Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  “Ssss,” I hiss like a snake, figuring I’ll take this letter by letter.

  The doctor nods, and scribbles something down in his notepad.

  “T … t …” I pause, then point to the palm tree with a short man leaning against it just down from this makeshift building. Long fronds dance in the warm summer breeze. “Tree?”

  He nods again, and the scribbles are furious this time.

  Hmm, now for the tricky one. “You. D … doctor.” I point at him.

  “Me doctor.” He nods eagerly.

  “ST”—I point to the tree, then back to the wizened man in front of me—“D.”

  At this he frowns. He flips his notepad over to show me.

  On the front page is a stick figure of a woman with what I consider to be quite gratuitous boobs—thanks, Doc—getting bitten by a snake in a tree.

  “No.” I shake my hands in front of me and sigh. Why is this so hard?

  Maybe I should just let it slide. After all, I’m on the pill. And there’s a chance Tate and I used protection. What are the odds of him walking around without a condom? Besides, it’s not as if he’s a huge manwhore. As far as Lola reported, Tate Masters had been with Mikaela for more than twelve months, and before that, he was single but well-behaved. This woman he was with in the video was one slip-up. Granted, one colossal slip-up, but still. One.

  Still, our encounter together makes two, and where there’s smoke there’s ashes, or fire, or whatever the damn saying is, so I decide to give my Pictionary skills one last go.

  “Me.” I point to my chest. “Man.” I point to the old man leaning against the tree outside. He gives me a friendly wave and I shake my head. “Do … this.” I push to my feet from the white plastic chair and move out of the line of sight from the man in the window. Then, I do the only thing someone in my situation could possibly do.

  I dance.

  I jerk my butt back, clench my fists and push them forward, then reverse the action, so my hands are behind me and my pelvic thrusts. I keep going, simulating what I hope is nothing at all like what I really look like having sex.

  At first, the doctor frowns, chewing on the end of his Bic pen. After a few minutes, though, he smiles and nods, his face alive. “You sex Ali.” He points to the man out the window, then cups his hands around his mouth. “Ali!”

  The man at the tree looks over and waves again.

  I slap my hand on my forehead and hope the beach will open up and swallow me whole.

  Since Mike broke up with me, nothing has been easy.

  I have no idea why I thought this would be.

  ***

  Two hours later, I have somehow managed to get an STD test done without the poor doctor thinking I was out to seduce him or the innocent Ali, who simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I walk into the dining room in the hotel’s main area. It’s buffet style with a big communal table, so all us yoga enthusiasts can get-together and talk warrior pose and who can down dog the furthest.

  I take a white china plate and load it with carrots (heirloom), tomato (with basil reduction) and fish (deconstructed, which I’m fairly sure in this case just means they removed the bones).

  I slide my plate along the table and sit down next to a woman wearing an all blue outfit—blue sweatpants, blue T-shirt, blue sweatband holding her hair off her face.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” I ask.

  “I guess.” She shrugs. “If you like that kinda thing.”

  I frown. “Um … I guess I do?” Like sitting? What?

  She nods, then picks up a carrot from her plate with her bare hands and pops it in her mouth, stem and all. Okay then.

  I take my knife and fork and slice up my meal, focusing on the food in front of me. Despite its slightly over-the-top wording, it tastes pretty good. It could use about a kilo of salt, but perhaps that’s just my hangover talking.

  “You left class today.” Matchy-Matchy steals my attention again, and I look up.

  “Yeah.” I purse my lips. “I just got a little … emotional. My fiancé and I just split up.”

  She nods the nod of the wise. “Was it your drinking?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You smelt like vodka. Alcoholism isn’t attractive in a relationship. I was married to an alco. I know.”

  I nod. “Well, no. It wasn’t. That’s merely a side-effect of our breakup.”

