Chapter Text
Almost a decade into her career, Greta still struggles with the practical realities of fame. Stardom, the celebrity status, it isn’t always earned. But Greta earned it, fair and square with relentlessly hard work and dedication and a few strokes of good luck.
There’s a strange sensation that comes with being an actress. Getting to follow her dreams and being able to make an affluent career out of doing what she loves is one thing. The adoring fans, the millions of followers on social media, seeing the world and making art is another.
But what truly blows Greta’s mind is her relatively newfound ability to live in comfort. She doesn’t have to worry about whether or not she’ll be able to afford dinner or have a different roof over her head each night, if she might lose her suitcase and consequently all her belongings.
Ten years since her first real, big paycheck, and Greta still can’t believe it.
She kind of misses the chaos, even though she has so many reasons not to. She misses her mom, even though she has every reason not to.
That’s what Greta is thinking about as she stares at the ceiling of this LA apartment, panting having subsided into deeper breaths that complement the whir of the standing fan in the corner.
The sound of shuffling next to her reminds Greta that she isn’t alone. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Greta sighs, “you just wore me out.”
The other woman giggles. Greta leans forward and kisses her chastely before rolling out of bed. She starts gathering her clothes that had been discarded around the room.
“You don’t have to go,” the woman says, pushing herself up on her elbows.
“I do, though.”
“Greta. It’s late. Come on, it doesn’t have to be a thing.”
Greta smiles knowingly, albeit a bit guiltily, and pulls her shirt over her head. “Girlfriends spend the night. We’re not girlfriends.”
“As if that’s not your choice,” she mutters, loud enough for Greta to hear. Greta fights the urge to roll her eyes. They’ve had this conversation what feels like a thousand times.
“Dana,” she warns.
And Dana stops, clamps her mouth shut and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes to keep from crying. A sickening sense of guilt creeps into Greta’s throat like bile. She knows Dana is too scared to lose her, forcing herself to be content with the little crumbs that Greta has been willing to hand over and convincing herself it's a feast. Greta tells herself that Dana is an adult, that she should call this off if it isn’t good for her, but she knows she’s actively ignoring her own role in it.
In an attempt to smooth things over, Greta sits at the edge of the bed by Dana’s hip. She taps her fingers on Dana’s bare stomach. “Hey.”
Dana peaks from behind her hands. “You’re here now. Why don’t you wanna stay?”
You know why, Greta wants to say, but she doesn’t. She bites her tongue and gives Dana one more kiss before putting on the rest of her clothes.
When Greta leaves, Dana doesn’t try to stop her.
- - - - -
It’s the ringing of the doorbell that wakes Greta up the next morning. She never sets an alarm on Sundays, and she’s livid when she sees 8:34 on the clock by her bedside. She wants to ignore it, but she forces herself up, tosses on some random clothes, and makes her way through her house to the door. Her eyes are still half closed when she opens it.
Jo waits on the other side with a manic smile, but it falls at the sight of Greta. “Why do you look like shit?”
“It’s too early,” Greta groans.
“Whatever,” Jo laughs. “Don’t be a grump, I brought you a breakfast sandwich. And coffee.”
“And you’ve redeemed yourself,” Greta says. She falls into a chair at her kitchen table and unwraps her sandwich with animalistic speed.
“I am sorry for waking you this early,” Jo says earnestly as she takes the seat across from her, “but I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Greta grumbles gruffly.
Jo narrows her eyes. “Did you go to Dana’s last night?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re always in a shitty mood the mornings after you hook up.”
“Yeah, well,” Greta shrugs, with nothing else to say. Jo is perceptive, observant. She’s measured, and she knows Greta too well. She knows what every one of Greta’s behaviors is indicative of. The purse of her lips means she’s trying not to cry, avoiding eye contact is a sign that she’s hiding something. Jo knows that when Greta is quiet, then she’s thinking - and if she isn’t thinking out loud, then it usually means she doesn’t want to admit to something.
Jo watches as Greta chews her food slowly, eyes glossed over as she gazes out the window mindlessly. “It’s not good for you,” she says softly. “For either of you.”
