Accidentally Famous

Someone once said they thought the definition of success was not having to set an alarm in the morning – that was their idea of the epitome of being successful. It’s interesting ideology, but I wonder what kind of job they were imagining where you don’t have to wake up in the morning, or wake up at any set time at all.

Most people probably consider me successful, whether they think I’ve earned that success or not is debatable, but it cannot be denied that I have it nonetheless. I lived off my parents’ riches for a long time, and certainly their success more easily allowed me mine, but I earn it now. Kind of.

It isn’t by doing something I love, but it is by doing something, and sometimes it feels like work. Of course, it isn’t every day work. The actual work is, at most, four times a month. The other stuff that I get paid for, like just being myself in specific places at flexible times, is more frequent.

My assistant sets my alarm for me. I’m twenty-one, living in a gorgeous home beach-side in Malibu, and my assistant sets an alarm for me so I can get up on time to make it to a photo shoot, where people will dress me up, doll me up, and I will take pictures for a few hours. She does it with an app from her phone that syncs up from my phone, and she sends me a message letting me know what time she’s set it for – that is, if I need to get up early at all. More often than not, I do set my own alarm, and it’s for whenever I feel like beginning my work day.

It is not exhausting work, but I’m exhausted. I wasn’t always so cynical, but waiting around for an epiphany that never comes is tiring. I don’t know what I want. I am enjoying what’s happening, and I think generally exciting things will come next, but I don’t know if I’m interested in those things. I want to have a plan. Any kind of a plan. Even just a five-year plan would be great.

If it’s up to my mother, Judith Rowen, I will model until my mid-twenties, at which point I will break into great films and be eternally loved by the American public (I will be her). If it is up to my father, Mason King, I will retire from this business now, get out of the spotlight, and travel the world before settling down to some work that I really care about, creating something eccentric and deep (I don’t know who he gets that idea from).

To be honest, they both sound good. I could be worshipped forever, or I could do something simple – they might both be fulfilling. I just don’t know which yet, or how to set about figuring it out.

I lay in bed, staring out the window at the quiet beach, thinking of the future and knowing my alarm will go off at any second, but I usually wake before it. I just don’t tell anyone, so I can be alone. You don’t get to be alone very often when you’re famous, whether you got that way accidentally or on purpose.

The alarm dings and I am up. I shower and dress myself in jean shorts and a black tank top for the hot July sun, and put my hair up into a bun. I don’t often wear make up and today is no exception to that. I have the option of someone in my home, doing my hair and make up every day, but that’s more people, isn’t it? And I don’t really like people.

In my living room waits my assistant, and just my assistant, because there is no shoot today, and I do not let my PR Rep or my manager hang around on days that I don’t have to actually work. Too many bodies in my home; those people are only allowed to bug me via e-mail and text, but I’m compliant and friendly. After all, they’re just doing their jobs and they are good at it. I just don’t want them in my house constantly. It’s strange enough that Ciara can come and go as she pleases, has a key to this place, and I don’t need anyone else having those privileges.

I sit down on the couch next to her and rest my head on her shoulder. She’s much shorter than me, not far above five feet, while I’m at 5”11’. My hair is shoulder length and dark brown, and hers is halfway down her back and bright red. She is adorable and no one ever believes she is three years my senior; she must secretly hate being my assistant, but I like her.

“Want to hear the plan for your day, love?” she asks, pulling out her blackberry.

“Yes, please.”

“Morning is wide open. They would really like you to dine at Joan’s on Third for lunch sometime this week, and I thought today would be good. Johnny is going to meet you at the gym at four for training, and after that you wanted to go to your parents’ for the evening. They’re both home the rest of this week and, I think, for quite a while. How does that sound?”

It sounds pretty good, actually. I’ve been missing my parents, having not seen them in a couple months. They’ve been working on a movie together, something about aging spies, and I wasn’t able to visit them on set because of my schedule. Now that they’re back, I want to spend as much time over there as possible before one of us has to leave again.

