by Ruth Kaufman
“Of course not. Well, we posed for some at a party. Later at his place, I didn’t know he was taking any pictures. He must’ve had a hidden camera.”
“That’s good. No consent. I’ve got a lawyer I use for this type of thing. We’ll get a cease and desist order ASAP. He’ll have to take down any representations of you.”
I’m so relieved she’ll take care of this. Having people on my side to support me is far better than working alone. We cover a few more pleasant topics and say our farewells.
Then my phone rings again.
“Ms. Goldberg, this is Detective Joe Connors. You recently filed a report on a Frank McCall for sending you harassing emails. And then called about him harassing you on State Street.”
“Detective Connors, thank you for calling—”
He sighs. “Ms. Goldberg, I’ve been at this a long time. Usually these situations turn out to be nothing but some guy off his meds, someone who needs counseling. These guys aren’t necessarily dangerous. I can have an officer talk to him, tell him if he bothers you again we’ll arrest him. That could be all it takes to get him to stop.”
“But he accosted me in public. Grabbed me. I have bruises. Fortunately, a friend happened by. Frank punched him and ran away. My friend’s jaw is black and blue. Doesn’t that count for something? Battery? Assault?”
“Yes, such behavior is more serious. But he could be hard to track down. He may not have given you his real name or contact information.”
Great. “And what about what happened to Deidre Mann? Are you familiar with her case?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. That was an extreme situation.”
“How do we know mine won’t turn extreme? I’m in the public eye, too. Detective Connors, this man threatened me, grabbed my arm and hit my friend. I check the trains each morning to make sure he’s not on them. I’m afraid to read my emails. Now I’ll be afraid to go anywhere without my bodyguard. Isn’t there something you can do?”
“Ma’am, do you sincerely believe there’s a possibility he’ll act again on his threats?”
“I wish I didn’t, but yes, I do. Even if he doesn’t do something violent, I definitely think he’ll find a way to see me again.”
“Look, I’ll run his sheet, check his background. Ok? I’ll be in touch when I know something.”
I sigh. Even if Frank is in fact basically harmless, he’s got to be stopped from scaring me and hitting people. “Thank you, Detective. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
I need closure.
Later that afternoon, Detective Connors calls.
“Got good news. We already picked up Frank,” the detective says. “You won’t be surprised to know his name isn’t Frank McCall. It’s Hank Danners, aka Hank McCall. His license to practice was revoked two years ago. He’s in custody at the county jail. You’re lucky. Usually with stalkers, it’s not so easy to make an arrest.”
My churning insides settle a little. Frank is in jail. It’s over. One problem solved.
“We got Danners so fast because he has a prior felony conviction for telephone harassment. And he confessed to sending emails to you, and another actress, too. Good thing you reported this or he’d still be out there.”
My instincts were right, for once. I hear Scott telling me to trust them, and a wave of longing rushes over me. I hope I don’t drown. “Thank you for arresting him so quickly and for letting me know, Detective. What happens next?”
“His case goes to the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office and then before a judge.”
I thank the detective again and hang up. Of course I’m relieved and glad I can stop checking L cars, but I’m still troubled. How do you know who you can trust? How do you recognize a schemer? I understand Scott’s reluctance to reveal his inner self. Except I’m a nice, normal person. Though Frank, or Hank, seemed normal enough. He dressed well, even had business cards. I believed he was a doctor, not a convicted felon, a stalking liar.
And, like with Deidre Mann’s stalker, what happens when Frank/Hank returns to the streets? Will he stop stalking, seek new victims, or return to haunt the ones who got him arrested?
TO DO: find out if Jake can work full time.
The next day, on the Worth It set in a downtown deli, crew and co-stars alike offer their sympathy. And then, each asks about Scott. I hope I accept their concern graciously, and answer convincingly that there’s nothing going on. For once I don’t want to be the center of attention.
