Fading Star

I’m a total mess. Jolie Brown set a plate of cheese and crackers in front of her agent at her kitchen table, and instantly regretted the decision to conduct a meeting on her housekeeper’s day off. She had to do something or be swallowed by a sea of debt.
Time is running out.
“I can’t go on like this, Clive.” As she sat opposite him, she concentrated on keeping a shrill edge out of her voice. “Another year of little or no income and I’ll have to sell my house.” She shook her head. “You have no idea how humiliating it is for me to say that out loud.”
Clive Peterson gazed at his nearly empty martini glass, speared the olive with a toothpick then sucked it into his mouth. “I’m an agent, not a miracle worker.” His British accent sounded particularly formal this afternoon, almost snobbish. Or maybe she was too used to her husband Lane’s lazy Cockney drawl. “I’m doing everything I can, love. What ever happened with your husband’s comeback? Didn’t you say he has a reunion tour in the works with his old band?”
She crinkled her nose, then remembered what the plastic surgeon said about that motion causing wrinkles. “The other members of Cracked Mirror backed out at the last minute, the bastards. Lane can’t perform any of their songs as a solo act; the lawyers won’t let him.”
Her heart ached, thinking about the disappointment she saw in her husband’s eyes after he got the news that financing for the tour had fallen through. Not to mention her disillusion when she realized he wouldn’t be earning a paycheck anytime soon. She couldn’t keep supporting him forever. She’d barely been able to make the mortgage payment this month. “We’re not talking about him. I need work. There must be something. My family background alone should carry enough weight.”
“No one remembers that far back, love. And your pedigree is rather checkered, as I see it. You turned down the last two TV spots I offered.”
“Infomercials for denture adhesive, another for adjustable beds?” She stuck out her chin. “Have a heart, Clive. I’m only thirty. I want a real role, one that will show the world I’m a serious actress. After all those years on a sitcom and the TV movies I did as a teenager, someone has to have a juicy role for me.” She smarted over the idea that he’d think she’d even consider such jobs as peddling whiter teeth or the latest cure for sleep disorders. If she had anything left, it was her dignity, for heaven’s sake. “I’ll have you know my grandfather is one of the very finest people I’ve ever met.”
“I seem to remember a steady stream of young starlets associated with him years ago. Quite the playboy, hmm?” He raised an eyebrow she could swear was less gray than the last time she’d seen him. “And didn’t I hear something about the vice squad arresting your mother for possession several years back?”
“A trumped up charge and you know it.” Unaccustomed to defending the woman she despised, she fisted one hand and prayed he wouldn’t mention her father. “You never said such mean things when I was on top.”
The hand he laid atop hers felt reptilian for its coldness. It looked like a skeleton’s hand next to her dark skin. He flashed his venomous smile, all snake-oil charm. “Forgive me. Not my place to pull the old skeletons out of the closet.”
“Apology accepted.” She withdrew her hand and tucked it into her lap. “Now, what are you going to do about finding me some work? Much as I enjoyed my stint at summer stock earlier this year, it paid next to nothing.”
“What about those rug rats you work with in that Van Nuys community center? Don’t any of the mums or dads have connections you might use?”
“We’re talking about children whose parents work for minimum wage, Clive. And don’t call them rug rats.” She thought about the precious souls in her weekly drama class. “They’re little angels who deserve more than life’s given them.”
“Whatever.” He drummed bony fingers on the table and stared toward the corner of the room. “I have a thought. What do you think of me throwing your name out there for one of those reality shows where they gather a bunch of B-list stars in a mansion, or put them on competitive diets?” Pointing at her, he concluded. “You could do something like that.”
B-list stars? Had he completely lost his mind? “Live with wannabe celebrities? Do I look like I need to lose weight?” She sucked in her gut and felt her navel nudge her backbone. “My face adorned a gazillion lunch boxes and T-shirts when I was a kid. Throughout the late eighties and early nineties, I was the reason millions of people turned on their TV sets every Friday night.”
He handed her his empty glass. “May I trouble you for another?”
“How can I sink to the level of reality TV? I’m an actress, not a side show freak.” Why couldn’t he find a serious role for her? “Have you seen what they do to people on those shows? Every facet of their lives is exposed and they’re made to look like fools.” She glanced around for Hilda, her housekeeper, then remembered she wasn’t there. Poor Hilda counted on this job. She had to find a way to keep her, even if it meant digging into savings to pay her salary. She crossed the room to mix him another martini, then dropped in an olive.
“At this point in your career, love, any exposure would be positive.”
“Why should I subject myself to such humiliation?”
Because you’re nearly broke. At the rate you’re going, you’ll lose everything before long. They’ll find out you’re nothing special—just someone who got a lucky break because of her last name—Henry Brown’s no-talent granddaughter.