by Ruth Kaufman
In related news, your BB located Marla’s ex: Adam Greenberg (see photo and sidebar, left), a lackluster accounting manager who now lives with a co-worker. Definitely not the cutest or friendliest bun in the box. He refused to comment on his current relationship or his courtship of or marriage to Marla, but we did learn that he dumped her. Bet he’s sorry now. When questioned about her skyrocketing fame, he replied, “I wish her all the best.”
Marla Goldberg Greenberg is quite the mouthful. Doesn’t Marla Goldberg Sampson have a much nicer ring?
As I fill tissue after tissue with tears and snot, I debate waiting for Scott to get out of the shower. Maybe he’ll have calmed down and will listen to me. But I already told him the truth. The more I explained, the more he fumed. I don’t think I could bear another dose of his anger aimed at me. Particularly after we’d shared so much.
At least I thought we had.
After throwing on my clothes, accompanied by the faint sounds of running water and doing my best not to picture Scott soaping himself, muscles all wet and shiny under the spray, I decide to write him a note. He might crumple it up and throw it in the garbage, but I feel better making another effort to get through to him.
But he said to never contact him again. Just like I told Frank. It’s not the same thing.
“Dear Scott,
I’ve told you the truth. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know that you don’t believe me. That you’ve decided not to trust me. I had the best of intentions and truly believed I could find some way to help you with fresh eyes uncovering something you might’ve missed. Please give me the chance to explain further.”
I want to add something like, “I’d be devastated by the loss of your friendship,” but don’t. The pen hovers over the page as I ponder how to sign. I settle on, “Your true friend always, Marla.”
My heart hurts as I close his door behind me.
More tears fill my eyes as I make my way through the lobby. Now I understand why some stars wear dark sunglasses and head coverings in public places. They don’t want the world to see what they’re thinking or get a glimpse of how they feel. I wish I had either or both on me.
Oh, no. A swarming hive of reporters awaits by the front door.
I can’t talk to them. I’m too close to tears; my distress is too raw.
Though I want to cringe because my hair’s a mess, I have no makeup on, and several inches of my premiere gown are clearly visible under my coat, I hold my head high. I smile a slight smile even as my knees shake.
After running into Ex and his new girlfriend with an unmade-up face wearing mismatched sweats while they stood resplendent in spotless business attire, I’d vowed never to leave the house unprepared again. Well, I’m not exactly leaving my house and don’t have makeup beyond lipstick with me.
“Marla, isn’t this Great Scott’s hotel?” a reporter calls.
“Marla, over here!”
“Marla!”
“Marla!”
“Marla!”
The photographers snap and snap. They crowd around as I leave the revolving door, shouting more questions and probably recording my getaway. I leap into the first cab in line and give Linda’s address. Cameras appear inches from the window to snap my profile.
“Are you somebody?” the cab driver asks. “Should I know you? Can I have your autograph?”
I burst into tears. The driver glances at me a few times in his rearview mirror but says nothing.
My life is ruined. Scott hates me, every tabloid will run pictures of me looking like a red-nosed hag, my mother’s friends will laugh at me, which will annoy her so much I’ll never hear the end of it, Scott will blacklist me and no one will hire me as an actress ever again.
What’s that saying about “the harder they fall?”
I hand the driver some money, probably way too much based on his enthusiastic, “Thanks, Lady.”
I hurry up the short sidewalk and trip on Linda’s stairs. My knee slams into the cement. Just what I needed, more pain.
“Linda, it’s me. Let me in!” Hopping on my good leg, tears streaming down and dripping onto her porch, I pound on her door. Now my hand hurts, too.
My sister answers, earpiece in place, in another Lululemon ensemble. “Can you hold a sec, I need to take another call.” She presses her earpiece. “Hello, I’ll be right with you. Then to me: “Who died?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’m on a conference call. And another call.”
“It’s important.” I can barely breathe, my nose is so stuffed.
When she lets me in, I carefully remove Linda’s shoes. I sit on a chair and close my eyes.
“Bryant, let me call you back. We’ll get that report out today as promised. Five mil? Can do.” She continues in this vein for several minutes.
Finally, Linda sighs.
I will not let her obvious exasperation make me believe her problems are more important than mine. Not this time.
“Ok.” She leaves the earpiece in her ear. “What happened? Why are you crying? I can tell by your outfit you didn’t go home last night, so where were you?”
Her phone rings. She looks at it with yearning, much like her dog Bubbles when he’s waiting for a Snausage.
“Will you please turn that thing off?” I demand. “And get me some tissues?”
She actually complies.
I blow as we climb onto her leather bar stools. “Scott saw your research email—”
“Not good. Why’d you let him do that?”
“I didn’t mean to. He’d offered to read the emails the guy I think is cyberstalking me sent—”
“What guy who’s whatting you?”
“Would you stop interrupting?”
“Coffee, espresso, latte, tea, cappuccino, hot chocolate, crema?” Linda gets up to put a pod in her machine.
I can’t help rolling my eyes as I follow her into the kitchen.
“I’m listening,” she insists. “A hot beverage might help you calm down.”
