My Life as a Star_A Romantic Comedy

by Ruth Kaufman

  I don’t tell Linda about my continuing obsession. Though my entire body aches and my chest compresses when I see something critical or incorrect about myself, I am compelled to read every single tabloid. Every GSG tweet. This makes quite a pile of papers, hundreds of tweets and posts on assorted sites, which are quite time-consuming to get through. Good thing I have plenty of downtime on set.

  I’m ashamed to confess how they’ve gotten to me, how neurotic is my need to know. Keep your enemies close. Scott seemed happier without such knowledge. But if anyone wants to know who’s pregnant and who’s getting divorced, I’ve got every juicy detail.

  “Any other ideas?” Despite our hotel room hookup and that relationship conversation…should I cave and let him control how and when we see each other? Would he still want that? Still want me? “We didn’t part on the best of terms. How do you convince a potential client who isn’t interested in hearing from you?”

  “I keep calling until their situation changes.”

  What I used to do while at WZRJ. In those cases, persistence paid.

  “I don’t want Scott to think I’m stalking him.”

  “Then you’ll have to proactively accelerate your strategy and leverage your core competencies. Initiate a best-of-class, results-driven, outside-the-box, value-add solution.”

  “Gee, thanks, O Queen of Corporate Speak. I’ll get right on that.”

  Suddenly I know what I have to do. The risks are enormous, even ginormous (which makes me think of Will Ferrell as Buddy in Elf), but the payoff could be worth it.

  “If I tell you my plan, will you keep it in strictest confidence?”

  Linda nods. I explain.

  She spends the next half hour trying to talk me out of it.

  RUN!

  They’re after me. Reporters. Lots of them.

  I race down a long, dark alley, splashing through disgusting and smelly puddles, stumbling over a pile of empty moving boxes. My red stiletto catches in a small hole, and I almost pitch onto my face. I tug it free. Run faster. I gasp for air.

  If they catch me….

  Oh. No. Moonlight reveals a mob in front of me and another behind…they’re moving in. Like the Death Star garbage compactor doors close in on Leia, Luke, Han and Chewie in the original Star Wars. Closer the mobs march. Closer.

  “Hellooooo, Marla,” a trench-coated man says. He laughs, his rumbling voice echoing down the alley. “You’re trapped.”

  “We’ve got you now,” a woman shrieks as she taunts me with her microphone.

  Dozens of red beady eyes gleam, froth drips from their mouths.

  “There’s nowhere to hide.” A lizard-skinned videographer turns his camera spotlight on me.

  Reflexively, my hands go up to block the blinding light. My breath comes in rapid pants. I try to scream. No sound comes out.

  A long-fingered hand reaches out, grabs my throat and I wake up.

  I’m safe in my bed, clutching a pillow. My breathing is heavy until cleansing relief bathes me. The chase is over. It seemed so real that my feet hurt from running so far in those incredibly high heels.

  No one knows about my realistic nightmares. Unfortunately, since Scott’s secret became front-page news, I’ve spent my limited slumber fleeing the media or running around trying to prove that some vicious rumor published about me isn’t true.

  The other night I had to convince everyone in my dream world I’d completed high school and graduated from college, despite the media’s stories and Smoking Gun’s insisting I’d dropped out. Even my parents were in on this one, having told the tabloids they’d forged my diplomas. Linda just laughed and laughed.

  I’m exhausted. The toll fame and being in the spotlight can take on a person is real. If I don’t find relief from this stress soon, I’ll implode.

  I call Andrea. Fortunately, she can get a babysitter. We enjoy relaxing massages, then go out for herbal tea. In the tea shop, new age music plays and the servers wear delicate floral shirts. One takes our order in mellow tones. The walls are mauve, with pictures of tulips and daisies.

  I sniff my steaming lavender verbena and close my eyes, letting soothing heat from the cup fill my veins. “Aaaah. This is so nice. Thanks for going with me, Andrea. I really needed a break, and feel almost myself again. Assuming I know who I am these days.”

