Fame (Not Like The Movies #1) Read online

  “That’s for making me worry.” She raises her hand as if she’s going to strike again, and I flinch and step back. “And I’ll do it again, so help me God, if you tell me you did anything that could result in a media furore.”

  I hold my hands up in a gesture of peace. “Go easy. I drank at the bar. I slept on the beach.”

  “Alone?” She narrows her eyes.

  “I didn’t have sex with anyone.” Well, that part isn’t a lie.

  “Promise?” she asks.

  “Promise.” I nod. “Janie, I’ve been in a relationship for twelve months. Why would I suddenly slip-up now?”

  It’s the million-dollar question I’ve asked myself all morning.

  “Good,” Janie says, and a smile lights her face. “Because there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  Janie steps aside and points to the hotel bar. It’s dark in there, and I squint to adjust my eyesight.

  Then I see her.

  She sits at a table, arms folded across her chest. Long blonde hair flows down over her shoulders, and green eyes flash up at me.

  “Mikaela’s arrived for the shoot.”

  ***

  Madison

  “I’m an idiot. No, more than an idiot.” I pause and roll over on my comfortable-as-clouds bed. “I’m an idiot wrapped in idiot bacon and smothered in idiot sauce.”

  “You need a bacon and egg roll to get over this hangover, don’t you?” My best friend’s voice chuckles down the line.

  I sigh. “So much I’m dreaming about it and using it in my similes.”

  “That’s actually not a simile. That’s a—”

  “Will everyone lay off me on the whole use of words thing? I’m a journalist. I write words. I can’t speak them.”

  “O-kay,” Courtney says slowly. “Sensitive much?”

  “It’s just … that was how it started. One moment he was arguing with me tongue-twisting the definition of a metaphor, and the next our tongues were the ones doing the twisting.”

  “This really doesn’t sound like a bad thing, Maddie. He’s hot. You’re recently single. He’s … well, if his girlfriend hasn’t dumped his arse after the whole ‘love child’ scandal, she clearly doesn’t mind the idea of an open relationship,” Courtney says.

  I purse my lips and glance at the clock. Five past eight. Fifty-five minutes before I have to be at the first torture class of the day.

  “He’s a cheat and a jerk, Courtney. He’s everything I don’t need in my life.”

  “But was the sex any good?”

  I run one hand through my salt-stiffened hair. Or, I presume it’s salt-stiffened. It could be semen-stiffened, for all I know.

  My hand flings to my side in disgust.

  “That’s the thing,” I lament. “I don’t even remember.”

  “Oh sweetie,” Courtney says, and her voice is full of sorrow. “I’m sure it was average. And he probably had a small penis.”

  “You’re right.” I nod. “I just … God, I feel so embarrassed and ashamed. This isn’t the way to cleansing my soul. It’s not even a good step to getting over Mike. This is a one-way path to Trash Whore Street, with a potential detour via Humiliation Avenue.”

  “Hey, no one will ever know about this.” Courtney jumps to my defence. “You’re not going to tell anyone, and I doubt he’ll spill the beans to the press when he’s already copping so much flack.” She pauses, and I can practically hear the cogs in her brain ticking over. “It’s just a shame you don’t have some other story. You know, something you could sell. If you could present us with a Lola scoop, surely Chloe would take you back on staff.”

  “Wh … what?”

  “If you had some insider gossip from the movie set, we could try and get you back in.” Courtney laughs, a soft, gentle sound.

  Hope flickers in my chest. A way back in. A chance to get my old life back again.

  “Of course, that’s not going to work out, though. You’ll probably never see him again,” she says, and just like that, my bubble bursts. “Just try and find your inner peace. Enjoy yoga. I’m sure it’ll help. You’ll love it.”

  And as Courtney and I say our goodbyes, I vow to do just that.

  Even if a little tiny piece of me wishes I had some amazing Tate Masters goss to pitch for my job back.

  ***

  I spend the majority of yoga concentrating on not throwing up.

