The Year of Living Famously

by Laura Caldwell

  I trace Mary McKenna’s name with my finger for a moment, then I close the book and leave.

  Kendall’s assistant tells me that she’s “on set” and won’t be returning calls for six weeks. My cell phone rings forty-five minutes later. “Where the hell have you been?” she says.

  “Taking a break, but I’m on my way to the airport now.” I tuck the phone under my chin and throw my bags into the trunk of a cab.

  “Where are you running off to?”

  “Back to L. A.” I slide into the cab seat and tell the driver, “LaGuardia.”

  “Good girl,” Kendall says. “Does Declan know?”

  “Not yet, and I need a favor so I can make a very splashy entrance.”

  “My favorite kind.” I hear someone talking to her in the background. She yells, “Give me five minutes!”

  “Sorry to bother you,” I say.

  “Oh gosh, don’t be. I need a time-out. So what’s up?”

  “Well, actually, I just need some advice. Do you remember the first time we met, you told me to manage the paparazzi?”

  She laughs. “It’s how I stay sane.”

  “Well, that’s what I need advice about. I need to control the paparazzi to my advantage.”

  “Kyra,” Kendall says. “You’ve come to the right person.”

  It’s 7:00 p.m. when I arrive at LAX—I’m on schedule, but just barely. Since no one but Kendall knows I’m flying in, there are no photographers when I arrive. I get in a cab and take it to Shutters. I’m told there are no rooms available, but then the hotel manager spots me, pulls away his front-desk clerk and produces a key to a suite.

  “We’re happy to have you, Ms. Felis,” he says. I remember that there are benefits to fame.

  The room is monstrous and yet tasteful with Frette linens on the bed and a balcony looking onto the Pacific. I stand out there remembering how awed I used to be by this view when I first moved to L. A. I have been awed by so little lately. Except Declan, and how much I need him.

  As planned, I call Kendall’s cell phone. “I’m at Shutters, and I’ll be heading out in thirty minutes,” I say.

  She reminds me about the plan. She gives me a rousing, “You can do this.”

  I change into one of my Kendall dresses, this one with a yellow and pink print. Perfectly splashy. I step into pink kid-leather sandals with a flower on the toe. I pull my hair up in a high ponytail and swipe some pink gloss on my lips. My pulse starts to pick up when I lift my purse off the bed. Ready to go. As ready as I’ll ever be. If this fails, if I’ve misread the situation, or bungle what happens tonight, I will be publicly humiliated like no one has ever been.

  “Can we get you a car?” the manager says when I step out of the elevator into the lobby.

  “No, thank you. I’m just going around the corner to Capo. I think I’ll walk.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Ms. Felis. Word of your arrival has gotten out, and there are already a number of media-type persons outside.”

  “Good,” I say. I try to look confident, but I have to fight my usual desire to run. They are here because you want them here, I remind myself.

  I thank the manager and walk slowly to the door. I review Kendall’s instructions in my head. I pray that the information I was able to pry out of Denny proves correct.

  When I step outside, it’s dusk, and the sky has a beautiful navy blue sheen to it. But within a second, it is eclipsed by flashes and the glaring lights of video cameras.

  “Ms. Felis! Kyra!” they yell. “Give us a smile!”

  I battle the urge to hold up a hand and hide myself. Instead, I throw back my shoulders and think, Declan, Declan, Declan. This puts a legitimate smile on my face. The photographers go crazy. There are at least fifteen.

  “Any chance of a reconciliation with Declan?” one of them yells.

  “Why don’t you come with me and find out.” I begin walking up the street.

  The photographers and videographers move with me. Some run ahead, shooting footage of my face. Others trail behind, documenting the whole scene. A white van pulls up, and two others jump out. Another few run down the street toward us. I am the Pied Piper of the paparazzi.

  I am so nervous I have to concentrate on each step. Do not trip, I say to myself. Keep smiling. They are here because you want them here. I’m trying to use something that’s made me unhappy—in this case, the paparazzi—as a tool for happiness.

  By the time I reach the entrance of Capo, there are at least twenty-five people trailing me. I stand for a moment looking at the restaurant that Declan and I so often came to. And according to Denny, he’s here now, with her.

  I think of Kendall’s directions—Don’t hesitate outside the restaurant or the manager will shoo the photographers away.

  “Um…hello. Hi,” I say, turning to the photographers, standing on my tiptoes and waving my purse. “I’d like you to come inside with me,” I say when they have quieted down. “There’s something you should witness.”

  “We can’t go in there,” one of them calls out. “They’ll have us arrested.”

  Kendall told me this would happen. She told me what to say. “If you come with me, you will get a money shot. One of the biggest of all time, and it will pay your legal bills plus so much more.”

  “I’m in,” says a videographer.

  “Me, too,” others call out.