  “It’s a slippery slope.” My blue friend chomps down on the middle of a second carrot, breaking it into with ferocity. “We’ll go running in the morning. Sort it out.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Six-thirty. So we’re not late for class. You, me, the beach. It’ll help you get that guy outta your system.”

  I frown. Is she serious? I haven’t ever met this woman before. Not only that, but I’m not a runner. And besides, this is yoga camp. Isn’t running against the rules?

  Maybe that’s the second rule of yoga club—only sweat in Bikram class.

  “What are you looking at?” Matchy grabs a tomato and bites into it as if it’s an apple. “I’ll see ya in the morning.”

  She takes her plate and stands, then moves to the other end of the table, leaving me by myself.

  And yes. I truly am by myself.

  Well, except for my heirloom carrots.

  ***

  An hour later, I escape to my room unnoticed. No one else talks to me at dinner. No one seems to notice I’m really there.

  And even though it shouldn’t matter, it does. Because as much as I’d thought this could be a good idea at first, now I just want someone to love. I want Courtney to give me a glass of wine. I want Mum and Dad to hug me, then feed me roast dinner. I want Betty to laugh and settle in for MASH reruns with me. I want Mike to—

  Anything.

  Everything.

  I just want Mike.

  And so, for the second night in a row, I find myself engaging in what I now can’t help doing—making it worse.

  It’s a self-inflicted torture. I pull back the white bed linen and eye the carob chocolate bar on my bedside table with disdain—God, what I wouldn’t give for the real deal right now. There’s no way I’m eating that crap.

  My dress floats over my head, and I change into an oversized shirt. Crawling under the down comforter, I open the Facebook app on my phone—and I cry. I stare at Mike’s profile pic, a shot of him by himself—not the pic of us it had been just a few short weeks ago. I obsess over the image he’s been tagged in at the Scanlan launch. She is by his side, her head tossed back as she laughs, perfect white teeth gleaming.

  Hurt stabs my chest. She’s beautiful, and so unlike me. Blonde where I’m brunette. Tall where I’m short. Lean where I’m—well, I like to think of it as delightfully curvy.

  The torture runs deeper. I click through to her profile and discover her name. Canada. Canada! Who calls their kid Canada? Especially in Australia.

  She’s twenty-three, and works in PR. I sniff. Of course she does. All the pretty people do. She has 278 Facebook friends, and her profile is set to public, which is perfect for sadistic self-harmers like me.

  I click through photo after photo of Canada at different launch events. Several of them I attended myself, and I wonder how I didn’t notice this glamazon before.

  Mike clearly did.

  I reach for the chocolate bar and bite into it. Canada does volunteer work at a pet shelter. She rescues kittens and puppies. She lives in a gorgeous apartment overlooking the Harbour Bridge, and she used to be a model.

  Oh.

  And she does yoga.

  Every new piece of information is like a stab to my soul. She is everything I’m not, and everything I want to be.

  I hover over her profile pic, using my thumb and forefinger to try and zoom in on the image when—

  Oh God.

  I did not.

  I did.

  I just friend requested the enemy.

  “Stupid phone, and stupid fingers, and stupid Faceboo
k!” I growl to no one in particular, then thump my head back against the tortuously soft pillow. I quickly hit ‘delete request’, but I have no way of knowing if she saw it. No way of knowing that she’s not snuggled up in my bed, next to my fiancé, laughing at my stupid Facebook friend request.

  Ex-fiancé.

  Ex.

  If only it was as easy to get rid of all my hurt as it was one unwanted social media faux pas.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Madison

  Kiara, as I learn my new running partner is called, keeps a gruelling pace, even when I tell her that I haven’t been able to sleep since arriving on the island and ask her to go easy on me. She charges up the beach like a woman possessed, her arms flapping as her elbows pump up and down.

  I race along beside her, then settle for a slower jog farther back when it becomes clear that she isn’t slowing, nor is she stopping. Sweat coats my forehead and sticks my clothing to my chest. My lungs ache from lack of oxygen, or maybe it’s too much being pumped through my body too soon.