  Then I concentrate on not farting.

  Selene, our super-Zen instructor, has a voice like the waves in the ocean, all gentle ascent, swooping descent. Her pants are patterned with cosmic stars, and I wonder what brand they are and how I can get some. My own black Lorna Janes seem boring in comparison.

  Selene takes us through a series of moves, and every time we do that bloody downward dog—which is often—blood rushes to my head, followed quickly by its friend bile, who’s also on a fast-track to my face. Twice I swallow it down then shudder, and Selene rewards me with a gentle pat on the back.

  “Remember, don’t over-stretch,” she says, as if perhaps that’s a concept I’ve momentarily lapsed in, instead of something that up until two weeks ago, I lived by.

  And that’s what I did. I juggled long hours at work with a handsome fiancé and a wedding. If I hadn’t over-stretched myself, maybe I wouldn’t be here today.

  We move forward into a series of flowing poses, and I bite down on my tongue to keep from vomiting.

  In the next runner’s lunge, I swipe at my forehead. Sweat lines my hair, and the subtle press of my hand does little to relieve the salty liquid.

  As I shift to raise my hand up in time with Selene’s, I sway. My body leans left, then too far right to compensate and I slam to the floor as I tip onto the blue rubber yoga mat.

  Pain shoots through the elbow that copped the brunt of the fall. Eight pairs of Zen eyes glance over at me. Even the pregnant lady to my right manages to somehow yoga better than I do, and it all becomes too much.

  “Are you okay?” Serene rushes to my side.

  I rub at my elbow. No, I want to tell her. My life has gone to shit in the worst way possible. And, to top it off, I just slept with a cheating dickhead who’s only making me feel worse about myself.

  AND I can’t even yoga.

  “Fine,” I manage.

  “Okay.” Serene accepts my answer and walks away. I wonder if her Zen protects her from my manic panic, or if she simply chooses to ignore it on the risk I’ll corrupt her inner peace.

  The class continues in a series of moves, most of which I attempt to copy, until Serene ends up saying that we can return to child’s pose, a comfortable cheek-down-on-the-matt position, any time we like.

  Of course, once I realise that’s an option, I spend the next twenty minutes resting. No, not resting. Trying to find my inner Zen.

  It’s oddly peaceful, watching everyone else exercise. There’s a woman in front of me who moves like a swan. Her graceful body dances around the moves, her blonde hair knotted in place and never falling loose. Next to her, there’s a woman with great arm muscles. She looks like a surfer—sun-kissed hair, strong upper body, brown skin.

  They both seem like perfectly normal girls, and I wonder if there’s something in this yoga lark. If perhaps I’m just not doing it right. If I’m being—

  My stomach churns. There’s only one thing I can be right now.

  Sick.

  I push up from the floor and bolt from the room, heading to the bathrooms just outside the waterfront studio. Racing to the nearest cubicle, I flip the toilet lid and crouch down, letting the contents of my stomach upend themselves into a hole that I’m not even sure is connected to a sewerage pipe.

  Bile burns my throat, and I crouch there for a moment, my limbs shaking.

  I haven’t thrown up since I was a teenager and contracted some mystery virus. Before that, I was a baby.

  How did I just do this? What has my life become?

  I push to my feet, but my knees don’t stop their stead
y tremble. Bracing myself against the stainless steel sink, I twist the tap to full-bore and let cold water stream out. My hands form a cup and I try to drink, but water keeps on slipping through my fingers.

  Just like everything else in my life right now.

  It’s while I’m laughing at my own, non-funny, very self-pitying joke that the bathroom door creaks open. Immediately, I race my features to neutral, and try for a smile.

  The pregnant lady from earlier smiles at me, the smile of the truly Zen.

  Bitch.

  I want some of that Zen.

  Quit hogging it.

  She washes her hands at the sink and doesn’t appear to notice the crazy lady in the corner who smells like a combination of spew and too much vodka.