My work doesn’t have me traveling all too often. I don’t do runway shows, because models who do runway shows can sometimes be treated pretty awfully (I got a glimpse of a poor young woman’s feet once, and nearly threw up), so I mostly do ad campaigns and commercials, which can usually be done in LA, but I make a lot of trips to New York and sometimes, when I’m lucky, Paris and other exotic locals. I like to keep it close to home, though. If I travel too much, it feels like a career instead of just a job and right now, this is just a job.

“Smoothie, Greer?” Ciara asks, shrugging me off.

“I’ll make it,” I reply and jump up. Ciara watches me as I throw a mix of ingredients including black tea and peaches into the blender and whip up something delicious. I can’t really cook, but smoothies are my specialty. I don’t have a cook for myself, because that’s another person in my home, so mostly I order take out or cook something of average taste and appearance for myself. Ciara and I sit at the kitchen island and drink our smoothies.

“You know what would be fun?” I ask.

“What?”

“A boyfriend,” I reply.

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“I just think… it would be fun. I’ve never had one. I’ve never, y’know, met anyone I really liked. I think it might be nice to have one. I might start looking.”

She laughs. Ciara herself is engaged to a very tall man with dark hair, and they look silly but happy together. Sometimes I think it might be nice to have someone, but I wonder how that would be possible. I don’t understand how my parents made it this long, with the cameras all around and everyone wanting to know every detail about their marriage.

Could I ever be out of the spotlight long enough for no one to be interested in my relationships? Maybe, but maybe not. After all, I am not the reason for my fame, so I don’t know if I have any control over it. How can I stop being interesting when I haven’t done all that much for people to be interested?

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out. What kind of guy are you looking for?” she asks.

I take our empty cups and rinse them in the sink. “I think maybe, someone kind of chill. Like, someone who can go with the flow.”

“Someone well-known?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not trying to date Harry Styles. Hell no. Someone who’s good at art, creating things. I don’t know. I’ll know him when I see him.”

She’s practically taking notes; I think this is exciting for her. After discussing my potential love interest for a while, she excuses herself to make a few calls on my behalf, scheduling my life for me. It took me over a dozen interviews before I picked Ciara; now I have to trust her with my life, and I’m glad it took me so long to decide. Anyone else would’ve done a shit job of it.

I sit on the back porch, phone in hand, looking at social media. I’ve been offered someone to manage that stuff for me, but if you turn your notifications off, it’s pretty easy to just manage it yourself. Post a picture. Send a message. Look through responses when you can (which I don’t do often; some aren’t so nice). I like the interaction with fans, once in a while getting to send a message or re-post a message from someone who appreciates what you do (though I don’t know if what I do is worth appreciating, it’s nice that someone does). While playing with my phone, a friend calls.

“You going to Joan’s for lunch?” Madison asks. Madison models, as well, but got here on her own merit; she’s the loveliest person I’ve ever met, inside and out. More people like her should be famous. People who care about other people, want to put a positive message in the world; sweet, genuine people.

“Yes. Want me to pick you up? Noon? I’m hungry already.”

“Yes, please! What’re you wearing?”

“Jean shorts. Black tank.”

“Good. I’m matching you. It’s fun to do that.”

It is, because the magazines don’t like it. We’re all supposed to be unique in our sameness, and we can’t repeat our unique sameness, either. But I’ve worn this outfit three times, and I’ve seen it on a cover, once. Maybe they know I don’t give a fuck anymore, or maybe this will make the front page next week. Who knows? That’s the fun of it.

Madison is on the way, and Ciara drives us, insisting she needs to shop a little in the area. I know she likes to supervise, but I don’t really mind anymore.

If someone famous tells you they ‘don’t notice the cameras anymore’, they’re fucking lying. They aren’t just cameras, they’re people following you, and they just happen to be holding cameras. I avoid looking at them as we exit the car and head to the outdoor seating area of the restaurant. I’m starving, but annoyed, as I always am in public. There are countless articles on the fact that I’m rarely seen smiling, but it’s because of the fact that there can be countless articles on that, that I never smile – it’s a fucking never-ending circle.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Madison asks when we’re finished with our meals but not ready to leave yet.