  I’m not ready to breathe yet. I still hurt too much.

  But I push on and keep putting one foot in front of the other, and with each step I try and force the hurt out of my body and into the sand beneath me.

  Step.

  I miss you.

  Step.

  Please call me.

  Step.

  Don’t ever speak to me again.

  Emotions churn through my body like a whirlpool, and I blink back a tear when it forms at the corner of my eye. Being away from him is torture and bliss all at once. It hurts not to be near him, but seeing him happy and with someone else right now is not what I need.

  Now if only I could tell myself that when I go to Facebook stalk him before bed.

  Step.

  I’m strong.

  Step.

  I can do this.

  Step.

  I’m so unfit.

  I slow to a stop and my knees fall to the white ground beneath me. Grains of sand graze my knees—it’s not as soft as it looks. How the hell did I sleep on this stuff only one night ago?

  Then I think of my man-pillow and press my eyes shut. That’s right; I slept on Tate Masters’ chest. At least that’s one guy I’ve humiliated myself in front of who I don’t have to ever see again. The only way I’ll run into Tate Masters is in the pages of a magazine. A situation where I have complete control.

  If only I could do that with Mike.

  “You quitting?” Kiara asks. Tendrils of her dark, curly hair spring free from her ponytail as she cocks her head to the side.

  “Yep.” I nod. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t quit. You put up with shit, because there’s fuck all you can do about it.” Kiara folds lean, muscular arms across her lean, muscular chest. “You keep going. It hurts, and it sucks, but you fight that and you push, and then one day, it won’t hurt so much anymore.”

  “Huh …” Her words are surprisingly insightful. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I just need to focus on keeping going. I need to fight; I need to push myself to try and get my old job back, to try and get out there and live life without Mike or another mistake like Tate.

  “I’ll see you same time tomorrow.” And with that, Kiara kicks a tiny mountain of sand at me.

  She kicks sand at me.

  “Hey!” I call, dusting the specks from my chest. They stick there, the sweat acting as glue. “You can’t just throw sand at me and run away.”

  But she does.

  And like she said—there’s eff all I can do about it. I just have to focus on living my life and moving forward.

  And showering, to get this sand and sweat and depression of me.

  And staying away from men like Mike and Tate.

  ***

  Tate

  “So let’s go over our game plan so I can finish eating and hit up yoga.” Janie lifts a spoon loaded with yoghurt and berries to her mouth, then points to the list in front of her where our action plan is written. “You start.” She nods at Mikaela.

  “I’ll act as if nothing is wrong and that we’re more in love than ever.” Mikaela eyes the sliced banana on her breakfast plate with uncertainty, as if afraid the fruit might bite her.

  Janie spoons another heap of yoghurt and berries into her mouth, devouring it. It’s amazing how much of that she can put away. She’s definitely taking eating for two too literally.

  “What?” She shoots me the death glare, and I immediately focus my attention on the toast in front of me. Oops. Looks like she’s getting angry for two, too.

  “Yes. Keep up the relationship charade.” She points to the item on the list, and I give a wry smile. “The producers believe the video was fake, thank God, but we still have work to do. I have a photographer and journo coming from The List later in the week to interview you both and take some glamour shots of you swanning about, enjoying the shoot and being generally fabulous.” Janie counts the item off on her hand as she goes. “And today I have a release going out denying that the video is from this year and confirming it is indeed from when you were a teenager,” Janie says, looking at me, and I nod.

  “And I’ll stay out of trouble,” I repeat the mantra Janie’s drilled into me for the past forty-eight hours.

  “And I want something else.” Janie pauses to scoop another mouthful of yoghurt and berries in. “I want you to call Shade.”

  “I tried—”

  “Call her again. Appeal to her. Get her to come clean about the video and the kid.”

  The yoghurt turns sour in my mouth. “About that … can we drop the lawsuit against her?”

