Fame Game 03: Infamous (7 page)

“That’s not surprising,” Kate said gently. “It sounded like you guys really had something.”

Madison picked at the silk fringe on a throw pillow, seemingly lost in thought. “What’s the point? What’s good for me professionally doesn’t necessarily fit with what’s good for me personally. Although—who am I kidding? The guy broke my heart, Kate—as much as it’s possible to break it.” Here she offered her trademark Madison smile. (But was that a slight tremor in the corner of her mouth? A hint of vulnerability?) “So maybe he’s not good for me personally, either.”

Kate nodded understandingly. She wished she’d actually met Ryan so that she could offer her own piece of advice. But he was like some mythical creature: There were plenty of stories about him, but no actual sightings.

“I think you should text him back,” she said. “You’re in a stronger place now. Maybe you can have it all.”

Madison smiled. “Oh, I’m going to have it all,” she said. “But I’m still working on exactly what ‘it’ is.”

“I hear you. Hey, maybe that’s your theme song.” Kate picked up the guitar again and plucked a few notes. “
Sometimes I’m your therapist / Sometimes I’m just a bitch / Do I want love or stardom / I really don’t know which
 . . .”

Madison, laughing, threw a pillow at her but missed.

Kate couldn’t help herself. “
I’m on a show called
The Fame Game
/ Can’t throw a pillow cuz I got bad aim—”

Then Madison, squealing, picked up another pillow. This one was a direct hit.

12

AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT PERSON

At first Trevor hadn’t recognized her. Who was that platinum blonde with the pixie cut talking to Carmen—another one of Carm’s hair-and-makeup pals? Someone (hopefully) more interesting than Fawn and more telegenic than Lily?

Then the blonde had smiled a familiar smile, and Trevor had done a giant double take. That little creature, that punk-rock
elf
, was none other than his own Kate Hayes.

He’d about fallen out of his chair.
Why
hadn’t anyone warned him? It should have been the first thing he heard about the moment the crew showed up to shoot. But Stephen Marsh was apparently still too new to the job to figure that out. Or too stupid, or too intimidated, or something. Either the man lacked common sense or balls. Trevor wasn’t sure which was worse.

Now he got up and tossed a few punches at the speed bag he’d had installed in the corner of his office. (He’d gotten into boxing lately; it was fantastic stress relief.) Kate’s new hair was going to cause a major continuity problem.

To make a good episode of
The Fame Game
, Trevor relied on being able to comb through hours upon hours of scenes from different days—different
weeks
, even—and edit them down, shaping them into what was essentially a one-hour highlight reel, built around whatever theme or story line he’d chosen to focus on that week.

For instance, he had a decent dinner party scene from a few days ago that lacked resolution; the Carmen-and-Kate tête-à-tête he’d just watched would have been the
perfect
scene to attach at the end, since they’d dished about both Madison and Sophia. But he couldn’t use it, because Kate
looked like an entirely different person
.

He had to wonder: Did Kate lack all common sense, too? She was usually so predictable. Wherever had she gotten the idea to transform herself into this new Kate? A look that was, by the way, less than one hundred percent flattering. She suddenly reminded him of a Bratz doll.

As Trevor began to breathe harder, sending bare knuckles again and again toward the speed bag, the realization came to him.
Madison Parker
.

Of course it had been her idea—he was sure of it. She was thumbing her nose at him again. Reminding him of her ability to cause trouble.

He hit the bag harder. Madison’s disappearance had
already
caused him huge continuity problems. Once she agreed to come back, he’d assumed he’d no longer have such issues. But apparently Madison had decided to show him how wrong he was.

To make the next few episodes work, he was going to have to pull some major Frankenstein action: cutting here, splicing there. . . . There would have to be some hats and hairpieces involved, too.

He turned and went back to his desk and sank into his chair. It gave him a migraine to even think about it.

He called Laurel. “We’re going to do logs,” he said brusquely. “I want a log and photos of
every single item
of clothing and
every
accessory the girls wear to a shoot, so if we need pickup scenes we’ll have that information immediately. I even want their
nail
polish colors written down. This is their job, damn it. I’m not playing around.” He bent a paper clip in two, then pitched it toward the trash. “On second thought, I want the girls to pick a specific color of nail polish and stick with it for the remainder of the shoot. There will be no haircuts. No dye jobs. No visits to Dr. Botox. No more elective procedures until this season wraps. Make that clear to them.”

Laurel assured him she would.

“Gaby especially,” he added.

“I’m on it,” Laurel said, and clicked off.

Trevor wondered if he ought to make Kate get extensions and dye her hair back to its original color. Then he could film her getting it re-cut and re-dyed. Or else he could make her wear the extensions for the next few months and hope that no one noticed. . . .