“Um, I don’t know.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you do. Sitting around your house. Why don’t you come out?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug. “Too many people.”

She can’t understand why I’m not thrilled to be this popular. She worked for years to achieve it, and sacrificed a lot of relationships in the process. I was handed this, and I’m not grateful. Maybe if I was her, I’d feel the same.

“What if we did something chill? Just like, a show or something?”

“Any good bands?”

“I’ll find something you like. What if we did that? Maybe with Jason and Nash, some of those guys?” If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t trust them, but I genuinely think Madison wants to have a good time, and thinks she’d have a good time if I joined.

I don’t know them well, except from Madison talking about them. They’re in their mid-twenties, starring in a TV drama about sex, lies and muuurder.

“Okay, sure. Friday night only, though. I think I’m working Saturday.”

“Shoot?”

“Yes. Ciara mentioned one for Top Shop at like—“

Madison cuts me off with a gasp and slaps my arm on the table so hard I think I’m going to have a Madison-handprint in its wake.

“Jesus Christ, what?” I ask, leaning forward towards her. Her big blue eyes are wide; Madison is star-struck.

I turn around, wondering who it could be. There are a couple possible candidates. I think the man in the opposite corner is a rapper, and I know a woman who walked by a minute or two ago is a soap opera star, but I don’t think they could be the source of her awe and shock.

I turn back to her, stumped. “Who is it?”

“I can’t remember his name, but I just watched this movie the other night with Josef, and oh my god, this guy was so good in it. Inspirational good. Makes me want to be a better person good. The tall one, with the dark hair, being seated.”

She’s on her phone looking the movie up, and I’m turned completely around, gawking obviously. I see him, just a few tables away, but he isn’t looking at me staring. His hair is such a dark brown that I think it may actually be black when the sun isn’t shining on it, and it’s shaggy and tousled away from his face in that effortless way that I know takes a lot of effort. He has kind of a boyish face, but handsome at the same time, sort of elongated and lovely, and he’s dressed casually in jeans and a striped t-shirt.

“Nat Wolff,” Madison finally says.

“What was the movie?” I ask.

“It was like, a documentary about music-making. He was just in a small part of it. Him and his brother, they have a band.”

“Called?”

“Nat & Alex Wolff.”

“I’m going to go say hi,” I say, and stand up before she can object (she still tries, but I’m already walking). It’s a wonder she puts up with me.

I push my sunglasses on top of my head and smile when I reach the table. Nat is joined by two other young men who look to be his age (which I’m guessing is about my age), and they stare up at me in awe.

I am rather tall.

“Hi! I’m Greer, uh, King. My friend Madison over there, she’s a big fan of yours, Nat, but I knew she’d never actually come say hi. Saw you in a documentary. I was wondering if you might come say hello to her?”

He stands up so fast that he somehow manages to knock over a cup, that’s luckily empty. “Greer King, holy hell.” He extends a hand to me and I shake it with a smile. “Like, so awesome to meet you. So awesome.”

“You too!”

“Uh, this is my brother, Alex, and my cousin, Norman,” he points to the other two men at the table, both of whom look like shorter versions of him.

“Really nice to meet you guys.”

They say nothing in return. This happens sometimes, though it shouldn’t. If I was some regular girl off the street whom they’d never seen in a magazine or a bad commercial, they would probably be annoyed.

“Do you mind coming and saying hi to her really quick? I’m sorry to interrupt.”

He takes a bouncing step towards me, his eyes still wide. “Sure! Yeah. Lets go!”

I laugh as he marches us on ahead back to our table. “Madison,” I say when we arrive, taking my seat once more and gesturing for Nat to join us, “Meet my new friend, Nat Wolff. Nat Wolff, a big fan of yours, Madison Shelton.”

