The Year of Living Famously

by Laura Caldwell

  As Todd and Dec talked about Todd’s upcoming movie, Pamela touched my shoulder and murmured, “Hey, I wanted to tell you to ignore that piece the other day in the Star. It’s complete bullshit. You look fantastic. Don’t ever let that stuff bother you.”

  I blinked, felt inordinately stupid. “I’m sorry?”

  She put a hand over her mouth for a second, then took it away. “Oh, God. No, I’m sorry. You didn’t see it? Well, it doesn’t matter. You should never read that junk anyway.”

  “What? What did it say?”

  She shook her head. “Total junk.” Soon, she and Todd were saying their goodbyes, leaving Dec and me alone, leaving me to interrogate him about the Star article.

  “It was rubbish,” he said. “Some crap about you gaining weight.”

  I laughed and felt relieved. “I never gain weight.”

  “Exactly.”

  But that night, I went into Dec’s office and flipped through the stack of media clips that Graham was always sending over.

  Finally, I found it. Kyra in Depressed Funk over Declan’s Infidelities, it said. Gains Thirty Pounds.

  I sat on his big leather office chair, the well-oiled wheels sliding backward. Declan’s infidelities? This again? I couldn’t help but read it.

  There were some vague allegations about Declan “playing around on the set and off,” but no names were mentioned. Accompanying the article was a horrible photo of me that must have been taken from below. In it, I’m glancing downward, accidentally compressing my chin, making my face a looming hot-air balloon. I look cranky, depressed and ready to eat my way through a large stuffed pizza. There was another picture there, too, one of Dec kissing Tania Murray. It had been taken on the set of their movie, but of course the caption didn’t say that. I had to wonder—why did these articles about Dec and other women keep popping up?

  “Is this anything I should be worried about?” I said to Declan, marching into the bedroom. I threw the paper on the bed.

  He picked it up and glanced at it. “Of course not.” I heard him fighting irritation.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Are you sure you’re not gaining weight?”

  I tried to act pissed. I shot him a nasty look.

  “C’mere, you nutter,” Declan said.

  I climbed into bed and onto his lap. “I wish they would stop saying things about us that aren’t true,” I said. “I don’t like these people prying, and I can’t stand having to share you with everyone.”

  He sighed, rubbed his hand over my thigh. “What can I do? I’ll do anything.”

  I threw my hands up, which made me feel as if I was the actress. “You know I’m not one of those people who wants to be famous. It’s obscene to me. It’s surreal. I never wanted this.”

  “I did,” he said softly. “It’s different than what I thought, but I’ll never pretend I didn’t want it.”

  I pushed myself off his lap. “Is that true? Did you always want this?” I grabbed the paper and shook it.

  “I won’t be one of those people who works the first half of their life to be famous and then works the rest of the time not to be recognized.”

  “You wanted this?” I repeated.

  He nodded.

  I looked away, as if he’d caused it all.

  Declan came home early from the set one day and ran to my office, where Liz and I were going over a list of calls I needed her to make. Uki worked silently in the corner, as usual.

  Declan beamed in that way of his that said he had good news.

  “What?” I said. “Is it the Oscars? Did you find something out?”

  “No, no. Well, it is about the Oscars, but not like that. The Oscars are like a bloody state secret. No, I’ve got a little Oscar surprise for you, love.”

  “Ooh,” Liz said. “I love surprises!” She put down the sheet of paper she was holding and turned to face Declan as if he was the first act in a play she’d come to see.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Well…” Declan paused dramatically. “I’ve been asked to ask you if you’ll make an Oscar dress for someone.”

  “Oh my God!” I jumped off my chair. “Who? Who? Not Kendall?”

  He made a pleased little smile. “No.”

  “Well, who? I mean, who would ask you instead of me?” I tapped my pen on my hand. And then it hit me. In Declan’s new film, Meryl Streep had a cameo. “Oh Jesus, is it Meryl Streep?”

