Chapter 210 Fame (2)

The Vaughan House.

Tuesday, 20 January 2009.

Euphemia Fontaine stood in the ensuite of her room at her not-mentor’s, in front of the mirror, censored only by steam, in the visual likeness of mid-2000s Japanese late-night animations.

With a roll of tailor’s tape, she was examining herself for physiological changes.

It was easy to say that she felt untouched by the remarks from the Q&A and the reviews since Sundance, but she was vain, and she missed being… an adult.

She did not like the way that the interviewers slowed their speech a little or raised the pitch of their voice when speaking to her. She also could not blame them because all she had to do was look in the mirror.

She was going to be seventeen in July, and she still looked nearly identical to the day she had arrived in her philosophical zombie body. She was prettier, of course, at least in the systematic purview of her [System]. She was stronger, fitter, more dexterous, with incredible endurance. Her complexion was effortlessly flawless, and her hair was naturally balayage.

But her philosophical zombie did not change with time, and she was beginning to wonder if the [System] took puberty into account at all. At the same time, she did have all the physiological routines of a female body.

Since her return from Utah, she had done the math, calculated the costs, and made the determination that it was time for a few numbers to go up.

After all, with the completion of [The Thief of Joy], she had finally cracked the big seventh digit. And there would be more [Causality] coming in thanks to the film as well.

Her only concern was how much needed to be banked for [All the World’s a Stage], as well as, inevitably, her use of [The Giving Tree]. As the [System] was utterly terrible at being forthcoming with mechanical details, her present assumption was that whatever [Traits] she gave away were gone for good. This meant that she might have to exponentially drive her context-driven [Roulette] to make up for future [Trait] shortfalls.

It also meant that some investments, such as additional [Comeliness] and [Charisma], would make up for a future lack of [Traits], at least until she could develop the same skills naturally.

If she gave away [Guitar], for example, Eppie did not believe that she would lose the means to play the instrument on a karmic, existential level. What she would lose was the [System]’s support, so that any and all future performances would rely on accumulated experience.

A part of Eppie, the Lana part, wanted to conduct an experiment. She would acquire a skill at a rudimentary level, say [Charcoal Sketching], then she would find a random person and give them that particular ability. The act would allow her to see exactly what the mechanics entailed.

And yet—the Eppie part of her, who had been living with the [System], told her that the way of karma was shrouded in spontaneity and serendipity. Everything she received seemed to pull upon some karmic thread of one goodness or another, one creator or another. As per the [System] notes, the spirit of the gift giver did not interlace with the spirit of… karma-maxxing.

So she made her numbers go up instead, for now.

Last night she had raised her [Charisma] to [27] for [- 101,000 Causality].

Then, she had raised her [Comeliness] to [27] for [- 197,000 Causality].

“System. Show me [Potential].”

EUPHEMIA FONTAINE

[1,248,806 Causality]

Strength 21

Athletics

Agility 21

Acrobatics

[Physicality] · [Instrument: Guitar]

Vitality 21

Endurance · Pain Suppression

Wisdom 27

Insight · Emotional Intelligence · Perception · Legalism

[The Sublime] [The Clockwork Pulse] [Script Analysis] [The Empty Space] [The Holy Theatre]

Intelligence 35

Arithmetics · Accounting and Finance · Business Acumen

[Composer] [Memorisation] [The Ghost Light]

Charisma 27

Persuasion · Intimidation · Larceny

[Act Natural] [Hitting the Mark] [Songstress] [Vocality] [Gospel]

Comeliness 27

Seduction

[Love the Light] [The Facial Landscape]

Health 38/38 | Stamina 35/35 | Dasein 36

[Prophet of Profits] [Noblesse Oblige] [Perfect Pitch] [El Duende]

[All the World’s A Stage] [The Giving Tree] [The Mirror]

And though she knew by now that the [System] did not grow a girl into a woman overnight, it was still disappointing that nothing had changed.

At the after-party, Mirabelle had leaned in and asked her if she wanted to do fragrances. The work, the chief editor of Vogue said, was a few days at most, a photoshoot. The concepts would be settled and done and sent to her for approval before the shoot even began.

With the film as a breakout, an easy quarter-million for her trust was without question.

Eppie had asked what fragrance.

“Petite Dior,” Mirabelle had told her. “The designers need someone who looks young, with a great face and amazing eyes. As for the rest…”

The Vogue editor had placed a hand on her tapered waist. “You’ll do better than you imagine.”

What was left unsaid, Eppie did not need to guess. A girl of age who looked underage was the sales pitch. But the potential joy such a thing could bring in terms of [Karmic Causality] would lag far behind the amount of money it would generate. Her [Comeliness], a gift from the [System], had to inspire something greater than vapid consumption. The temptation of fame was a trap, and so Eppie refused.