  “What?”

  “We all have different selves that make us up. Different roles we play every day, maybe without realizing it. Are you the same with your kids as you are with your mom? The same with your husband as when you worked? Do you know who you really are?”

  “I guess not, when you put it that way.”

  “I sometimes wonder if I act all the time so I don’t have to face and figure out the real me.”

  “I get it,” Andrea says with a nod. “I think I do that, too. I always wish I could spend more time alone. I thought I wanted to enjoy some peace and quiet, maybe read a book or something. You just made me see it’s so no one will be around to judge me.”

  “Exactly. Exactly that.”

  “So I won’t judge me. If I’m by myself, I won’t have to worry if my mom thinks I’m a good mother, if my husband thinks I’m a good wife, if my kids really love me or if I’m raising them right or going too easy on them.” Andrea examines her teacup. “Wow. That’s deep.”

  “And scary. I wonder if I’ve spent so much time trying to do what I think will make others accept me that I’ve lost sight of my true self.” I add more hot water and reinsert the infuser. “I wish the therapy I had after my divorce unearthed this discovery. It took becoming famous and seeing my life smeared all over the tabloids for me to finally understand.”

  “I’m glad you got famous so I could understand.”

  “You know the song.”

  “‘That’s what friends are for,’” she says.

  We laugh. The hostess glares at us for disturbing the mood of her sanctuary.

  Andrea nibbles the tiny piece of shortbread that came with her tea. “One more thing. Now that you’ve figured all this out, what do we do to be who we really are?”

  I think for a minute. Suddenly I’m whisked back to the room at the Hotel Burnham when Scott and were sitting on the bed and he told me, “Trust your gut.”

  Now I understand. He was right.

  “Scott told me his success was based on being able to trust and act upon his instincts. He wanted me to listen hard to mine, and not worry about all the things that could go wrong with any given decision I needed to make.”

  “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I ache every time I think about him, which is many times a day. Too many. “But he followed his gut where I was concerned, too.”

  “It sounds to me like he followed his head. Scott said he wanted you, right? Wouldn’t desire be a message from his gut? Shouldn’t he have gone with how he felt about you? As opposed to making the rational choice that relationships, particularly among the famous, are difficult. Seems to me he went against his own advice and took into account what could go wrong if he stayed involved with you.”

  “Wow. Very insightful. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” The thinnest thread of hope weaves through me. Could Andrea be right? “But back to us. I think you and I need to stop shooting down our instincts, so they can come through loud and clear. Giving in to self-doubt eats away at us.”

  “Like the termites we just found out are devouring our crawl space.”

  “Eeew. Well, here’s to getting rid of all termites, real and mental.” I lift my tea cup, and we toast.

  FU gatherings have a certain sameness, comforting sometimes and annoying at others. We sit in the same places, have the same conversations.

  Until today.

  Linda stands. “I have an announcement.”

  Mom, Dad, Monica, Larry, Brad, I and even PG look to her expectantly.

  “Marla is about to make the biggest mistake of her life and we have to stop her.”

  I drop my fork. Little yellow scramb
led egg clumps spill onto the tablecloth. I want to throttle her. “Linda. Enough. You promised you wouldn’t say anything.”

  “I know I did. I’m sorry, Marla. There are times when even doctors, lawyers and priests have to break confidentiality rules if they fear their patient or client is going to do serious injury to herself.”

  “Point taken and under consideration. Let’s talk about something else. Mom, what did you put in these eggs? What did Zachary do yesterday? Who won whatever games some teams played yesterday?” I’m desperate.

  Monica opens her mouth to regale us with another saga, but I can tell I won’t get off the hook so easily this time.

  “What is Marla going to do now? Move to L.A.? Go to Africa like Angelina Jolie and adopt some children?” Mom stops pouring coffee refills. “Quit acting?”

  “She probably won’t have much choice after this,” Linda says.

  “After what already?” Dad asks.

