How to be Famous

by Alison Bond

  ‘I love you, you know. I love you both.’

  ‘We know that, Lynsey. I love you too. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just tired.’

  Her dreams were full of empty houses. She didn’t know whether that represented her unsure future or just too much time spent with an estate agent called Toby.

  22

  On her return to Los Angeles Melanie Chaplin took up residence in Fabien Stewart’s luxury Hollywood home amid much speculation from the press. Justice was riding high in the ratings and Melanie’s character debuted to a sizeable ripple of interest.

  Her character, Annabel, left at the end of season one, rejected by Silas. But the doorway was left wide open for her to return and try to win him back. In a way, coming back pregnant was even better. They padded her bump, advancing her pregnancy to fit around a real-life maternity leave. Melanie bonded with a whole new section of the crew; women with children and nervous new fathers fussed around her on set and she blossomed under their warm affection, turning out confident and compelling performances.

  Both Melanie and Fabien refused interviews but as the time of the birth approached the newspapers were confidently stating several facts: Melanie and Fabien were having a baby following a whirlwind romance and marriage was to follow in the New Year when Melanie had her figure back, Catherine Walker would be designing the dress.

  Melanie was recognized on the street. The first time it happened she wondered what they were looking at. Were her flies undone? Did she have chocolate on her face? It took a minute to realize that they just knew who she was. She didn’t know if she would ever get used to it. She started wearing sunglasses, even when it was dark, and felt self-conscious.

  Friends and family had reacted largely with warmth to their bombshell. Amanda thought it was exciting, but not as exciting as her new patio heater. Linda was giddy with delight at the prospect of having Fabien Stewart in the family. Fabien thought it would be fun. He had not let impending fatherhood interfere with his lifestyle. He was photographed often, leaving parties with various blondes, and the accompanying captions condemning him for his behaviour only added to his bad boy appeal.

  So this was her new life. She often felt as though she was just observing herself as if from above. As if this pregnant woman, being offered maternity wear by every major designer and being linked to a man like Fabien, could not possibly be her. She kept waiting for things to return to normal, like the punchline of a bad joke, but the growing lump that prevented her from seeing her three-hundred-dollar shoes was a constant reminder. Driving down the freeway and seeing a billboard advertising Justice, her face across it ten-foot high, she almost lost control of her brand-new car.

  It wasn’t until Davey Black’s film was released that things started to get really confusing.

  Melanie knew the situation with Davey Black was getting out of hand. In the last few months she had seen him more often than the outward appearance of their friendship would suggest was appropriate. The first time it was business, by the second they pretended they were friends. By now they both knew it was much more than that.

  You’re playing with fire.

  I know.

  It’s not romance, I’m pregnant.

  That was her excuse and she was sticking to it.

  Take tonight for instance. Davey had invited her to a play at the Civic Center; he wanted her opinion on the young British playwright who had been recommended to him by Bob Rosenburg. Nothing wrong with that. The play was over by eight thirty and led naturally to dinner. It would have been more awkward to part immediately after the curtain came down. That would be admitting that they were not to be trusted. They were only friends after all.

  Dinner was dominated by the play they had just seen. Melanie loved it, while Davey thought the kid could have scrawled it down on the back of a cigarette packet for all the time it must have taken him to write the piece of shit.

  Davey was getting irate. ‘Trust Bob Rosenburg to think he’s seen a piece of genius just because he can’t understand it. He’s so insecure about his mental ability, and rightly so I might add. He only hires people he thinks he can out-intellectualize. He raves about arthouse crap just because he’s convinced that no one will know any better to correct him. Trouble is one day some Sarah Lawrence graduate, chucking away her education and probably pretending to be dumber than she is, goes to work for a Dick like him just to get into the movies and she will tell him he’s wrong and the poor bitch will probably get fired for it. “Sorry, sweetheart, but we have to let you go because you’re too intelligent to work for the likes of us. You can tell shit from Scorcese.’”

  ‘I liked it.’ Melanie sipped on her grapefruit juice and smiled in a way that she knew was irritating him. It was funny how after just a few evenings together she had learnt things like that about him. Just as she had learnt to get used to his rants about the conspiracy theory that surrounded Hollywood. Just as she knew that the next words out of his mouth would be ‘what gets me…’

  ‘What gets me,’ said Davey, pausing only briefly to scowl at another smile from Melanie, ‘is that Bob Rosenburg will sign the scribe up for a three-picture deal and the young man will think that his gift has finally been recognized. As soon as Bob starts getting the kiss-off from a bunch of studio bye-bye boys – these young executives who know better because at least they spent four years at UCLA getting taught the basics – they all know what a dud he’s asking them to finance, and so the writer is just another struggling writer once more. But that’s okay with Bob because he’ll turn around and give the studio another piece of crap, but this piece of crap got Julia Roberts going – like she’d know quality if it bit her bony ass. Meanwhile, in a year he won’t even remember the name of the guy he’s got on a three-year contract.’

  ‘He remembers your name.’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘What happened to you, Davey? What happened to the “Big Chill”?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what we called you. On set. Don’t you remember?’

