My Life as a Star Read online

  MY LIFE AS A STAR

  by

  Ruth Kaufman

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  Table of Contents

  MY LIFE AS A STAR

  Praise for Ruth Kaufman’s Books

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue A: For Romantics

  Epilogue B: For Realists

  Excerpt from MY LIFE AS AN EXTRA

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Other Books by Ruth Kaufman

  Copyright

  Praise for Ruth Kaufman’s Books

  Must-read romance: “Kaufman can certainly write an entertaining suspenseful romance and brings us a happy sigh-worthy story in Follow Your Heart.”

  —USATODAY.com

  “Kaufman writes well-developed and sympathetic characters with clear motivations. The Bride Tournament is a page-turner of a historical romance that will have readers rooting for a happy ending.

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The story is beautifully written and chronicles their adventures as well as their romance. It was a great read from start to finish.”

  —The Romance Junkie, 5-star Amazon review of My Once & Future Love

  “In fact, most of My Life as an Extra cracked me up. Choking hazard! Eat first and carve out some time for reading.”

  —Roses & Thorns Reviews, 5-star Amazon review of My Life as an Extra

  For everyone who wants to feel special.

  Chapter 1

  The sacrifices I make for my art.

  I’m encased in a suffocating, ankle-length costume. My face, the only part of me you can see except for my feet in sparkly green tap shoes, is painted dark green. Perspiration slithers down my body, adding miserable fodder to the worst yet most potentially promising job I’ve ever had.

  I am a tap dancing zucchini. But a zucchini filming her first national TV commercial!

  Step shuffle ball change, step shuffle ball change. The phallic costume entraps my arms and makes me list to the left. Don’t lose your balance, Marla. My hands grip now-slippery handles to keep from tipping over.

  The other produce performing for the American Farmers’ Market Association (a carrot, ear of corn and an ever-so-fat, shedding lettuce) and I aren’t laboring in the cool seclusion of an air-conditioned production studio. No, we’re exposed in all our vegetous glory in the middle of Michigan Avenue on a hot and humid late August afternoon. The crew converted one of the cement planters, usually bursting with flowers and tall grasses this time of year, into a tappable surface. The cameras are on the street, which is temporarily closed to traffic.

  A sizeable crowd has gathered, as it does wherever there’s filming in this city. People swarm in front the Tribune Tower on one side and the Wrigley Building on the other.

  Several former WZRJ-FM co-workers are laughing so hard they may expire. My sister Linda, flawless in her this-week-blondish hair and upscale worker bee ensemble of a cream sheath dress and high heels, shakes her head. I don’t know why I told them about this gig. I’d never tell my parents about any performance. They’d only say something like, “Are you still doing that? Get another job and do real work.”

  Perhaps it’s for the best my brother Larry and his wife Monica aren’t here. They’re as always one thousand percent engaged in the care of PG (Perfect Grandchild), aka Zachary, and their newbie, PG2, aka Chloe.

  Hold while carrot cavorts, two-three-four. Abundant greens on Carrot’s head flounce and cover his orange face. He sneezes, but doesn’t miss a step. Kudos to Carrot.

  What I wouldn’t give for a towel to mop up some of my sweat. Or a tall glass of iced tea.

  “Cut. Cut! Take it from before the time step. Carrot, keep that stuff out of your face.” This from the assistant director.

  Our director, Scott Sampson, hasn’t yet deigned to speak to us. Trade publications have dubbed him Great Scott, and repeatedly rank him in the top ten list of living film directors. Several millennials wear Great Scott merch and carry signs saying, “We LUV Scott!!” and “Great Scott RULES.”

  He’s why I’m here. Usually I’m an aspiring actress, not a dancing gourd. When my agent Audrey called to say he was directing the AFMA commercial (though I’m not sure why a director of his caliber would) and next a feature film here in Chicago, I couldn’t wait for the opportunity to audition. I’d hoped he’d see the video, or that I’d get a callback and maybe have the chance to meet him.

  The miracle of booking the spot upped my chances to impress him. Provided an “in” to get my first speaking part in a major motion picture after toiling as a paid extra on more than fifty, and doing small roles in indie features that went nowhere…for free. Not even mileage or lunch.

  But how can you impress anyone dressed as a zucchini? What if he pigeon holes me as a tapping cucurbita pepo? What if he can’t see beyond the green?

  “Rolling!” someone on the crew calls.

  “Speed!”

  “And…action!”

  I resume time-stepping with a sigh. How can you want something, need it, and hate it at the same time?

  Rarely is anything as good as I imagine it’ll be. I’d envisioned hanging around the set, sans unsightly costume, sweat and green face, attractive in my clingy black tank top and stomach-containing stretch capris, curly dark red hair miraculously frizz-free, carefully manicured toes peeping out of adorable kitten heel sandals. But GS didn’t show up while I sipped bottled water a production assistant gave me. He didn’t even show up for rehearsal.

  Flap, flap, flap ball change. They’re piping in a sickly-sweet chorus singing the AFMA theme song to the tune of “A tisket, a tasket.”

