PART I
IDOLS
Interviewer:What’s the most common misconception about you?
Harlow Hayes:People think they know what—and who—my songs are about. But they have no idea.
Chapter 1
Risk it!Chanceit! Never give up! Dreams really do come true…
Entertainment reporter Naomi Barnes knows it’s all bullshit. That chasing dreams is a pointless, dangerous endeavor, despite what stars proclaim again and again in their award speeches.
For most, it ends in tragedy. Sometimes it’s quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid—a painful demise before they even get their foot in the first of a million doors. Other times it’s slow and depressing, a lifetime spent “never giving up” until one day they realize it’s never going to happen, they’re never going to be good enough. Never were. All that time wasted. All their potential wasted.
And for the few who do manage to break through? Well, if life has taught Naomi anything, it’s that if you fly too close to the sun, you’re going to get burned. Or worse.
Over the course of her career, she’s covered countless celebrities’ rise to the top, only to write up their inevitable crash back to earth the following year. They think they’ve made it, but then their heels are kicked out (or violently slashed) from under them. Many times, it’s their own doing.
Like today’s fallen star, Jason Mikaelson, once a fan-favorite reality TV personality, now another body in the morgue. Early this morning, following a very public breakup after his monthslong affair was exposed, Jason’s ex-fiancée, actress Lauren Vincent, found him unresponsive in the bathtub, foaming from the mouth.
Naomi is about to break the news about the untimely—and, according to sources, unsurprising—death thanks to a tip from her occasional hook-up at the LA Fire Department who responded to the scene. He spilled all the gory and depressing details, like how Lauren rushed over to Jason’s home in the hills after listening to a worrying voicemail from him, only to realize she was hours too late. By the time she arrived, Jason’s bloated corpse had turned the water a ripe green as if he’d bathed in his own vomit.
It’s a typical Tuesday story for Naomi, who’s been at her desk at the West Coast branch of C*Leb News—a popular celebrity news outlet that ranks somewhere between TMZ and E! News on the respectable scale—for two hours already. She came in at seven to give herself enough time to write and publish the Mikaelson piece before she heads over to the courthouse at ten to cover the latest celeb divorce drama. It was silent until a half hour ago, but now the office is slowly coming to life.
Doors swing open, colleagues exchange “Good morning”s—some more enthusiastically than others. Fingers tip-tap on keyboards, the printer roars and clicks, then abruptly stops. Someone sighs and mutters something about paper. Coffee drips loudly from the new machine, the most modern appliance in the room aside from the new intern from UCLA. And then come the “Oh my god”s and gasps of horror. Or is it excitement?
Naomi glances up, still typing. She knows the keys by heart and doesn’t need to look at the screen.The reality star was found unresponsive in the bathtub of his Malibu home by his ex-fiancée, only days after his cheating scandal was made public.
The C*Leb office is always whirring with chatter, though. Aware of her looming deadline, Naomi ignores the whispers, figuring it’s just standard gossip, and turns her attention back to her article.
“Another shining star extinguished too soon,” said Mikaelson’s longtime producer.
Naomi shakes her head as she types with one hand and grabs her half-eaten granola bar with the other, crumbs falling onto her chest as she bites into it. “Shining star” isn’t the phrase she’d personally use; she thinks Jason wanted to punish the actress for breaking up with him after his final gaslighting attempts failed to win her back, and he was willing to hurt himself to traumatize her. He probably didn’t even mean to kill himself—just wanted her to feel sorry for him.
It’s a harsh, cruel assumption, she knows. But it’s a harsh, cruel world.
She refrains from including her disdainful views in the story—she’s more professional than that—but she can’t quiet her inner cynic after nearly seven years working in the industry and witnessing first-hand how toxic it can be. She’s come a long way from the Bambi-eyed new hire, armed with gel pens and a public university degree in journalism, ready to break into the world of glitz and glam. She quickly learned all that glitters isn’t gold. That it’s all a facade. Lipstick covering the unsightly pig underneath.
When she made the transfer from the New York to LA branch of C*Leb two years ago, she actually thought she’d get to cover more movie premieres and awards shows than overdoses, affairs, and sexual misconduct claims. But the only difference is sunnier skies and prettier people, two things sensitive-skinned Naomi doesn’t necessarily appreciate.
“No fucking way.”
Naomi looks up again, confused by what could possibly be causing such a commotion among her normally desensitized colleagues. She stops typing when she sees Becky, the social media manager, holding out her phone to Melanie, one of the editorial assistants. They’re both tall, blonde, and tanned, wearing similar bright-colored blouses. A contrast to five-foot-three Naomi’s all-black attire, accessorized by her favorite lace-up combat boots.
Naomi dusts the crumbs from her top before catching Becky’s attention. “What happened?”
“It’s Harlow-goddamn-Hayes…” Becky’s Carolina twang breaks through her Cali-girl persona, something that only happens when she’s overly excited or upset. Naomi often forgets Becky’s another East Coaster who fled to the City of Broken Dreams, like herself.
“She’s been arrested for murder!” Melanie’s eyes are wild with excitement.
Naomi frowns, sure she misheard them. “Harlow Hayes, as in the pop star?” A lump forms in her throat as she speaks the singer’s name.
“The world-famous, Grammy-winning singer-songwriter, yes,” Becky confirms. Naomi smiles, knowing that’s how her sister would’ve described Harlow. But her smile quickly fades.
“Wait, which one is she again?” asks Jake, one of the film and TV writers. “She the one who sings that ‘Love Story’ song?”
“That’s Taylor Swift, idiot,” Becky responds, aghast. “How do you work here and not know that?”