  “No. It’s not that big a deal.” Declan laughed. “It’s Lauren.”

  I sat down and stared at him. “What did you say?”

  “Lauren. You know. She called me on the set today and said she didn’t have our home number, and she wanted to ask if you’d make her something for the Academy Awards.”

  I was silent for what seemed like a full minute. “Lauren,” I said finally. “Lauren Stapleton.”

  “Yes. Look, love, I know she’s not one of your, er, favorites, per se, but hey, it’s a great opportunity, right?”

  “I am not making a goddamn dress for Lauren!”

  Dec looked shocked that I’d raised my voice, and his eyes shot to Uki, then Liz.

  “Could we have a second alone, you guys?” I asked them.

  Uki bustled from the room. Liz said, “Oh, sure. No problem,” and followed.

  The minute the door closed, I spoke to Declan. “What makes you think I’d make a dress for that bitch?”

  He sighed a little and sat on the arm of the couch. “For fuck’s sake, Kyr, I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Happy? You thought I’d be happy to make a dress for someone who’s been nothing but rude to me?”

  “What’s she actually done, then?”

  “She called my dress homemade for one thing. And she treats me like shit. And she clearly has a thing for you.”

  Dec scoffed. “She does not. You know that ‘dating’ thing of ours was just for the media exposure.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  “No, for both of us. Trust me, Lauren does not have feelings for me. And whether you like her or not, I think this is a great break. You’re always saying that gowns are your favorite pieces to design. If you get Lauren wearing your dress, you’ll get a lot of exposure.”

  I slumped back in my desk chair. He had a point.

  “Why don’t you at least call her and see what she’s looking for.”

  “I’m not calling her.” I sounded like Queen Elizabeth asserting proper protocol.

  “Then let me have her call you. You can make up your mind after you talk about it. I really don’t think you should pass up this chance.”

  I sat silently. “Fine,” I said at last. “Have her call me.”

  Liz came back in my office a few minutes later. “What are you going to do?”

  “I either take the moral high ground and say no because I can’t stand her, or I look at it as a business opportunity and ignore the rest.”

  Liz sank onto the small couch I’d put under the window. “You have to go with your business, at least while you’re still trying to make it. You’ve got to do anything you can.”

  “I suppose.” Absently, I picked up a pencil and drew a few lines of a sketch.

  I didn’t know if I would work with Lauren, but the concept had given me an idea.

  That same day, I called Kendall Gold. I had spoken to her a few times since I delivered the dress to her, mostly thanking her for talking me up around town. She always took my calls, was always wonderful to me. True to form, she got on the phone immediately that afternoon.

  “Kyra!” she said. “How are you? And how’s Declan? Tell him congrats for me.”

  “I will. He’s getting nervous but he’s thrilled.” I was in my office and for once I was alone. I got up and kicked the door closed.

  “The Oscars are a crazy time,” Kendall said. “It’s taken me this whole year to fully accept that I won. Now I’m just glad to be attending and partying—nothing else.”

  “Have you thought abou
t what you’re wearing?”

  “Have I thought about it? Of course I’ve thought about it. I’ve obsessed about it.”

  “Any decisions?”

  “I never make a decision until a day or two before. Basically, my stylist and I get a few dresses from designers we like, and then, on the day before, we try them all and pick.”

  I took a deep breath. “Want to add another designer to your list?”

  She gasped. “Would you make something for me?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh, Kyra! You made my day! I wanted to ask you, but I figured with Declan getting nominated and you probably making your own dress you’d be too crazed.”

  “No, I would love to do it. Actually, I’ve been asked to make one for Lauren Stapleton.”

  “Eh,” Kendall said, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

  “My sentiments exactly, but I’d like to design for other people, too. If anyone is interested, that is.”

  “Well, you know I am. And honey, you’re hot property now. Not only are you a designer in your own right, but you’re married to an Oscar nominee. Do you know what that means in this town? There are a million women who’d die for you to design for them.”

