Hollywood Empress of the west

The countdown to my scheduled auditions had begun in earnest, though the precise number of hours was something I resisted calculating. If I dwelled too long on the ticking clock, the anticipation would calcify into dread, and I had resolved that if I was to make my first foray into the world of professional acting, it would be with the poise and calculated bravado of someone who belonged there. This was more than a matter of personal desire—it was a question of legacy. My family had been famous for their infidelities and their gifts, but most of all for their knack for making the inner workings of their hearts public property. My great-grandfather, Lawrence Olivier, a name now so mythic it sometimes felt like a pseudonym, had won an Oscar back when Oscars meant something, and my grandmother had been remembered for her beauty and her intelligence. This combination in her day was still regarded as a curiosity rather than a birthright. Both of them, faces immortalised in sun-bleached black and white along the Hollywood Walk of Fame, had set a standard for me that was as suffocating as it was inspiring.

I sometimes tried to imagine what my grandmother would say if she could see me now, living in a sparsely furnished apartment with a view of the Chateau Marmont roof and a refrigerator that hummed louder than the traffic on Sunset. She would probably tell me to eat more and talk less, to be wary of people who said "darling" in the first five minutes. She might be proud, but she would never admit it. There was a family principle against sentimentality that I had yet to inherit. On clear nights, when the Los Angeles sky surrendered a handful of visible stars, I could almost forgive her for it.

I was acutely aware that I didn't just want to follow in their footsteps—I wanted to leave footprints of my own, something new to be discovered years hence by a relative I would never meet, poring over the Wikipedia entries I was already composing in my mind. But for now, the prospect of my star on the Walk of Fame seemed as remote as the surface of the moon. That didn't stop me from imagining it, of course. I had come to Hollywood to make a name for myself, but also to see how names were created. The machinery of fame fascinated me, and I wanted to understand every gear and lever before stepping onto the conveyor belt.

The streets themselves shimmered with the residue of ambition. Every time I passed beneath the looming billboards along Sunset, I could feel the ghosts of my ancestors watching me, sceptical but also a little bit envious. They had built a dynasty on cigarettes and clever retorts, but the world had changed; nobody smoked anymore, and a kind of relentless sincerity had replaced cleverness. Probably they would have dismissed it out of hand, but I knew better. I had studied their press clippings, their letters, seen the way they courted attention even while pretending to disdain it. Obscurity was a fate none of us could bear.

My acting auditions were still on the horizon, a future event that loomed larger in my imagination the closer it drew. In the meantime, I played the part of a diligent ingenue, all the while rehearsing my answers for questions I hoped interviewers would someday ask. The truth was that I wanted everything: the applause, the criticism, the sense of being an object of fascination. I wanted to prove that I could be more than a derivative work, that my talent could eclipse the historical footnotes of my illustrious forebears.

However, that is not for a few days, and I am currently conducting research on modelling and identifying the best modelling agencies to join. As I know I am one of the most attractive women in the world, there is no point in being humble if that is the truth. Still, I understood that the industry was a jungle, and only fools mistook self-assurance for preparation. The first evening after my arrival found me sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, bathed in the blue light of my laptop, scrolling through agency websites with a cold, methodical detachment. It was astonishing how many names I recognised—not just the agencies themselves, but the faces of their talent, people whose bone structures had haunted my adolescence, plastered across the magazine covers stacked in my grandmother's dressing room. There was a peculiar kind of intimacy in this, as if the entire business was a distant family I was simultaneously estranged from and bound to by blood.

But that is not for a few days, and currently I am doing my research regarding modelling and what will be the best modelling agencies to join, as I know I am one of the best-looking women in the world, and there is no point being humble if that is the truth. Still, I understood that the industry was a jungle, and only fools mistook self-assurance for preparation. The first evening after my arrival found me sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, bathed in the blue light of my laptop, scrolling through agency websites with a cold, methodical detachment. It was astonishing, really, how many names I recognized—not just the agencies themselves, but the faces of their talent, people whose bone structures had haunted my adolescence, plastered across the magazine covers stacked in my grandmother's dressing room. There was a peculiar kind of intimacy in this, as if the entire business was a distant family I was simultaneously estranged from and bound to by blood.

