Forward To Fame
Chapter 1
I guess you could say I am loved by a lot of people. People come up to me on the street and tell me how amazing I am and they love me so much. My inbox is full with emails from people telling me they adore me and they want to be me. Boys tell me I’m beautiful and they all love me. Little girls who are too young to even know the meaning of love shake their Mum’s hands and yell ‘Mommy look it’s her. I love her!’ Guys who love their girlfriends also have room in their hearts to love me?
Love, love, love. Such a strong word. It means so much to everyone. Saying ‘I love you’ to someone is seen as such a huge deal. But I’m told it everyday. And when that happens, it sort of loses its meaning. If I’m loved that much, why do I feel so alone? It didn’t take me long to realise it was all artificial. Superficial love. Those fans love my music, my image but they don’t know me, and they don’t love me. Boys love my fame and my boobs. My record label loves me because of all the money I make for them. I am not loved. I’m popular. Like that popular girl at school who felt like everyone adored her when infact everyone hated her. She was just popular. She always had the hottest boyfriend. He loved her. And her body. And her status. I feel like her. I feel like I have everything but really it’s all just fake. My life, my career, my nails. Unlike that popular girl, I can finally see through it.
I want it to be like the movies when it first happens. I want the guy of my dreams to sweep me off my feet and tell me he loves me. When he says it I want my whole body to shiver and some amazing feeling should surge through me, something like I have never felt before. But most importantly, I will say it back.
I love you.
My hand throbbed as I signed my squiggly signature onto the front of CDs. My ‘happy’ face gazing up at me as I smile politely at my adoring fans. Smiling this huge fake smile I grin up at a young girl around the age of eleven. My god, I hope I was not inspiring girls to be like her. At eleven she looked like a porn star. Bleached blonde hair and skin painted orange. She wore a t-shirt tied up into a belly top with my face on it.
‘O-M-G!’ she screeched. ‘I LOVE YOU. Your gorgeous!’
‘Thanks,’ I smile. I’m inspiring eleven year olds to be little sluts. What made it even better? She loved me. Figures. I looked down at myself realising I looked just like her, if not worse.
I hadn’t planned on being a pop star. Infact, I wanted the total opposite. I was happy writing my songs and strumming my acoustic guitar, busking on the street. I didn’t expect to be spotted by a record company and have my music turned into some pop fluff. I guess you could say I got sucked into the whole ‘celebrity’ lifestyle. I didn’t stand up to the people who made me rich. I didn’t care what they did to the music, because I was moving out of my parent’s house and into a mansion. I was so naïve then. I loved it for a while. I lost my family, my friends and my originality for the money. I had nothing anymore. I wish I wasn’t famous. Or at least I got famous on my own with my real music and my real looks and my real nails. I was turning into some Britney Spears look-a-like and I was being compared to the greatest pop stars of all time. I told everyone they were my idols. I didn’t idolise clones like them though. I looked up to those girls who aren’t sitting in the hall of fame. The ones who weren’t afraid to dress crazily and just be themselves. The ones who didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of and didn’t answer to anyone. Even though I wanted to be like them so much, I turned out the complete opposite. I’ve been plucked and preened into this aubergine monster with pearly whites and bleached blonde curls. I am loved and I am hated (not that I care. If I saw myself I would hate me too). I’m told I am beautiful yet I could never possibly feel anymore ugly.
The limo seemed to crawl up the traffic-laden street. Fabiora zoomed through my personal organiser her claw-like hands working overtime.
‘Tomorrow, darling, you have an interview, a photo shoot and of course we fly tomorrow to that benefit concert,’ she said in her monotonous voice with that accent that used to drive me crazy. She kept reading and I wanted a day off. I wanted to stay in bed, eat some real junk food and watch old re-runs of friends. I would love to ring up my non-existent girlfriends for a night on the town. No fans, no cameras, no limos. Of course this wasn’t going to happen anywhere in the near future.
‘I want you to wear that little black dress for the interview darling it makes you look like you’ve lost weight,’ she said blankly, not even sparing a look at me.
‘Thanks Fabi,’ I say flatly.
