The Fame Game (4 page)

Philip smiled at his only daughter. “Carm? You were saying something about PopTV?”

Carmen took a deep breath and began. Again. “Trevor Lord is doing a show about people trying to make it in Hollywood. He said he needed a talented actress, and that I was his first and only choice. He said the network probably wouldn’t even pick up the show unless I agreed to do it.” She’d felt a rush of pride when her new manager (her dad made her get a manager after she got cast in
The Long and Winding Road
) told her that part. She knew it probably wasn’t true; she’d seen her father stretch the truth before, hadn’t she? That’s just how it went in Hollywood. You told people what they needed to hear so they’d do what you wanted them to do. “Daddy, I said I’d take the part and I really want you to be happy for me.”

“But why on earth do you want to do a reality show?” Philip looked genuinely perplexed. He exchanged another unreadable glance with Cassandra. “Those girls have no values. No talent! You’re not like them. You’re an actress.”

“I told you,” she said, feeling herself getting upset, “it’s not like that.” She hated when her father used his
I’m disappointed in you
tone. “It’s about people trying to become successful doing what they love. It’s a good opportunity.” Carmen twisted her watch around her wrist.

“For what? To go to clubs and get in fistfights?”

“That’s
Jersey Shore
,” Drew clarified helpfully. “This will be more like catfights—open-handed combat, drinks thrown. . . . It’s completely different.”

Carmen kicked him again. “Not helping!” She turned to her dad. “There aren’t going to be any fistfights
or
catfights. It’s going to be about the business and how hard it is to make it—in my case, even when your parents are, y’know, you guys.”

“Famous,” Drew added, as if that were necessary. Carmen contemplated kicking him again but decided against it. It didn’t seem to make a difference.

“Are ‘us guys’ going to have to be on this show?” her dad asked. “A Very Special Meet the Curtises episode?” He was joking, but Carmen could tell he wasn’t into the idea at all.

“If they need that, they can just splice in scenes from the brilliant, amazing
Cassandra’s Back
documentary,” her mom offered teasingly. (Every time she mentioned the title, she shrugged and turned her head over one shoulder, mimicking what she had decided was the hilarious poster for it, what with its nod to the title’s double entendre.)

Philip took a sip of wine and sighed. “Carm, I’m not going to forbid you to do what you want. I just want you to be sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Eyes wide open, right?”

Carmen nodded. “Eyes wide open.”

Her dad looked at her—
really
looked at her—and Carmen, who could usually tell when her dad was about to soften, couldn’t read his expression. “Okay,” he said finally. “Well, I guess that’s settled then.”

Carmen let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She faced forward again and found Drew staring at her, his eyes . . . wide open.

“Shut up,” she said, and kicked him once more.

“Ouch! You were supposed to save the violence for dessert, remember?”

Cassandra laughed. “Next time,” she said, “on a Very Special Episode of Meet the Curtises: Violent dinners. Savage Salmon. Brutal Broccoli. And—”

“Killer Cake!” Philip yelled. He grinned boyishly. “Chocolate, perhaps?”

“We’re not having cake, Tubs,” Cassandra said fondly, using the nickname he loved and hated in equal measure. After all, Philip Curtis wasn’t at all fat; he just had a little . . . girth.

“Nice try, Mr. Curtis,” Drew said.

“Sadistic Sorbet?” he asked hopefully.

And then everyone cracked up. Carmen breathed a sigh of relief—the worst was over now. But she really,
really
hoped that Trevor Lord wouldn’t angle for a Curtis family episode. They were just way too weird.

Chapter 4
Hardly Star Treatment

Flashes—dozens of them—exploded in bursts of brilliant light, and Madison heard her name called out over and over. “Miss Parker!” “Madison, over here!” “Mad, honey, blow me a kiss!”

Madison paused midway on the red carpet, absorbing the attention being showered upon her. She never got tired of this moment: when every eye and (much more importantly) every camera was focused on her. She offered a small, knowing smile to the bank of photographers to her left, but she made sure to avoid glancing at the PopTV camera that followed her every move. That was the one camera she had to pretend not to see.

The last two weeks had been a whirlwind. Trevor wanted to start filming immediately—clearly Madison’s fans were clamoring for her return!—and so the minute the ink was dry on her contract, four beefy moving guys had showed up at her Beverly Hills doorstep, packed up her three hundred dresses and her two hundred pairs of shoes, and hauled them over to a sleek new apartment in Park Towers. There was a balcony, a chef’s kitchen, and three large bedrooms: one for Madison; one for her new roommate, Gaby; and one for all the PopTV equipment.

“Who are you wearing?” someone called out, but Madison didn’t answer. She liked to seem a little bit aloof at first.
Keep ’em guessing
, she thought.

Up ahead, a giant gold banner welcomed everyone to the second annual Togs for Tots benefit. Togs for Tots was a charity that provided new (
not
“gently used”—gross!) clothes to foster children, group-home residents, and homeless kids all over L.A. County. Madison didn’t particularly care about the charity itself, of course, but the evening was sponsored in part by Elie Saab, one of Madison’s favorite designers, and rumor had it that Anna Wintour of
Vogue
would be in attendance.