Filming has been going well, but I haven’t felt able to appreciate the opportunity or experience as much as I did with ILMM. At least I’m no longer both agog and aghast that teen heartthrob Jason Stone, who could be Shawn Mendes’s stand in and is nearly as popular, plays my son.
As we sit at our table being fussed over by hair and makeup in last looks before the first take, I’m trying to focus on my many lines in this scene where Jason’s trying to convince me to let him drop out of high school because of bullying.
My emotions run so high I should have no trouble summoning tears when needed.
Jason takes my hand. “Marla, I just wanna say how sorry I am about your stalker. I get how creepy that can be…girls have mailed me their underwear and asked me to marry them. I never know when one is going to push past security and hug me or something.”
“Thank you, Jason. Sorry you go through it so often.”
“Part of the ’biz, I guess.” He leans closer. “So what’s really going on with you and Scott Sampson?”
Him, too? For a brief moment I wish I wasn’t the star. I wish I was just that wide-eyed extra happy to be in the corner booth soaking in the world of movie-making, but who had no responsibilities or pressure.
Now I feel terrible, because I’ve worked so hard and gone through so much to get here, and deep down of course I am grateful.
You know what else I’ll be grateful for? The day when the mention or sight of Scott’s name no longer hurts.
Chapter 23
STARIETY MAGAZINE
The Last Scorla Report? Easy come, Easy go?
by BB Beans
Nary a word has been heard from Scott Sampson, Marla Goldberg or their people. Her Worth It movie set is closed, apparently upon her request. Such power, and on her second film? Rumors fly that Scott is holding production meetings for his next project via satellite from his Bahamian retreat and may shoot most of the film there, though it was to film in Manhattan.
What tore these lovebirds apart? How long did Scorla really last? Word is Marla has soared to Jason Stone’s nest. Ah, these fly by night Hollywood relationships. At least some cougars have the decency to date men over 21.
Your typically clued-in BB regrets that by press time she was unable to obtain any details about a supposed scandal lurking in GS’s past.
GOSSIPMONGER.COM
INSTANT GOSSIP Exclusive to GOSSIPMONGER.COM
GS EXPOSED: SCANDAL ALERT!!!
GOSSIPMONGER.COM has just learned that Great Scott Sampson reportedly concealed potential charges of date rape for years! How? By bribing the alleged victim and burying the entire incident! Seven years ago, Scott and his Mortgaged Moments star Nina Sorenson allegedly spent the night together in a ritzy hotel. But our source discloses that Nina refused Great Scott’s advances in no uncertain terms. Allegedly, America’s hottest director couldn’t resist the lovely lady. To keep Nina from charging him with date rape, GS paid her thousands of dollars.
Scott, up for a Movie World Award for directing I Love My Mistress and currently vacationing (or hiding out?) in the Bahamas, refused to comment about the allegations or any payment. Full disclosure, he also threatened to sue GOSSIPMONGER.COM for invasion of privacy and defamation. Efforts are being made to locate Nina. As soon as she returns from her cruise around the world, you can be sure we’ll get her side of the story.
I grab the phone. “Hmmmf?”
“Marla! Wake up.”
It’s my mother, waking me with a hysterical tone in her voice at two in the mo
rning. I jump out of bed and almost step on my iPad. Dread puts me on instant alert. No good news comes at this hour.
“Who died?”
“Go to GOSSIPMONGER.COM. Immediately!”
“What? Ok.” In the dark, I fumble my way to my computer, turn it on, and go to GOSSIPMONGER.COM’s home page. My breath catches in my throat. “Oh. My. God.”
I scan the article several more times, as if I’ll find some indication that the story is a joke.
“Thought you’d want to know. Bye.”
What I do not want to know is what my mother is doing up at two in the morning reading tabloid sites. Or what she thinks about all the stuff she must’ve read about me.