  I felt a swoop of nausea. “I only want to design for people who really like my stuff. Not because of Declan.”

  “Oh, don’t get all pissy. You’re dazzling in your own right.”

  I laughed. Kendall had a way of simplifying everything and making you feel wonderful at the same time.

  “Now, I know for a fact that Hannah Briscoe and CeCe Springfield are both looking,” Kendall said.

  “Really?” I stood up and paced the office. Hannah Briscoe was a film actress, who looked like a very thin version of Marilyn Monroe and always dressed like a lady. No jeans and T-shirts for her. She would be perfect for my designs. CeCe Springfield, who had starred in one of the Best Picture–nominated films, was young and trendy, but I could go that way, too. Couldn’t I? For a moment, I doubted myself, my abilities. I was really only talking to Kendall, after all, because I was married to Declan.

  “I’ve got both of their numbers,” Kendall said. “Let me call them first, and if it’s okay, I’ll pass them along to you.”

  “Oh, Kendall, you’re a godsend.”

  “No problem. Just make sure you design my dress first.”

  I stopped my pacing. “Deal.”

  By the end of that day, I not only had numbers for Hannah and CeCe, I’d talked to their stylists. I told myself again and again that it didn’t matter whether I was getting this attention because of Declan or not, because I, Kyra Felis, was designing three more dresses for the Academy Awards.

  The remaining few weeks before the Oscars were a blur of frantically scribbled designs, constant meetings about fabric and patterns, phone calls with stylists and the ever-increasing media attention.

  Dec was the man of the hour, and he loved it. He barely slept during those weeks, but he didn’t seem to miss it. He went to the set nearly every day, and the cast and crew stayed late to allow him time to be interviewed by every conceivable show, paper and magazine. The cast and crew loved him, as most people did, but most of all they loved that they were working with an Oscar-nominated actor. It was something they could talk about for the rest of their careers.

  I hardly saw him during those weeks, except to have him fall into bed next to me at the end of the day, and awake to find him reading his lines.

  “You asleep?” I’d say.

  “Nah.” He would kiss me. “How are the dresses coming?”

  “Slowly.”

  I would tell him about the fabric for Lauren’s dress, which I’d had to change four times in order to find one that appeared light enough but would support the beadwork. Then there was the seam on Kendall’s, which kept buckling over the hips no matter how many times I had the factory redo it. I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sleeping much either, because when I did, I dreamed about a tiny version of me riding on Declan’s wide, flapping coattails. Instead, Dec would kiss me again, then jump in the shower, and I’d make my way through the house to my office, and we would start it all over again.

  It was as if the Academy Awards were a mountain that we were both waiting to climb. We were at base camp, preparing for the push to the summit, and neither of us could think of anything else.

  Leaving the house was an unbelievable pain in the ass. No longer was it possible to simply trot out to my car and make a coffee run. Photographers had learned where we lived, and they parked at a turnaround a mile away, waiting for Declan or me, or hopefully both of us, to come speeding around a corner. The few times we tried to have dinner together recently, they seemed to know where we’d be, forever awaiting our arrival with their cameras and their shouts of “Declan! Kyra! Look over your left shoulder! This way!”

  I talked to Bobby about this, and he advised me to “roll with it.” “It’s not going to stop,” he said, “so just take it in stride.”

  Kendall Gold, meanwhile, said it was sure to get less intense eventually. The watchers couldn’t be everywhere, and although every celebrity had paparazzi problems, it wasn’t normal for them to always be around, to be able to divine where we were going. Graham had told us the same thing.

  I began to wonder if someone was deliberately leaking our plans. There were so many people in our household, in our employ, many of whom might know where we were at any given time—Trista, Uki, Berry, Tracy, Alicia, Angela, Liz, Graham, Max, Adam and Denny. Declan said I was being paranoid. I thought maybe he was right, because I was starting to feel a little crazy. Whenever I left the house, even for something minor, I had to notify Denny, then fight with him about which of us would drive, and whether I should go in a back door or walk in the front like an ordinary person (albeit an ordinary person who is followed by a couple of paparazzi).