I drew up a spreadsheet, listing agencies by reputation, recent scandals. I watched hours of behind-the-scenes documentaries, all the while noting which photographers carried themselves like sociopaths and which ones seemed likely to respect boundaries. Each time I looked up from the glowing screen, the view from my suite's window—sunset pouring molten gold down the glass towers—reminded me that I wasn't just a tourist. This was reconnaissance. I was a Lamarr Olivier; we had always believed in the pretense of destiny.

But even legends needed a killer portfolio.

The next morning I woke early, traded silk pajamas for a fitted white tank and jeans, and set off for the only catwalk that mattered before ten a.m.: Rodeo Drive. Here, the pavement was so clean it gleamed, and the shop windows reflected back the kind of woman I wanted to be—sophisticated, untouchable, but always a little bit hungry. The sales assistants clocked me immediately; they have a sixth sense about women who are on the edge of becoming someone. Within an hour, I was draped in crisp Balenciaga, soft Celine, the kind of understated glamour that looked best when barely trying at all. The dressing rooms became a theater, each outfit a new scene; I practiced gazes in the triptych mirrors, fine-tuning the angle of my jaw, the degree of my disinterest.

As I left the last boutique, arms heavy with sharp tailoring and wispy silks, my phone buzzed. It was my agent, Mara, who I'd strong-armed into representing me only after a lunch where I spoke mostly in existential questions. She was more accustomed to indie film ingenues than burgeoning supermodels, but she was nothing if not efficient.

"Rose, darling, I have three names for you," she said, not bothering with pleasantries. "You want classic LA, you go to Celeste. You want art-house, you go to Toshi. If you want a viral moment, you go to Rafael. Pick your poison."

"Why not all three?" I replied, balancing my phone between my cheek and shoulder as I tried not to drop a shopping bag.

"Because you don't want to look desperate, sweetheart," Mara said, with the resigned patience of someone managing a beautiful storm. "Celeste is expecting you at two. She's a legend. Do not be late, do not wear anything floral, and—" she paused for gravity—"bring attitude."

I hung up, the plan crystallising in my mind. I had read enough about Celeste to know she was infamous for breaking spirits and launching a select few into the stratosphere. I was determined to be one of the latter.

The drive to Celeste's studio was a cliché—a convertible, a valise of couture beside me, pop music bleeding from the stereo—but I savored every moment. This was how you built mythology: one perfectly timed cliché at a time. The studio itself was tucked behind an unmarked door in West Hollywood, its entryway a corridor lined with polaroids of the beautiful and the doomed. Celeste met me at the door, all cheekbones and espresso eyes, her handshake a test of both grip and indifference.

She looked me up and down. "Lamarr Olivier," she announced, as if calling roll at an elite academy. "You're early. Good."

Inside, assistants buzzed like drones around a nucleus of light and curated chaos. Celeste gestured to a makeup chair. "Strip down, show me what you're working with, then we'll talk clothes."

I complied, determined not to let nerves show. The camera, when it arrived, was a beast—vintage, heavy, more weapon than tool. Celeste circled me, muttering phrases like "good lines" and "killer clavicle," while her team adjusted lighting and dabbed powder on my cheekbones.

The shoot itself was a blur. I cycled through the new clothes, each change met with a different persona: sullen, haughty, impish, serene. Celeste barked commands in a staccato rhythm, demanding more sharpness, more ambiguity, less self-awareness. It was exhausting and exhilarating.

By the end of the session, I felt like I'd run a marathon through a hall of mirrors. Celeste reviewed the shots in silence, then turned her gaze to me, appraising.

"You have something," she said at last. "Not sure what, but it's there. I'll have the proofs to your agent by tomorrow." She dismissed me with a flick of her cigarette, as if uncertain whether to expect a phoenix or a paper doll.

Walking back to my car, I felt a strange buoyancy. The first battle was over; the war had just begun.

As I slid behind the wheel, my phone buzzed again—Mara, of course. "How did it go?" she demanded, with the hunger of someone who needed a win as much as I did.

"We got what we needed," I replied, voice steady. "Send me Toshi's address—let's keep the momentum."

She laughed, delighted. "That's my girl."

I hung up, feeling less like prey and more like a predator in waiting. The city was open to me, a labyrinth of ambition and accidents.

I sped off down Sunset, the wind in my hair and the promise of the next shoot on my mind.