  My dear sister has raised everyone’s curiosity to such a fever pitch Dad has abandoned his Sunday paper.

  “Linda. Don’t do this.”

  “You wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe the family as a whole can talk some sense into you. This is an intervention.”

  “I am a self-sufficient adult. I’m not on drugs or abusing alcohol. While your support would be welcome, I don’t need anyone’s approval of my decisions. Being different from your siblings is not a crime.”

  “What the hell is Marla going to do?” Dad demands.

  “She’s going to L.A. to track down Scott Sampson and try to get him to look at some unsavory information I found about his assistant.”

  Dad picks up his paper. “What’s so horrible about that?”

  I jump to my feet. Linda and I glare at each other. “Linda. I will never forgive you.”

  She reveals almost every detail I’d told her. “I’m doing this for you, Marla. Don’t be angry with me.”

  Once again, the horrific drama unfolding about me is now about her. I cringe and wish I could disappear. If you can’t trust your own sister, who can you trust?

  Yourself. Only yourself.

  “Do you know where Scott lives?”

  “What if Scott thinks you’re stalking him? Could you be arrested?”

  “What will the press say?”

  Questions fly, fast and furious. I don’t have all the answers, and I wouldn’t share even if I did.

  “I just know this is something I have to do. If anyone has a better idea, I am willing to listen for the next sixty seconds.” It galls me to make the offer, but if they feel they can participate and get their suggestions out, they might stop pestering me.

  “Mail him the information,” Mom says.

  “Use Federal Express, with signature required,” Dad contributes.

  “So he signs for it. That doesn’t mean he has to read the material.” Brad.

  “Get it to someone he trusts and will listen to, and have that person deliver it.”

  All heads turn to Monica.

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” I admit.

  Except Scott doesn’t trust people beyond their ability to do their jobs on his films. And deep inside I know it’s up to me, no matter the cost.

  Trust only yourself.

  I can do this.

  “Let me in.”

  Later that day, Linda knocks on my door. She’s never stopped by before.

  I open it. Andrea and Catherine are with her.

  “What’s up? What are you three doing here, and together?”

  “This is another intervention,” Linda says.

  They storm past me into the living room.

  “For what?” I ask. “I’m still not an alcoholic, I don’t do drugs or anything else illegal. I do eat a lot of sugar, but I’m not gaining weight so I don’t think that qualifies me for Overeaters Anonymous.”

  “You are addicted, Marla.” Andrea shakes her head. “You wouldn’t listen to me. I called your sister, and she said you wouldn’t listen to your family. She agrees you have to stop.”

  Fury mixed with disappointment fills me. And the burn of betrayal. “I’m going to see Scott, somehow. No matter what.”

  “This isn’t about him. It’s about tabloids, social media, gossip.” Linda pulls a roll of garbage bags from her briefcase. “They’re fine when read in moderation. But you abuse them.”

  “I do not!” How do I get them to leave without being ruder than they are?

  “We searched addiction symptoms on the internet,” Catherine explains. “Denial is one,” she adds with a pointed look.

  The harpies make a beeline for the towering stack of tabloids and magazines on my coffee table.

  “So I like to keep up with what’s going on in my industry. Linda, you read financial trade publications. For crying out loud, you were quoted in Crain’s Chicago Business a few weeks ago.”

  “Don’t get defensive. You don’t really expect us to believe that Crain’s and Stariety are on the same level. And how many hours do you spend on Instagram? Twitter?”

  “Get out.” I’m near tears. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

  “We’re not trying to. Just listen to what we came to say,” Andrea pleads.

  Linda snatches a garbage bag from the box. “Other symptoms of addiction include: obsessive thoughts.”

  Into the bag goes the top magazine, International Gossip.

  “A significant amount of time spent with the substance.” Andrea drops in another.

  “Cravings you can’t control.” Catherine tosses another in the bag.

  I grab for it. “No! Not my new Stariety.”

  “These tabloids mean too much to you.” Andrea.