  “Fill our Farmer’s Market basket. Ooooh, oooh. La, la, laaaaa.”

  Thankfully the music covers most of the crowd’s catcalls.

  I’m so hot. So sticky. Every muscle aches from hours of hauling around this zucchini and the stiff movements it forces me to make.

  I’m tapping too close to the rotund, papier-mâché Lettuce, who’s flap-ball-changing too slowly. His feathery layers flick me in the face. I feel a sneeze coming on.

  “Lettuce, hurry up!” I hiss, still smiling for the camera.

  A drop of sweat dangles from my nose, á la Roseanne Roseannadanna. It itches. But I can’t scratch. Or stop, either. I careen into Lettuce. Carrot crashes into me. A loud noise fills the air as Lettuce cracks.

  We all fall down.

  My head hits the ground, but my thick costume cushions the blow. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. Miles of clear blue sky soar above me, but the sauna-like costume makes me claustrophobic. Out, let me out! My arms and legs flail helplessly.

  “Cut! What is wrong with you people?” screams the AD.

  The music screeches to a stop. Waves of laughter assault me, the kind you hear in those bad dreams where you show up to an important meeting in your underwear (not even your nice underwear, at that) and the
conference room is full of executives in designer suits, sleek haircuts and chignons who guffaw and point at you.

  I hear running feet.

  “A little help over here,” a woman yells.

  A gorgeous face appears above me. Long black hair gathered in a low ponytail, sizzling Ian Somerhalder blue eyes, perfect Viggo Mortensen chin and Johnny Depp’s aura of sexy mystery.

  At last. It’s Great Scott. I’d recognize him anywhere. Even better looking in person. Good thing I’m lying down, because I’m swooning.

  “Um, are you okay?”

  Though the first word out of the great man’s mouth is “um,” a most useless waste of breath and one of my pet peeves, coming from him it resembles a breath of fresh air.

  I can’t speak. I’m in awe.

  “Ms.-um-Courgette. Let’s get you on your feet.”

  Ms. Courgette. Brit speak for Zucchini? There are only four of us in this commercial and he doesn’t even know my name.

  Say something. Say, “Hi, I’m Marla Goldberg.”

  No, don’t say that. Say something oh-so-clever to make him see you for the brilliant, desirable forty-two-year-old currently unemployed former radio station account executive and somewhat recently divorced aspiring actress wishing you’d finally get around to writing a book that you are.

  Suddenly I’m being lifted. The world rights itself. I’m standing again. The dazzling director has touched me but I can’t even feel it.

  Scott is so close I smell those Listerine breath strips. He isn’t tall, but he’s taller than me even in heels and that’s what matters. He wears a MAKE MY DAY T-shirt and khaki shorts.

  My heart races. Scott’s eyes are so blue. His concerned expression so moving.

  Marla. SPEAK.

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  Speak now.

  More sweat pours from all pores as the voice in my head, VIH, berates me. Again my mouth opens. Still nothing. I am a green, gasping fish.

  “Makeup!” Great Scott yells. “Fix Zucchini’s face.” His English accent is more scrumptious than Benedict Cumberbatch’s. “Hurry it up. We can’t afford a delay.” Without further ado, he turns and walks toward the camera.

  That’s it? That’s my special moment with Great Scott? He was literally in my face and I couldn’t spit out one coherent word. Not even “um.”

  “Great Scott!” I shout, much too loud.

  All activity stops. All heads swivel in my direction. Including his.

  He raises a dark, sardonic eyebrow, like Clark Gable as Rhett eyeing Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.

  Now what?

  “Thanks for the lift,” I manage.

  I want to collapse as he turns away. Nothing like morphing into a loser the moment opportunity knocks.

  It isn’t over ’til it’s over. I must find a way to show him I’m worthy of a line in his upcoming movie. Any line will do, even “May I help you?” or “Here’s your pizza.”

  How great would that be? I imagine Scott on his canvas chair bearing his name in embroidery, wearing his headset, watching me on the monitor and smiling as I articulate each precious word. As I achieve a lifelong dream.

  “Brilliant, Marla. Brilliant,” he’d say. Then I’d be engraved on the roster of actors he’ll want for all of his movies.

  The heat must be getting to me.

  “We’re losing the light, people,” a man yells.

  “Doesn’t matter,” a woman replies. I mince around awkwardly. The wardrobe mistress is tending to Lettuce, still on the ground. Humpty Dumpty after his fall. “He’s broken beyond repair.”

  Scott and the producer, a man obese enough to have played Lettuce without the costume, come over to inspect the damage.

  With a slight push from Wardrobe, Lettuce breaks into pieces and reveals John, the thin, perspiration-soaked man inside. At least he’s free.

  Great Scott turns his laser gaze on Wardrobe. “Fix. The. Damn. Vegetable. Now.”

  As John carefully eases himself to his feet, hands on his back and a grimace on his face, the wardrobe mistress swallows. “We can put him back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty. Get it?” She giggles. I giggle. No one else does. “With lots of duct tape,” she continues. “But it’ll take a while.”