I spend the rest of the night downing countless cups of herbal tea, a chenille throw across my shoulders to ward off the chill in my bones. I check more reputable sites like CNN and find they, too, have picked up a version of the story. None reveal the source. All, as Scott had predicted, make him sound very guilty. Which I know isn’t true.
Blearily I go to find out what Stariety’s site has to say. And come suddenly alert when I read their outright lies about Jason and me. I thought they were among the good guys. It’s a travesty how much doubt we face nowadays about whether what we read in any publication or on any site or hear is actually true. What’s real, what’s not? How can we be sure?
And the comments on both sites are enough to make me vomit.
One on GOSSIPMONGER.COM calls Scott a criminal and says he should go to jail. And one on Stariety labels me a slut and a bad influence on today’s youth. Ouch.
Despite the early hour, I call Sandie. She’s already perky.
“It’s Marla. Have you seen stariety.com? I want to sue them for publicizing such an outright lie about Jason and me. I get that innuendo is part of their shtick, but this is too much.” Alternative facts and fake news are not acceptable. No matter who is president.
“Hold on. I see it. Hmmm. We should start with a request for a public retraction. If they refuse, and you’re sure about suing them for libel and/or defamation, I’ve got a great lawyer for that, too…$20 million would be a good ballpark.”
“Wow. Good.” I calm down a little. A retraction would be far easier and faster than litigation. “Make the request as soon as you can. Keep me posted. Thanks.”
Calls and texts flood in from friends and journalists across the land as they peruse their morning news sources. To friends, I unload my shock. For Scott’s sake and upon Sandie’s advice, I was encouraged to surrender my principles and not tell the whole truth to selected reporters, a list of whom Sandie forwarded. Even a lie of omission makes me feel horrible. But reporters can’t see my face turning red over the phone or that I’m crossing my fingers.
I say, “I can only say this article must be untrue gossip for the sole purpose of drawing attention and followers to these sites. Or perhaps they were fed misinformation and ran with it. And, for the record, I’m not in any way romantically involved with Jason Stone.” That was 100% true.
I shake each time I complete a brief phone interview. It’s physically painful. But Scott put his trust in me. “No comment” wouldn’t help defend him. I wonder how many people will quote me. I wonder what our followers are saying. But I’m afraid to find out.
The thought of what this must be doing to Scott makes me numb. How is he handling his worst fear coming true, his secret brought to light, and in such a horrible fashion? I must know. I stare at my phone long and hard before dialing. We haven’t spoken since I left him at the hotel two days ago. Obviously neither of us is willing to give an inch to be together.
I dial his private line, only to hear the number has been disconnected. The email I have for him was set up especially for ILMM cast and crew. I know better than to email via his website. All such correspondence goes directly to Sheila.
Sheila. Who else knew about Nina’s lies? Scott said only Sam. But Sheila has her nose in everything. What if she knew, too? Has she done this? I wouldn’t put it past her. But how did she find out, unless she’d bugged Scott’s hotel suite? My writer’s imagination has no trouble making the leap to this conclusion…and I remember wondering if the walls had ears. And she was there when we arrived, which surprised Scott.
What if she did it so he’d need and rely on her even more?
My cell rings. Private number. “Hello?”
“Damn you, Marla.”
Uh-oh. “Scott, I had—”
“How could you? Why did you? After all your talk about betrayal. Your babble about the importance of honesty and never lying. What a fool I was to forgive you for researching my past behind my back, to let you woo me into bed again. You are the most evil hypocrite of them all. What you’ve done is far worse than anything Nina did. Your wiles worked on me. I cared for you and you brought me down. Are you happy now, Marvelous Marla?”
Each word is another hammer smash to my heart. The anguish in his voice brings tears to my eyes.
“Scott, please, let me get a word in edgewise. Don’t jump to conclusions again. I—”
“There’s not another word you can say. I believe what I see, not what I hear. I trust my instincts, remember? I revealed more to you than anyone else knows about that night. Less than forty-eight hours after I’m with you, and refuse to give you what you demanded, all the world is devouring my darkest secret. And untruths, to boot.” He sounds so wounded, the miniscule remnants of my heart ache. “Nina signed a release. Sam’s money was involved, so he’d have more to lose than gain if he spoke to the press. That leaves you. Only you, Marla.”
