chocolate cake with ganache.

  Usually, fabulous desserts make me swoon. I’m so enthralled, in such deep crush with Scott that I’ve barely appreciated the delicacies on the chocolate buffet. Nor has he fed me my strawberry. Yet.

  “There who is?”

  “Maximilian Senderov. He’s the reason I attended this benefit.”

  I wait for more, but Scott’s not forthcoming. He watches his prey with a slight frown, as if figuring out the best approach.

  “You couldn’t just give him a call?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why?” I persist, curious as to why Scott can’t get the attention of anyone he wants.

  He leans close. I hold my breath, thrilled to receive his confidence. “Some of the financing for my next picture fell through. I need him to put up two mil. If I don’t have a check in hand by noon Monday, the studio will pull the plug on I Love My Mistress. And then Sam will—”

  What? What about Sam?

  “You saw how he can be,” he finished.

  “Then let’s go get the money,” I said.

  I wasn’t going to let a paltry two mil keep me from my chance to audition for Scott. Or at least keep him in town for a few months so maybe we could get to know each other better.

 

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