Starlet's Web (The Starlet Series, #1) (4 page)

It happened so fast that I didn't really know what happened. But the confusing, crawly, slimy feeling from the encounter exposed Matthew's  intentions. The limo smelled of his stink.

“I'm so sorry. You did nothing wrong,” Sashi reassured me. “I'll call your mom. We're professional. Your secret is safe with us.”

I curled up on the seat and couldn't hold myself hard enough. I wanted to crawl out from under the sticky grey ugly weight that had become my skin. I wanted to scald his presence off me and out of my mind but I couldn't get away from the memories flashing like a movie projector loop through my mind. My stomach turned as other repressed traumas took center stage.

I forced myself to push the memories into a deep hole in my brain and slammed the lid down. But I had a sinking feeling. I would never be able to pile enough rocks on the lid to keep it shut without this night creeping back into my life and haunting me forever.

I didn't want Sashi to tell Mom. I didn't want to tell Mom.

When I got home, I didn't cry when I mechanically narrated the scene to her but I was scared that it would have been so easy for him to rape me. I summarized as if it happened to a character I played rather than to me.

Mom explained that I did nothing wrong. I was a child and he was a man. In California, it's illegal for a twenty-five-year-old man to sleep with a girl under eighteen. Period. It's a misdemeanor even if she agrees. It's a felony if proven violent. He tried to rape me and should be punished. She urged me to press charges, stand up, be a role model, protect other girls from statutory rape—victims like Kate and Elise.

All I could think about was what the press and public would do with the news.

Fed up, I threatened to quit acting. Mom called Martin. He explained that it would cost me about $40 million dollars to quit. He disagreed with Mom about pressing charges. They argued about my safety versus hurting the project with the negative publicity. Martin came up with alternative ways to punish Matthew.

The rage boiled inside me, but I couldn't release it. I wanted to scream but couldn't get any sounds out. I wanted to cry, but no tears fell. I was trapped, shaking uncontrollably, violently.

“Stop!” I shouted over the speaker phone. Hearing my own anger surprised me. I immediately re-gained control.

Mom kissed my cheek. “Honey, I'm so sorry. I love you. What do you want to do?”

I studied her face, trying to read what she'd let me do. Mom was the Hollywood good girl who prayed every day and gave most of her money away to charities. She was a remarkable, sweet woman, incredibly talented, and beautiful. Her tight smile and wet eyes told me that this was my decision.

Matthew's words haunted me. He called me a “tease.” I wasn't a tease. I had said
no
. I was a minor and clueless about how I could be perceived as sexy. I didn't see myself that way.

“I never want to work with him again. And I want
him
to suffer—not me, so no press.”

“Okay,” Mom whispered to me and then hugged me. She pulled me into her shoulder and lifted her chin.

Mom turned off her phone and reassured me, “Don't let his worthlessness in. You're precious and strong.”

Her words made no sense. “I wouldn't think it happened to me…but it did…but I don't have the right emotion or something?” I was trying to use all of my years of listening to my therapist to describe my feelings. Everyone talked like they were in touch with their emotions, and my psychological training meant absolutely nothing at that moment. Without dialogue written by someone else, I had no description for what I was feeling. I tried again, “Why does it feel like there's no
me
?”

“This too shall pass. You're an actress, trained to separate the physical your character feels from whom you are. We have to disassociate to protect the self.”

I was so frustrated. I barked, “Mom! What does that mean? In English, please!”

Mom brought my hand up to her cheek and surveyed me through her tears. “It's not your fault. You trusted a man not worthy of your trust. I'll help you pick up the pieces.”

“I don't have any pieces left to put into emotional safety boxes, Mom. I'm numb.”

She prayed, “May God heal your body and soul. May your pain cease. May your strength increase. May your fears be released. May blessings, love, and joy surround you. Amen.”

Humiliated that I lost Evan and the Globes, upset that I couldn't lie to myself about my love for Manuel, destroyed that Manuel didn't feel the same, terrified of winning an Oscar, and mad that I was trapped as an actor in the Hollywood web, I was not in the mood to pray.

I left Mom on the couch. I wanted to suffocate my emotions—hate, betrayal, weakness, anger, fear, regret, responsibility, shame. I disappeared into my girlish pink bedroom. I pulled my bed closer to the windows without much success, abandoned that idea, and then carefully re-organized my totems on my bookshelf. I didn't want to remove any object from my happy, precious childhood.

I heard my door open and looked up from the floor, ready to snap at Mom.

Manuel smiled warily in the doorway, asking permission to come in with his soulful eyes.

I nodded. Waves of relief, peace, security, and love flowed through me. I smiled at him.

He sat next to me on the floor. “Your mom called your dad who called mine. You sure know drama, don't you?”

I nodded. He put his arm around my shoulder. “Sometimes I forget that you're innocent even though you're an actress.”

I leaned into him and relaxed.

“Where were you trying to put your bed? The middle of the room provides an interesting vantage point, I guess.” He encouraged, “How about I help you move it to its new spot?”

 

My Globe loss and the public embarrassment of Evan cheating on me put me back on top. I did a few interviews that went just fine. My trailer on set shielded me from the paparazzi. Women liked me again. I worried that an Oscar win would re-ignite the hate but Mom explained that the Academy Awards that night offered me freedom.  An Oscar equaled royalty. She assured me that all women loved princesses.

I texted Mom when Byron and I arrived at the hotel in which Franz and his team of artists would transform us into movie stars for the Oscars.

