Return To Sender

"Please welcome, Claire Ellison!"

The make-up designer, Josh, finished touching up my lipstick, sliding the cap back onto the stick. A woman wearing a thick black headset motioned to the stage and said something into her microphone that sounded like 'is camera one ready?'. Leila, my manager, fluffed up the puffy sleeves of my dress before giving me a soft nudge in the back, pushing me out onto the stage. A hundred cheering members of the audience clapped as I walked out onto the stage. Myra Klave, the middle-aged-Botox-infused-half-plastic-host, beamed at me and gestured to the empty seat reserved for my ass. Her breasts were unusually large, and the proportions of her waist and ass were so out of whack it kind of scared me. It felt stiff when I sat down, the tight corset of my yellow dress restricting my movements. My head also throbbed; my ginger hair slicked back so tight it hurt. I told wardrobe I could hardly move. But of course, they didn't care if I could fucking move or not, I just needed to look appealing.

"Hi Claire, welcome to Bright and Early. It's an honour to have you." Myra said, still smiling.

"Hi Myra, it's an honour to be here." Unlike Myra, I didn't have a screen in front of me telling me what to say. Leila had coached me hard on what to say and how to say it.

"For those of you who don't know," Myra continued, this time addressing the audience.

"Claire is a rising star in our film industry. Several of her most recent movie, Return To Sender, has been nominated for numerous awards, including an Oscar for the main song, Taxis, which was written and sung by Claire herself. Tell us, Claire, when did you discover your talent for song writing, and how did you manage to write such an incredible song?"

I got drunk on a Tuesday and threw-up in the back of a Taxi. My

co-star Jenny took the piss and told me to write a song about it for the movie. So, I did.

"I was in my apartment in New York, when I looked outside one night and I saw all the yellow taxis, and I just felt inspired by the chaotic beauty of it all." I said, lying through my teeth. But I didn't really think anyone would believe that sort of shit.

I was wrong because the audience collectively made an approving sound.

I could practically feel Leila's smiling stare, accompanied by an approving nod.

"You know, my daughter, Andrea, is a huge fan. We all really admire the inspiration you provide for girls like her. She's only eight, but she's determined to be just like you." Myra pointed up at a screen behind us, where a video of her daughter appeared.

I would never have been able to tell she was eight. She wore a tiny dress that exposed more upper thigh than socially acceptable for an eight-year old, and was singing my song Myra had mentioned before, Taxis.

I was slightly mortified by the sight of it.

Mostly because I did not dress or act like that.

The video disappeared, and Myra turned back to me, her smile even bigger than before. I didn't know that was possible.

I was quick to smile in return, Myra no doubt expecting me to love her daughter as much as she and the audience did.

"She's so cute!" I forced out through my fake smile. "Tell her a big thank you from me for being such an amazing fan."

"I'll be sure to." Myra nodded, before turning serious. "Claire, as we all know, you recently suffered through the break-up between you and Tyler Makinner. Some sources say it was quite messy, so the main question is, how have you handled the break-up?"

I cried until three am whilst eating a tub of ice cream and watching Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

"It was hard for me to let go of such an important relationship of mine, but I didn't see much point in dwelling on the past, so I brushed myself off and kept going. I haven't looked back." I reply, shoving as much nonchalance into my words as possible. Of course I'd fucking looked back. He broke up with me at the Emmy's afterparty, leaving me standing on my own wedged between the snack table and Meryl Streep's husband.

"How courageous and inspiring. Of course, he made the mistake of breaking up with you. You smashed it in the film, and might I say, the chemistry between you and co-star Peter Darnier seemed like more than just acting to me. Is there a future romance on the horizon?" Myra prompted, wiggling her shoulders, coaxing a

resounding 'oooooh' from the audience.

I felt my cheeks flush red, and I prayed to God that the thick make-up on my face covered it.

"Uh, sadly," Sadly? What the fuck was I saying? "Peter and I are just really good friends." I gave a small laugh at the end to try and relieve the tension in my smile.

"Well, these photos suggest that what you say isn't entirely true!" Myra chuckled and pointed to the screen again.

A picture from the same night Tyler broke up with me appeared. It was at the Emmy afterparty. Both Peter and I were in the photo, Peter sitting on a couch, and me...sitting on Peter's lap. Kissing him.

Noise swelled up from the audience, and I felt dread slowly begin to coil in my gut, along with the thousands of questions I swallowed rather than voiced.

Who took this photo? Who released this photo? When was this

taken?

And the worst question of all;

Why don't I remember this?

My memory stretched back to that night, but the space in the timeline of my mind where the memory of the picture should have been was empty, and only the memories only started again at the time when Tyler broke up with me.

I stared at the picture again, this time noticing the red plastic cup in my hand, and I remembered, suddenly, I hadn't gotten myself that drink.

I'd been drugged.

That's why I didn't remember this. It was also probably why I did

this in the first place.

I spun around in my seat to find Leila, and sure enough, she was standing off stage, her horrified gaze flicking between me and the photo and back again. I lock gazes with her and pointed to the picture, motioned to my hand and pretended to drink from a cup,

before miming that someone had put something in it. My charading was awful, but somehow she understood, pressing her lips in a thin line before spinning on her heel, no doubt to yell at the producer.

But the worst was yet to come.

Some in the audience yelled out, "Oi, is tha' Tyler Makinner in the back?"

I spun my head around so fast my neck cracked. Scanning the photo, my blood ran cold when I clapped eyes on the unmistakable face of my ex-boyfriend, staring straight at me and Peter through the crowd around the couch. His face was twisted in anger, and when a second photo popped up next to the first, it captured the back of his head as he turned away from me. My brain seemed to be lagging, but once it caught up, I realised;

This is why Tyler broke up with me.

Opposite me, Myra stared at the pictures, and already I could see the impending question that could make or break my career form on her lips.

"Well, Claire, these photos seem to disprove your comment? Tell me, what do you have to say about this?" Myra's question silenced the audience.

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, leaning forward to hear my response, whilst Myra stared at me.

"I, I think that, um, I don't really..."

Emotion clogged my throat, making my words stick.

Myra continued to stare at me expectantly waiting to judge my final answer.

But I didn't give her the pleasure.

Not wanting to speak, not able to speak, I stood up and left the stage, choosing to take the coward way out rather than face the reality of what I had done.

As a celebrity, you always hate yourself, in varying amounts, the scale ranging from a tiny bit to I-want-to-kill-myself-I-hate-myself-so-much.

I was at the I-want-to-kill-myself-I-hate-myself-so-much end of the scale.