So now she stood in front of the mirror, with a free day of [Dasein] on top of her usual cap, wondering if she was stuck cosplaying a Vladimir Nabokov novel.

In five years’ time, when a six-foot-two bodacious Valorie and svelte five-nine Zara met her on the red carpet with their adorable, bouncing bob-bearing bubbly blondie, would she be a peer? Or a little sister? Or, later… a daughter?!

Eppie physically cringed.

Please don’t let that be the case…

A copied version of the author's posted chapter appears here without permission; the official posting helps sustain the work.

Her phone chimed.

The message begged her to check her email.

With a week to go before she moved into the cat café, Eppie put on a towel and moved to the Mac.

From: Madeleine Filmore <[email protected]>

To: Euphemia Fontaine <[email protected]>

Cc: Frederick Curon <[email protected]>; Eric Lee <[email protected]>; T. Davis <[email protected]>

Sent: Tue 20 Jan 2009, 5:48 AM

Subject: Director Curon wanted me to give you a Film Summary. 🎬

EPPIE: My department can’t cover non-Sony Music related activities. Kel has his own guy. No Utah for me. 😵

Thankfully, Director Curon told me to make a summary for you 😀

(1) THE REVIEWS. I tracked sixty-one reviews by Monday night, and about fifty-eight are positive. I think they should make a website for this, where they can rank the positivity for new film titles! The Post’s Bradshaw gave the film four stars. The Times gave it a full column as well, although it’s three and a half stars. Still incredibly positive! Everyone says that you did a fantastic job! Well done Eppie! 🎉

(2) SONY CLASSICS closed the deal. (This is from Mr Davis). He says that they paid ELEVEN MILLION DOLLARS for everything outside of North America before any of the foreign film bodies could even act. (Mr Davis says this is the first mover’s advantage). 💸

(3) The BIDDING WAR. Yep. Gaumont wanted France exclusive rights and didn’t get it. Their guy, someone called Brassac, is throwing around some large numbers. Sony’s laughing to the bank. Japan is going crazy as well. The UK might just snipe from the side. Eppie, you are a winning 🐎

(4) KEL. Apparently Sony Pictures is in talks with Mr Davis’ people. They want to see if Kel can act in more films. Kel’s artist relations manager says Kelvin wants to take a break and study. What’s that about? 😶

(5) MONEY. People are snooping on your money situation, Eppie! We have corporate filings for the last financial year, but they’ll still have to dig very deep to find anything verifiable. The only public facing side is your Charity Trust. Still, who would bother you over cat shelters and films? You have no car. 🚗 You have no house. 🏠 You don’t technically even own your phone… 📲

(6) MORNING SHOWS are begging.

ACTION ITEMS

- Eric needs a meeting pronto. ⚠️⚠️

- Director Curon wants to know what’s happening with Hair Like Mine.

I SAW THE FILM! OMG I cried so much. SO MUCH EPPIE!

Maddy.

Madeleine Filmore Artist Relations | Sony Music Entertainment [email protected] | (212) XXX-XXXX

Eppie wrapped herself in a generous towel, then used a second towel to appear as Mother Teresa.

She had known for a while now that the unorthodox financial situation she was in would attract unsavoury attention. When generosity appeared irrational, it was far more likely to be read as a ruse than as a genuine desire to refuse profit.

She had no idea why the Daily News was dead set on accusing her of being a fraud. What she did know was that the trade papers would very soon pick up on the fact and make a mountain out of a molehill. How many people could truly understand why she did this? Who could understand that to Eppie, her allergy to personal profiteering was a matter of life and death?

And the film? Was her [Prophet of Profits] to blame? Or was it really going to be THAT profitable?

The contract said fifty-six per cent equity to the Karmatronic Trust.

If the film made $100 million between box office, rentals and DVD sales, her trust would receive up to $30 million by mid-2010. According to the Trust structure established with Ark Theatre, she could donate to the Ark Theatre and fund Dr Cooper’s theatre troupe, or she could handpick actors for scholarships or fellowships—so long as she herself received nothing, not even by proxy.

Now, it seemed her generosity had stepped on toes.

But why?

Green-eyed stage rivals?

Indignant Film festival folk?

Competitive charity?!

Or just cynical folk cutting down the tall poppy, never mind that she was a mere five-foot-one.

Behind her, on the bed, the iPhone buzzed once more and went quiet.