Greta just shakes her head, her face slack. She’s gotten better at admitting when she’s in the wrong, but she still doesn’t like it when Jo points it out.
“What did you need to tell me?” Greta says by graceless way of changing the subject.
Jo’s wicked grin returns, and Greta knows what it means. She knows what smiles like that are a sign of, but she still waits for Jo to say it. Greta needs to hear the words to believe it can be true.
“The casting director for Peachy called me this morning. They’re planning on offering you the part.”
That news is able to clear the hazy fog of Greta’s exhaustion and piss-poor mood. Her gasp of shock melds into a smile can barely fit on her face and she jumps to her feet. “Are you serious?”
“Yup,” Jo trumpets. “They want you for a chemistry read with the actress they want for Harper, but they’re absolutely convinced you’re going to make the perfect Rosie.”
“Holy shit! Oh my god!” She starts jumping up and down, cheering and laughing, and she pulls Jo to her feet to join her in this tiny celebration.
Greta can’t remember the last time she was this excited to be a part of a project – maybe since her first one.
“Have I ever told you that you’re the most perfect manager-slash-agent-slash-best friend in the entire world?”
“You could stand to mention it more,” Jo shrugs.
Greta dissolves into a fit of giggles once more. She never took the SATs, instead choosing to get her GED before moving to LA for acting, but she imagines the vocabulary words she would have seen on the test that could describe how she feels in this moment – jubilant, elated, maybe even jovial.
“Um. But, I should mention. There might be one teensy, itty-bitty hiccup.”
And, it’s over.
“What?” Greta asks slowly, her brow furrowed suspiciously.
“Just a small road bump.”
“Okay…”
“A little… ah, how to describe it. Problem.”
“Joey. What is it?”
Greta sees Jo swallow a nervous lump in her throat. Her anxious energy has always been palpable, as has her relentless effort to pretend everything is fine. It’s with a forced smile that Jo says, “the woman you’ll be doing the chemistry read with, the person they want to cast opposite you.”
Greta’s heartbeat escalates, like a rollercoaster climbing the first big peak, and she blinks slowly.
“Who is it?”
“Greta Gill?” Carson exclaims. “Seriously?”
Her manager smiles, mouth amess with chewed up cheeseburger and fries, and Carson holds up a hand to shield herself from the view. She should’ve known that when they came to Lupe’s favorite diner for a meeting that it would turn out gross.
“Sorry ‘bout it,” Lupe mumbles, and Carson starts to see red. White hot fury explodes from her chest, liquid anger taking the place of the blood in her veins. Of course, just when she’s certain that life is on the up-and-up, something has to shatter it.
“This can’t be happening.”
“It is.” Lupe follows it with an obnoxiously loud slurp of her milkshake.
“I can’t make a movie with Greta Gill. She’s the worst person alive.”
“That seems… dramatic.”
“Lupe,” Carson exhales. The reality of the situation has caught up with her. And maybe she is being dramatic, but it doesn’t feel that way.
“So, what? You want to bail?” For the first time since the revelation, Lupe seems to be taking this seriously. She was immediately amused after learning that Carson’s nemesis is favored to be cast in the leading role next to her; she hadn’t actually taken the time to worry that Carson might actually turn it down.
Carson leans back against the booth and crosses her arms. She doesn’t look directly at Lupe, doesn’t want her to see the way her eyes water with frustration or lip trembling.
“Yes, I want to turn it down.”
Lupe tilts her head. “But you’re not gonna.” It’s not a question and it’s not a demand; it’s a statement of fact.
“No,” Carson sighs, “I’m not.” She’d be an idiot to drop out of this project. Written and directed by a queer Black woman, miraculously picked up by one of the biggest production companies in the industry, already getting absurd press coverage before it’s even been cast.
But –
“An on-screen relationship? Between me and… her?”
“Look, maybe the chemistry read will blow and they’ll kick her to the curb,” Lupe offers, showing sympathy for the first time all morning.
Or me, Carson thinks, even though she was the first person approached for the role.
“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” Lupe shrugs. “Maybe she’s changed.”
Carson chooses not to believe that. She wants her anger to be justified, her sadness to be warranted.
