5 Ways to be Famous Now

by Maurilia Meehan

  She had written that novel using a Contessa manual typewriter, typing furiously with four fingers, the intervals between the carriage pings ever shorter as she rushed impatiently into her undoubtedly glorious future. Monica caressed the printed page. She missed that brashly confident younger self. The future was here, ten years later, and if recently it had not quite delivered on its seductive promises, Monica had no complaints, at least at the moment.

  In Sea of Love, Monica had found the gimmick that had seen her through the next half dozen novels. At that old Contessa she had drawn on a week-long affair, which had involved being trapped with the lunatic ex on a yacht until, thankfully, it capsized and they were rescued by the coast guard. She transformed the tumultuous emotions of that brief fling into her longest novel, about a woman trapped in a miserable life-long marriage. In Sea of Love, and each of her subsequent books, the over-arching metaphor for marriage was the same. A woman trapped on a wrecked ship with no possibility of escape. And fortunately for Monica Frequen, it tapped into the psyche of unhappy women everywhere. She flicked to the last page of Sea of Love.

  ‘… to see the top deck of the ship lift off, hang suspended for a moment in the lightning and clouds before crashing down into the broiling sea. In slow-motion it sank, still upright. As if protesting.’

  Monica opened the novel at the dedication.

  ‘To my dear husband Frederico. Always there.’

  He had become a familiar character to her readers because Monica loyally dedicated all her books this way. Frederico was a presence for them in each novel, although his name and personality were altered, according to plot necessities. He was a long-suffering husband, readers gathered, who didn’t mind how Monica exposed their marriage secrets, even though the novels were always reviewed as ‘intensely intimate’. Or ‘rawly startling’.

  Startled, indeed, her readers would have been if they had guessed at Monica’s promiscuous love life. No long-suffering wife, she. So why the dedication?

  ‘… my marvellous help-meet, Frederico, without whose support and understanding, etc.’

  How was it that Mrs Frequen, expert chronicler of comfortably dismal marriages that reconciled readers to their own fates, had never, in fact, married? Indeed, had never had a relationship that lasted longer than a few months?

  Monica, at the age of forty-three, was still wild and free, and that was the way she liked it. But for reasons unfathomable to her, what came out on the page was a woman who was the reverse. So with Sea of Love she had invented Mr Frederico Frequen to establish her credentials. Evidence that she, like her readers, understood what it was to stay the course of a life-long commitment. She must protect her readers, who demanded a heroine braver than themselves, but all to no avail. Verdict? You simply couldn’t win in marriage. And after all, it wasn’t as if Frederico did not exist. In her head. Even if he was, admittedly, an amalgam of ex-lovers’ body parts.

  Monica Frequen glanced at her delicate silver watch and saw that she was already fashionably late. But there was so much to enjoy in this light-filled cabin, which still smelled of wood glue and new vinyl. She poured another Moët and raised it to a framed portrait of herself, a welcoming surprise gift from the imposingly competent Captain MacKinley.

  In this portrait, she was not smiling. She never smiled, at least in public. It did not go with the writerly gravitas that she had cultivated while teaching Australian literature at MidWest University. She had never grinned anxiously like other female authors in their publicity shots. And in her carefully rehearsed interviews, she frowned through sententious utterances, modelling herself on the most successful male writers of the decade. When asked about her influences, she was careful to cite only dead men as her inspiration. Joyce and Tolstoy did the trick, intimidating interviewers into changing tack. In fact, her knowledge of these two men’s books had not deepened since her undergraduate years, and even then her essays had been cut and pasted from the least read literary criticism in the library.

  Monica was not really lying in her interviews, for she genuinely admired the romantic bits in Anna Karenina. Just not the one hundred and twenty pages on farming practices in old Russia, which somewhat slowed it. And although she secretly agreed with Nabokov (now there was a writer with a loyal Frederico for a wife!) that Finnigan’s Wake was an ‘ossified pun’, one gnomic quote brought panic to the eyes of any interviewer, as if she had written it herself. When Rimbaud quit writing at the tender age of nineteen, having already conquered the literary world, he explained that he had come to see writing as ‘a form of idiocy’. In the case of Joyce, Monica secretly agreed. Though not in her own case, naturally.

