Fiona on Fire | ONC 2023

12. red carpet

A/N: part of this chapter was the first thing I wrote for this story, when I had the idea to write about fame. It's my style to be a little absurd and exaggerated. This was originally written in second person, present tense, so I hope I didn't miss any corrections.

Anyway, have a beautiful day!

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The first Unreached movie had premiered and received decent reviews from critics. When someone told Fiona how much it had made at the box office, her stomach fluttered with shock.

Overnight, she had been catapulted into a completely new level of fame and wealth. It was overwhelming. She was even invited to present at a major awards show, although her film wasn't nominated.

A fashion designer offered to lend her a gown for the red carpet, and she accepted. The dress was poofy and emerald green, sleeveless, with intricate beading on the bodice. Wearing it, she felt elegant and refined.

The red carpet was a sensory overload. Cameras constantly flashed in her face. People simultaneously told her to keep moving and to stop for more pictures. It took all her effort to smile and pose rather than stand there like a deer in headlights.

Adding to that, she was surrounded by bigger and more established celebrities, though there were some she didn't recognize at all.

"Darling, who did your nose?"

"Huh?" Fiona whirled around and found a towering blonde woman speaking to her.

Beautiful ringing laughter escaped her lips. "I mean, who's your surgeon? I'm looking for a new one."

Fiona answered that she didn't have one.

The woman raised her eyebrows doubtfully and strode away, into the parting sea of Italian silk and French fabric, swallowed by the shine of 24-karat gold and shimmering diamond earrings. Everything was lush and lavish—grossly expensive displays of wealth and beauty. Like strutting peacocks with their tail feathers spread wide.

A man strode by, scrutinizing her. "So you're the new hot ticket. Feels like you're everywhere lately. How does it feel?" The man didn't wait long enough for a response. "Enjoy it while it lasts." He walked away.

Conversations all around her bled in and out of her hearing.

"Leo is over there preaching about the environment again. Bet he flies home on his private jet tomorrow morning."

"Where the hell is the bathroom?"

"Remember, they love you. They want you. They want to be you."

"I so feel like I don't belong here, do you feel that? These people are, like, from another planet. Who am I?"

An older man slipped a flask from his jacket, taking a sip as he surveyed the room. "Nobody knows how to age gracefully anymore."

Fiona waded through the listless crowd to the bathroom. By the time she reached the sink, her mascara was streaming down her flushed cheeks. This was not what she had in mind. It was not what she thought it would be—fame. The blinding flashes of a thousand cameras shoved in her face made her sick. She'd become the product; they owned every inch of her body through their telescopic lenses.

A gaggle of runway models strutted by her, giggling amongst themselves. She bumped into one and couldn't help but ask, "One question, and be honest, how do you stay so skinny?"

The magnetic face before her smiled politely. "You mean me in particular, or us in general?"

"All of you."

"And you want the real answer, not the steamed vegetables and no sweets one?"

"Yes"

The model laughed a strung-out, exhausted laugh. "It depends. Extreme diets, strict workouts, anorexia, bulimia, smoking, drugs—"

Right now, Fiona wanted out. So she grabbed two cocktails, one in each hand, and hungrily swallowed the liquor fused with something fruity.

She took a deep breath and strutted back out to the red carpet for a while, continuing to drink as a crutch to endure it. She knew it was a bad idea and felt a wave of white-hot shame flow through her. But she promised herself it was just for this one night.

Before she knew it, the show was almost starting. She'd need to be prepared to present. She forced herself to march toward the back of the stage, passing through security.

A blue-eyed, sandy-haired young man stepped up to her slowly. "Hey, you're Fiona Flores, right?"

He hardly gave her time to respond, words spilling from his mouth like water over a cliff's edge. "Love your dress. My favorite color. I think I'm meant to present with you—whoa, you look a little sick." He paused. "Well, not sick. I'm Irish. I know a drunk person when I see one. Are you alright?"

She recognized him as Jack McKennon, a fellow young actor. She knew little about him, other than that his claim to fame was a part in a critically acclaimed war movie.

"I don't think I want to be here."

He looked a bit concerned at that. "You mean here presenting, or here in this room with me? Or, uh...here on this planet?"

She let out a strained laugh, trying to play off her discomfort. "I'm just a little overwhelmed by it all."

"Hey, just remember it's all hogwash. They're out there in these ridiculous costumes, worried about how they look or when they can take them off. Probably all getting plastered like yourself. They barely know what's happening. We'll just go up there and say five lines, like. That sound alright?"

She hesitated, then said softly, "Yes."

"May I take your arm? I won't let you fall."

She nodded. He gently looped his arm under hers. He felt strong and stable beside her. It was comforting.

They walked out onstage when it was their cue. Fiona smiled, projecting confidence.

As Jack said his lines, her heart pounded so hard, she thought it might beat its way out of her rib cage. There were hundreds of faces staring at them and millions watching on TV. She was painfully aware of this fact.

He stopped. It was her turn.

She stared at the teleprompter, leaning toward the microphone. "And the nominees for best costume design are..."

The screen behind them played clips from each nominated film. Jack opened the envelope and read out the winner. It was all a blur to her; she couldn't even recall which film won as they exited the stage.

"That was amazing. Now we're, like, part of history. My mum never thought she'd get to see me on the telly handing out awards." He turned to Fiona. "You did great."

His positive energy was infectious. She felt genuinely grateful she'd gone through with it. "Thanks!"

"May I give you my number in case we want to keep in touch?"

"Certainly."

"Maybe we can meet up sometime—under better circumstances, somewhere you want to be." He winked.