My Life as a Star_A Romantic Comedy

by Ruth Kaufman

  The sun shines down on him, drawing focus like a spotlight.

  I’m about to do something I hate and have worked industriously to avoid: make a scene certain to be splattered across the front page of every tabloid, website, social media outlet and publication in the land. Hand myself to the world on a silver platter. The opportunity to help Scott, do what I believe is right and the slim possibility of regaining his friendship make the forthcoming public humiliation and microscopic analysis of my every action and word worthwhile.

  Will he care?

  Scott kneels on the red carpet beside his star. Sheila is by his side, wearing a red dress with a deep cleavage sure to look great in photos. He looks great in a black suit and crisp blue shirt, but he’s smiling his public smile.

  How I miss the sincere smiles I once received, the kind that reached his eyes and made me all gooey inside.

  Cameras snap and record as if this was the most important event in the world. A few Great Scott Groupies are so excited they might faint.

  I might faint.

  Let him talk to me. Let him believe me. Don’t make him hate me for trespassing on one of the most important moments of his life. Thank You very much. Amen.

  Lurking at the back of the throng, I remove my dark sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat. I stuff them into my canvas tote bag and take out the folder of information Linda compiled.

  After I throw my shoulders back, toss my hair and stick out my chin, the crowd parts as miraculously as if I were Charleton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments raising his staff above the churning Red Sea. For once my instantly recognizable celebrity status comes in handy.

  Whispers fly.

  “It’s Marla.”

  “Look, Marla Goldberg!”

  “Isn’t she supposed to be filming in New York?”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  I make my way forward until I’m opposite Scott. Only his new star separates us now. The instant he catches sight of me, silence sweeps the crowd, as if someone yelled, “Quiet on the set!” Even the photographers and videographers freeze.

  Scott’s smile fades. His hands to go his hips. I know him well enough to tell he’s both furious and taken aback. One eyebrow raises. On set, grown men have been known to cower beneath that glare.

  I do not wither like the zucchini I once was. “Scott, I have information you need to know. You told me you only believe what you see. Please give me thirty seconds and review the contents of this folder. That’s all it will take for you to understand everything. If by some chance you still don’t, I swear in front of these witnesses I will never contact you again.”

  Please believe me. Please.

  If my heart raced any faster, it would pop out of my chest and zoom away.

  The press galvanizes. Picture taking and recording resume. They’re salivating like Jurassic Park velociraptors. Yes, the tabloids, Twitter, Snapchat, everything and everyone will chew me to shreds.

  I stand taller. Suddenly, the sun includes me in its glow. I realize that my life as a star has changed me for the better. And for good, like the Wicked song. Somehow, each time media hype thrust me the forefront of public consciousness, I built a brick to hold back the customary flood of lifelong self-consciousness. The inner dam I had to learn to construct against myself, against Voice in Head, is cemented now.

  I honestly no longer care what the paparazzi think of me. I wanted to do this, and I did. At long last, I have gained confidence in myself, allowing me to laugh at whatever they say.

  All that matters is what Scott thinks.

  He steps over his star.

  Sheila grabs his arm. “You don’t have to listen to a word Marla says,” she says softly. Then louder, “Didn’t you order Marla Goldberg never to contact you again? Yet here she is, only a few feet away. She’s stalking you.”

  The crowd gasps and buzzes. Another hunk of juicy meat thrown to feed the press.

  Slowly, Scott brushes her off like the annoying insect she is. “How would you know about that, Sheila?”

  I bite back a groan. Why did he have to confirm what Sheila said? Though my skin has finally grown thick enough that I won’t care what family and friends say about the upcoming gossip, there’s no reason to increase the number of outrageous topics they can gossip about.

  Scott stares at Sheila. Then me.

  “I don’t have my phone. Anyone willing to time for me?” he calls. His lovely, English-accented voice still gives me the chills.

  “I will!” A slim brunette wearing khakis and a pale pink sweater set steps forward. “Marge Howard, producer for Hollywood Now.”

