by Ruth Kaufman
“Brad? What’s this about Brad?” Mom asks. “He’s so perfect for you. Linda, honey, what could you two possibly have to fight about?”
Linda’s glare is hot enough to sear. I deflect it with a frying pan.
“Nothing, really. A small misunderstanding, the kind all couples go through at one time or another. We’ll get past this.”
“You always have,” I say.
Perhaps I am being the tiniest bit cruel, poking at Linda’s open wound. But weren’t she and Mom doing the same to me?
Why do we always pick at each other?
“Why is it so hard to simply support and believe in another family member? What makes us so quick to judge each other?” Mom asks, surprisingly echoing my thoughts.
“Once people have kids or own their own companies, their DNA mutates and they can’t help being critical,” I say. Neither Linda nor Mom seem amused. “I think each of us thinks she knows what’s best, and at the same time wants validation for the way she lives her life. It’s all about being right and not about being a friend.”
“Let’s see if we can be more supportive in the future. I’ll start,” Mom announces. She stands up straighter. “Marla, I’m looking forward to your movie premiere very much.”
I want to reply: only because her friends think it’s cool to have a daughter in a movie and are jealous theirs have boring jobs. But I don’t.
Linda’s turn. She thinks for a minute without frowning, as she is extremely Botox averse and piles on one hundred fifty dollars per ounce skin cream nightly. She’s clearly struggling to find anything pleasant to say about my life, so different from her own. “I’m considering buying a computer animation studio. Anime is a fast-growing sector of the communications industry.”
“Impressive.” I am impressed that she knows what anime is. But, as usual, everything Linda says is related to her work.
“Anime. What’s that?” Mom asks.
And they’re off, blabbing about my younger sister’s latest venture.
I don’t mind. At least they’re not picking on me.
The next morning my phone rings. “This is Marla Goldberg.”
“Sammy Jonesboro here. Of SJA. Word’s on the street you did a helluva job in Mistress. I don’t normally need to do this, but if you’re interested in L.A. representation, I’m interested.”
“Mr. Jonesboro, I appreciate your taking the time to call.” I stifle a squeal but I do jump up and down. SJA is one of the top three agencies in the country. Do I play it cool and say I’ll think about it and get back to him? Or go with my gut? “It would be an honor to be represented by you and your agency. What are next steps?”
“I’ll email the agency agreement and FedEx some scripts. I got a coupla movies and guest stars for yuh tuh look at. Read ’em and get back tuh me ASAP. My secretary’ll get your info.”
I collapse into a chair and smile like a woman in a Calgon commercial.
Major progress. I now have a famous L.A. agent who handles A-list stars. Well, assuming I sign the contract. Not only that, he called me. I’d heard he was too important to deal with new talent submissions and only considered new clients based on personal recommendations. Did someone recommend me?
Things are looking up at last.
“How’s the acting biz treatin’ you, Marla?”
I’ve run into my former WZRJ co-worker Stan Tackaberry in the grocery store. The guy who quit the same day I did. He’s tall, thin and borders on surly. It’s a wonder he ever made any sales.
“Great, thanks. How are you doing, Stan?”
“Unemployed. Almost took a job at that station that just switched to love songs, but it was all new business. No established client list. I didn’t want to start up with that again. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do.” And I’m so glad I don’t have to worry about it anymore. For now, at least.
“Radio market’s been kinda slow. Streaming and satellite radio, iTunes and all that.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “So how do you do it, Marla?”
“Do what?”
“Pay your bills. Stay positive and all that shit.”
I glance into Stan’s cart. Only macaroni and cheese. Not even Kraft, but the generic kind I happened to notice was buy one, get one free this week.
My cart is piled with fresh fruits and vegetables. And one carton of Edy’s Slow Churned.
“I just filmed a part in a movie.” I shrug, not knowing what else to say.
“A movie? I thought you’d said extra work didn’t pay that much.”
“I had an actual part this time. With lines.”
“Great. No more green penises for you, huh?”
I sure hope not. “My zucchini days seem to be over for the moment, anyway. Have you considered taking an interviewing class? I’ve been taking acting classes for years. To keep improving my skills.”
It makes me uncomfortable that things are working out for me and not Stan. Even though everyone at WZRJ knew his offensive personality probably hindered him from moving on. A few clients had asked for a new account executive because he got on their nerves. Why can’t he see that?
“Yeah. Maybe. I need something to fill my time.”
“Well, good luck, Stan.”
But I know now Luck only shows up after you lay a lot of groundwork for her.
Chapter 14
STARIETY MAGAZINE
A Star is Born?
by BB Beans
Forty-something newcomer Marla Goldberg is the one to watch in Great Scott Sampson’s I Love My Mistress. A source close to the film reports that Tatiana Farraday, who plays the title role, is fuming over recent buzz-inducing press about Marla, who portrays the beleaguered wife. Former fan-favorite Farraday plans a press conference to discuss her far larger and meatier role, currently stashed on the media’s back burner. Maybe then she can catch up to Marla in new followers.