He wondered why, when his more volatile stars finally seemed to be behaving themselves—Gaby staying sober, Madison doing what he asked (with the exception of the Kate makeover)—his supposed Midwestern Good Girl had to go and screw things up.

And while it wasn’t her fault she’d picked up a stalker, the security team was costing the production a pretty penny.

He sighed. It was also inconvenient. The camera crew was used to shooting around Kate’s absurd mess, but how were they also going to avoid the burly guys hired to hang around her apartment to protect her?

If Trevor hadn’t sent Kate back to Ohio mere months ago, he would have certainly done it again. He drummed his fingers on the desk, imagining it. Maybe he’d send Carmen with her, so the two of them could play out their best-frenemy drama on a different stage. He laughed, imagining Carmen’s reaction to a flat landscape of soybean fields and strip malls, where the best restaurant around was a tie between Chili’s and the Olive Garden. . . .

It was unfortunate he couldn’t make everything he wanted happen. But all in all, Trevor Lord knew he wasn’t doing too badly, and he had the fat year-end bonus and a new Lamborghini to prove it.

And every week, as reliable as his delivery of
Variety
, Trevor was sure to open a tabloid and see an item on one or more of his girls. If that wasn’t winning the Fame Game, then he didn’t know what was.

13

A REGULAR CUPID

Carmen was supposed to meet Laurel at her favorite nail salon on Beverly Boulevard, but at the last minute Laurel changed her mind; apparently she’d seen something about flesh-eating bacteria and manicures and was feeling very anti-salon.

So they rendezvoused at a new boutique on 3rd Street instead, and as Carmen flipped through a rack of fluttery tunics and skinny jeans, Laurel slipped her feet in and out of various pairs of pumps, mules, and ankle boots.

“Do you remember Anna Baker from high school?” Laurel asked as she admired a pair of Proenza Schouler booties. “She got a DUI last night after sideswiping a cop car in an In-N-Out Burger parking lot.”

“Ouch,” Carmen said. Anna Baker had been a senior when Carmen was a freshman. She was one of the popular girls: By seventeen she’d already starred in two dumb but profitable teen rom-coms. “Was that on TMZ?”

“Actually her mom ran into mine at yoga in Brentwood,” Laurel said. “TMZ’s got nothing on the maternal grapevine.”

“Too bad my mom’s not part of that. She actually gets her gossip from blogs, so she’s wrong half the time. But that sucks for Anna—though it seems like everyone has a DUI these days,” Carmen noted.

“Yeah—if you weren’t already in the tabloids so much, I’d suggest you get one for the sake of the publicity.”

“My dad would
kill
me,” Carmen said, holding up a butter-yellow smocklike garment. “He’s still not over Tanktopgate.” The color was lovely, she thought—it reminded her of spring sunshine. “What do you think of this?”

Laurel shook her head firmly. “Uh-uh. Looks like an apron a kindergarten teacher would wear so she doesn’t get finger paint on her clothes.”

Carmen put it back on the rack. Okay, so the yellow smock was a miss. She selected another shirt, held it up, and got another no from Laurel. Her third shirt pick prompted Laurel to make a gagging face.

“Girl, do you need eyeglasses?” Laurel asked.

Carmen felt herself blushing. This was
bad
. She hadn’t shopped in ages, ever since her parents cut her ties to the family bank account. (She’d even returned those beautiful boots she’d bought with Fawn and Lily.) Was shopping like spinning class—you had to keep doing it or else you lost your edge? Or was it possible she’d lost her sense of taste? No. Not possible. She must be overtired.

“Here,” Laurel said, handing Carmen a sleek dress of copper-colored silk. “Try this one on. It’ll bring out your eyes.”

Carmen did as she was told. She could see Laurel’s feet under the dressing-room door, pacing back and forth. She wondered if she should hire a stylist to go with her new publicist. (She’d shared Sam at Beckwith Associates with her mother for years—but when she and Cassandra had their fight, Carmen hired Sam’s colleague, Lacey Gilmore.) A stylist could probably get Carmen more free clothes than she was already getting, which, considering her parents’ credit line was off-limits indefinitely, was a real plus. (Had she really blown most of her earnings on fantastic clothes, to-die-for handbags, and a new silver Range Rover? Why yes, it seemed she had!) Carmen made a mental note to do some stylist investigation.

“We need to talk about your story arc,” Laurel called through the door.

Carmen zipped up the dress, opened the door, and gave a twirl. “What do you think?”