‘Honey, you know I say it for your own good. Remember, the camera…’
‘…makes you gain ten pounds,’ I mime like a robot. ‘I know. You only tell me everyday.’
‘What is your problem woman?’ Fabiora’s voice went up a semi-tone. ‘I help you, I organise your life, I make you the woman you are today darling! You would still be busking on that street if it wasn’t for me!’
‘I wish,’ I say.
Fabiora snaps on her Chanel glasses and throws a hand through her silky brown hair. She gives me a snooty goodbye with pursed botox lips and gets out of the limo at her apartment. I don’t know why I’m so hard on her. She is all I have.
I tell the driver to take me home. My whole body aches, my hand more than ever. It was two in the morning and I couldn’t wait to get to bed. For my two hours sleep anyway.
I crawl out of limo and into my house. I smile at Ron, the limo driver and step into my house. Slam. The door closing iechoes through the entire house. The huge stairs loom over me along with a chandelier. The echoes fade to nothing. I am surrounded by silence. The house is so big, so cold, so empty. I throw a glance over at the huge pile of fan mail and shake my head. I hate my fans, regardless of what I say on the VMAS. I grab a bottle of wine and plonk myself on the Louis Vuitton couch and down the bottle. God, I hated this couch. It had been a gift and it was whiter than my teeth on the cover of FHM, which I might add had been air brushed. I picked up a bottle and poured some wine on the couch. Just a tiny red dot. I got up and looked at my masterpiece. I found myself rolling on the floor laughing. It looked funny the big white couch and the dot of wine. When I was finished I sat up and sighed. Well, that was amusing.
I grabbed my beloved laptop and began typing away at my emails. My laptop keeps me sane. I love it because on there I don’t have to be me. I can be anyone. I sign up for chat rooms, msn, aim, bebo, myspace, message boards, forums. Basically anything where I can talk to normal people and be myself. My fake name is Katie-Louise. I am more like Katie-Louise than I am myself. I take pictures of myself where you can’t see me properly and put them up. No one has ever recognised me. I live for it.
In real life though, I am Kate Teel. Number one selling artist of 2007, winner of fifteen awards in 2007 alone, the #17 hottest girl on the planet as voted by FHM and the most fucked up person you’ll ever meet.
Love, love, love. Such a strong word. It means so much to everyone. Saying ‘I love you’ to someone is seen as such a huge deal. But I’m told it everyday. And when that happens, it sort of loses its meaning. If I’m loved that much, why do I feel so alone? It didn’t take me long to realise it was all artificial. Superficial love. Those fans love my music, my image but they don’t know me, and they don’t love me. Boys love my fame and my boobs. My record label loves me because of all the money I make for them. I am not loved. I’m popular. Like that popular girl at school who felt like everyone adored her when infact everyone hated her. She was just popular. She always had the hottest boyfriend. He loved her. And her body. And her status. I feel like her. I feel like I have everything but really it’s all just fake. My life, my career, my nails. Unlike that popular girl, I can finally see through it.
I want it to be like the movies when it first happens. I want the guy of my dreams to sweep me off my feet and tell me he loves me. When he says it I want my whole body to shiver and some amazing feeling should surge through me, something like I have never felt before. But most importantly, I will say it back.
I love you.
My hand throbbed as I signed my squiggly signature onto the front of CDs. My ‘happy’ face gazing up at me as I smile politely at my adoring fans. Smiling this huge fake smile I grin up at a young girl around the age of eleven. My god, I hope I was not inspiring girls to be like her. At eleven she looked like a porn star. Bleached blonde hair and skin painted orange. She wore a t-shirt tied up into a belly top with my face on it.
‘O-M-G!’ she screeched. ‘I LOVE YOU. Your gorgeous!’
‘Thanks,’ I smile. I’m inspiring eleven year olds to be little sluts. What made it even better? She loved me. Figures. I looked down at myself realising I looked just like her, if not worse.
