I hate my life and my fake persona.
I’m not a Hollywood legend—I'm just a man, and fallible as hell. And by following my agent’s advice I’ve lost the only person who really mattered in my life.
But this is my private purgatory. Nobody else sees the real me beneath my painted image.
Certainly not the studio—they spare no expense on my birthday bash using it as a publicity photo op and staging point to announce my upcoming film.
The minute I walk in the door of my Hollywood manse, I wish I stayed in Toronto. All the studio actors are there along with the executives, the press and two hundred invited guests.
It’s more a circus than a birthday.
I endure the cocktail atmosphere and phony schmoozing—but then, comes the part I dread. The set speeches and phony accolades.
Victoria’s at her gushing best and Hugh’s oiling his way around the room working the press corps.
“Attention everyone,” Victoria shouts. “I’d like to propose a toast to Phillip Marcus and his art. He is truly one of the most gifted modern actors—To Phillip,” she declares, holding her champagne glass aloft.
The sentiment is echoed round the room. Then, Victoria continues.
“Since it’s Phillip’s birthday, I’d like to present him with a gift.” There’s a smattering of applause and then, Victoria grabs hold of a cord and yanks.
Drapes part revealing a huge portrait in the foyer.
It’s a picture of me I keep hidden. It’s very flattering—a panegyric in oils, as Hugh describes it, but relegated by me to an upstairs storage room.
I feel the painting is cursed—it brings out the worst side of my character. Unlike the portrait of Dorian Gray that was covered because of its ugliness, I’ve concealed this portrait specifically because it flatters me.
The picture seduces me into being someone I’m not—it twists my soul making me vain and superficial, turning me into my old self I now despise.
There are oohs and ahhs and then shouts of Speech, Speech. I feel sick at heart.
Victoria extends a lovely arm beckoning me to mount the staircase and join her at the pinnacle of my success.
Fine. The studio wants a panegyric—I’ll give them one.
I stand on the steps and endure the applause.
“I appreciate the gesture, unveiling this portrait as a tribute to Phillip Marcus, the actor, and I receive it as such—but I am not that man. The man in this portrait is a poseur—not a real person.”
The room goes silent.
“I want to introduce you to the real Phillip Marcus, the man you’ve never met—the man who is not a success, but a failure.”
I watch as Victoria shrinks back into the crowd and begins edging toward the doorway.
“The real Phillip Marcus has hidden behind a façade for so long, he now remains disguised, even to himself.”
There’s an audible gasp and murmurs of dissent. I hold up my hand for silence.
“I’m sorry to spoil the party, but I don’t like this image of me—in truth, I hate it. I hate it because it’s cost me the only true love I’ve ever known. Don’t let me spoil your fun—continue to celebrate the actor, the man in the picture, but as for me, I’ve decided to quit the studio and find out who Phillip Marcus really is.”
I walk past the shocked Victoria and grim-faced Hugh. I push through reporters, ignoring their questions.
I fly back to Toronto and return to the Park Hyatt Hotel. I spend my nights on the rooftop terrace sitting alone with my Pinot Noire and ruminating over the past.
One night, when I’ve exhausted all excuses and regretted all my sins, Sara shows up.
“Looks like we’re still stuck in the same spot,” she smiles.
She sits down opposite me and I’m so defeated, I can barely nod.
“I was there Phillip—saw everything.”
“You were at the party?” I ask numbly.
“I was there under studio orders—a compulsory appearance to witness your grand performance, or so I thought.”
“Ha ha,” I laugh bitterly, “ but you did see my swan dive.”
There are tears in her eyes.
“I did,” she whispers, “ I thought it was another pose.”
“So, what do you think now?”
“I think you’re very unhappy.”
“I am.”
“And I think for once in your life, you’re real.”
My heart leaps.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I just come back here occasionally—to remember a place where I once was happy.”
“I was happy here once too.”
She reaches across the table and places her hand softly over mine. “Then, maybe we both can find that happiness again—and make it real this time.”
I feel the hard stone in my heart dissolve—she’s all I’ve ever wanted.
We’re starting over again, Sara and I.
I’m writing the novels I always wanted to write and we’re both living the life we wanted to live—back there, in the beginning, when there was hope, like there is now.
You can find us most nights, up there, on the Park Hyatt terrace—above the city lights, where the only ‘stars’ are in the sky, and mercifully, in each other’s eyes.