I wish we were Skyping so he could read the truth in my eyes. See how much he’s hurting me. “Scott. You’re right about one thing. I was and am hurt that you didn’t want what I want for us. But I swear on my life I haven’t told anyone anything about your past. In fact, I just spent hours defending you to a dozen reporters. Can you put your anger aside for just a minute and listen to me? There is someone else who might know about—”
He’d hung up. And I can’t call back. As if he’d pick up.
I have to find out who leaked the story. Not only for myself, but for Scott. He shouldn’t have to suffer like this. And he absolutely shouldn’t distrust and blame me.
Again I’m the frog in the well. One leap up, two leaps back down.
In the midst of a huge yawn the next morning, I open my condo building door. I couldn’t sleep, thanks to constant replaying of my rather one-sided phone conversation with Scott. The only good thing is that the vitriol in Scott’s voice combined with dredging my brain for solutions kept me from another spate of nightmares.
I’m makeupless and in sweats, on my way to another 5:30 AM call. I love my job, but it is work. The once-exciting rituals of table reads, line learning, hours of primping and preening via makeup and hair, rehearsing and listening to notes, doing multiple takes and wrapping long after the sun sets (or rises if it’s a night shoot) are morphing toward tasks as mundane as the worker bee daily commute, corporate ladder climb and paper-pushing and Excel chart making of any office position.
I need to remind myself how lucky I am. Taking on a character and working with creatives is so much better than having to meet ever-rising sales goals, scheduling appointments at clients’ whims and keeping up with weekly status reports and other tedious administrative blah blah blah. Even if I don’t know where my next gig is coming from. Or when.
The studio’s car, and hopefully the coffee without which my day can’t officially begin, waits at the curb.
So does a writhing mass of camera and microphone wielding harpies. I freeze, with the door and my mouth still open. I must retreat to safety, go out the back. No. I will not retreat.
“Marla! Over here!”
“Marla, Jaycie Stevens from GOSSIPMONGER.COM. What about those alleged—”
“What’s up with you and Great Scott? And you and Jason Stone?”
“Which one’s a better lover?”
“Tell us about your night in Scott’s hot
el room.”
“Did he go to the Bahamas to get over your breakup?”
“Weren’t you supposed to go with him?”
I’m Julia Roberts as Anna Scott in Notting Hill. Except there’s no charming, handsome Hugh Grant to protect me from the mob. And, with only one movie in the can, I’m not nearly the most famous star in the world she was supposed to be.
Yet I’m famous enough to rate paparazzi at my door. They’re so busy screaming questions, shoving tools of their trade at me, I can’t get a word in edgewise. I want to cover my ears against the din.
The swarm surrounds me, preventing escape. I force a smile as claustrophobia grips me. A guy in a baseball cap bumps into my arm so hard I might end up with another bruise.
“MMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Their shrill cries make my head roar.
On one level, the attention and interest make me feel somewhat special, important and cool, no matter how superficial that may be. On another, higher plane, I feel their claws sinking into me, ready to spill my blood. Every weird thing I’ve ever done or thought or worn or said could be exposed to zillions of readers and commenters who need their gossip opinion-sharing fix as much as they need air.
“Is it true you, Scott and Amber are living together in a den of iniquity?”
“I heard Amber is stalking you. Can you comment?”
“Is it true that you’ve been asked to host a reality TV show?”
Not one question about ILMM, Worth It or my first starring role. Is this what entertainment journalists have come to, or only those interested in me?
I wave until they quiet down. “Ladies and gentlemen, do you know of a class I could take where I’d learn how to answer all of your questions at the same time?”
A delicate ripple of laughter flows through the crowd.