  She was more interested in the private lives of her chosen writers than in their writing, and her knowledge was always being updated by scandalous biographies. Tolstoy presenting his virgin bride with his lurid sex diaries on their wedding night. Joyce and his disgusting fetish for Nora’s dirty knickers. But to dwell on such peccadillos would further no one’s career. When the time came for someone to write her own biography, she would make sure that no traces of scandal remained to ruin her carefully curated reputation.

  In the literary world, a newly published female author’s penchant for male writers added to her high seriousness almost as much as if she had joined Annie Proulx in a huntin’ and fishin’ expedition. So Monica knew to preface every opinion with ‘As Mr X says …’ In this way, she felt herself invulnerable behind her public persona. And high honours resulted from her strategy, for after her first novel she had been asked to join the judges’ panel for the next year’s literary awards. In private, she had argued with the three other judges for her favourite four titles, which all happened, by pure chance, to be by men. The others had wanted to include a token female, but she had held her ground, even offered to defend the judges’ decision against any feminist outcry. She had done so.

  ‘It’s not about gender. They are simply the best books of this year.’

  She had been praised for her courage in making a difficult decision and this adulation drowned out the little voice whispering in her ear: traitor to your sex. Even more joy followed at the awards night, where she had been delirious with the attentions of the four finalists. And peeved at having to select just one of them to sleep with that night.

  The truth was that Monica adored men. In bulk. Nothing beat spending a weekend sequestered in a hotel room with a perfect stranger, and ever since Sea of Love there had been no shortage of contenders. Indeed, she had led a charmed life, attended by a cortege of lithe and ambitious young men with stars in their eyes.

  Until the previous year, her annus horribilis.

  But surely that was over now? She was on the way back up again, wasn’t she? This gig as the ship’s keynote speaker was a sign. And soon she would have another book out and once again there would be the erotic anticipation of the Saturnalia that she always made of each book launch. She would feel herself enlarge and swell, so that by the time of the grand day, she would feel like Gargantua astride the universe itself. Once more the ceremony would be consummated with a chosen acolyte, after the rest of her admirers had departed forlorn. Once more, ritual coition would be performed on an altar of her own freshly minted books. Following that sacrificial offering would be the customary weeks hidden away in bed with her new intimate companion, taking calls only from her current agent/best friend.

  That honorific was a rotating position, awarded to the one most useful to Monica’s career at any given time. This person was necessary to field all those imaginary calls, to enable Monica to survive the echoing silence after that heady launch but before the first crucial review.

  Two years ago, Monica had been expecting brill reviews of her shiny new book, A Wave Swells, as would be the reasonable wont of any Australian author who has taught writing in the US. But incredibly, the critics had been full of faint praise. There could be only one explanation. They had not forgiven her role in the scandal at Araballa University. She should never have returned from t
he States, never have accepted that position at the leading regional university in Australia. But there were only so many American universities interested in Australian literature and she had exhausted all other avenues.

  She had done nothing wrong, but out of nowhere had come those accusations of double fraud. First, the revelation of her somewhat contrived PhD from the States, then the discovery that her famously fulsome feedback, neatly typed on students’ submissions, had been authored by her ghost, a high school numeracy and literacy teacher strapped for cash. Monica had been unceremoniously sacked without having ever discovered who had dobbed her in. No, she should never have returned. Life had been heaven as the unchallenged expert on Aus. Lit at MidWest. And she still could not see why her dual contretemps should have escaped from the cage of the newspaper literary pages and run feral in the general news, which people actually read. Even sacking her agent/best friend and hiring another had not saved Monica from disgrace.