I hadn’t planned on being a pop star. Infact, I wanted the total opposite. I was happy writing my songs and strumming my acoustic guitar, busking on the street. I didn’t expect to be spotted by a record company and have my music turned into some pop fluff. I guess you could say I got sucked into the whole ‘celebrity’ lifestyle. I didn’t stand up to the people who made me rich. I didn’t care what they did to the music, because I was moving out of my parent’s house and into a mansion. I was so naïve then. I loved it for a while. I lost my family, my friends and my originality for the money. I had nothing anymore. I wish I wasn’t famous. Or at least I got famous on my own with my real music and my real looks and my real nails. I was turning into some Britney Spears look-a-like and I was being compared to the greatest pop stars of all time. I told everyone they were my idols. I didn’t idolise clones like them though. I looked up to those girls who aren’t sitting in the hall of fame. The ones who weren’t afraid to dress crazily and just be themselves. The ones who didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of and didn’t answer to anyone. Even though I wanted to be like them so much, I turned out the complete opposite. I’ve been plucked and preened into this aubergine monster with pearly whites and bleached blonde curls. I am loved and I am hated (not that I care. If I saw myself I would hate me too). I’m told I am beautiful yet I could never possibly feel anymore ugly.
The limo seemed to crawl up the traffic-laden street. Fabiora zoomed through my personal organiser her claw-like hands working overtime.
‘Tomorrow, darling, you have an interview, a photo shoot and of course we fly tomorrow to that benefit concert,’ she said in her monotonous voice with that accent that used to drive me crazy. She kept reading and I wanted a day off. I wanted to stay in bed, eat some real junk food and watch old re-runs of friends. I would love to ring up my non-existent girlfriends for a night on the town. No fans, no cameras, no limos. Of course this wasn’t going to happen anywhere in the near future.
‘I want you to wear that little black dress for the interview darling it makes you look like you’ve lost weight,’ she said blankly, not even sparing a look at me.
‘Thanks Fabi,’ I say flatly.
‘Honey, you know I say it for your own good. Remember, the camera…’
‘…makes you gain ten pounds,’ I mime like a robot. ‘I know. You only tell me everyday.’
‘What is your problem woman?’ Fabiora’s voice went up a semi-tone. ‘I help you, I organise your life, I make you the woman you are today darling! You would still be busking on that street if it wasn’t for me!’
‘I wish,’ I say.
Fabiora snaps on her Chanel glasses and throws a hand through her silky brown hair. She gives me a snooty goodbye with pursed botox lips and gets out of the limo at her apartment. I don’t know why I’m so hard on her. She is all I have.
I tell the driver to take me home. My whole body aches, my hand more than ever. It was two in the morning and I couldn’t wait to get to bed. For my two hours sleep anyway.
I crawl out of limo and into my house. I smile at Ron, the limo driver and step into my house. Slam. The door closing iechoes through the entire house. The huge stairs loom over me along with a chandelier. The echoes fade to nothing. I am surrounded by silence. The house is so big, so cold, so empty. I throw a glance over at the huge pile of fan mail and shake my head. I hate my fans, regardless of what I say on the VMAS. I grab a bottle of wine and plonk myself on the Louis Vuitton couch and down the bottle. God, I hated this couch. It had been a gift and it was whiter than my teeth on the cover of FHM, which I might add had been air brushed. I picked up a bottle and poured some wine on the couch. Just a tiny red dot. I got up and looked at my masterpiece. I found myself rolling on the floor laughing. It looked funny the big white couch and the dot of wine. When I was finished I sat up and sighed. Well, that was amusing.
I grabbed my beloved laptop and began typing away at my emails. My laptop keeps me sane. I love it because on there I don’t have to be me. I can be anyone. I sign up for chat rooms, msn, aim, bebo, myspace, message boards, forums. Basically anything where I can talk to normal people and be myself. My fake name is Katie-Louise. I am more like Katie-Louise than I am myself. I take pictures of myself where you can’t see me properly and put them up. No one has ever recognised me. I live for it.
In real life though, I am Kate Teel. Number one selling artist of 2007, winner of fifteen awards in 2007 alone, the #17 hottest girl on the planet as voted by FHM and the most fucked up person you’ll ever meet.