“Love it,” Laurel said, but her mind was clearly on business now. Which was why she was an executive producer at twenty-three, or however old she was. Laurel’s
life
was PopTV. (And her wardrobe proved it—how old were those Seven jeans anyway? Laurel ought to be trying on a few things, too.)

Carmen, on the other hand, believed in a balance between life and career, which was why she wasn’t rushing out to take another project. “Do you guys have some plan for me?” she asked, adjusting the dress’s belt.

Laurel shrugged. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a
plan
. But we do have a suggestion.” She handed Carmen another dress, this one slightly more structured and in a deep jade green. “We think you need to find another project sooner rather than later. Preferably high profile, but not too time-consuming. Maybe a rom-com? We didn’t have enough access to you during
The End of Love
,
and Trevor didn’t like that.”

“Isn’t my project filming your show?” Carmen asked.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” Laurel said. “That green’ll look really good on camera, too.”

Carmen nodded; of course she knew the answer.
The Fame Game
was about four girls trying to make it in Hollywood—not about two girls trying to make it, one girl trying not to accidentally kill herself, and one girl who sat around and pondered what to do next with her life. The problem was, she still hadn’t come across any projects that interested her. The only thing that had seemed remotely appealing lately was a
play
, but Trevor had nixed that idea immediately. “Plays are for theater nerds. Movies are for stars,” he’d informed her. “You, Carmen Curtis, are a star, and don’t you forget it.”

Of course there were
hundreds
of A-listers who acted in plays (Cate Blanchett! Nicole Kidman! Katie Holmes!), but Trevor still wouldn’t hear of it.

“So you think I should take the role in that stupid Vegas heist movie?” Carmen asked Laurel.

“The one starring Vince Otto?” The producer shuddered. “No. That guy is a pig. He’ll spend the whole time trying to sleep with you.”

“Which would be fine with you guys, I’m sure, as long as he’d be on the show,” Carmen said, half joking.

Laurel grinned. “Yeah, I’m sure Trevor wouldn’t mind. But honestly, Carm, there are a million great roles out there.”

“Funny, I haven’t seen any of them,” she muttered, zipping herself into the green dress. She turned this way and that in the mirror; she liked it, but she had the feeling that her mother had one very similar. “I can call my agent,” she offered. “See if he’s holding out on me.”

“Sure. And if he’s got nothing, there are other options to spice up your arc, too.”

Carmen put her own clothes back on and walked up to the register with the first dress she had tried on and her credit card. One perk of not shopping: She was nowhere near her limit. “I’m listening,” she said.

Laurel smiled brightly. “Romance,” she said.

Carmen raised an eyebrow at her, then signed the receipt and tucked her new dress under her arm. “
Romance?
Really?”

“Look, your boyfriend—who won’t film anyway—is out of town,” Laurel began, heading for the exit.

“He’s not exactly my boyfriend,” Carmen said. She wished she could say otherwise, but . . . well, all the hours they spent on FaceTime somehow hadn’t resulted in any official status updates.

“Perfect, then,” Laurel said. “We’ll get you and Madison going on double blind dates, and—”

“What are my other options?” Carmen interrupted. She wasn’t sure which sounded worse: going out with a bunch of would-be actors or spending extra time with Madison Parker. Also, while she and Luke weren’t officially together, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate her filming a series of dinner dates.

Laurel sighed as she held the door for Carmen. “It really would be the easiest one,” she said. “It’d make Trevor happy. He loves romance.”

“Yeah, he’s a regular Cupid,” Carmen said.

“If you don’t want a dating arc, then you should pick a fight with Kate or Madison, or do
something
to create conflict. Because if you don’t? You’re just the background for other people’s stories, Carm. The sounding board.”

Carmen was taken aback by Laurel’s frankness. “Wow,” she said. “Okay. Thanks. Message received.”

“Or we could bring in the whole tabloid thing—how there are these weird stories about you all the time. . . .”

Carmen shook her head quickly. “No, I hate thinking about it.”

“It’d be
great
TV, though,” Laurel said. “There’d be this big sense of mystery. . . . Does your publicity camp have a leak? Does some blogger have it in for you? Are you really addicted to pistachio ice cream? Do you really not know how to pump your own gas? Et cetera.”

Laurel sounded so excited by this prospect that Carmen looked at her sharply. It would be
totally
unethical for Laurel to have talked to the tabloids about Carmen in order to stir up drama for the show—but would she, for the sake of her job? Carmen tried to think if there was anything she’d told Laurel that she’d later read about online. . . .

They were outside now, and the hazy January sky made the colors of the world seem bright and harsh. Carmen reached into her bag for her sunglasses. She told herself that it couldn’t be Laurel. But where did the blame lie?