She may have a point. After all, not many unknown supporting actresses beat out the famous star for the cover of our dope celeb mag and a spot on Jimmy Kimmel Live. And in the same week. Is TF is getting the shaft? Is this another All About Eve? Cast your vote at starietymagazine.com or tweet @stariety #ILMM.
Neither MG nor her people (already she needs people?) could be reached for comment.
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MGFAN: When will this week’s Stariety be out? Go, Marla!
StarWatcher: I checked some stores, they said a couple of days. Will frame cover and put on wall.
MGFAN: Heard she’ll be giving a talk and signing pics next Sunday at a Save the Pets fundraiser. RU going?
MarryMe: Cool. What time?
MGFAN: Sorry, 10:00. Let’s go as a group. Meet at 9:45, outside the hotel front entrance. Wear MG’s favorite flower, pink peonies.
You are visitor: 100653
“That was nice, ladies. A few more just like that, please.”
You will not believe what I’m doing right now. I’m reclining on a chaise beside the Beverly Icon Hotel’s swimming pool, doing a shoot for Stariety magazine! For the cover, no less.
Sandie has already earned her first year’s fees.
It’s not a solo cover, of course. I’m with four already popular but newer to the public eye actresses over forty. I’ve seen every one of them in something, and definitely feel like the new kid on the block.
Three other factors conspire to keep me from feeling welcome:
1) Sandie got me added at the last minute because someone she wouldn’t name had to drop out.
2) the Fantastic Four have been gossiping amongst themselves all morning. I feel like the fifth wheel.
3) everyone else brought her entourage, including a stylist, to the set. And playlists.
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“Jana, tilt your head more to the left, please. A little more. Like that. The photographer’s digital camera whirrs. “Thanks.”
I didn’t get to go to wardrobe first, nor am I in the center. Two of the actresses had a heated battle over that supposedly coveted spot. The photographer resolved the matter with a coin toss. I’m too excited to be here to think about complaining. I never, ever would have thought I’d be on the cover of Stariety. Our photo parodies that Vanity Fair Desperate Housewives cover.
Though I can’t believe I have to wear next to nothing in public again. At least this time I get a vintage one-piece bathing suit and weigh less. And the stylists want me to look good. They took great care getting each frizz to behave.
“We’ll hold a minute until that cloud passes by.”
A production assistant rushes around fast as a tennis match ball boy to pass bottled water.
When we take a break, and someone brings me a cup of coffee just the way I like it without me even having to tell him, I wonder if life can get any better than this. Perhaps, if I had someone to share it with.
Of course that makes me think of Scott.
The next morning, I’m asleep when the phone rings.
“Marla Goldberg, please.”
Not a telemarketer who has discovered my new private line, because there was no annoying pause when I answered. Nor is it Sandie, asking how the shoot went. I don’t recognize the number or the voice.
“This is Marla.”
“EA speaking.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. EA is Eleanor Armstrong. Why is an editor from Renaissance Publishing calling me? Since I started reading their historical romances in high school, I’ve dreamed of seeing their name and mine on the spine of my book.
“We hear you’re writing a novel. We want to see it. ASAP.”
I don’t recall mentioning that to Sandie. How does EA know?
“Well, I only have around a hundred pages.” And getting each out of my head was like pulling a tooth.
“Great. Great. Can you email them today?”
Wow. “Sure. Thank you.”
I’m so, so lucky. Dreams really can come true, even if they seem far beyond your reach. Even if you have to work years, put out hundreds of feelers and endure hundreds of rejections to get them. Yet my nerves are stretched tighter than a newbie’s muscles in an advanced yoga class.
Not only do I have a significant supporting role in what promises to be a box office smash, a prominent editor wants to read my pages. I’d better keep writing in case she wants more.
Thank goodness Audrey suggested I hire Sandie, though her rate makes me cringe. I no longer have time to keep up with, much less answer, the fan snail and email pouring in and dozens of requests for interviews since word about the movie finally got out. This week convinced me that some famous folk do need an entourage.
TO DO: get HBO Now and binge watch that show.
An elated me spends the next few days sharing my latest good news. Responses include
Linda: “You’d better have an attorney review your contract before you sign. I can recommend a few.”
“Well, she hasn’t offered one. Yet.”
My parents: “You’ll spread yourself too thin. Focus on acting or writing, one or the other.”
My brother: “That’s great.” But I can tell he’s not really listening. Sounds like he’s busy fetching PG the string cheese I hear the kid demanding in the background.
Sandie: “Excellent! Publicity breeds publicity, you know. I’ll contact her and get started on a plan for your books right away.”
Books? “Well, I haven’t sold any yet.” Or even finished one.
“‘Yet’ being the operative word. I know, maybe we’ll brand you Woman of all Arts. No, Renaissance Woman. No, Marvelous Marla. That’s it! I can’t wait to get started.”
Marvelous Marla. Ha. I don’t tell her I came up with that one myself ages ago.
Interesting that the person most enthusiastic about my news is the one I pay. Is that why so many people go to therapy…either to learn not to need familial support or not care that their families don’t give the kind they most want to have?
