Take Two (3 page)

Matt

I shoved
my
notes into my pocket and walked out of my trailer. For some strange reason, the usual throng of fans was nowhere to
be found. The only
paparazzi were two men chatting away on their
cell phone
s
, pu
nching the air with their fists
.

“
Matt
!
Matt
!” my agent
Shelby
waved at me. “I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you were going
to be up so early today. George
made a couple of adjustments to the park scene.”

“What? Why?”

“Do you really think they give
agents
insight on the creative process?”

I sighed. “What’s different?”

“Well, George
thinks the ‘rain and kissing’ scen
e should involve some skin. So
when you’re running through Central Park looking for the love of your life
,
your shirt will need to be off.”

“My shirt needs to be off? I thought my character had just gotten back from the airport.”

“He did,” she c
lasped her hands together. “B
ut
the air conditioning
in the plane malfunctioned.
So
s
ince he was in business class
,
the flight attendant
asked him to take off his shirt
to block the fumes coming from the cockpit. And then—”

This can’t be real life. I’m going to wake up any moment now and be on t
he set of a film with substance
and not stuck in another romantic comedy that involves me taking my shirt off.

I mean, I’ve never minded stripping for the camera. Someone’s got to do it and it might
as well be someone like me. But
the sheer lack of
“
art
”
involved is getting to me. I went to Julliard for Christ’s sake! Surely Broadway will re-launch “Death of a Salesman” and I can snag the
role of Willy Lo
man. Or maybe—

“
Matt
?” Shelby’s shrill voice brought me back to the present. “What brand of baby oil do you prefer?”

“I don’t care,” I rolled my eyes. “Where’s Joan? I need a couple of things from Saks before we wrap today.”

“I believe she’s across town gettin
g your breakfast
.
”

“Oh,”
I looked at my watch. I really was early. Two hours early.

I took out my phone.
“Joan?”

“Mr. Sterling? Did I set your alarm for the wrong time? I’m sorry if I—”

“No, Joan. I’m just up early today. Is there any way you
could bring me two extra bagels? White truffle cream cheese?
”

“Not a problem sir. Do you still need me to pick up your order from Saks Fifth Avenue this afternoon?”

“Yes
please.”

“And sir, don’t forget that I’ve made dinner reservations for you and Miss Ross’ two year anniversary tonight.”

“That’s
tonight
?” I sighe
d, trying to mask my annoyance.

“Yes
sir. I have to go
now. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

“Fine,”
I hung up and headed back to my trailer.

Joan was the ideal person
al assistant. She was always twenty
steps ahead and knew me better than I knew myself.

She was probably well aware that today, my two year anniversary with A-list actress Selena Ross, was something I really didn’t feel like celebrating. In fact, I wasn’
t sure if Selena and I were
in a real relationship anymore. We were nothing like we used
to be and that was a damn shame.

Two years ago, I was sitting in some hole in the wall coffee shop in Tribeca. My latest film,
So Amazing
, was number one at the box office and I wanted to get away
to read the reviews in private.

I pulled out the folder Joan prepared and started reading.
All
the major
critics were letting me have it: Roger Ebert said I “was out of [my] league and looked lost for half the film.”
The New York Times
said I was “the weakest link in an already dilapidated film.”
The
Chicago
Sun Times
called me “bland and unbelievably boring even when barely clothed.”

Annoyed, I flipped through the remainder of
the reviews until I reached a
title that caught my eye
:
“
Matt
Sterling’s Amazing Romance.”

Finally, a positive one.

“
So Amazing
, the newest picture from Lighthouse Studios, casts
Matt
Ste
rling as Tom Stein, a hot shot b
illionaire who (GASP!) ha
s
never fallen in love. In Stein’s world, relationships are for the weak and the only things that matter are mergers and assets.

“That all changes when he meets Hilary Redding (Scarlett Johannsen), a
young
accountant in his company who dreams of being a writer.

“I wish I could tell you
how
these two fall in love, but the writers of the film managed to leave that
part out. For one hour and fort
y minutes we are forced to watch
Matt
Sterling twist his face into an expression that can only be dee
med “constipated and confused.”