Laurel squinted at her. “You started this game with a leg up on everyone else, thanks to your family, Carmen,” she said. “I’m sure you don’t love hearing that from me—you’ve heard it your whole life—but it’s true and you know it. But so what? No one ever said life is fair, and frankly, I don’t want to see you lose your advantage.”

Carmen nodded grimly. She got it. She’d been sitting on the bench the last few weeks; it was time to do a better job of playing the game.

After walking up and down 3rd Street, wondering what drama she could create, getting belatedly offended by Laurel’s lack of tact, and picking up a few paps along the way, Carmen spent nearly an hour sitting in traffic on Sunset. By the time she pushed open her front door, she was ready for peace, quiet, and a very long bubble bath. She prayed the apartment was empty or—at the very least—that Drew wasn’t around. She simply wasn’t in the mood for . . . well, for anything but solitude.

So when she nearly tripped over a tanned, muscular guy wearing pleated chinos and a black shirt with
SOCAL SECURITY
embroidered on the pocket, she let fly a very long and impressive volley of curse words.

The guy, who was in his mid-twenties, with green eyes and a deep cleft in his chin, said, “Sorry about that, mama.”

Carmen ignored the apology. “Who are you?” she demanded.

He stood up (he’d been viewing a laptop that was displaying a video feed of their front door) and held out his hand for her to shake. Carmen pretended not to see it. She was normally a polite person, but this particular moment was an exception. She blamed it on the traffic. (And maybe a little bit on Laurel.)

“Rick Hales,” he said. “Personal security expert.”

Carmen’s first thought was that he had come because of her. She was the famous one, after all, and she’d grown up around security teams thanks to Cassandra’s superstardom. (Cassandra had had more than her share of crazy fans.) And what with all the negative ink the tabloids ran on her, she certainly seemed to have an enemy. “Why are you—” she began.

“We’ve been hired by PopTV to keep an eye on your roommate,” Rick said. “Seems she’s been getting a number of questionable letters. I don’t want to worry you, of course, but the network did feel that she—and you—would be better off with some extra security.”

Carmen felt like screaming at the top of her lungs. All this giant hassle was because of
Kate
? But instead she leaned against the cool taupe surface. “So I guess you’re going to be hanging around the apartment all the time now,” she said, sounding less than thrilled.

When Carmen was little, she hadn’t been able to tell all the beefy security guys apart. Also, she thought they’d been hired as her playmates. She couldn’t understand why they never wanted to color in her coloring book or play Barbies with her.

“I prefer the term ‘monitor,’” Rick said.

“Oh, okay, because a different
verb
makes it less of a hassle,” Carmen said, tossing her bag on the floor and stepping around him.

Kate was in the kitchen, nodding as another security guy—this one older and wearing a suit—explained the guards’ schedule to her. She looked up and smiled at Carmen, brushing her new and startlingly platinum bangs away from her forehead.

Her expression was slightly embarrassed. But it seemed to Carmen that there was also a twinkle of pride in Kate’s pretty blue eyes. She was clearly loving this.

“Hey,” she said, sounding breathless. “This is kind of insane, right?”

Carmen opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Wasn’t there a tube of Toll House batter she could devour? Why wasn’t there anything but ketchup, peanut butter, and packets of soy sauce in the fridge? “Um, yeah, kinda,” she said.

It was annoying enough to have
one
guy living in her apartment, and now there were going to be a dozen others. She wouldn’t be able to walk around the living room in her nightgown anymore, or leave her clean bras dangling from the shower rod. She’d be too embarrassed to do her yoga and she would now never,
ever
be alone.

If there was any silver lining to this, it was that Kate might stop leaving her dirty laundry and old magazines and candy wrappers all over the apartment.

Her phone buzzed; it was Fawn calling. Carmen sighed and picked up.

“Hey, girl,” Fawn cried gaily. “I’m in your ’hood. Can I swing by?”

“It’s kind of hectic over here at the moment—” Carmen began.

“Are you throwing a party or something?” Fawn asked. “Without me?”

“Hardly—”

“Well, good. I’ll come over and make it a party.” And then she hung up.

Carmen opened the fridge again, as if some delicious treat would have miraculously appeared in it. But sadly: no.

When Fawn arrived, mere moments later, her eyes grew wide. “Who are these guys and where did you get them?” she whispered. “They are
hot
.”

“It’s Kate’s new security team,” Carmen said. She flopped onto the couch and closed her eyes. “Personally, I don’t know why we couldn’t have gotten a Rottweiler or given her some pepper spray. This feels a little dramatic.”

Fawn cackled. “Because why would you want a dog when you could have a hunk? Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Then Carmen heard her introducing herself to Rick, and after that, the high giggle of her laughter. Fawn was such a
flirt
.