Ghosts of Fame

Michael Greerson opened the door to his converted Victorian house in a fashionable area of North London with lots of cast iron railings and perfectly pruned blossom trees.  He had sunglasses, a baseball cap, a baggy jumper and tracksuit bottoms on.  The outfit was entirely designed to avoid any attention while he was grabbing a newspaper, his usual daily habit that he loathed to give up in spite of his recent popularity.

He actually returned with two papers; one was his usual left-leaning broadsheet, the other was one he would not normally purchase but he had spotted a very familiar face on the front page; his face.  In fact, the image also included his torso, oiled up with both body oil and mechanical oil to give the desired effect, a cravat untied around his neck.  The headline printed in enormous black letters beneath this photo was "Michael Grease-on!"  He furrowed his brow at that and skimmed the article, finding it too difficult to read every excruciating paragraph in detail.  It seemed that the nation had enjoyed his début as Mr Royston, mill owner in the BBC's newest six part period drama, "The Mills".  The article was calling it his "breakthrough performance" and seemed to particularly enjoy the scene where his character stripped off to fix the gears in one of the mill machines.  That and the brooding stares at Miss Angelica Stone, innocent but strong minded daughter of one of the rival mill-owners.  It was being called the must see programme of the coveted Sunday night 8pm slot.

Michael was both pleased and daunted at this news.  It was the type of part that he had dreamed of and gave him the opportunity to choose what he did next rather than take whatever work was offered.  He sat down in the closest chair and took a moment to think about how his life was going to change and to try to get a grasp on his feelings.  He looked around the living room which was very different to how it would have been when the house was first built.  The house he was in had been procured with the fees from "The Mills" and was designed for fashion and not for comfort, monochrome fittings and original features highlighted in such a heavy handed way that some of them had spotlights on them.  You could not miss the chimney breast with its surrounding tiles that glowed from the sheer amount of light aimed at it.  The chair he was sat in was the best of a bad bunch; furniture with the distressed look which was far more modern than it portrayed.  Not for the first time, Michael chastised himself for choosing his future home too quickly.  He decided ten minutes was more than enough to contemplate the future and got up, took off his jumper and prepared for a workout.

At the moment he took his top off a decorative twig, which had been placed at a jaunty angle on the bookshelf, fell to the ground.

'Strange,' he muttered, checking if any of the sash windows had been left open which would explain the twig.  Shrugging, he replaced the twigs and proceeded to do his daily sit ups.

​

Two weeks later... 

Sasha arrived at the restaurant fashionable late only to be frustrated and find that Michael was even later.  Typical stars, she thought haughtily, one sniff of fame and their time is suddenly too valuable for mere mortals.  Who needs an agent anyway?  It's not like I've been supporting him for years!

She was in an impatient mood so asked for a white wine spritzer while she was waiting.  Ignoring the incredulous look the young waitress gave her for ordering an alcoholic drink at 11am on a Tuesday, she sat back and answered emails on her phone while she was waiting for the superstar to arrive.  Luckily, she did not have to wait long.

Michael got to the seat and apologised for being late so genuinely that Sasha almost forgot to be annoyed until she remembered that he was an actor and was likely faking.  He was slightly wide eyed and spoke quicker than usual but seemed happy at all of the offers of work that had emerged recently.  They spent most of the first half hour talking about next steps and how many films and TV programmes they could fit around the second series of "The Mills" which had already been commissioned.  However, she knew him well enough to know that he was distracted.

'Michael, we are talking about your future, everything you have ever wanted!' she exclaimed, mouth still slightly full of Eggs Benedict.  'What on earth is the matter, you ungrateful prat?'

Michael looked guiltily at his avocado toast and seemed to contemplate avoiding or brushing off the question.  But then the desire to confide in someone, even Sasha, overwhelmed him.

'Nothing major,' he stated, coyly.  'Just getting a bit paranoid.  I swear things are moving in the house.'  He avoided Sasha's eye and then continued in a more certain fashion 'I get the feeling like I'm being watched, in the corner of my eye I'm seeing things.'

He looked up at Sasha and then quickly muttered, 'It's probably nothing, just a lack of sleep.'

'Oh, you mean the ghosts?' Sasha said, taking a sip of wine before continuing, 'yeah everyone gets them once they become famous.'

'Wait, what?' Michael said, a little too loudly which drew attention from the few people in the café.  It was the sort of area in London where you would come across a famous person on every street but their fellow diners were looking over more regularly and whispering behind their hands.  He even spotted a few phones taking incognito photos.

He lent in and whispered to Sasha, who was looking wryly at the little scene he had caused, 'You're kidding.'

'Nope, I'm not.' she said, clearly enjoying herself.  'Did it all start after the first episode?'

'Well yeah but...'

'...ghosts are pervy by all accounts.  It's one of the things about being famous.  You find out ghosts are real.  Happens again and again.  Ask your co stars, I'm sure that preppy girl who plays Miss Angelica Snore will have a few frightening fans.  Maybe you can ask her.  Bet she's known about the ghosts since she was in Hollyoaks.'

Michael didn't know what to say so let Sasha continue.

'I guess I'd do the same.  Must be a bit boring watching your family all the time.  Why not go and look at some hot totty!  I'd take it as a compliment.'

'A compliment?' cried Michael.  The cafe's eyes were on him again.  He sighed and went back to a whisper, 'They're watching me eat, sleep even...' his voice dropped even more, '...shower!'

'Bet those spaces are at a premium, standing room only.' Sasha winked and then, in a rare moment of sincerity brought on by the mortification on her client's face, said, 'They say fame can make or break people.  Some people can't handle the constant attention.  You need to try to carry on and pretend they aren't there.  They cannot hurt you.  They can't even touch you.  Yeah, a few bits and pieces will move around so you might not want to invest too much in decorating, but that's it.  Please try to not let it get to you.  Don't be one of the number of people who have been broken by fame; by this.'

Michael wasn't convinced.

Two months later…

Michael Greerson opened the door to his converted Victorian house in a fashionable area of North London with lots of cast iron railings and perfectly pruned blossom trees.  He did not have a paper in his hand, that was a habit he had been forced to stop.  He shut the door carefully, turned to the empty room and smiled.  He would have to leave this place soon, filming on season two of "The Mills" was starting next week.​

'Well ladies...'

A photo frame shuddered and there was a feeling of dissatisfaction in the building.

'and...er...gentlemen'

The room felt contented.  Michael was getting the hang of the fame at last.

'It's shower time!'

And with that, he headed to the bathroom and, although he couldn't hear anything, imagined a room of people joined together in a cheer.