“The only change she’s capable of is shapeshifting from her natural demon form.”
Her lips curve into a proud smile when Lupe snorts out a laugh. Carson manages another bite of her sandwich despite the wave of nausea that has crashed onto her shore. She had hoped they could go the rest of their careers never seeing each other again.
"Again, dramatic," Lupe tuts, but to her credit, she remains patient. She’s never been one to bite her tongue or withhold opinions. Grow up. This is about your career. This is about making art. Guess what doesn’t matter? Your petty grudge towards some chick who's even pettier. She can hear it in the gruff pitch of her voice and the staccato rhythm.
But instead, Lupe says, “Carson, this movie could be huge.”
“I know, I know,” she responds quickly. She doesn’t need to hear it because she gets it. This film has the potential to really mean something, Carson doesn’t need to be reminded.
And she certainly won’t let Greta Gill keep her from being a part of it.
- - - - -
It’s hard for Carson to fall asleep that night. She’s exhausted, her brain is weary and drained. But she’s wired by all the news she’s received, adrenaline spikes for good reasons and not so good reasons making her feel strangely alert.
When she yet again can’t find a comfortable position in bed, she rolls onto her back and reaches blindly for her phone on the bedside table. She holds it above her face and squints through the intruding light of her screen as she pulls up Instagram and types greta gill into the search bar.
Carson uses social media because Lupe makes her. Instagram and Twitter are important to keeping fans engaged and excited. That’s what Carson tells herself when she chooses to post a cute selfie or feels the need to share some stupid thought.
Hopefully Greta’s account is boring enough to lull her to sleep.
It isn’t.
It’s actually exactly what Carson could have expected it to be for someone like Greta, so grandiose and bold and beautiful.
Of course, she’s gorgeous. Somehow prettier than she was the last time Carson saw her, a few years ago in passing at an event she doesn’t remember the name of. That was a while after their incident, when they were both teenagers just starting out in an unkind industry and being even unkinder to each other.
There’s a daunting 24M marking her follower count. Lots of posts of her with people Carson imagines are her friends. A few posts with pictures from photo shoots, capturing striking features and autumn eyes and smiles more dizzying than dazzling. Promotions for films she’s been in or projects she’s working on.
It’s professional without being boring, personal without revealing too much. She has fame mastered to perfection.
One post in particular catches Carson’s eye. It’s a clip from an interview with Vogue, because of course Greta Gill has answered Vogue’s 73 questions.
The camera follows her throughout her stunning Tudor style house in the hills, with stained glass windows and beams across tall ceilings. It presents as perfect as the redhead who owns it, but Carson can’t help but wonder if it also has cracks beneath the surface.
Greta walks through a massive French door into the flawless landscaping in the backyard as the man behind the camera continues to ask questions that fall somewhere on either end of the spectrum of emotionally provocative and intense, from favorite food to biggest fear.
“What can’t you live without?” the voice asks.
Greta doesn’t hesitate to answer. “My best friend Jo De Luca,” she beams. “She’s also my manager, but that’s way less important.”
“What movie have you rewatched the most? ”
“A League of Their Own, definitely. Though the Parent Trap is a close second – the 1998 version, starring Lindsay Lohan and Lindsay Lohan.”
“What do you struggle with the most?”
The cheerful smile on Greta’s face falls and reappears in less than an instant. “Resisting the urge to bend down to talk to short people,” she answers.
Carson closes the app and forces herself to fall asleep.
It was a mistake, Greta would have told her. A complete misunderstanding wrapped in a miscommunication and tied together with words lost in translation. But Carson Shaw is stubborn. She’s concerningly iron-willed and ice cold when she’s been wronged.
At least, she was when they were eighteen.
It was years – years – ago. And Carson’s relentless refusal to ignore the initial attempts Greta had made to apologize only served to fuel the fire of her own anger. Fine, Greta would say to herself, stay mad.
And after Carson’s horribly immature response to it all, a reaction that affected Greta’s career, Greta figures she’s the one with the right to be angry.
Now, it might not be an option.