  Janie frowns. “Why?”

  “Well, I just …” I hedge. I can’t tell her that Danny has photos of her. She doesn't need the extra stress, especially not while she’s carrying this baby. “I think if we drop the charges, I’ll have better success at getting her to take down the video.”

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  Shit. Janie’s always been able to see straight through me. Panic lurches as I try to think of an excuse.

  “You want to find out if the kid really is yours, right?” she asks.

  “Right,” I rush in with the lie.

  “Well, if you think it’ll help, we can drop the charges temporarily. I’ll call Trent after lunch and let him know, but you need to be sure this is what you want,” she says.

  “I’m sure.” I clench my jaw together.

  If only I felt as confident as I sound.

  ***

  Madison

  In today’s yoga, I accomplish three things.

  I don’t fart. It turns out by really focusing on it, you can stop yourself passing wind while still contorting your body into seriously challenging poses.

  About those challenging poses … they’re not exactly my thing. Apparently, I can’t even touch my toes. Who knew? Having said that, I did manage to do one thing with a finesse that not everyone can muster. According to our Selene, I can open my hips very well.

  No shit, Sherlock. Apparently, two nights ago I opened them a little too well for my liking.

  For the briefest of moments, I don’t think of Mike.

  I don’t realise I’m doing it at first. I lie there in meditation, my mind trying to focus on the sheet blowing in the wind that Selene tells us to visualise, but all it serves to do is remind me of the washing I should be doing. Couple washing.

  Who will wash Mike’s things now? Will Canada? Or will they just get things sent to the Laundromat?

  She doesn’t look like the domestic type. Probably the latter, I decide, as I stare at the white roof. A ceiling fan turns circles, and my eyes try to follow one of the blades. Around. Around. Around. Around.

  I wonder if I was really small if I could sit on that? Or if I’d go flying off it?

  That’d be kind of—

  I’m not thinking about Mike!

  Joy floods my body, and I give myself a mental high-five before hurt comes crashing back down. Mike.<
br />
  It’s a bittersweet celebration, but it’s there.

  At the end of class, Janie waits for me at the door, her yoga mat rolled up under her arm. “Shall we head out?”

  I wince and study my bare feet, chipped red nail polish now looking even more disastrous than it had a few days ago. “I don’t know. I have some things I should do …”

  Facebook checking.

  Fake-chocolate eating.

  Janie’s arm stretches around my shoulders and she walks me out of the temple. “You know digital stalking isn’t really a thing you have to do, right?”

  I still. “How did you know?”

  “Honey, everyone does it when a bastard breaks their heart.” She smiles, and squeezes my shoulder. “Come eat some real food and drink some real wine, then you can go and mope around here. I’ll even hit you up with a goody bag of illicit substances you can sneak in.”

  I manage a small smile. “I would kill for some full-cream, totally bad-arse chocolate.”

  “I’m from America,” Janie says. “We’re all about badass eating.”

  We laugh and start walking again, stopping when we reach the plank that leads to my room.

  “Do you want to shower and meet me there?”

  I blink. Meet her there. At the only other hotel in the island, where that movie is being shot.

  I can’t risk running into Tate Masters again.

  “Isn’t that where Tropical Love is being shot?”

  “Sure is. I’m helping out there with some PR stuff.” Doubt must show in my eyes, because Janie extends her arm and squeezes my shoulder. “What’s up?”

  “I just …” slept with the movie’s leading man and don’t want to run into him ever again in case I a) am reminded of my slutty ways, or b) trip, slip and land on his dick.

  Again.

  “I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to go out in public.” It sounds lame, even to my ears, but I run with it.

  Thankfully, Janie buys my answer as if it isn’t total rubbish. “It’s a closed set. There are no paparazzi around—I think that’s why they chose this island location. And shooting doesn't start for another two days. It’s not like you’ll accidentally get cameoed.”