The Year Of Living Famously. Laura Caldwell

hair gleamed under the lights.

      A pack of about ten people were moving through the tables and slots. Muscle-bound guys flanked the group, swiveling their heads menacingly, like they’d pummel you if you got too close. In the center was a woman who looked familiar—tall and model-thin with hair the color of oatmeal. The others gravitated toward her, glancing at her constantly, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

      When they were about ten feet away, they turned and began walking in a different direction.

      “Lauren!” Bobby yelled, and the entire entourage froze like deer that sense a rifle is near.

      The big guys glared in Bobby’s direction and held out their arms as if to shield the group. The woman looked vaguely in Bobby’s direction, but then her studied expression shifted into a luminous smile.

      “Bobby Minter!” she called. “What are you doing here?”

      She wafted through her group, past the big men who appeared annoyed at the break in formation. She was wearing a vintage taupe dress with a cowl-neck.

      By this time I had figured out that she was Lauren Stapleton, the actress. I’d seen a few of her films—romantic comedies, the type people see when they need one hundred and twenty minutes of escapism. Lauren played the geeky but gorgeous girl, the one you wanted the hero to fall for, which he certainly would in the last few scenes, leaving the audience feeling all was right with the world, that it was okay, in your own life, to be divorced, overweight and in debt.

      Bobby hugged her. “I’m mixing business with a little too much pleasure. Lauren, this is my friend, Kyra Felis.”

      She gave me the wide, toothy grin I’d seen on-screen. She towered over me in her blond greatness, making me feel tiny and dark. Of course, I am tiny and dark—about five-one with wide brown eyes and black-brown, shoulder-length hair. None of this has ever been a problem before, but beside Lauren it all felt inadequate.

      “You’re in the business?” she asked me. Her voice was pleasant but bored, as if to say, Isn’t it all such a pain in the ass?

      “Oh, God no,” I said.

      Something snapped shut in her face, and she turned to Bobby. Soon, they were engaged in a serious discussion about whether a producer they knew had a heroin addiction or whether it was just cocaine. Bobby always got very dishy when he spoke to movie people, a trait that amused me, since Bobby’s real goal in life was to write quiet, literary novels.

      As they talked, I noticed one of the men from their group, a tousle-haired brunette in a suede jacket, standing at a nearby blackjack table. He was making one of the normally stoic dealers bite his lip with laughter.

      I wandered over to the guy, not even sure what drew me. I wasn’t looking for a pillow partner, and although I was bored by Bobby and Lauren, it was something more than that. I keep asking myself why I took those ten steps, because it seems to matter. Everything would be different if I hadn’t.

      There I was, drawn to that slightly shaggy hair, the dark gold suede of his jacket, the glow that emanated from this guy as every player at the blackjack table gazed at him and laughed.

      I heard the last lines of his joke as I neared. “So your man says, ‘No, I’ll shove it up your arse.’” Although I hadn’t heard the beginning, I could tell it wasn’t my type of humor. In fact, under normal circumstances, even if I had been looking for a little action, I would have turned around right then. But it was his elegant manner despite the crass words. It was his light Irish brogue that sounded, somehow, like warm caramel on the tongue. It was the good-natured, almost childlike, grin that made me chuckle along with the rest of the group.

      “Like that one, did you?” he said when he saw me.

      “I’ve heard better.”

      “Yeah?” He smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white and straight. I should have known then he was an actor.

      “Definitely,” I said.

      “So let’s hear one.” He faced the blackjack table. “Lads, the lady has a joke to tell.”

      There were two older men in golf shirts, a Hispanic guy who looked about fifteen and two mafioso types with slicked-back hair and jackets with huge shoulder pads. They all looked at me expectantly.

      “Oh, no,” I said. “No jokes from me. I can’t remember them.”

      “Bollocks,” the Irish guy said. “You can’t tell me that you’ve heard better and not tell one yourself.”

      “That’s true,” said one of the mafia dudes. “Ya gotta tell one now.”

      “Really, I don’t have any.” I hoped Bobby would call my name.

      “We’re all waiting,” the Hispanic guy said.

      I’m not normally a blusher, but I felt my face coloring. The golden Irish boy was grinning, his face bordering on a smirk, the two older men seemed impatient and the mafia guys looked as if they’d fit me with concrete boots if I didn’t get on with it.

      The Irish guy leaned in. “Do you want me to save you?” he said in that wonderful voice, his breath warm in my ear. I felt like kissing him then. The desire came that quick.

      “Um, sure,” I said, not clear what he meant. Not caring.

      He leaned even closer, so the suede lapel of his jacket brushed against the skin at the scoop-necked opening of my dress. I was wearing one of my own designs, a fifties-inspired number with a high waist, and I wondered if he thought it attractive.

      “I’ll give you a wee one,” he said, “and then you can tell them.”

      I can no longer remember the beginning of the joke. Something about a priest in a rowboat. I was too aware of the nearness of him, too focused on that warm, smooth voice. Then there was a staccato of sounds like quiet gunfire and everything went white, white, white. It took me a moment to realize it was cameras flashing. In the next moment, the Irish guy was jerked away by one of Lauren’s bodyguards.

      “Can’t you leave me alone?” Lauren said as she licked her lips prettily and shook her hair away from her face.

      The photographers got a few more shots before the bodyguards grabbed Lauren, too. Within seconds, the pack of photographers was running after the group, leaving Bobby and me alone.

      “Welcome to Hollywood,” Bobby said.

      I laughed at the commotion. “What was that?”

      “Paparazzi,” Bobby said. “Par for the course. I bet Lauren leaked where she would be.”

      “She’d do that?”

      “Lauren? Oh, sure. C’mon, let’s find Trent.” He took my arm and led me toward the bar.

      “So, who was that Irish guy?”

      I tried to sound only mildly interested. Bobby and I had fooled around once in grad school and since then we didn’t often talk about the people we were sleeping with or the ones we wanted to sleep with.

      “Some actor. Declan something. He’s in her new film, so they’re dating now.” Bobby made air quotes with his fingers as he said the word dating. “She had to do something to deflect attention from that rapper business.” He named a rapper who Lauren used to be involved with, someone who was now in prison for drug trafficking and murder-for-hire.

      By then Bobby’s eyes were darting around the room, looking for Trent, bored already with the topic of Lauren and the Irish guy. So I dropped it. I’d never see him again anyway.

      I’m a minor celebrity now.

      A minor celebrity should be distinguished from a true-blue-can’t-shop-for-Tampax-without-a-photo-being-taken celebrity. That’s not me, thank God, not anymore. I couldn’t stand the constant staring, the feeling that you always have to look presentable when you stop at a gas station. A minor celebrity, in contrast, is someone who gains notoriety