  Her eyes gleam as she taps her phone to bring up the clock. The cameraman next to her jockeys for a prime position near the action. What a scoop she’ll have for tonight’s show.

  “You’ve got thirty seconds,” Scott tells me.

  I steel myself not to reveal relief. He’s giving me a chance.

  The crowd leans forward. The only sound is a car honking in the distance.

  “Ready? On your mark, get set, go.” Marge touches her phone.

  “Well?” Scott raises an eyebrow.

  “Read this, please.” I hand him the folder, aware of the hundreds of eyes on us. Of the heat of his anger. Of what’s at stake.

  He opens it and scans the top page. Sheila tries to view the documents, but he shakes his head. She backs away. Scott keeps reading.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Marge says.

  “This is better than episode seven of Big Little Lies!” someone whispers.

  “Better than when they announce the winner of The Voice!”

  Everything I am hinges on Scott’s reaction.

  “Ten, nine, eight….” Marge counts down.

  The crowd joins in as though today was New Year’s Eve in Times Square and the ball was ready to drop. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

  All eyes are on Scott. No one moves. I can’t breathe. A trickle of sweat drips between by breasts.

  Sheila grabs Scott’s arm again. “Let me see what rubbish she gave you. Marla Goldberg is a desperate woman. Clearly unstable. She flew across the country just to publicly ruin your unveiling.” Her voice projects like an actress trying to reach the old lady in a theatre’s back row. “She’s gone over the edge. This month’s Good Gossip says she left Betty Ford against medical advice. Who knows what drugs she’s on? How dangerous she is? StarNewsNow reports that she’s broke. She’s probably getting paid to do this horrible thing to you.”

  Scott ignores Sheila. His gaze bores into me, hotter than the L.A. sun on the back of my head. “Marla. You’re certain about this? You would swear in a court of law that you believe the contents of this folder are true?”

  “I am certain and would so swear, and then again on my life.” The last came out a whisper, but by the quirk of Scott’s eyebrow I can tell he heard.

  Scott closes the folder and turns to his assistant. “Sheila. Why?” He sounds weary and drained.

  She’s gone pale, but her expression reveals nothing. I must commend her calm under unbelievable pressure. I’m shaking so much I can barely stand.

  “Why what?”

  “Your games, your ploys, cease now. I know what you’ve done. I demand to know why. You owe me, and Marla, that much.”

  “What I’ve done?” Sheila huffs as if utterly offended and puts a hand to her chest. “Only supported you in every way possible. Worked my fingers to the bones so you could succeed. This is about what she’s done. About Marla Goldberg’s underhanded attempt to seize control of your once in a lifetime moment. She wants to make today about her instead of you, to get more publicity for her failed career.”

  Fans and famous folk alike look from him to her to me as if they were at a three-way tennis match. I suppress a hysterical giggle.

  “You cannot hope to convince me all you’ve done is on my behalf,” Scott says. He pauses until the abuzz crowd is completely silent. “Marla and I did have a disagreement. We were alone in my ho
tel room, at which time I said things to her in a moment of anger, when people often say things we later come to regret. And aren’t always willing to apologize for. But Sheila, I never told you of that very private conversation. So how do you know about it?”

  “I, well, um—”

  “And what of your brother?”

  Sheila flashes a glare of pure hatred at me. If she had a weapon, I’d probably be dead. Her composure cracks. “My brother? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “This is your last chance, Sheila,” Scott says. “Either I expose the truth or you can give it up with grace. Which do you choose?”

  She crumples. “I did it all for you. Everything was for you.”

  “Sheila, you’re fired.” Scott waves to one of the officers holding back the crowd.

  A uniformed man in his late thirties steps forward.

  “Officer…Armstrong. Please escort this woman from the premises. I hope you’ll find some cause to arrest her after reading the contents of this folder. If not, I will pursue a restraining order.”

  I know he’s saying all of this very loudly and slowly so the press won’t miss a word. He’s finally found a way to use them to his advantage.