  “No can do.” This from the producer, Sam, who is mopping his forehead with a hand towel. “That’s a wrap, everyone.”

  A wrap…the end of the shooting day? But we haven’t done our big finish, the produce kick line.

  “Is that a joke?” Scott asks.

  “Nope. We’re out. Of light, money and time,” the producer replies. “You HAD to have Michigan Avenue. Ka-ching. You HAD to shoot during business hours and shut down the street. Couldn’t just close one half. Oh, no, not you. Ching. Custom costumes. Ching. Now you’ll have to make do with what’s already in the can. You will not make your day today.”

  I hold my breath and exchange a shocked glance with Carrot. Normally this kind of conversation isn’t held in front of the talent. We are frozen vegetables, awaiting Scott’s reaction.

  Adversity on set tells you a lot about a person. Will he storm off, never to return, leaving the entire cast and crew standing on a downtown street aghast and confused, the way a director did when I was an extra in a cable network show? Will he argue and lose, or get his way? How great is he?

  Scott licks his lovely lips and stares at the ground. Then he looks up, his eyes steely. He should be an actor. The camera would love him.

  I would love him. No. That’s just my liquid-and-protein-deprived brain rambling.

  “The advert won’t make sense without the remaining shots. I can finish them in two hours.” His voice is deep and measured, as if he’s trying to conceal frustration.

  The producer shakes his head. His jowls wiggle. A shiny stream of sweat flows down his neck into his navy polo shirt. “No can do. That’d take us into overtime. Ka-ching. Not in the budget.”

  My spirits sink. Don’t tell me my first national commercial won’t even get made, depriving me of the joy of telling out-of-town friends they can finally see me in something on TV instead of YouTube or some company’s website. And significant ka-ching in residuals. Not that I want to stay in this vegetation torture chamber another minute, but it’s taken years of acting classes, auditions and callbacks for me to get this far.

  I rack my brain. There must be a way to save the day. I’m so steamy and sweat-ridden I now understand the true meaning of stewing in your own juices.

  Scott raises his eyebrow again. “Sam. Do you want me to direct I Love My Mistress or not?”

  Sam turns red as a ripe tomato. “Scott. Don’t do this. You’re under contract,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “And you’re under contract for today.” Scott’s volume increases. “I won’t allow half-assed work to have my name on it. I repeat, will you find a way to let me do my job or not?”

  Clearly there’s more going on between them than the budget for this American Farmers’ Market Association spot. AFMA…the client, whose representative sits on her canvas chair sipping a venti iced coffee, out of earshot.

  Aha. I have the answer Scott and Sam are obviously too incensed to see.

  “Excuse me.” Nerves keep my voice at a whisper. Let’s try that again. “Excuse me.”

  Sam’s and Scott’s glares burn hot as high-noon sun on a zucchini patch. I don’t wilt under the pressure.

  “May I suggest that you find out what the client wants to do?” I ask.

  “Talent does not speak unless spoken to,” Sam splutters as he steps closer. “Talent does what it’s told. Talent is—talent.” Flecks of spit hit my face. Fortunately, the stiff costume prevents me from recoiling. He can’t see me inside, quivering like the Cowardly Lion. “Unless you, Squash, happen to be a star. Are you Scarlett Johansson? Jennifer Lawrence? Charlize Theron? Someone on their level? Didn’t think so.” He wags a sausage-fat finger at me. “I want your name. I’ll make sure you never work in this town ag
ain.”

  I’m horrified as a just-picked zucchini lying on a countertop watching a chef approach with paring knife in hand. The other vegetables gasp. Great Scott does nothing.

  Oh. My. I’m cooked. Doomed. A vegetable in distress.

  Do we get knights in shining armor like damsels do?

  Chapter 2

  STARSTRUCKE-ZINE.COM

  Petite Profile: Scott Sampson, Film Director

  by BB Beans

  BORN: London, England. AGE: 43 STATUS: Single at the moment?

  EDUCATION: First-Class Honours, Film and Television Production, Univ. of Westminster; MA, Film & TV Production, Univ. of Bristol

  FAMILY: Father: Queen’s Counsel, Brookstone Chambers Mother: Deceased. Siblings: Two younger brothers in the UK: William, 40, chef; Daniel, 37, teacher

  ROAD TO STARDOM: Postgraduate film earned honors at top festivals, bringing him to the attention of his mentor, Jake Harper, #15 on TodaysHotDirectors.com.

  FILMS: Next up: I Love My Mistress Most recent: No More Tomorrows

  TWITTER: 15,292,496 FACEBOOK: 29,023,918 INSTAGRAM: 35,973,480

  SPILLING THE BEANS: Never married, Great Scott has been linked to numerous A-list UK and US leading ladies. Who’s next?

  “Don’t take your anger out on the squash when it’s me you want to shout at.” Scott puts his left hand (even in my distress I notice: no wedding ring, nails are clean and trimmed) on Sam’s beefy shoulder. “We agreed that the past is the past. She’s made a good point we should’ve thought of.”