  Davey scratched his head. Melanie was right. He was getting cynical. ‘Bob Rosenburg. That’s what happened,’ he said.

  Davey had never liked Rosenburg much to begin with, but these days he felt like he was being strangled by the guy. They fought over every single shot in his movie, and Davey hated the idea of working with him again but he was under such a tight contact with him that sometimes he felt he couldn’t breathe. He had passed on a dozen projects that Rosenburg had offered him, commercial crap with no soul, and Rosenburg had passed on all his submissions. Soon their creative differences would come to a head. The film was finished. There was really no reason he had to stick around in Los Angeles, he could go home to New Mexico and put in some serious hours on a screenplay while he waited for the phone to ring with the next job. Instead he was here drinking cocktails with a woman who wasn’t his wife.

  Mary Ann was out at a record-industry party. She said she was lining up potential contacts for the future, she couldn’t model for ever, but they both knew that the only thing Mary Ann would be lining up that night would be neatly chopped with a platinum credit card. Davey couldn’t say he didn’t like it because he knew that what he was addicted to was much worse. What came first? Looking at other women, at this one in particular, or the distance in his marriage? He couldn’t be sure. If Mary Ann had a drug problem, not yet a topic either of them were brave enough to mention, was he to blame? He wasn’t even sure if Mary Ann would want to move back to New Mexico if he suggested it. And he didn’t really want to go.

  He thought Melanie looked unbelievably sexy tonight, her brick-red shirt making the colour in her cheeks flare, her eyes lighting up in the reflected glow of his cigarettes. He loved it when she challenged him. With a few words she could kill his arguments stone dead.

  ‘Admit it. You were never going to like anything Bob recommended. You can’t be open-minded,’ she said.

  ‘I’m letting
you pay for dinner. How open-minded is that?’

  ‘That’s just so this doesn’t feel like a date and you know it.’ Their eyes locked onto each other across the table and all the lights in the whole room seemed to dim for a minute and neither of them could hear the music. Melanie was the first to look away. The bill had been sitting on the table between them as they lingered over their drinks. Melanie slipped her credit card into the black leather folder and threw it back on the table.

  ‘It still does though, doesn’t it?’ Davey reached for her hand but thought better of it. He wished he could have a hot little affair with this beautiful woman and see what happened. If it didn’t work out with the actress then there was still the supermodel. He should laugh at his own internal struggle, most men would fight to be in his position, but it didn’t feel funny.

  His marriage was important to him. He didn’t want to walk out when the first cracks started to appear. He didn’t want his marriage to be another Hollywood statistic. But his body wouldn’t listen to what his mind was telling him. He could still get hard just looking at her.

  Across the table Melanie was also feeling the heat. The warmth in her belly was pooling ever southward like a melting candle. She was struggling to keep her emotions in control and the only way she could do that was by playing games. She knew Davey was attracted to her, he would jump away if their arms accidentally touched, like a shy teenager. He would kiss her on the cheek to say goodbye and she could feel the rush of his breath as he strained to smell her perfume. She wondered what would happen if she turned her face at the last minute and his lips fell on hers, if she reached up to the side of his face and traced his strong jaw, if she raked the skin on his back with her fingernails and arched her hips towards him. And when she started thinking like that she would pull away and be cold towards him.

  It’s not romance, ‘I’m pregnant.

  But it didn’t seem to matter.

  They played their game all the way home and when Melanie invited him in for a nightcap she expected him to refuse. She didn’t know whether she felt pleased or disappointed when she was right.

  Davey checked his messages after he left her. Not a single one from Mary Ann and they hadn’t seen each other since breakfast. He could remember when they couldn’t last an hour without hearing the other’s voice. It was two in the morning and she didn’t even wonder where he was. He could have spent the last few hours in a hotel room with Melanie Chaplin, looping white hotel sheets around her long legs and Mary Ann would never have known.

  *

  On Christmas Eve, after a mad dash to the hospital during which Fabien Stewart totally blew his trademark cool, Melanie Chaplin gave birth to a baby boy. They called him Joseph.

  Avoid Overcomplicating Your Goals

  Aim high, not wide. The path to fame can often be surreally uncomplicated. You can’t do everything, life’s not long enough, and you sure can’t do everything all at once otherwise you’ll burn out before your time. You’re in this for the long term, remember? This is fame you’re after, not fleeting celebrity. Keep it simple.

  23

  The only time Lynsey looked at the clock at CMG was in panic – Damn, five o’clock already and still so much to do. It didn’t help that every time Max was on the move he insisted that at least one, usually two, of them accompanied him. He liked his entourage.

  She’d been working for Max or, as she preferred, ‘with Max’, for months now and had yet to see any cracks in his all-powerful image. He worked harder than any man she had ever known and expected his assistants to do the same. He would call them at midnight if he had a question, though he liked to take Sundays off. Lynsey had learnt a lot from him, mainly that you had to put in the hours to reap the rewards. And so she did.

  Lynsey and Jerry were with Max on his way to visit Ruby Valentine, a long-term client and a sometime star of the silver screen, who needed to be persuaded that signing up for a well-paid piece of made-for-television trash was a good career move. Jerry was driving. Ruby Valentine lived in a pink terracotta beach house past Malibu. The traffic was thick but moving and the air-conditioning kept the inside of the Bentley pleasantly cool. Max made calls and Lynsey made notes. Not a bad job.