“Tea, then. Herbal if you have it.” I reach for another tissue and blow some more. “This guy Frank is stalking me with threatening emails. Before I could open one to show Scott, he saw the subject of yours, which I didn’t know you’d sent. He’s furious. More than furious. Wouldn’t listen to a word of explanation. And worse, he told me not to contact him again. Ever.”
Tears threaten. “We h-h-had such an amazing night before disaster struck.”
Is this the price I have to pay for getting something I wanted?
“What do you expect me to do?” Which means, “How does your little problem affect me? I have many important calls waiting.”
“Maybe you could just listen and sympathize for once. That would be nice. Where’s Brad? He’s nicer.”
“Out of town on business.”
I raise a brow.
“Really, we’re fine.”
“If you say so. I have someone else I need you to check out. Sheila Landers. She’s Scott’s assistant, but I don’t trust her.”
By now I have quite the pile of crumpled tissues before me. I’m surprised Linda hasn’t complained that I’ve tossed them on her granite countertop instead of in the rollout garbage can secured in its custom cabinet.
“Will do. Now, I’ve got to run,” Linda says as she stands and stretches. “Six miles today.”
Astonished, I watch her put on her Fitbit.
She adjusts the earpiece in her ear, then says, “You’ll have to tell me more about Fred the Stalker sometime.” Her voice is extra loud. “Bye.”
Wow. I should’ve gone to Andrea’s or Catherine’s.
“Stop,” I yell, loud enough to make Bubbles bark and Linda stop bending sideways and look at me.
“Why?”
“Because your running is not more important than my life crisis. Work isn’t the only thing that needs you. I do, too.”
I start to cry again. Bubbles runs over and wags his little tail. I pick him up and he licks my face.
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Nice that someone cares.
Linda puts off her run for fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds to discuss my life traumas. Her advice: “Get over yourself. Move on to the next transaction. Nothing is as bad as a major deal that won’t close.”
Not helpful. Not at all.
Time to go. I can’t wait to get home, shower, put on cozy pajamas and bury myself beneath my down comforter. I must be very upset because I don’t even want lunch. Not that I had breakfast, either. What could’ve been a pleasurable meal with Scott…with domed dishes on a room service cart, steaming coffee….
“I’ll call you later,” Linda says as we head toward her foyer.
“Thanks.” That is nice, because she never calls unless I call her and leave a message.
She opens her door.
We gasp in unison. Because masses of media fill her small front lawn. Overflow spills past the sidewalk onto her raised planters. Satellite vans line both sides of the street.
“There she is!”
“It’s Marla!”
Reporters and camera people surge forward. A human tidal wave, coming straight for us.
“Marla! Tell us what happened at the hotel.”
“Linda! What’s it like being Marla’s sister?”
“Hey, Linda! Clearly you got the pretty genes. Have you met Scott?”
I’d literally be shaking in my shoes if my feet weren’t bare. I can’t believe they trailed me.
Linda slams the door. She leans against it to keep out the stampede. She seems as stunned as I am.
“Close the curtains,” I order.
We race around her rectangular main floor, framed by many tall windows. She goes right, around the living room and dining room. I go left, through the kitchen to the patio doors.
“Aaah!” Linda squeals. “Some guy with a camera is staring at me. He’s standing on a stepstool. You. Get out of my rhododendron. Go away! Or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” She whisks the curtain closed.
Task complete, we collapse on her couch, breathing hard as if we’d run a marathon.
Linda’s cell rings. For once she makes no move to answer.
“I’m so sorry,” I begin. “They must have followed my cab. I was too upset to notice.”
“This could ruin me,” Linda says.
“Ruin you? Isn’t this about me?”
“Reputation is everything in my field.” Linda stands and paces in front of her huge, white limestone fireplace. “I can’t afford to be written up in sleazy tabloids. I highly doubt anyone from Fortune or Barron’s or Crain’s is out there stomping on my landscaping. You’ve brought your media circus to my property. Into my world.”
“I’m in crisis mode. I didn’t take the time to think how all this would impact you.”
“You never do. Obviously, I’m not going running as scheduled. I’ll be upstairs on my treadmill. Make yourself at home until it’s safe to leave.”
“That could take a while. I’ll call Jake and Sandie.” I pull my cell from my sparkly evening bag. “They’ll know what to do.”
“Who are Jake and Sandie?” She pauses, one foot on the stairs.
“You never listen to a word I say. I told you last week, Jake’s my new part-time bodyguard, Sandie is my publicist.”
“Wait. When did you start needing bodyguards and publicists?”
“I just hired a stylist, too. Next up is a manager, handler and maybe a driver. I’ve been nominated for a Movie World Award. And I may star in a feature film.”
Somehow these achievements don’t make me feel as good as they should. Or mean as much as I thought they would. I’m not the happy working actress I’ve longed to be, merely Marla the Misunderstood Media Magnet.
“Well then. Congratulations. You’ve acquired an entourage. Soon you’ll have as many employees as I do. If you need help with payroll, let me know.”
Notice she doesn’t ask what the new movie is about or what part I might play. Or who my co-stars might be.