  She had been in danger of experiencing first-hand that same painful life of a dreary nobody that she so charmingly glorified in her novels. Forced to suffer the company of people who had never heard of her. Too cruel, to be jostled or overlooked like any other middle-aged woman. Not special at all. Doomed to become one of her own pathetic characters.

  But while she had been thus staring into the jaws of hell, the embossed envelope from the Queen Mary had arrived. Well paid. Piles of all her books bought outright. And all the alcohol she could drink. So now Monica Frequen, respected novelist of the realist school, could once more look with pleasure at her dauntingly sagacious framed portrait on the wall of her cabin. By now, her audience in the ship’s ballroom would be anxiously wondering what had delayed her. But he would be here soon.

  Settling back in a faux suede armchair, she began flipping through the pile of Who magazines which she could never read in public. Madonna’s latest toyboy had broken up with her: ‘It was like going to bed with your nana.’

  Monica Frequen winced and hurriedly turned the page, though she was not yet as old as Madonna. She rallied herself by recalling that encouraging anecdote about Sophia Loren. A timeless beauty, after all, as Monica intended to be. How did that yarn go again?

  The mother of an eighteen-year-old discovers he has been sleeping with Sophia. ‘But how can you sleep with such an old woman?’

  ‘She’s not an old woman, ma, she’s Sophia Loren.’

  Monica slipped the magazine into a drawer and glanced at her watch again. Her latest young darling should be back from the gym by now. She was looking forward to arriving on his arm at the banquet, where, as they had rehearsed, he would pass as her son. She had insisted that he accompany her, free of charge, and he was using her supposed husband’s name to simplify things. Her honeybun deserved such a treat as this cruise, for she rarely paraded him in public. He had convinced her that her work in progress, A Wave Lifts, was really going to be The One. Why, she mused, she might even bed two young men at the next launch, instead of him, for he had witnessed her vulnerable moments of recent crisis.

  But here he was at last.

  Was her dreamboat a little absentminded as he stroked her cunningly upholstered brassiere? But then she too was full of yearnings that he could not fulfil. Young girls who believe that one day they will be famous are easily forgiven, not so the career-spent woman in her forties, still convinced that her renown must continue to expand as a mathematical fact, until it fills the known universe. Still no Hollywood contract? Still no biography? It was only a matter of time.

  And meanwhile her honeybun, now kissing her earlobes exactly the way she had taught him, would follow her rules of behaviour in public. He would answer to Frederico, after his fictive father. Any such ear-nibbling strictly forbidden.

  Monica, habituated as she was to reshaping life on the page, simply could not have envisaged that little Frederico might find this restriction on public petting not only easy to comply with but a relief. She could not imagine that her young acolyte might have a secret life, away from the one she arranged for him. Might even harbour grievances.

  For, added to the distressing fact that his own brilliant manuscript remained neglected and still unpublished, in spite of her promises to use her influence, he had just met a really hot chick called Kylie at the gym.

  And she had asked him if he was travelling with his nana.

  ME #6

  It is still only eleven o’clock. Before the captain arrives, I have time to record the following inciting incident for my upcoming attentions to Monica Frequen. Then you will understand the poetic justice of my plan. An eye for an eye.

  Many years ago, I read Sea of Love cover to cover. But I did not find even a fleeting mention of our old life at the apartment block, much less of the interesting squatter in the flat by the laundry. It was all about a love affair on a yacht. I mean she didn’t even mention me once.

  But that life writing class she was running was my chance to get her to sit up and take note. To make her read my autobiography and be amazed. It would be obvious to her that readers would be fascinated by the psychology of an arsonist, and admire my successful journey from son of a wood man to a position of responsibility at Araballa Library. I had not yet chosen my preferred publisher, but I would settle for Monica’s, Universal Ditchwater, if I did not get a better offer at the auction.