  “What is your wife’s name, Officer Armstrong?”

  “Alice, sir.”

  Scott autographs the folder “To Alice from Scott Sampson” and hands it over. “I must trust your discretion.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” Officer Armstrong vows.

  “What’s in that folder?” a man yells. “Can we get a copy?”

  “Who is Sheila’s brother?”

  “Tell us! What’d she do that was so terrible?”

  Sheila rips the folder out of the officer’s hands and clutches it. “She’s lying. He’s lying. They’re out to get me. Whatever’s in this has to be forged. Arrest them! They probably hacked into my email accounts. Stole my passwords. I did not tell the Associated Press about Scott’s affair with Nina Sorenson and her secret date rape claims. So what if my brother Danny is a writer for GOSSIPMONGER.COM? It’s just an amazing coincidence he’s the one who got the scoop. Small world and all.”

  The crowd buzzes so loud it sounds as if all the bees in the world have gathered in a single swarm. To sting Sheila.

  Officer Armstrong tussles with her but regains custody of the folder.

  “Ow! Paper cut,” she wails. “I’ll sue for battery. And invasion of privacy. I swear I will!”

  “Inside you’ll find a signed, witnessed and notarized confession from your brother,” Scott says. “Sheila. I was working so hard I didn’t even suspect you were the one who leaked my past to the media.” He regards me, all anger gone. “I made the mistake of blaming Marla. Because I thought she had betrayed my trust. Instead, Sheila, my former assistant, betrayed me.”

  “How did you get to my brother?” Sheila demands. “Danny would never speak against me. What did you do, Marla? Offer to have sex with him? Slut!” She tears her arm out of Office Armstrong’s grip and launches herself at me.

  We tumble to the carpet.

  “Ooph.” I hit the ground hard.

  Sheila grabs my hair and pulls as if she were Cookie on Empire. “You bitch. Whore!” She’s screaming like a banshee.

  “Ow.”

  I try to roll her off, then try to kick her off, but her knees grip my hips too tightly. She claws at my hair, then aims to scratch my face. I flail my arms in defense. It’s like a remake of that Alexis and Krystle catfight on the original Dynasty.

  A powerful slap flings my head back. I retaliate with a punch to her stomach. Ow. I hope her gut hurts as much as my hand.

  A man pulls Sheila off me, kicking and screaming. I turn my head just in time to avoid getting my eye poked out by her stilettos.

  Scott helps me to my feet. He smooths my hair. “Are you all right?”

  “I think—”

  “Scott, don’t believe anything Marla says,” Sheila cries, her voice shrill. “She planned this from the beginning. She wanted me to attack her. She made me do it. You saw her punch me!”

  Officer Armstrong leads Sheila away as her rant continues.

  Even as my cheek burns, my heart soars. I’ve accomplished my goal by ridding Scott of the snake in his grass. I want to crow, “Who’s desperate now?”

  Scott turns to me. As we gaze into each other’s eyes, for a few seconds it’s as though we’re the only two people in the world. I feel the same potent connection I’ve felt every time we’ve been together.

  Until frenetic hubbub pierces my lovelorn reverie.

  Reporters and fans alike scream questions at us, inching forward despite LAPD’s attempts to hold them back.

  Scott doesn’t seem to hear or see them, only me. He takes a step forward. I meet him halfway, until we’re both standing on his star. The only thing that could make this moment more perfect is if he took me in his arms. And kissed me. I need to feel him again.

  “You didn’t have to do this, Marla. I was so harsh with you, I didn’t deserve your help. Why did you?” His voice is low, his eyes warm and welcoming.

  Triumph heightens the familiar thrill of being near him. My mission is complete. He regards me as a friend once more. Worthy of his trust.

  “I did have to,” I confess. “I couldn’t stand you being angry with me, believing I’d betray you. I wanted to show you that some women are worth trusting.” I can’t look away; his blue eyes compel me so. “Why did you give me the thirty seconds?”