  “They affect your worldview. You care about what they say, instead of being able to take their articles and all of the online comments with a shaker of salt.” Linda.

  “Stop! Geez, did you guys rehearse your spiel?” I’m both flattered they care so much about me and annoyed they really believe I have a problem.

  Linda takes her garbage bag and sits on my couch, probably to get closer to her quarry. “The tabloids are a symptom of your real problem. You’ve got to learn to trust yourself instead of seeking outside validation. You’re in the worst possible business for someone like you. Getting parts depends on what others think of you, not just talent, experience, other qualifications or persistence.”

  “I’ve learned the hard way, you can’t please everyone,” Andrea says. “My kids, my husband, the in-laws. But you think if you can, then you’ll be liked. What matters is that you like yourself.”

  “Before you can trust anyone else, you have to trust yourself,” Catherine says.

  Just what I finally figured out for myself. And Scott’s advice, trust your gut, had been similar.

  Linda continues, “It isn’t easy. You’ll have to work at it, maybe every day. But we believe in you. We know you can break free.” Her arm sweeps the rest of the tabloids into the garbage.

  “Thanks. I do appreciate your concern. I see what you’re saying, and reached the same conclusion when Linda ratted on me at brunch the other day.” I still feel crushed and talked down to. I want them to leave, and there’s only one way I can think of to make them. “I will stop obsessing about tabloids. But I can’t and don’t need to go cold turkey. If I promise not to buy anymore, can I pick three to keep for now?”

  “I think that can be arranged. But no GOSSIPMONGER.COM or other sites either,” Andrea says.

  “Ok,” I whisper.

  I’m not excited about my soon-to-be tabloid-free life, but deep inside I admit Linda and Andrea are right. How can I move on, how can I trust myself and my instincts if I’m dwelling in the land of the paparazzi?

  Chapter 25

  STARIETY MAGAZINE

  Scorla: The End

  by BB Beans

  Need I say more? Of course. As with many high-flying celebrity couples, Scorla has taken a tumble. A source reports Scott and Marla aren’t talking or texting. The a
ir of mystery surrounding the reason why is the only remnant of interest remaining in this short-lived pair.

  GOSSIPMONGER.COM

  SO FIVE MINUTES AGO: Scott Sampson and Marla Goldberg. Scott Sampson. Marla Goldberg.

  While waiting in line at the grocery the next day, I can’t avoid my picture on some of the magazines near checkout. Headlines scream that Scott and I are old news and unexciting. It hits me like a smoker who quit and now can’t stand to be around cigarette smoke. Why are so many people are so engrossed in supposed news we can’t even be sure is accurate, no matter the source? Especially these days.

  I’m no longer one of them. When I get home, I grab my three remaining papers and toss them into my blue recycling bin. There. It feels surprisingly good.

  Whether the tabloids get information right or not, it’s amazing how quickly one can rise and fall out of their favor. If falling means more privacy, fewer probing questions, I’m good.

  And thanks to my recent conversations, my self-analysis, my instincts have begun shouting. I will proceed with my plan. But I can’t tell anyone exactly what I’m up to, in case they disagree and try to talk me out of it. In case VIH wants to convince me I’m doing the wrong thing.

  I won’t listen. Not anymore.

  VIH is self-doubt personified. For far too long, I’ve let that loud voice drown the quiet whisperings of my instincts. Like in Inside Out, what part of me wins when?

  I pray I’m brave enough and strong enough on my own to know and follow through.

  This is the biggest gamble I’ve ever taken. Am I ruining my life for the man I wish I didn’t love?

  My heart and head pound so loudly I can barely hear my own thoughts, much less the clamor of Scott’s flock of L.A. fans.

  Scott is unveiling his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Red carpet surrounds the pink terrazzo and brass star. A podium behind him bears a Hollywood Chamber of Commerce sign. Many famous faces are among those lining the crowd’s inner circle. Scott and Sheila smile for a gazillion pictures.