"Matthew Horner Visits Britney in the Hospital and Stays the Night—Is Their Romance Confird?"
Even Matthew himself hadn't expected to land on the front pages of so many tabloids this way, becoming an overnight sensation known to countless people.
"Matthew Horner reportedly spent the night in Britney's hospital room, and according to our sources, the two were engaged in..."
One tabloid featured a reporter's comntary written as if he had personally witnessed the event.
Another even published the photo of Matthew in Rachel's car from the day before, accusing him of, quote, "standing on two boats at the sa ti."
As for Matthew's identity, the press had mostly uncovered it, and the details were now public.
Many journalists were astonished that a minor actor like Matthew had worked with Angelina Jolie and Winona Ryder on his very first film, and had even landed a significant role in Ridley Scott's new epic, Gladiator.
Matthew, for his part, rembered the advice from his two agents and maintained a steadfast silence, anyti and anywhere.
"Eric." At a golf club in Orange County, southeast of Los Angeles, Helen Herman, acting as a caddie, handed a club to the man beside her. "I wouldn't recomnd soone to you who hasn't already earned so fa and experience."
She had made the trip not only to avoid Britney Spears's agent and record label but, more importantly, to et with a man nad Eric Bork.
"I know, the so-called boyfriend of Britney Spears everyone's buzzing about," Eric said, taking the club. "The one who was in Girl, Interrupted and Ridley's Gladiator."
Helen smiled and followed Eric to the next hole. She had done enough research to know that the show Eric was working on required a large number of actors who weren't yet well-known.
Eric walked ahead, remarking, "Helen, you should be talking to Tom Hanks or Steven Spielberg."
"I wish I could," Helen replied. "But my father wouldn't make the call, so I had to co to you."
Walking behind Eric, Helen continued, "The series is about war, isn't it? There must be a lot of characters."
Eric paused, considered for a mont, and said, "It's true, there are quite a few supporting roles. Tell you what, give Matthew Horner's information to my secretary. I'll add him to the audition list."
"Thank you, I—" Helen began, but Eric cut her off. "Don't thank
yet. That's all I can do. I can't say whether he'll pass the audition or not."
Helen nodded gently, still saying, "Thank you anyway, Eric."
She knew that Eric was a relatively low-level screenwriter on the series and that the true architects of this television miniseries were Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg.
In the presence of such titans, he had little say.
Having done Helen a favor, Eric added, "The production team will hold auditions in Los Angeles, then head to England and France to prepare for filming. All the characters are soldiers, so have your actor train as much as possible."
Helen thought of Matthew's toned body, sculpted by years of physical labor, and said, "That's one thing you won't have to worry about."
Eric gripped his club tighter and said to Helen, "Co on, let's head to the next hole."
They continued their ga, and when Eric's mood seed particularly bright, Helen ventured, "Matthew has a great look. Could you give him so kind of tough-guy role?"
Truthfully, she didn't have much faith in Matthew's acting abilities. Compared to a psychologically complex part, playing a tough guy in a war drama was less demanding and more likely to appeal to audiences.
In any case, it was a minor supporting role, so Eric didn't refuse. With a grand, confident wave of his hand, he declared, "No problem. Just wait for the news."
...
In the Westwood district of Los Angeles, Matthew was holed up in his apartnt, not daring to go out. He had spotted paparazzi lurking below early that morning and had canceled his usual morning run to avoid trouble. Besides, he had plenty to keep him occupied in his room.
Reading was a daily routine, and his comprehension had improved sowhat over the last few months. He could handle ordinary texts with relative ease, but his writing had seen no improvent at all.
The good thing was, he wanted to beco a Hollywood star, so his subpar writing skills didn't matter much.
After all, the future was the age of social dia; if you wanted to express an opinion or do anything else online, you just had to type.
He had looked into whether blogs existed in North Arica and had considered starting one to post articles and behind-the-scenes photos, but unfortunately, computers were expensive right now, so he decided to wait.
Another reason was that Matthew had not only bought a new phone but had also acquired a used television and a projector last week. He rented a stack of films starring Marlon Brando, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Daniel Day-Lewis, and mounted a large mirror on his apartnt wall to study the acting styles of these legendary perforrs.
He had also consulted his acting coach, David Astor, a veteran of non-academic acting, who taught him an alternative thod of mimicking famous Hollywood actors and provided him with a collection of their finest on-screen performances.
According to David, if Matthew kept practicing, he might not beco a top-tier actor, but his skills would at least reach the mid-level of a professional.
Turning on the television and inserting a cassette of The Godfather into the player, Matthew watched for a while before sitting on a chair with the sa dignified posture as Marlon Brando in the film. Since no one else was around, he could only observe himself in the mirror. For so reason, compared to the Marlon Brando on the screen, he felt his efforts were futile.
It was true that acting was judged by subjective criteria, but that was only after it reached a certain standard. The gap between a newcor like Matthew and an established master was glaringly obvious.
For soone of average talent like himself, the only way to improve his acting was through long-term, intensive practice.
Perhaps there were super-geniuses who burst onto the scene fully ford, but they were exceedingly rare.
After watching the tape of The Godfather, Matthew rewound it, found a few scenes that had impressed him, and stood before the mirror, imitating Marlon Brando and Al Pacino, talking to himself.
Even though the room was empty and there was no one to guide him, he approached the exercise with complete seriousness, fully imrsing himself in the characters and scenes of the film.
In the twenty years he had lived on the other side of the Pacific, Matthew had never been so focused. Having been in the acting business for several months, he understood clearly that for small-ti actors with no connections, opportunities were paramount. Seizing those fleeting chances required ability, but ability was not sothing ordinary people were naturally born with.
He once read a widely circulated story on his smartphone, though the details were starting to fade. In the story, an actor, after winning an Oscar, told his acting coach about his achievent. The teacher replied dismissively that none of the students he had ever taught had worse acting skills than him. He was an Oscar winner only because he had landed an excellent role in a great film, and that was no reason for pride or boasting.
This statent, while harsh, illustrated the importance of opportunity. But the most crucial part of the story, in his opinion, was that the Oscar winner got the role, and the others didn't.
Why didn't those other actors get the part, while the Oscar winner did? Was it a deliberate act of God? Was it luck? It was neither. The ability to get a chance and seize it was, in itself, a skill.
That ability was often more important than the acting skills the teacher emphasized.
Matthew was so engrossed in his practice that he didn't feel his stomach rumbling with hunger until it was completely dark outside. He peeked out the window and, seeing no sign of reporters, changed his clothes and headed to the diner where he and Michael had eaten before.
...
The sun had set, and the evening was dark as Michael walked out of a small restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, having just finished dinner.
After a period of recovery, his "injury" had finally healed, but the mory of the insult and the awkwardness of seeking dical help still stung.
At the ti, the doctor had told him in no uncertain terms that his injury wasn't serious, but that eating food he shouldn't have and drinking alcohol had led to local redness and inflammation, which had only made it worse.
Michael imdiately recalled the lunch Matthew had bought him and realized he had been set up.
Unsure of where Matthew lived, he had spent the last few days loitering around Red Penguin Services, hoping to find the despicable, disgusting, shaless bastard and settle the score.
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