  Over that six-month course which, disappointingly, turned out to be mainly online, Monica responded to Fire in His Loins with lengthy comments. My character was sensitive, abused, hurt. His father had set a bad example, teaching him to light fires. The poor boy was a victim. And the girls at the apartment block who wouldn’t have coffee with him were lacking in taste. Did not appreciate his depth of character. They would surely see his point of view as they matured. And that nasty poison-pen girl had clearly led him on. It was an act of betrayal to coax a secret out of anyone and then reject him.

  Monica’s writing group met face-to-face once a month, and at these meetings Monica Frequen always maintained a discreet professional froideur with me. Naturally I was not offended, as I understood she had to treat me like any other student so that our special relationship would not arouse their envy. I knew that when the course was over, she would be free to fraternise, and to get my masterwork published.

  But my dreams faded when I read in the paper that the university had sacked her for the very offence she must have been committing against me. It turned out that I had bared my deepest secrets to some unknown hack, who had penned those treasured words affirming my genius and even suggested a coming bidding frenzy for Fire in His Loins.

  The more I read of the scandal, the more outraged I became at her naked deception. It was as if a cherished lover had been replaced by a prostitute after the lights went out, and I, unaware of the switch, had continued to make love with her, whisper my secrets in her ear. Monica clearly deserved more than sacking. Naturally, when the opportunity arose to tie her in to the overall plan, I suggested her name to the captain as keynote speaker.

  And the icing on my revenge cake was that Monica’s deception had been revealed by an anonymous letter. Not that I am accusing anyone, but we all know whose specialty that is.

  Now I have her aboard and at my mercy. But even given the fraught relationship I have with Monica, I want to be fair. I have read her work, so I intend to give her the opportunity to read Fire in His Loins.

  As soon as Captain Kirstin returns from the banquet, I will use my staff keycard to enter Monica’s cabin, where I will find her getting ready for bed. Next, I will overpower her and tie her to a chair, then tape her mouth shut. I will be gentle with her and will make sure that she is as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. And then I too will take a seat and commence my private out-loud reading of Fire in His Loins.

  By dawn, I should have finished the novel that she has so far, through her own fault, missed out on reading. Then I will loosen one of her hands, give her a pen and direct her to write her true and heartfelt reaction to my moving tal
e. If I agree with her comments — in other words, if they are positive — she will be released and I will leave Fire in His Loins with her to pass on to Universal Ditchwater. If her comments are dishonestly negative, however, I will feel justified in moving to my own Plan B.

  So as I sit here waiting for the captain to return, with Ariadne lying under a white sheet on her trolley, you can understand how impatient I am to hear that keycard in the door.

  11

  SERIOUS MATTERS

  Monica’s tardiness in arriving at the banquet had certainly set tongues wagging, but she would have been appalled to hear the chatter about her downfall. Most of the tables were pooling half-remembered details of some assessment scandal at Araballa University. Forged qualifications.

  Unaware of all this, head high, she swept into the ballroom on the arm of her son, as he seemed to be. One of the more suggestible guests mistook her for the promised ghostly Woman in White, so a gratifying shriek greeted her entrance as the hysteric pointed and all heads turned towards Monica.

  Basking in the applause that followed in her wake as her lover guided her, with strictly filial attention, towards the Captain’s Table, Monica concentrated on not stumbling in her outrageously expensive shoes, on keeping her back youthfully erect. Her lover settled her into the red director’s chair (her name on the back — so thoughtful), then smoothly slipped into the extra chair that catering had arranged for him at the last minute. He was not a star, so they had not predicted that he too would sit at the Captain’s Table.

  Charming Captain MacKinley lightly shook Monica’s hand with gloved fingers, while over her shoulder Monica surveyed the tables below the dais. She drank in the glamour of this gig, confident that she was back on the upward path to glory.

  A tinkling of spoon on crystal, an expectant hush, and Captain Kirstin took charge of the microphone that the chanteuse ceded so prettily. As the singer left the stage, the captain led a round of applause, prompting some to realise that the music had been live.