  I take a huge breath. I tuck my purse under my arm. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

  When I step inside the restaurant, nearly everyone turns. The room grows silent. For a second, I don’t see Declan, and I panic. Did Denny give me bad information to throw me off? God, no. Please, no. But then I spot Dec and Lauren in a little alcove near the front windows. Lauren sees me first. Her mouth opens, and she scoffs, an annoyed expression on her face. But then she sees the gaggle of photographers and videographers behind me, and she puts on a practiced, pleasant look. This is what Kendall and I were counting on—Lauren being such a media slut that she wouldn’t put up a public fight. My goal is twofold: disgrace Lauren and get my husband back, all at the same time.

  But if my plan fails, if Declan makes the wrong decision, it will be me who is disgraced.

  A manager in a black suit with slicked-back hair hurries up to me. “Ma’am, please. What are you doing?” To the photographers, he says in a low, threatening tone, “Out. Now. The police are on the way.”

  I pat him on the arm. “This should only take a minute.” I glance over my shoulder at the wolf pack. “Follow me.”

  Declan has seen me now, and as I walk toward them, he watches me, clearly confused. He stands, one hand still on the table. It’s that hand, too close to Lauren, that terrifies me. I nearly falter. I want to run back to my Frette linens and hide. But I’ve come this far, and there are dozens of paparazzi blocking my path back to the door, so I keep putting one foot in front of another, until, at last, I’m standing at their table.

  “Kyra?” Declan says, not Kyr or love. “What’s going on?” He’s wearing a black sport coat with flecks of gold in it. His brown hair curls over the collar, and I want to run my fingers through that hair. I want to throw my arms around him.

  Lauren stands, towering over me. “Well, well, well,” she says. “Hi, boys!” she trills to the men behind me, waving. Their cameras go click, click, click.

  “Declan,” I say. “I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “Better make it fast,” one of the photographers says. “The fuzz is pulling up.”

  I glance out the front windows and see a police car speeding down the street, a swirling blue light on its roof. I look back at Declan, then Lauren, who now has her arms crossed and is looking at me, like, This should be good. Her confident posture frightens me. The rest of the patrons have stopped eating and watch us expectantly. Now or never.

  I cough to clear my throat. “Declan,” I say again. “I’ve come to take you home. Not to Mulholland Drive or Manhattan, but someplace that is truly home. I need you to trust me on this. Ca
n you do that?”

  “Kyra,” he says. His eyes are puzzled. He glances from me to Lauren. “What are you talking about?”

  “Good question,” Lauren mutters. But she smiles again because the press is near.

  “I want to be your wife again.” Saying the word wife makes me glow. I miss that word. “I want to be your wife forever. And I’ve made a decision. I can’t tell you what that means right now because there’s no time.” I look out the front windows and see two cops leaping from their car.

  “I need you to trust me,” I say. I hold out my hand. “Declan McKenna, will you come home with me?”

  “Ha!” Lauren says.

  Declan blinks rapidly. He looks like a bewildered little boy.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Lauren says in a voice that’s nearly a whisper. Just as I’d thought. She won’t let things get too ugly with the media around.

  “Declan?” I say, ignoring her. I hold my hand higher, my fingers outstretched.

  Declan opens his mouth but nothing comes out. The room is hushed, heavy with anticipation.

  “Dec?” I say. I want to drop my hand. I want to run from this room.

  Still Declan is silent. He shakes his head as if he can’t believe what’s happening. Have I lost him for good?

  He opens his mouth. He closes it again. He coughs. His eyes search mine.

  My arm threatens to shake, but still I hold my hand out to him.

  Finally, finally, he says, “Love, I’ll go anywhere with you.”

  He takes my hand. He pulls me into his chest, and a torrent of flashes fills the room.

  chapter 35

  Declan & Kyra Make Dublin Home

  Ever since the now-famous episode at Capo restaurant in Los Angeles, when Kyra Felis stormed in with a horde of paparazzi and declared that she was there to take Declan McKenna “home,” rumors have been swirling about where that home might be. A publicist for the two now tells Us Weekly that the duo have purchased a Georgian house near St. Stephens Green in Dublin, Ireland, McKenna’s home town. “They’re extremely happy,” the rep says. “Kyra will run her design business from Ireland, and Declan will travel when he needs to be on set or attend a premiere. They’re making it work.”

  Book Club Questions

  for The Year of Living Famously

  Would you like to be famous? Do you think you could truly handle the rigors of fame?

  Why is our culture so fascinated with celebrities today? What is it that makes many of us seek celebrity for celebrity’s sake?

  What would you do if you found yourself in Kyra’s situation and you were married to someone you loved, but “that someone” led a life you hated?

  What did you think about the development of the stalker in the story? Why do you think people develop fantasies about famous people? Are there certain celebrities that you feel you can relate to?

  The price of fame is often the opening of one’s private affairs for public viewing. What do you think the public has a right to know about various types of celebrities? If an actor is famous for his work, versus his public persona, how much of his or her life should he or she get to protect?

  In the book, fame affected Kyra and Declan differently. What types of personalities survive the transition most easily? How did Declan’s fame affect the people in his life in ways he might not have anticipated?

  THE YEAR OF LIVING FAMOUSLY

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-3683-1

  © 2004 by Laura Caldwell.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

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