With her head uncomfortably leaning on her couch’s armrest, Greta rests her laptop against her thighs and lets her eyes scan the article that she pretends not to have sought out herself – an interview of Carson’s from a few months ago.
Loudly Self–Deprecating Carson Shaw Prepares Herself for What Comes Next
BY TERRI CARROL
Since her break-out role in blockbuster hit Take a Bite some ten years prior, Carson Shaw has been bringing marvelous characters to life in critically-acclaimed indie films. Now, she prepares for the release of Greta Gerwig’s latest film, a feminist adaptation of Disney’s Lady and the Tramp, in which she stars alongside Florence Pugh and Robert Pattinson. A self-proclaimed “fumbling idiot,” Shaw finds clarity and calm on screen.
Greta swallows a scoff. Carson has a reputation for poking fun at herself. Some projection of modesty to distract from her father’s job and her family’s prevalence in the industry, Greta is certain.
The actress discusses nepotism in the industry, her public split with Charlie Shaw, and what she wants her career to look like in the future.
It all piques Greta’s interest, even though she doesn’t want it to.
What was it like working with Greta [Gerwig] on your first mainstream film after so many years?
Shaw: Oh, wow. I mean, are there even words to describe it? She’s a true genius in every sense of the word, and so dedicated to her art. I’m a better actress for working with her, that’s for sure. And definitely a better person for knowing her.
How did you cope with going through such an exposed divorce, where you had so many people invested in your relationship reacting to it?
Shaw: Sure, well… It was definitely an added layer of stress and frustration, that it was so public. Charlie is a phenomenal person and has had an incredible career, and of course the fans had a lot to say about it – as did many outlets, apparently. But, like, I don’t claim to have a monopoly over pain from the end of a relationship, you know? It’s awful no matter what.
Even after her tumultuous break-up in every spotlight around the world, she still manages to maintain humility. God, Greta needs it to be an act. It can’t be that Carson is so self-effacing and unpretentious naturally.
Did social media play a role in exacerbating the pain?
Shaw: To a certain extent. I think – It was certainly odd to have people commenting on it as if they had the whole picture or knew the whole story. But I made the choice to avoid social media entirely. In that way, I was able to deal with it, like, essentially the same way I would have done if it were private.
And what would you say to people who attribute your success to your familial connections?
Shaw: (laughs) Um, yeah, you know… I guess I would like my work to speak for itself.
What a privilege, Greta thinks, to be able to prove oneself after having access and opportunity handed over on a silver platter. How nice it must be to have the power in their world.
What’s next for you, Carson Shaw?
Shaw: What’s next for me? Hopefully continuing to be a part of incredible stories, stories that need to be told.
And what about outside of your career?
Shaw: (smiles) I suppose time will tell.
- - - - -
It’s been a long time since Greta felt nervous about a callback. The butterflies in her stomach flap their wings and send hurricanes to her chest as she walks into the room for the chemistry read. The only comfort is Jo by her side, reliable and warm.
She’s immediately approached by a gorgeous woman with an even prettier smile.
“Greta, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” the director beams. She takes Greta’s hand between her own, and Greta smiles at the comforting squeeze she proffers.
“You too, Ms. Warner,” Greta replies excitedly.
“I thought I told you to call me Esther,” she chides playfully.
“You totally did, but…” You hold my career in your very sexy hands and I really don’t want to screw this up.
“She’s otherwise great at following directions,” Jo teases. They all share a laugh, and Greta finds herself once again grateful for Jo De Luca.
“We’re just about ready to get started. Carson just got here as well.” Esther gestures behind her, and Greta’s eyes follow the signal. Carson is staring at them, her mouth in a straight line and gaze unwavering.
Greta forces a tight-lipped smile before looking away quickly.
“You’ll run through a few scenes together,” Esther continues, “and then we’ll have the two of you read with Max – just to get a sense of the chemistry between the three of you.”
“Sounds amazing,” Greta says with a massive smile, her teeth still shining perfectly despite lying right through them.
As Esther retreats to talk with the casting director, Jo places her hands on Greta’s shoulders and squeezes. “Go fly, Bird,” she says, like she always does before big moments, and Greta nods.
Not even Carson Shaw can clip her wings.