She took another few steps, then gave her best over-the-shoulder smirk. Shutters clicked furiously. The paparazzi that lined red carpets were always a step up from the ones who roamed the streets. A little more polished and respectful, although there was always an aggressive few screaming over the others from behind the velvet rope barrier. But Madison knew that she needed them all, just as much as they needed her. It was a symbiotic relationship (with escalating benefits): The more famous she got, the more they would want to take her picture; the more pictures they took and published of her, the more famous she’d be . . . and onward and upward to, as Trevor put it, the “next level.”

She held her head high, pivoted her toe in her Louboutins, and smiled her picture-perfect smile.

“Madison!”

“Over here!”

“This way!”

“Beautiful, Madison!”

She locked eyes with each individual lens. Every camera contained the potential for a “Who wore it best?” (she did, always), a post on glamour.com (
Madison stuns in red!
), or a spot on tomorrow’s
Fashion Police
(being praised, not critiqued of course). Madison hadn’t quite made it out of the weeklies yet (though
Life & Style
, to its credit, loved her like no other), but Sasha, her publicist, swore she’d land a cover of a monthly once
The Fame Game
started airing. Madison was already planning her
Glamour
cover look. She was thinking a sort of Marlene Dietrich pose, or perhaps a Marilyn Monroe homage. . . .

She had to hand it to Trevor. He was filming
The Fame Game
and getting advance press for his “mysterious new project” at the same time. Already the buzz was building; she could feel it. No doubt some blogger had just uploaded a shot of her to his website (
Madison Parker steps out for kids!
) and mentioned the PopTV cameras capturing her every move. By tomorrow, the word would be all over town that Madison and the PopTV cameras were spotted again. Spin-off!

It was so much different from the last time around. Madison was nobody when she started filming
L.A. Candy
. Correction: She was
somebody
, all right, just not a somebody that the world knew about yet. If people noticed back then that the cameras were filming, the question on their minds was more of the
Who the hell is that?
variety. Now everyone was wondering what the new show was about, what it was called, and who else was on it. (Madison was still in the dark about that part.) Back when
L.A. Candy
had exploded and she (and Gaby and Scarlett and that annoying little Goody Two-shoes, Jane) had gotten famous, Trevor had struggled to make them seem like the regular girls they were still supposed to be. How many times had he had to reshoot because a paparazzo wandered into frame? He hated to count. But this time around, the paparazzi and the tabloids and the blogs (and the monthlies!) would play a crucial part in the show.

Madison offered a little coronation wave to a knot of starstruck fans.

“Luke!” she heard a girl cry, and Madison turned to see Luke Kelly, looking gorgeous but underdressed in a faded button-down and jeans, striding up the red carpet with that girl from that stupid show about a family who lives in a Winnebago.

“Doctor Rose,” someone else yelled, and Luke flashed a megawatt smile. He played Sebastian Rose, a young resident on
Boston General
, and while he wasn’t a lead, rumor had it he was on the short list to play the main character in
The End of Love
, a dystopian Romeo and Juliet story based on a bestselling young-adult novel.

Madison watched him and the girl, whatever her name was. They were holding hands, but Madison could see how loosely their fingers interlocked. And this told Madison, who was something of an expert in body language, that these two were either a) only pretending to be a couple, or b) five minutes away from breaking up. Which meant that Luke was, or would be, available. She gave him another once-over. He could use a shave, too, she thought, in addition to a new outfit. But he had those green eyes and that strong, broad chest, not to mention that Australian accent. Yes, she thought, she should ask Sasha to hook up a date with “Dr. Rose.” Maybe they could head to the next level together.

But it was time to turn her attention back to posing. She cocked a hip and flashed a little bit more thigh through the slit in her dress. She stayed like this for a good ten seconds, then turned for another pose. Then she saw Gaby Garcia, smiling and heading up the red carpet.

“Gaby, blow us a kiss!” one of the photographers shouted.

Gaby obliged, though Madison had told her a hundred times that no one looked good in that pose. Just then she spotted Madison.

“Mad!” Gaby rushed up to her breathlessly, as if they hadn’t seen each other for months, when in fact they had eaten breakfast together.

“Hey, Gaby.” Madison put her arm around Gaby’s shoulders (
Madison and pal Gaby hit the red carpet!
) and was surprised by its boniness. She took a step back and surveyed her roommate. What was she wearing? For one thing, she had donned an Elie Saab dress that she clearly hadn’t taken the time to tailor. And for another, she’d picked the one dress in the collection that looked like it came from the Goodwill sale rack. It was supposed to be an homage to 1970s Halston or something, but the rust color made Gaby look positively yellow, and the plunging back highlighted each protruding vertebrae. Madison had to force herself to smile. “Good to see you, sweetie,” she said. Gaby’s best feature was her cute little body—if she kept dieting, what would she have going for her at all?

Madison forced herself to put her arm back on Gaby’s shoulders. “Smile,” she said.