  I might have been okay with all of this. I might have been able to handle it, except that on top of it all the letters from Amy Rose had started again. For some reason, Declan hadn’t heard from her for a while, or maybe he and Graham and Max had kept her letters hidden. But then she started sending them to me.

  Dear Kyra,

  I just had to write you, the first one said. I tried to ignore you for so long, because I know you’re only interested in Declan because of his fame. I know I must be patient. But it seems that now you won’t go away. Please step back and let us be happy. Please, just let us live the life we were destined to have.

  Sincerely, Amy Rose

  The letter frightened me, and yet it strangely touched me. It was something I might have written to a paparazzo, or Amy Rose herself, if I’d thought it would do any good.

  chapter 26

  “What are you wearing?” Margaux asked me. “I mean, my God, it’s the fucking Academy Awards!”

  We had finally gotten on the phone at the same time. Between my newly hectic schedule and Margaux’s juggling of her lawyerly duties and the infertility treatments she’d decided to try, we usually only had time to leave each other messages.

  “I think I’ve got my dress taken care of.” I told her about the copper dress I’d designed myself.

  “Where’s the pin?”

  “At the shoulder.”

  “Perfect. So how are the other dresses coming along?”

  I groaned. “I’m freaking out. Sometimes I look at them and think they’re great. Other times, they look like complete shit, and I know I’m a fraud.”

  “You’re not a fraud! You deserve this.”

  “Well, it’s been one setback after another. I’ve only slept maybe four hours a night for the last week, but I think they’re finally ready. The fittings are today.”

  “So how is Lauren?” Margaux said this as if she was asking about a particularly deadly airborne virus.

  “A pain in my ass.”

  “Jesus, talk about pressure. The Oscars are only days away.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Forty-five minutes lat
er, I was at Lauren’s place in Santa Monica. It was a large beach house, the ocean a blazing blue outside the French doors of her living room. I was surprised to find the house tasteful—Stickley furniture, light-colored Oriental rugs, long, comfortable chenille sofas, flowing ivory curtains that puffed and billowed with the breeze. Interior designer, I thought. Definitely. I refused to think that Lauren, on her own, might have decorated the place.

  She kept me waiting for thirty minutes.

  “She should be right here,” the stylist said, who also sat on a Stickley chair, awaiting Her Highness’s arrival. “She’s usually not this late.”

  Finally, Lauren floated into the room wearing a short black wrap dress that was probably D&G. Sunglasses pushed back her mane of oatmeal hair and sat high on her head, as if any minute she might jump into a convertible and drive down the coast.

  “Sorry,” she said in an amused tone. “I was on a call with Marty.”

  “Scorcese?” the stylist said, impressed.

  “Yes, you know how chatty he can be. Anyway, Kyra! Hello!” She swooped down on me and air kissed me on both cheeks. “What have you got for me today?”

  In one sentence she made me feel like a soap salesman who had stopped by the farmhouse.

  I ignored the question. “If you’re ready to try on your dress, I can make whatever adjustments you like and have it ready for you tomorrow.” I didn’t mention that after this visit, I had to see Kendall, Hannah and CeCe, and that I would probably be up most of the night hand sewing the alterations to their dresses as well. That is, if anyone liked them.

  “Great!” Lauren said breezily. “Let’s see it.”

  I moved as confidently as possible to the mauve velvet garment bag I’d laid over a couch. I unzipped it and took out her dress. It was a butter-yellow, formfitting, chiffon gown with a beaded bodice and a hem that had a deep triangular cut so Lauren’s famously long legs would show with every step. I was inordinately proud of this dress, despite the woman I had made it for, because after all the fabric searches and changes, after all the anxiety and self-loathing, it had come out exactly how I had seen it in my mind—ephemeral and glamorous. I had even hand sewn the beading myself.