Byron had a typical lean and toned ideal Hollywood build. He had light brown hair, perfectly bronzed skin, and expressive eyes. His features were precisely balanced, but also unique because when he smiled, he had adorable, childlike dimples in his cheeks. His smile often took my breath away because of the contrast between the chiseled marbled smoothness in his pensive expression and the warm youthful glow of his smiling expression. It didn't seem possible that both faces originated from the same striking man. Byron was number one on my personal hotness list. I just wished he had more talent.

We sat down on the couch together in the hotel lobby. He leaned into me so quickly that he managed to kiss my lips.

“Stop!” I scolded, surprised by the intensity of my voice. “I asked you to stop doing the Hollywood hello. I want you to be my friend and co-star. That's it, no romance. Remember, I'm seventeen and you're twenty-one. You don't want to get arrested for dating a minor. You know that's statutory rape.”

“Marie, you're the star of another major motion picture, your seventh feature. You're Muse. You're not a teenager. You're wonderful, gorgeous, smart, sweet, and talented. I'm not insincere. I love you and that's that.”

Byron's blue eyes silently stunned me. They swooped in, blocked my thoughts from logical reason, and replaced them with an acceptance that he was beyond reproach.

He continued speaking in his melodic Australian accent, “Besides, I just turned twenty-one a month ago and you turn eighteen in two months. You know as well as I do that it wouldn't be statutory rape.” His voice pulsed in my ear, “It would be making love because I love you.”

“Well, maybe for you. I'm not interested whatsoever. Actually, I'll be looking into getting a chastity belt until I can become a nun.”

I eyed him again to access his truthfulness. The “love you” talk was typical for Hollywood. I tossed the sentiment around, too. Byron was new to the business and sometimes I couldn't tell if he meant it when he said he loved me.

After a lengthy silence, he asked, “Marie, are you afraid of attention?”

“Definitely. The press had a field day with my parents' divorce. It was pretty sad to see my mom go through so much pain while the whole world was happy that the perfect Hollywood marriage failed. My mom was a faithful and loving wife.  People couldn't get enough of her ruin. It hurt a lot, more than you could imagine. The press also turned my words after my first Oscar nomination. Then look at what just happened with Evan. Total nightmare. I trust absolutely no one in the media and, I don't want to be preachy, but please don't say that you love kissing me on set. It's so over-the-top.”

I was nominated before, for Best Supporting Actress, three years prior for my very first film,
Left to Die,
but didn't win the Oscar. Mom told me I wouldn't win. It was a step towards veneration, and it would increase exposure of the film and hopefully increase box office revenues by at least $30 million. She practiced with me for hours about how I would go to the Academy Awards, pose for the cameras, sit patiently and uncomfortably in the Shrine Auditorium, smile when I lost, showing support for the actor who won, and pretend that I was not disappointed. The evening I lost, I was painfully embarrassed and nauseous. I stained my dress from perspiration. When we reviewed the video, I seemed completely composed. I smiled and gave the impression that I was happy for the winner. I remembered that I blushed, but I had so much makeup on that the cameras didn't pick it up. There was no strain on my face from the uncomfortable, painful gown. There was no sign that I was sweating buckets. That was the night I learned that I could act. That night Mom won her Oscar for Best Actress in a Leading Role for
Left to Die.

Byron ignored my request. “You seem like you know that you're going to win? Is it rigged?”

“Michelle and Richard wrote
Jefferson's Muse
, released the feature film during Thanksgiving break when every American in the audience would be thankful for our American forefathers, maintained heavy worldwide promotion in December, and made sure the film would be nominated for an Oscar in January.”

“So? Why would that mean you'll win?”

“Well, here's how it works: there are five steps. Step one of the nomination game is that each member of each American Academy branch nominates a talent. The Director Branch of the Academy nominates the directors. The Acting Branch nominates the actors, and so on. The top nominees are selected from each branch. Matthew and Grant had no chance at being nominated, since most of the Acting Branch members are older actors who, for the most part, don't even watch films in theaters or see the actor's actual performance. I'm a household name. They know my talent with scripts; there are only a few of us who can do that.

“Step two, the top votes from each branch become the nominees for each category.

“Step three is a massive marketing push by each studio's and talent's publicists to all members. In my case, the producers—my mother, Richard, and Ira—promoted Muse to the members non-stop.” Richard Conning was the director working for Ira Goldberg Studios.

“Step four, all of the members vote on the selected nominees, no matter to which branch they belong.

“Step five is the Academy Awards show, where the industry members congratulate themselves and reinforce their influence as American film making royalty. Which, honestly, is absolutely true.”

Bryon laughed. “It's so political, interconnected. I had no idea.”

I nodded. “I think of it as a web, the fans are the flies, and the insiders are the spiders. Sometimes I think I'm the web. Right now I think we young actors are flies. It's impossible to escape the web.” My eyes watered.

Camille, my therapist, and Mom kept talking “victim” but I kept thinking “fool.” I had responsibility for letting the public dictate my love life just to be liked. I should not have willingly kissed a man when I knew it was against a law made to protect me from a creep. Although Matthew didn't rape me, he betrayed me. My fans betrayed me. I participated in my own exploitation.  I betrayed my ‘self'.

But there was a change in me. Being a good girl meant being alone. Losing Evan made me question two things: why I gave everything of myself to entertain an unappreciative audience and why isolating myself to protect my private life was worth it.

I considered Byron who thought he loved me and doubted my resolve. He filled a void. Why not date him, be vulnerable? Could I survive it?

Byron patted my leg sympathetically and changed the subject, “So are you ready for today, babe?”

“I'm worried that I'm going to win,” I admitted. I was conflicted. I never wanted to be an actor. Many of my contracts would have to be renegotiated, five-year contracts that were set up to expire when I turned eighteen. I wanted to sign nothing and walk away. Winning this award would make walking away very, very difficult for me and for everyone who owned a piece of me.