  ‘Okay,’ said Max, ‘give me the script.’

  ‘I don’t have it,’ said Jerry.

  All the expression left Max’s face. ‘Stop the car.’

  Jerry turned in surprise.

  ‘I said stop the car.’

  Jerry pulled over. Other road-users expressed their displeasure as he cut across four lanes of traffic to the shoulder. The highway was lined with anonymous warehouses and there was no sign of life.

  ‘Jerry.’

  Lynsey sat quietly in the back seat. Max looked calm, too calm. She knew him well enough by now to know that Jerry was in trouble.

  ‘Jerry,’ said Max again. ‘Where’s the script?’

  ‘Max, I don’t have it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Get out the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out the car.’

  The traffic screamed by them; no sidewalk for as far as the eye could see; the sort of area you wouldn’t want to walk in alone. The hot road glittered and Lynsey looked from Max to Jerry and back again.

  ‘Max!’ said Jerry.

  Max stared fixedly ahead.

  Lynsey saw that his hands clenched into fists as hard as stones and there was more of his mood in them than in his face. She could feel the untapped fury surging inside him like a tangible thing, an audible buzz, a palpable rise in temperature.

  Get out the car, she thought; save yourself.

  Jerry opened the door and stepped out onto the highway. She thought she heard a choked sob as the door slammed behind him.

  ‘Can you drive?’ said Max.

  Lynsey immediately switched to the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition. As she pulled out into the traffic she caught a glimpse of Jerry looking mournfully after them like a deserted puppy a few days after Christmas.

  The Bentley was the smoothest drive of her life. She tried not to get carried away with the experience of driving a car that she would probably never be able to afford.

  ‘So,’ said Max, ‘do you have the script?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I read it.’

  ‘That’ll do. What’s it about?’

  And that’s how Lynsey got promoted.

  Back at the office everybody took Jerry’s sudden departure nonchalantly. Max rushed off to another meeting and Lynsey was installed at Jerry’s old desk by the end of the afternoon. There was a new guy over by the résumé file with Sheridan, overjoyed with his unexpected move upstairs from the mailroom.

  Everyone was expendable.

  She started on the latest pile of press requests for Melanie Chaplin. Lynsey was pleased for Melanie, she really was, but Melanie getting famous meant a lot more work. Every day brought a fresh load of faxes for her consideration. A magazine interview, an endorsement, an invitation, a charity. Everything had to be followed up with an acceptance, a rejection or a request for more information. The fan mail, and there was a lot of fan mail, had to be redirected. There was only one thing that fascinated the fans more than a pregnant star, and that was the star’s baby. Ever since Joseph was born Melanie had been in demand and out of contact.

  Lynsey called her, not expecting her to pick up but anticipating leaving another message on her machine and trying to sound totally in control – Hi, Melanie, I know you must be really busy, just give me a call when you can – but instead Melanie picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’ There was the sound of machinery in the background. Not the calm baby-raising environment she had expected to hear.

  ‘Hey, Melanie, it’s me.’

  ‘Lynsey? Hang on, wait for a second.’

  Lynsey heard the receiver fall with a clunk and then the background noise stopped abruptly.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Melanie.

  ‘What was that?’
>
  ‘The Stairmaster. Well, actually, it’s more of a crosscountry skiing thing. It’s a bitch.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Pissed off. Wardrobe wants me to lose twenty pounds by the fifteenth. Like, hello? I just had a baby. I’m busy.’

  ‘Do you want me to speak to them?’ said Lynsey

  ‘Would you? Tell them that I’ll see what I can do, but it’s just not coming off.’

  ‘Maybe they could hire you a personal trainer?’

  ‘Fabulous idea,’ said Melanie. ‘Will you ask?’

  Lynsey made a note – personal trainer for MC. ‘I need to speak to you about some stuff,’ she said. ‘The premiere is coming up, there’re some press requests and a few other bits.’

  ‘Okay, just send me a fax with all the details and I’ll get back to you when I can.’

  They said goodbye and Lynsey hung up the phone feeling like she had been dismissed.

  Then she realized that Melanie hadn’t even mentioned the baby and that she had forgotten to ask.

  There was also Serena to deal with. Her big debut role broadcast this weekend and the interest it was creating meant that Lynsey had been forced to employ an answering service to collect her Serena-related messages. The next time she saw Serena she would insist that Serena find herself some proper representation. Quite aside from the extra work involved for her, she knew that Serena would be better serviced by someone who knew what they were doing. Although Lynsey was learning quickly she knew that she wasn’t learning quickly enough to keep up with Serena. Recently the casting directors on Justice had been looking at tapes of her and if anything came of that then Lynsey’s deception would be uncovered for sure. It was the one thing that made her feel more uncomfortable than anything else, like a ticking bomb just waiting to explode shit all over the air-con. It was the last thing she thought of before she went to sleep and the first thing she thought of every morning, a shot of anxiety that felt like nervous excitement but was really ice-cold fear. No secrets, Max had said.