"Stand back. We're going to be filthy rich and notorious.Watch this space, there's some small, very important shoes to be filled."
And that was it. The curtain roll, so-to-speak. The inspiration. I found myself sitting in bed one early evening, with my laptop in tow, scrolling mindlessly through the internet, as you do, when it came to me. The claxon sounded. The moment of realisation grew on the horizon and expanded with passion in my irises. Just like that, one day, I knew it. I wanted to be more than most. I wanted to be famous. The notoriety. The infamy. The paparazzi bombardment, the media critique, the constant late nights and earlier mornings. Surviving on no sleep, health food kicks and sheer determination. Or maybe even an ego boost from a fan, or a writer, every once in a while. Designer...EVERYTHING. It wasn't enough to just have money, I wanted to swim in it. I wanted to bathe in the sheer extravagance that only comes with being able to afford to lose a hundred times more than you could spend in a year. The feeling that goes hand-in-hand with never having rattling, jangling change in your pocket, because you only ever need Fifties in your wallet. A professional manicure, stylist and shopper, because apparently, all these functions are far too working-class to be pursued when you're, oh, wait for it... FAMOUS. (Yes, you can stop screaming now.) I know, I know. I always said I would write sooner, but I mean, I got caught up in the bright lights and the autograph signings, and I mean, y'know, there's something really exhausting about having your photo taken constantly. I mean, come on, you know as well as I do that being 'photo ready' isn't really a thing, until you're staring down the media lens and you've got a very camp, very posh man shouting "oh darling, that looks absolutely gorgeous on you!" all the while pointing glaring fluorescent spotlights into your eyes, making your pupils dilate and your vision go blurry. It's as garish as they say, I won't lie, but, god, it's so worth it. Just to see the looks on the faces of those people as I clamber ever-so-elegantly out of a limousine and hold my breath and suck in my stomach while strutting down the reddest of carpets you can imagine. It's like fireworks night, when the camera shutters begin firing down one by one. And someone's shouting your name in the distant crowd, and the voices are muffled and there's so much positivity. And someone even dares to utter the phrase "and who are you wearing tonight?" I walk with such determination, and such audacity as copied stringently from the many before me, to make sure I give the right impression. The impression everyone's waiting to see. So, I look back, one more time, before reaching the door of wherever I am that night. I look into the dead eyes of the crowd, watch the camera flashes twinkle, and hear the roar of celebrity lifestyle. I blink, get ready to turn again, and it's too late. It's gone. As quick as it came about. My seven inch stilettos break beneath my tiny weight. My designer dress crumbles to ash around my ankles. I look again, and the cameras are gone. The red carpet is in tatters. There's no paparazzi, no fans, no autograph books or limousines. No celebrity endorsements, no microphones or magazine interviewers. They're simply gone. Like a flash of lightening. As quick as the spotlight hit me, the space around me darkened again. The lights went off before they even had a chance to go on properly.
I awoke. Startled. Shaken. Strangely grinning. A glimpse into the unknown, and yet, the passion hung in my stomach, the want was dangerously settled in my eyes, and the determination beat down hard with my heart. Today, yes, today was the day I was going to be famous.