They posed for the cameras, keeping their faces mannequin-still. If they needed to talk, they’d do it only through the corners of their mouths so as not to disrupt their perfect, doll-like smiles.

“You look amazing,” Gaby said through her teeth.

“Thanks, hon,” Madison said. Of course she looked amazing. It was her job to look amazing, and she worked hard at it. She began her red-carpet regimen days beforehand—more cardio, a mini-cleanse, an oxygen facial, an airbrush tan, minimized water intake (dehydration could subtract several pounds)—and today, between hair, makeup, and wardrobe, she’d already devoted eight hours to this event.

Another small crowd of dedicated fans had gathered behind the barricade at the end of the red carpet.

“We love you, Madison!” a girl with pink hair screamed.

Madison’s smile grew wider. She hoped the photographers were capturing the total adoration her fans had for her—and her own reciprocating affection, of course. (
Madison kisses fan’s new baby!
) With Gaby in tow, she glided over to the pink-haired girl. The PopTV camera followed. Time for a quick autograph and photo op! But just as Madison raised the pen, she saw the photographers swing their cameras back toward the far end of the carpet. She froze. There wasn’t a bigger celebrity on the carpet. What were they—

“Is that—?” Gaby whispered, her eyes wide.

Madison maintained her smile as she tried to see who was causing this unwelcome disruption.

The pink-haired girl let out a piercing shriek. “Oh my God, it’s Carmen Curtis!” she cried, mere inches from Madison’s ear. The poster of Madison that she’d been clutching fell to the ground and was immediately replaced by a poster of Carmen’s
Nylon
magazine cover. How did that switcheroo happen so fast?

“Wow,” Gaby sighed, looking positively starstruck. “She’s so pretty.”

Madison clenched her fists in anger, though her face maintained its photo-ready placidity. Carmen Curtis: What had
she
ever done for the world? Her mother was the biggest singer since Madonna, and her father was the Quincy Jones of rap. Which meant that Carmen had that vaguely ethnic look that had no doubt helped her mother out, since her vocal range certainly hadn’t, and she had been spoon-fed money and fame from the moment she was born. She hadn’t had to work for
a thing her whole life
.

“I love her dress,” Gaby whispered.

Madison ignored her as she inspected Carmen. She’d obviously spent hours on her red-carpet look, too. She wore a cream bandage dress that hit just above her knee, and she was wearing a pair of YSL pumps that Madison would give a kidney for, but they were sold out everywhere. She smiled and waved like everyone she met was a potential friend. And
that
, Madison knew from experience, was a load of crap. They’d been introduced once at a party for the opening of sbe’s latest restaurant, and, okay, Madison hadn’t exactly oozed friendliness herself, but Carmen had simply shaken her hand, smiled briefly, and then vanished into the crowd.

“She’s a little big-boned, don’t you think?” Madison asked coolly. Then she turned away and began to walk toward the entrance to the event. Carmen had stolen her moment. It was a total injustice. The girl had accomplished practically nothing in her eighteen years of life besides bit parts on
Law & Order
and some indie-movie role her daddy bought her.

Madison took one final glance over her shoulder before entering the building. She’d give Carmen one thing: The girl had excellent cleavage. But then again, this was Hollywood, and anyone with a credit card could get that.

“My feet hurt,” Gaby said plaintively, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “I don’t know why ballet flats aren’t considered red-carpet worthy.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “Because you want
height
, Gab,” she said. “Every inch subtracts five pounds.”

“Really?” Gaby said. “How?”

But Madison didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. She was scanning the crowd, waiting for an event publicist to show them to their seats. She saw a couple of young stars from the latest HBO series and the members of The Royal We, Philip Curtis’s newest musical discovery, but so far it wasn’t exactly an A-list event. More like a B, Madison thought, or even a B minus. That was disappointing.

When, after another few moments, no publicist materialized, Madison grabbed Gaby’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll just find our own seats.” She was annoyed; this was hardly the star treatment she’d grown accustomed to.

They threaded their way through the crowd, moving toward the front row of folding chairs. At least they had front-row seats to the show, Madison thought. Maybe they’d be next to Anna Wintour.

But as they arrived at their designated spots, Madison was surprised—no, make that
shocked
—to see that they were taken.

By Carmen Curtis and some blonde with a botched nose job.

“Gaby,” she hissed, “go get the event coordinator!”

Gaby looked down at her ticket and then back toward their seats with a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought we were in the front row. Hey, isn’t that Carm—?”

“Gaby!” Madison whispered fiercely, while trying to maintain a smile. “Just go get the event coordinator!’

Gaby, like the good little doormat she was, did as she was told, and moments later the frazzled event coordinator appeared, a headset nestled in her updo and a clipboard clutched in her hand.

“Is there a problem?” Her tone was sharp.

Madison bristled but kept her voice low. She didn’t need the PopTV cameras, not to mention every person in the room, noting that Carmen had the nerve to steal her seat. “Yes, there is,” she said. “Those
girls
”—she nodded toward Carmen and her one-person entourage—“are in our seats.” Madison tilted her ticket toward the woman.