  “I didn’t want to,” Scott admits in almost a whisper. “I almost decided against it. I’m not good at letting go of grudges. In fact, for a moment, I thought you were publicly exposing Sheila on purpose, to make me look and feel the fool for trusting her.

  “But I’d left you no other choice. I knew you believed you had something important I should know. If not, you wouldn’t have flown across the country and spoken so bravely in front of a vast crowd of reporters when I know how worried you are about what the press will make of this.” He moves even closer. I imagine him leaning down and kissing me, long and deep, with everyone watching. My body burns as if he had. “Why is what I think of you so important?”

  Because I love you and can’t seem to stop. “Because it just is. Plus, thanks to Linda’s research, I knew Sheila had deceived you. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt or wronged by someone close to you ever again. I realized I don’t care as much about the media’s opinions of me as I care about you. Not just what you think of me, but for you. I always have. Unfortunately, neither distance nor time apart has changed my feelings.”

  There. I’ve told him how I feel without saying the words. I’m shivering despite the heat, overwhelmed by a fusion of desire, the nakedness of exposing my thoughts to him and aftershocks of my public revelations.

  The crowd’s drone has faded to a persistent murmur. Scott is silent for a long, long moment. “Maybe we should continue this discussion somewhere else. Somewhere private. If there is such a place for people like us. I think some Champagne is in order.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” A last drink with Scott, alone, to remember him by. It will have to be enough.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. Let’s shake hands so everyone knows we’re on good terms again. You go back to your hotel. I’ll go back to mine. Then we can….”

  “Scott, this is crazy. They’re going to follow you no matter where you go, no matter whom you’re with. Everything you do fascinates them. You once told me that’s the way things are when you choose to spend your life as a star. You’re right. Repeat after me: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.”

  He laughs, and I laugh with him. “You’re right, too, Marla. This is mad. I second what you said. I won’t allow the press to impact my personal life again.” He thinks for a minute. “To your rhyme I’ll add: Horrid lies no good chap buys. My true friends won’t desert me.”

  “I like that. But maybe you should stick to directing.”

  He smiles, takes my h
and and the crowd goes wild. Scott ignores the mob, still looking at me. He leans down and kisses me, earning another cheer.

  I couldn’t be happier.

  Epilogue A: For Romantics

  Two weeks later

  STARIETY MAGAZINE

  #Scorla is back!!

  by BB Beans

  Nina Sorenson released a statement today explaining that anger compelled her to threaten Scott Sampson with false date rape charges. At a media madhouse in L.A., a composed Nina said, “I was upset Scott no longer wanted to date me and took my anger out on him. I want to make it clear that he never, ever, behaved in any way that was offensive or illegal. I should’ve come forward with the truth a long time ago. I am sorry for any inconveniences my behavior caused him.”

  Scott is reported to be skiing in the Alps with Marla Goldberg. We’ll confirm ASAP.

  “Congratulations,” Scott says.

  He kisses me, long and slow. I get the same chills as the first time we kissed all those months ago.

  We’re at his, well, soon to be our, beach house in Santa Monica, in my favorite spot, our bedroom. Our. I love being part of a couple. This couple.

  We’re wearing hotel-style terrycloth bathrobes sitting at a small table, drinking coffee and reading the paper on our iPads while admiring the ocean view. I couldn’t be happier.

  “Why are you congratulating me?” I reply. “You won the Movie World Award. Not me.”

  “I thank you for not giving up on me. Most people don’t have the tenacity you do.” He pulls a gold-wrapped, thin, rectangular package from his pocket. “For you.”

  This is the second gift Scott has given me, the first being the gift of himself, which of course no material item could ever top. I unwrap the present, revealing a ceramic sign in shades of red reading, “Follow your heart.”

  “I couldn’t find a plaque that said, ‘Trust your gut.’ I thought this would remind us that we belong together. Thank you, Marla,” he says. “For being you. For helping me follow my heart. I’m so glad I did.”