“When he first sees the lovely Scarlett Johannsen—who, by the way, makes the most out of this trite romantic comedy—he gives us
constipated and confused
. When he realize
s he’s falling in love with her,
after just one encounter,
he gives us
constipated and confused
. When he jumps off the train (after taking his shirt off first, min
d you) and catches up to her,
he gives us
constipated and confused
.

“Someone at Lighthouse Studios should make sure Sterling’s bowels are completely out of his system
before
filming, or else they’ll end up oozing into the film as they do in
So Amazing
.”

Ugh. Melody Carter. Figures.

I sighed. It was not my day. I closed
the folder and ordered another c
appuccino.

“
Matt
Sterling?
” I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

Please don’t be a fan. Please don’t be
a
fan.

“Ye
s?” I turned around and was shocked
to see Selena Ross,
the star
of the latest Scorsese series
.

She took off her shades t
o reveal her gorgeous gray eyes
and flipped her long
black hair over her shoulders.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“No. N
ot at all,” I smiled.

“I thought I was the only one who c
ame here to dodge the paparazzi.”

“I guess not.
I
come here to read film reviews in private.”

“You actually read those?
” s
he scoffed. “I can’t bring myself to
even
look at them.”

“Well, I care about the
craft
you know? Sometimes
the critics help
me
see things I need to work on.”

“And the other times?”

“They just trash my films
to add excitement to their miserable lives.”

We both laughed. We spent the next three hours chatting about our latest projects, our favorite paparazzi dodge spots, and of cou
rse, our relationship statuses.

When we finally got up to leave, we exchanged numbers and agre
ed to meet
the next week. B
y the time I returned home
she’d texted me:
“
Can we
meet
again
tomorrow? Next week
seems too far away. Let me know.
: )
”

And that’s when it began. We started doing everythi
ng together. T
raveling, dining, even biking. In between our film projects, we’d sneak away to remote locations—a highway
Motel 8 or a small town’s diner—
to have sex
or revel in the
priceless
privacy.

Six months late
r
, when I was about to consider taking “us”
more
seriously, our careers exploded.
Both of our latest projects
passed the $150 million mark and we couldn’t buy privacy if we wanted to. What’s more, is that Selena no longer wanted anything to be private.

She insisted that
we shop
on Fifth Avenue, in perfect view of the paparazzi, instead of sending our personal assistants.
She insisted that we eat at
window
booths
of premier restaurants whenever we had a date. She even insisted that we tell the media about our favo
rite dodge-spots to ensure
someone was always ready and waiting to take our picture.

Even though I hated what we’d become, I went along with it for eighteen more months. I had more projects to promote and “dating” Selena Ross did wonders for my public image.

This week, TMZ reported that Selena was interested in opening
a dance
theater
with me. According to
Us
Weekly
, she and I were trying to have a baby. Three days ago, on The
Today Show, Matt Lauer asked
if she saw herself spendin
g the rest of her life with me.

Since all
of our “dates” were mere photo
oppor
tuni
ties, our conversations were always about
what
we’d seen in the press. We could no longer come up with interesting things to talk a
bout on our own
.

We were simply making the most out
of the publicity—
at least I was
anyway. I wasn’t sure if she still had feelings for me and I honestly didn’t care.

I opened
the breakfast
box Joan brought in
and
realized that I needed to
“
break up
”
with Sele
na as soon as possible.

I took out
the cream cheese and felt my phone vibrate. A text message from Selena:
“
Happy 2 year anniversary
baby! Can’t wait 2 C U tonight!
”

Shit.

Melody

I lay in bed and looked
up
at the ceiling.
I’d spent the past two weeks
trapped in th
e same routine: Eat, cry, sleep. Eat, cry, sleep
.
I didn’t ha
ve the energy to talk to anyone
except my parents,
but
I could barely utter two sentenc
es without breaking into sobs.

The one person I wanted to call, the
one
person that always came running when I was hurt, was unavailable—un
acceptable to even consider.
I often
dreamed that he called me, that he showed up in Memphis, that he got down on one knee and begged me to
forgive him and take him back.

Yet, every morning was the same. I woke up alone
. A
fter failing to see his name cross my phone’s screen in five days, I
just
let my phone die.

In an attempt
to
break my mundane routine
, I wrapped a
blanket around my shoulders a
nd made my way to the back deck
.
Ignoring the soft drizzle,
I
sat
in
a lounge chair and looked out over
the lake.