Nat extends his hand, and Madison shakes it, a blush on her cheek. “I saw Blue Moon the other night and was totally inspired by you and your brother. Just, like, so amazing.”

“Wow! I mean, yeah, wow, thank you. That’s super cool of you.”

I sit back and listen to them talk. Madison asks him questions about his music and he answers eagerly, talking with passion and excitement. I think he’s surprised by how normal Madison is, by how nervous she’s coming off (her pictures make her look like a raging bitch, and it’s a real selling point for her in the industry), and how sweet she truly in person. That’s what people always say about Madison: ‘She was so wonderful and sweet in person! I couldn’t believe it!’ She’s eating up every word he says about his music; it’s a genuine conversation between two artists. I wonder if she wants to make music.

“I’m sorry to take up so much of your time,” Madison says after they’ve been talking for just about five minutes. I’ve been observing, and enjoying being quiet.

“No, it’s so fine! I’m a big fan, of both of you,” Nat says, finally looking at me again. His eyes are, I notice, a beautiful and very dark brown. I’d like to look at them for much longer. I’m attracted to Nat, I admit easily to myself,and not just because he’s adorable – he seems pretty genuine, and really nice.

Madison tells him to go enjoy his lunch, and he reluctantly goes after bidding us farewell. Once he’s out of earshot, I lean over and grab her arm.

“Are you interested in him romantically?” I ask urgently.

“What? No!” she replies, looking shocked that I would even ask. It takes only a moment for realization to wash over her face. “Oh, my god, Greer, are you?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I can’t know that yet, but I want to ask him out, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t want to first. I think you’d have dibs here.”

She shakes her head and her silky blonde hair falls in her face. “No, go on. Go now, before we leave.”

I realize I’m sweating. Holy shit, am I nervous? I haven’t been nervous since my last calculus test in school. I live in a kind of fantasy world where anxiety and nervousness don’t appear often, since I’m just coasting along on my good name and my pretty pictures. (Does that sound like I’m shaming all models? I’m not. Most of them have worked hard to be where I am, and work hard to stay where I am. I haven’t earned this – I can’t say that enough. I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea about me.)

I approach their table more slowly than before, and this time they see me coming.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt again. Can I talk to you a second?” I ask Nat, who stands up a little more carefully than before. I smile. I hear the cameras click. Damn it, there goes my streak.

Nat and I move towards the entrance of the restaurant, and I turn to face him again.

“I don’t know if you’re, um, seeing anyone or not but I thought if you wanted, I could give you my number and maybe we could… hang out again sometime? This weekend maybe?” Is that too much? Should I have said less, just offered him my number and turned around? I’ve never offered to give anyone my number before. They always just ask. Shit, that sounds horrible. There can’t be a wrong way to do this.

He stares at me in silence for more than a few seconds, and I become horribly self-conscious. “I mean, you don’t have to. I just thought, like, you seem really nice and, anyway, it’s no big deal if you don’t, uh…” Well, if I wanted to do this the cool way, I certainly haven’t.

“Oh, god, shit. Of course! Yeah! That would be awesome. So fucking awesome.”

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief as he makes a fool of himself in return, and I feel proud of myself. I set out to find a man just this morning, and it looks like we’ve already got a strong candidate.

He recites his number to me and I put him in my phone, then send him a simple text so he can save me, as well. The cameras catch the entire exchange.

“Okay, great. Well I’m free Saturday night, and Sunday so… whenever,” I say. I’m not sure how eager I’m supposed to be, but maybe I don’t have to follow any rules. Maybe I can just go for it.

I know it’s a bad idea, but before we part, I wrap my arms around his shoulders for a hug. I regret it immediately as I hear the whistles and the instructions and questions from photographers behind the bushes and across the street, but damn, he smells amazing. I can’t place it, exactly, except it smells sort of homey and comfortable. When we pull apart, I have to smile at him again.

“Okay, I’ll call you,” he says with a grin, and I return it.

The headlines are going to be vastly different tomorrow.