Confessions of a Hollywood Star Read Online Free

doors and into the hot New Jersey night. “But I still don’t think it’s fair. I really wanted to end this phase of my life on a high note. Now it’ll haunt me for ever that Carla won the last duel.” I clutched my heart, my face bleak with pain, my eyes on the stars. “There is no balm in Gilead!” I intoned. “Years from now, when I’m accepting my New York Drama Critics’ Award, surrounded by adoring fans and admirers, what should be the greatest evening of my life will be marred by the memory of Carla Santini, making a laughing stock of me to the very end.”
    Ella applauded. “RADA doesn’t know what they’re missing,” she said.
    A great actor has to have a very persevering nature to be able to withstand the long, dark years of poverty, struggle and tepid reviews. That’s why I can sometimes be a little obsessive and single-minded. Which is why I was still bemoaning my unhappy fate as I biked to my job at the used clothes store, Second Best, the next morning.
    I pedalled slowly. I was in a ruminative and reflective mood. Ella and Sam could say what they wanted, but the unfairness of the world still galled me.
    Is it really all just luck? I wondered. Is that what a person’s life comes down to? Where she was born … who she was born to…? If you’re born with tons of money, good skin, a lot of hair and enough brains to take the frozen dinner out of the box before you put it in the oven – does that mean you can do and be and have whatever you want?
    I sat out two red lights mulling this over in my mind.
    One thing was for sure. If Carla Santini had been born to some migrant worker eking out a living picking lettuce one season and grapes the next, she wouldn’t be going to Europe or Harvard. On the other hand, she’d undoubtedly still be convinced that she was God’s greatest achievement, and bossing everyone else around. That’s her nature.
    And it’s my nature to make the best of things, no matter how much havoc Fate may be wreaking on my life. But I still couldn’t help feeling that I deserved better. I definitely deserved to make my exit from Deadwood High with my head raised and cries of “Bravo!” following me as I left the stage, not jeers of laughter because I’d tripped over Carla Santini (standing in the limelight as usual) on my way off.
    Mrs Magnolia was all in a twitter because I was a few minutes late and she had to get to the bank.
    “Where were you?” She was flapping around like a frightened bird. “I thought you promised to be on time today.”
    “Oh, Mrs Magnolia,” I cried. “I am so sorry.” I like Mrs Magnolia, but I wasn’t about to tell her the truth – that my soul was heavy with discontent and it affected my legs. Mrs Magnolia has a kind heart, but she was born and raised in New Jersey (and will obviously die there unless she’s abducted by aliens and expires on her way to Alpha Centauri), so though her heart is kind, her soul is sadly unevolved. My soul is vast and ancient like the Grand Canyon, but Mrs Magnolia’s soul is small and contemporary like a cell phone. “You won’t believe what happened to me. I was riding along, hurrying to get here, when this car—”
    Mrs Magnolia held up one hand. “Not now. I don’t have time.” She picked up her bag and came from behind the counter. “There’s some new stock in the back you can start sorting through. I have a few errands to do after I go to the bank. Will you be all right by yourself?”
    I’d been working part-time for over a month; you’d think she wouldn’t have to ask any more. I gave her my most reassuring smile. “Do ducks swim?”
    She eyed me over her glasses. “And if you do have a customer you won’t try to discourage her from buying what she wants, right?”
    “Right.” Mrs Magnolia always said the same thing to me when she left me alone because of the time she overheard me telling someone that the pinky-purple trousers made her look like an uncooked turkey. “I’ll put myself