The next day, Eleanor calls again. That was fast. My heart beats faster hearing her guttural voice. Please don’t let her tell me she’s changed her mind or wants me to rewrite half of what she’s read.
“MG, EA. We want to offer you a two-book contract.”
I got “the call!” An editor wants to buy my book, and without even reading the complete manuscript. I squeal and jump up and down. Clearly good luck spawns more good luck. “Of course. Martina’s sister deserves her own story. Thank you. I’ll get to work right away.”
Ideas for possible heroes and conflicts do a chaotic dance through my mind. But I haven’t even finished the first one, and now have another to write. How long will it take me to crank out hundreds more pages when it’s taken years to finish the first hundred?
“You’ll have the contract soon. Series are all the rage these days, BTW. I’ll need your proposal in two,” EA says.
“Two? Months?”
“Weeks,” she says, extra loud.
I swallow my shock. Only fourteen days to write three chapters plus a synopsis, a brief summary of the whole book. When finishing the first novel, the ILMM premiere, more publicity and those scripts Sammy is sending to read are already in my schedule?
“We want to put Chapter One of Angela’s book at the end of Martina’s, don’t we?” EA asks in the tone one would use with the stupidest person ever.
“Of course,” I repeat.
I wish I were brave enough to tell her I’ve never written
1) a synopsis. Many multi-published authors insist plotting first is the only way to go, but my characters show me what they want to do. I’m a pantser, writing from the seat of my pants. I’ve tried, but can’t make up their adventures in advance.
2) three chapters in two weeks.
When it rains it pours…is it possible to have too much of a good thing? I recall how uncomfortable I felt when I reached the bottom of that half-gallon of ice cream I’d slurped in one sitting. Stuffed, with frozen lips and tongue, wondering why I couldn’t be satisfied with a normal portion.
I’m so shaken I’ve forgotten Eleanor is still on the line.
“BTW, congrats on ILMM,” she says. “LOL.”
Warning bells clang in my head. “Thanks.”
“Thought your name sounded familiar when I read about the movie. I rarely take on an unpublished wannabe. Building a new author’s platform and making an unknown stand out on the virtual shelves isn’t worth my time. But you already have thousands of followers. Marvelous for sales and promotion. Gotta run. TTYS.”
“TTYS,” I whisper.
Very gently I hang up the phone. My happiness drains faster than water from the sink when I’m trying to stop a contact lens from sliding into oblivion. EA isn’t buying my books because she thinks I’m a great writer with interesting stories to tell that readers will love. She’s buying them because I’m getting famous. To her, I’m already A Name.
My chin drops to my chest. I close my eyes.
How does a famous person ever know she’s wanted for her talents and not just how famous she is? I think of Scott getting mobbed. Do the fans and GSGs really like him, or do they just want to be able to say they got his picture or autograph to impress their friends? Each GSG seems to believe she has a chance with him, the way some tone-deaf American Idol auditionees truly believe they’re good singers.
Why do fans get so googly-eyed, why is it so cool to have your picture taken with someone famous? What makes the public clamor for the celebrity-branded clothes, shoes, jewelry and perfume?
VIH (returning after a long, much-appreciated absence): “Silly girl. It doesn’t matter why EA bought your books. She loved what she read of the first one and wants you to write another. How many times have I listened to your blah blah blah about wanting to be a published author? Did you
ever say, ‘I want to be a respected, non-famous unpublished author?’ Not.”
Then why do I feel taken advantage of, so…used? Isn’t it enough that I’ve finally sold, and more than one book at that, after all my years spent wanting to?
I fear I’ll always want more than I have. Or maybe by the time I get something I think I want, I already know whatever it is isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Oddly at loose ends a few days before the premiere, but with few ideas for Martina’s journey, I decide to do some shopping. I admit my mom was right. I’m ready to buy a hot gown of my own. Maybe two. Maybe even my first pair of designer shoes, though the thought of spending more than a hundred dollars on a pair makes me cringe.
Linda had offered a few of her gowns, but nothing extra special. A light blue one even had a faint stain from the last time she’d worn it.
“I haven’t had time to take it to the cleaners,” was Linda’s excuse.
Another had lost a chunk of sequins. “I caught it in the limo door,” she explained. But she never bothered to get the dress fixed.
Sigh.
Wages from one movie can’t undo more than forty years of frugality. So I take public transportation, most often the Purple line train, which meanders along a curvy track offering excellent Chicago skyline views.
Getting a seat is an accomplishment. Today there are two available: one next to a dozing man in tattered clothes clutching a dusty black garbage bag and one next to a fairly attractive man in a suit.
Guess where I sit.
Business Man is reading the New York Times, a well-used Coach briefcase on his lap. He has a dignified profile, dark hair dotted with gray and no paunch. No ring, either. He’s wearing an interesting, colorful silk tie that says he’s not afraid to be different.
The weather is surprisingly warm, so I’m wearing a flowered skirt with a black T-shirt and sweater with my favorite low-heeled sandals, toes painted the exact lavender of the flowers in my skirt. As the train creakily wends its way to the next stop, I pull out my phone and start reading the newspaper.