“Ever consider making a little more time to keep up with your family and friends?” I ask. “Or are deals the only things that matter? The only things that last?”
Linda turns. “I saw Gone with the Wind, too. Scarlett’s father was talking about land. Not deals.”
I give up. My sister has disappeared too deep into her narrow business world to participate in the real one. Maybe life is better there.
My calls to Sandie and Jake, as expected, reach their respective voice mails. I do my best to keep panic out of my voice as I say, “Hi, I’m being held prisoner at my sister’s house. A horde of paparazzi followed me here and trapped both of us inside. Please advise ASAP.”
For all I know they’ve tapped my cell phone, too.
TO DO: Find out if that and clambering in a homeowner’s private yard are legal in Illinois.
I make my way to the kitchen, trailed by her dog. We decide to raid Linda’s walk-in pantry. It’s divided in half, her food on the bottom shelves and Brad’s on the top. Bubbles gets a shelf in the back.
I spread my haul of goodies on the floor, and sit amidst the nutrition bars (Linda’s) and candy bars (Brad’s). Bubbles rests beside me, head on his paws, blinking at me. But I just can’t eat any of it.
Never would I have believed my desire to be a working actress would have led me to this moment and this place. Maybe, like Icarus, who an ancient myth says flew too close to the sun against the advice of his father and tumbled to his death when the wax on his wings melted, I reached too high and so was doomed to fall.
I close my eyes against the multitude of thoughts buzzing through my brain. Bubbles puts his head in my lap. I scratch absently behind his ears.
I’ll bet the stress and torture of the roller coaster of emotions I’ve just ridden is what leads some celebrities to abuse alcohol and drugs. Vodka-induced oblivion is sounding pretty good right about now.
Less than twenty-four hours after my first whirlwind movie premiere, spending the night with and making love with the man of my dreams, I’m broken-hearted, ambushed, and alone. Sounds like the makings of an old Spaghetti Western, but all too real.
This is my life. My life as a star.
Bubbles and purloined snack food may be all I have left.
Chapter 20
STARIETY MAGAZINE
The Scorla Report: Trouble in paradise?
by BB Beans
Have Marvelous Marla and Great Scott, America’s favorite new couple, split already? He: reported to be vacationing at a secluded, exclusive resort in the Bahamas. Not even your well-connected BB could find out where he’s staying or when he’ll return, or which lovely lady he’s with. She: not in Scott’s cabana. Scheduled to report later this week to start filming on her second movie, Worth It, her first starring role, opposite one of your favorite A-Listers, Jason Stone. Stay tuned for deets. No comments could be retrieved from her camp. What happened to the media’s latest It Girl?
“Why waffles? You always make pancakes,” Linda asks. Not that she ever eats anything but fresh fruit or salad at my mom’s.
It’s the Sunday after I fled to my sister’s house in tears. I waited the media out, and managed to escape several hours after Linda slammed her door against them. Neither of us mentions the incident to our parents. Nor do I bring up the infuriating account in this morning’s Stariety.
The meal will go more smoothly if we stick to uncontroversial topics.
“I thought it was time for a change,” Mom says.
“You change your décor, not your menus,” Linda observes.
Dad is behind his newspaper, which rustles every so often as he turns the pages. Some sports event loudly plays on the family room flat screen, adding to my headache. I focus on my food.
My appetite returned after about an hour of moping on Linda’s floor. In the past few days, her nutrition bars are the only relatively healthy substance I’ve eaten. A noxious combination of despair, rage and dread has led me to consume enough calories to regain those
five ILMM pounds. Hot dogs. French fries. Ice cream. Brownies. Brownies and ice cream. I crave more sustenance. Not for my stomach, but as salve for my soul.
Go ahead. Tell me fattening foods aren’t the way to inner peace. I know that. What I don’t know is how to fix broken dreams or dreams that don’t turn out even close to the way you imagined them.
My fork plunges into my second steaming waffle as I savor the sweet smell. Syrup sinks slowly into the squares.
Suddenly I realize something about breakfast foods. “My life is a waffle.”
“What?” Mom asks.
Linda almost spews her orange juice.
“My life used to be a pancake.” My voice is a monotone. My once perky self seems a dim memory. “Fairly even, with a slight upward slope when things went well and flattening out when things were okay. A little burned edge when something went wrong. Now I’ve become a waffle…every day I must balance on all of these tiny raised paths and avoid tumbling into the deep squares of pitfalls. And do this without getting stuck or drowning in a puddle of syrup.”
“Always melodramatic.” Mom shakes her head.
“Always looking for solutions where none exist,” Linda adds.
Dad finally lowers his Sports section. “Always talking.”
Isn’t it nice to have a family who loves you the way you are?
When I get home, I check my email. I can’t stop hoping Scott will relent.
There’s another missive from Frank. My stomach clenches as I open it with trembling fingers.
Marla, hon—
So sorry I’ve not written of late. I’ve been researching and learning many fascinating things about you. I’ve been busy and must have missed your calls. I can’t wait to see you again, whether on the train, for dinner, on your next movie set or all of the above. I know you’ll want me for your leading man. I’m so much better for you than Scott.