  She turns to leave, and I move to go back to the sink. Maybe I’ll just hang out here the entire retreat. It’s safe here. There’s running water, no one to judge me on my flexibility skills, and no hot movie stars to trick me into having sex with them. And it’s possibly the only place on the entire island I’ve been to so far that’s below fever temperature.

  “It’s probably none of my business …” The woman looks over her shoulder at me and I think you’re right. It probably isn’t. But I listen anyway, steeling myself for no doubt a speech against drinking on the first night of Yoga Club. “But if you’re having a rough day, apparently there’s a small bar for locals in town where you can get a drink that isn’t made of wheatgrass.”

  “You … you’re not going to lecture me?”

  She shakes her head, and her light brown ponytail swishes from side to side. “No. Why would I? I’m staying at the other hotel, but if I was stuck here full-time, I’d be filling up this”—she waves her water bottle in the air—“with gin. Spiked with vodka.”

  I laugh, and—oh God, no. No, please don’t let that—

  Yep. Tears.

  In front of the only person so far I’ve felt any kind of connection with on the island, I start to cry. I cry because I smell like sweat and vomit and spew. I cry because the thought of vodka makes me remember last night, and last night was when I lowered myself to the state of no shame and slept with the slutty movie star.

  But mostly I cry because this woman is being so nice to me. And niceness feels like such a luxury when you’ve lost everything you hold dear.

  “Hey …” She places her drink bottle down on the sink and steps forward to wrap tanned arms around me. To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch when the act of kindness only makes the tears come harder, faster.

  I miss my old life. I miss having a five-year plan. I miss knowing who Madison Winters really is.

  Soothing circles are rubbed on my back, even when my sobs turn to ugly gulps. Even when I wipe my nose to stop it leaking onto her hot pink shirt.

  “My … fiancé … cheated on me …” I cry in between choky sobs, and the woman pulls back. A deep frown crosses her face as she studies me.

  “What a dick.” Her crystal-blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “You know, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a guy who cheats.”

  “Me too.” Even if up until last week I thought it’d never happen to me.

  She pauses, then gives me a beaming smile. “Why don’t you come have dinner with me tonight?”

  I gesture to my face. “I’m a mess.”

  “You can have a shower before. But tomorrow night, if this evening isn’t any good. I bet all they feed you at these things is organic vegetables with wanky titles like heirloom.”

  I manage a laugh-cry. “Well, this morning’s breakfast was ancient berry compote with mint and rosewater jus …”

  “Was it deconstructed? I bet it was deconstructed.” My new friend winks, and I feel the slightest bit better.

  “Listen, tonight I have a few things I need to do”—like go see if there’s a doctor on this island so I can check I don’t have an STD—“but tomorrow would be great, if the offer’s still there?”

  “Sure.” She nods. “I’m here for work, but we don’t properly start until Thursday. We flew in ahead of time to make sure we could adjust to the climate properly. I didn’t want to stress bub out.” She rubs her belly. “It’s why I’m trying to do a lot of yoga now. Hopefully I’ll keep some of this focus later in the week.”

  I nod, and silence stretches between us for a moment, until the woman giggles. “I’m going to let you go flush that spew and leave you to it. I’ll see you in class tomorrow. We can go from there.”

  “Thanks.” Heat flushes my cheeks as I remember the embarrassing situation I’m in.

  “Anytime.” She turns and strides toward the door, grabbing her water bottle on the way. As she grips the steel handle, she turns back over her shoulder. “Sorry, I’m so rude. I forgot to ask; what’s your name?”

  “Madison.”

  “Nice to meet you, Madison.” She opens the door, and just as she steps out she shoots her introduction over her shoulder. “I’m Janie.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tate

  When I sit down across the table from Mikaela Howards, I’m not instantly apologetic. I school my lips into a firm line and harden my features.

  Because this is business. And I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “You got some bitch pregnant?”

  “I’m sorry this shit happened. Seriously, Mikaela, I fucked up.” The words spew from my mouth faster than a steam train. Apparently even the best-laid plans can fall astray.