Can’t a philanthropist live quietly and fund the arts in private? She shook her head, then dried her hair. She used a hairdryer, and the result still looked as if it had come out of a contextually sensitive movie set. This was the [System]’s doing. Bed hair for the bed. Waves for her outings. Effortless fringes for hanging out with Curon.

Whatever the case, between Luciana Mio, Kelvin Grant, and Georgia Truitt… She had no time for these purple-prose-writing, yellow-journalism tabloids.

For Euphemia Fontaine, a woman of limited time and many talents, it was time to get back to her roots.

It was time to get back to the theatre.

Belmonte Building. Sony HQ.

“You’re sure she’s not gonna run off and be a movie star?” Trent Davis, CEO of Sony BMG, sincerely asked his hetero partner for life. “Just look at how much money she’s made in one fell swoop.”

“I don’t think Eppie really cares.” Curon shrugged, sipping from a crystalline cup containing Davis’s finest Scottish single malt. “Is that why you called me up here? You’re afraid Sony Pictures would nab our songbird?”

“You wish.” Davis chortled. “But yes, The Pro is an incredible film. You know… she really has a knack for cinema. As for us, she can write. She can sing. She can act. She’s a triple threat. I want to keep her around, but…”

Universal’s deal still stung him on a personal level.

Surely, one of his protégés could have used the same concept and the same song.

“A father can be only so proud.” Curon swirled the amber liquid. “Have we found out who the hell is spreading rumours about your niece?”

Davis rolled his eyes. “Just a journalist from the paper, as far as I can tell. The trade outlets have picked up on it, though. Of course, the theatre folk have been unkind to our amateur from the very beginning, although that’s to be expected. It’s slim pickings for this year and the next.”

“Is her legal good?”

“Near ironclad, unless she changed things herself.”

Curon nodded. “Good, why am I up here then? I thought you were gonna have another complaint.”

“Oh, I have complaints…” Davis remarked. “I want to ask: where the hell’s my agent’s fee for getting your damned film sold?”

Curon laughed. “You would take money from your own niece?”

“She wouldn’t take money from herself,” Davis grumbled, then looked hopeful. “Although she seems happy to take money from Universal.”

“She knows my heart well.” Curon raised a toast. “Is that it? I’m a busy man, you know.”

Davis’s eyes were full of doubt. After a moment, he pulled a folder from a locked drawer and slid it across his enormous desk. “Read.”

He watched his friend read the first page, then the next page.

There was an enormous title in bold.

SO YOU THINK YOU CAN SING

It was the format of a new show Sony’s production wing had purchased from the UK. The show had yet to air. The man who invented it had already sold its model across the Pacific. The intent was for each participating nation to simultaneously produce winners who would then go head to head in a global final.

As for the format, it involved a series of public auditions that drew from the nation’s vox populi, arriving at a select few darlings hand-picked for the televised program. The show would have four mentors, each an expert in four categories, and each of them would pick from the pool of unknowns and build them into a world-renowned boy or girlband, a duo, or a single, select artist.

The winners of every audition would be pitted against every other winner in front of a screaming American public, televised to millions on Saturday night.

Through a gauntlet of talent, a bloodbath of marketing, one would rise and receive a record deal, changing their lives forever.

It was the ultimate pop-fever American Dream, distilled into the greatest show on earth.

Curon finished reading. “Trent… you’re not thinking of…”

“You know exactly what I’m thinking of.”

Davis’s office grew very quiet. As with many of Sony’s offices, the soundproofing was unmatched.

“When?”

“Public auditions: mid-2010. Production: late 2010. Airing: 2011.”

“Who’s sitting on the other chairs?”

“Universal. Warner. EMI. We don’t know who they’re sending. That’s the whole point. Unlike the UK format, we’re going for a Battle of the Gods.”

Curon sucked in a breath of frigid, conditioned air. “Eppie’s not a sacrificial lamb, is she?”

Davis looked at him with incredulity. “You think Euphemia is a sheep?” He laughed. “She’s a wolf in wooly clothing. Not even a normal wolf. She’s one of those grey ones in Yellowstone that bite bison on the balls. Besides, I can hardly see us losing.”

Curon looked contemplative.

Davis pinched his brow, then tapped the proposal. “Let’s say I send you as our representative. Would you give a Hot 100 top 10 chart-topper to an unknown singer on TV, just so that Sony can receive clout?”

“I would not,” Curon confessed. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Would Eppie?”

In the next few moments, Davis could see that his friend had finally seen his genius. To which, Davis expected praise. He expected a defeated smile. He expected professional acknowledgement.

“Mountain lion.”

“What?”

“She’s a mountain lion.”

“That’s not…” Davis felt his hypertension rise. “That’s not how idioms work.”