The sinister side of celebrity fandom is inverted in this razor-sharp debut following the descent of the world’s most beloved movie star into a dark and disastrous obsession—perfect for readers of You and My Sister, the Serial Killer.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Hannah Beer’s I Make My Own Fun, which releases on October 14th 2025.
Everyone knows Marina, the A-list movie star. But very few know Marina, the absolute monster. Years at the top have proved that whatever Marina wants, she gets. But when she meets bartender Anna, Marina discovers something that can’t be bought: Anna’s affection. As Anna remains unmoved, Marina’s advances become more desperate, and her obsession more dangerous.
The price of fame is heavy—and someone will have to pay for it …
‘Marina! Marina, look this way—’
‘Yes, Marina, you look incredible, turn to me, look over your shoulder, that’s the shot—’
‘Henry, Marina, let’s get one of you together—that’s it, lean in, you guys look beautiful!’
A lot of my peers hate this part. They can’t deal with the camera flashes, all those people shouting their name, the cacophony of screams that come from the crowd beyond the carpet. Not me though. I love standing there, swishing my hair over my shoulders, feeling the weight of millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds in my ears, smoothing my hands over a gown that’s been hand-sewn especially for me by a team of people in a dark studio in Paris. You’re never more of a star than at that exact moment, and I never tire of drinking it all in. I don’t even mind the feeling of Henry’s damp palms on the small of my back, or the hot feeling of his breath on the nape of my neck as he leans in close for the money shot. In fact, the high I get from the red carpet is enough to convince even me that there’s some chemistry between Henry and me, at least for those few moments.
It’s the bit that comes after the carpet that’s the real drag. Sitting on a stage in some shitty cinema, under a wavering spotlight, answering yet more mindless questions from parasitic critics without an inventive bone in their body? Talk about crashing back to earth. I’m even less impressed by the quality we’re getting today. It’s almost impossible not to zone them out when all the journalists ask their questions like they’re reading the six o’clock news, totally one-note and devoid of any enthusiasm. I’m cycling through my usual, artfully considered responses, sprinkling them with an airy laugh here and a gentle brush of Henry’s arm there, when something pulls me quite violently out of autopilot.
‘… and Marina, you’ve been acting for half your life, and many of us—myself included—grew up watching you on screen. How do you feel about turning thirty and entering a new stage of your career?’
That question reaches me like the wail of an ambulance on a city street. At first I barely register it, but by the end of it, the words ring impossibly loud in my ears. I look towards the person who posed it to me, a young blonde girl with an Instagram-filter face and long, tapered nails rapping against a TikTok-branded microphone. I blink at her, her words circling my thoughts. A new stage of my career? I’m hardly Dame Helen fucking Mirren. I’m turning thirty. Thirty, for Christ’s sake! Most people are barely off the ground at this point. As my mind scrambles to find an appropriate answer to the question I’m suddenly aware that the room is silent. It’s my turn to say something, clearly. Laugh, I tell myself. I laugh. But I’m still drawing a blank, and my laugh trails off into nothing, again—what the fuck is going on with me?—until Henry, prompted by Jocelyn, off stage, says:
‘If I may just jump in on behalf of both of us—’ Thank God, I think, and then almost immediately, looking directly at him, Don’t screw this up, Henry. ‘I think we’re excited about what the next decade holds for us. Well, I know I am at least. And though Marina is far too modest to say so herself, I know she has some really ground-breaking things in the pipeline. But I mean, when does she not, right?’
The audience laughs. Relief runs over me like warm water.
‘Henry’s too kind! But yes, I couldn’t be more excited about what’s to come. You know, it’s a real honour to get older, and hopefully wiser, and as a woman in this industry, I just can’t wait to tell the sorts of stories that do that process justice …’ The chairperson nods enthusiastically, and selects another question from the audience.
As the discussion rolls on, I feel an icy, aimless rage hardening inside my stomach, and by the end of the session it’s found its target: Jocelyn, who I trusted to prepare me for these things and has substantially failed to do so. If she had done her job properly, I wouldn’t have needed to rely on Henry to answer that question. In fact, yes: if she had done her job properly, there wouldn’t have been influencers in the audience at all. Critics are pointless, but at least they know their place. By the time we move through to the screening room, I’m so angry I have to channel years of resilience training just to not scream at her in front of everyone. As I sit down on one of the red seats and Jules slides in next to me, I turn to her and say Jocelyn’s name through my smile. She looks at me blankly.
‘Do I need to spell it out?’ I say, barely above a whisper. ‘Get. Rid. Of. Her.’
Jules’s blank face transforms into something that resembles worry.
‘Do you want to be next?’ I ask. ‘Do it as soon as the film starts. I don’t want to see her again after the lights come up. Am I clear?’ She nods. I see her pull out her phone, to make a note of her task, before replacing it in her purse and squirming in her seat. Then I look her directly in the eyes and add, ‘Thank you, Jules. I appreciate it,’ and watch her shoulders soften, relieved that I think she’s doing a good job. Jules believes her hard work will pay off one day. As long as I feed that thought every now and then, she’ll never leave me.
As the cast, the crew and their ‘loved ones’ pile in to watch the movie, my anger starts to dissolve. I check the Omega watch I keep in my bag, and feel lighter: I’ve got fun to come this evening. It’s 9:30 p.m., which means if I leave after the opening credits, I’ll get to the bar in perfect time to watch Mr Sunday Crossword get his little heart broken.