  “What the fuck was going through your head, Tate?” Mikaela hiss whispers, and I press one hand to my temple to stop the ringing. “Oh, wait. Nothing was going through your head. You were thinking with your dick.”

  “Calm down,” I say, but it’s the wrong answer. Oh boy, is it the wrong answer.

  “Calm? You’re jeopardising this movie and you want me to stay calm?” She leans forward. Across the way, one of the hotel staff looks at us, then quickly glances away when my eyes meet his.

  “Look, darling.” I offer her a pointed gaze and cover her clenched hand with my own. “The video was a fake. Shade’s a girl I used to date when I was younger, and she threw a current time and date stamp on it.”

  Mikaela shakes her head. “When you agreed to this, I specifically said no scandals. That included sex videos and secret love children.”

  “I know. I know.” I give her hand a squeeze, and she jerks it back into her lap. “I didn't know she had a video of us from back then, and as for the kid, it’s not mine.”

  “Are we suing?”

  I pause. “Janie has your legal guy looking into it.”

  I clench my hands tight around the sides of my chair. I need to get her to call off the lawsuit. I can’t have those pictures of her leaked online. I just can’t.

  Mikaela slumps forward and rests her forehead in her hands. “This whole thing is such a mess.”

  “Look, maybe we should end this right now. Just call it quits,” I say. Sure, we have a ‘no bad press’ clause in the movie contract, but an amicable split doesn't have to be a big media deal. Besides, I screwed up last night.

  I don’t want to risk doing that again.

  Mikaela pauses, and the music that has been pumping in the background gets louder. Her voice softens as she says, “Tate, I’m still not ready. Is there any chance we can just keep this going for another few weeks? Two more months?”

  I twist my lips. “I don't know, Micky …”

  She shakes her head. “Don't call me that. But please? Just until I can get back home and try to talk to my parents in person.” She pauses. “Besides, if we break up now, people will think the scandal was true. They might delay the movie release, and that means a longer pay date for the two of us. And I know you could use the money right now, having just bought that house, and with Janie coming up to her due date …”

  She has a point. Mikaela is a really good chick. A less annoying version of Janie. She’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

  And I know what will happen to her when the t
ruth comes out.

  “You’re lucky I love you,” I grumble, but I can’t fight my smile. “I’ll keep quiet. Two more months.”

  Sometimes, people date because they’re sexually attracted to each other. Other times, it’s due to a spark, a chemical connection between two people that simply cannot be denied.

  And on other occasions, two people date for mutual gain. The relationship is a business deal, nothing more, nothing less.

  I dated Mikaela because she was a bigger celebrity than me, and fame begets fame just as misery begets misery.

  She dated me because her father is a priest and she’s secretly a lesbian.

  ***

  Madison

  There are several things in life I never thought I’d have to do.

  One of these is attempt to mime the term ‘STD’ to a doctor who very much doesn’t speak English.

  Of course, the hotel has a perfectly reasonable English-speaking medical person on staff, but I simply can’t risk telling them what I’ve done. After all, I’m here for strictly work purposes. If word was to somehow get back—a billing on the wrong credit card, a loose-lipped employee—it could end in disaster. It’s bad enough I’m feeling like a whore. I don’t need the entire office to know, too.

  Besides, now that I’m on my own, I want to prove to myself that I can handle getting a non-English speaking doctor to understand my request. I want to prove that I can handle anything.

  Especially since I’m clearly incapable of doing something as simple as spending one night by myself on a strange island without running into trouble. Or another man’s penis.

  “Miss?” the doctor asks, staring at me patiently.

  “Right,” I say, and get ready to attempt my charade again.

  Of course, I could just try taking off my pants and hoping he gets the impression that I’m after a physical to make sure I don’t have some kind of gross disease, but that seems a little like it could be misinterpreted. And knowing my luck, I’d probably be adding a lawsuit to a list of the Things I Hate About Being Twenty-Three list.