Visitors were asked to write a short story on modern celebrity. The winner would get star billing on the Steffi site as well as having Andrew Crofts as a mentor to help work up the story into a novel, find an agent, publisher and so on.

Short Listed: Frozen Assets
By Janine Beacham

“He’s to be put ‘on hold’ for six months,” says Crampton. “Only six, and that’s that. His publicists can stick their demands.” I nod and polish the test tubes, wishing I could stick them in my ears.
     Crampton hates celebrities. Says they’re taking over Life On Hold – stealing from the people who really need it. The seriously ill. Those needing donor organs, or waiting for improved treatments. Not the healthy, wealthy and unwise.
     The Sleeping Beauties, he calls them. The Rip Van Winkles. Treating Life on Hold like some convenient form of carbonite.
     “Think they’re immortal,” he grunts. “Not likely. Think life is like ads on TV. Only want the best bits.”
     But in a way, I can understand. Even the most beautiful people are airbrushed on magazine covers, pegged into clothes, made up like dolls. And in twenty years where will they be? Thirty years? Fifty?
     Now even Neil Harper’s on the list. Mr Thinking Woman’s Crumpet.
     The challenge is to keep him ‘hot’, and the fans keen. Not just keen – fever pitch. Swearing their loyalty. Printing T-shirts. Even getting tattoos. I’d love to get a tattoo, just to see what Crampton would say.
     Suddenly he pokes my arm. I fumble with the test tubes. Crampton rearranges his features, becoming personable. Neil Harper is here, escorted by his publicist.
     Our lab coats look drab next to the publicist girl. She gives me a bemused look. Harper, however, is casually and comfortably dressed. I suddenly wish the place was more welcoming. It reeks of disinfectant.
     Harper shakes hands with Crampton. “Thanks for letting me in at short notice.”
     “Not at all,” says Crampton, not mentioning the fortune he’s been paid. Even he seems a little starstruck. I smile, proud of his reputation. Harper should be awed to meet him, not vice versa.
     “Any last words for your fans?” the publicist says hopefully.
     ‘Just see you in six months.”
    She struts back out, her smile fixed.
     “Doesn’t like the process, eh?” says Crampton. “Scares some people off.”
     “Oh, don’t mind her,” says Harper, kindly. “She knows it’s how people are going to stay in this business. Plastic surgery isn’t enough any more.”
     Crampton grunts. “Never held with plastic surgery, myself.”
     “Or toupees,” jokes Harper, running a hand through still-thick hair. “It’ll be like a long, refreshing nap. Or going overseas on holiday. No one asking for autographs, or taking sneak pics of me on the beach. A holiday without the sunburn, or getting mugged.”
     Something in his tone makes Crampton look hard at him. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Not if you’re not certain.”
     “No, no, it’s all sorted out. My family’s been urging me to do this more months.”
     “If you would prefer - ”
     “No.” Harper sets his jaw. “No.”
     A pause. I rattle the test tubes.
     “Well then.” Crampton turns briskly. “Let’s get you settled.”
     Harper has signed the forms. Had the medical. There’s no other reason to say no. He submits to a last blood pressure test, changes into a hospital gown, and tosses down the required tablets. “Romeo, I drink to thee,” he jokes.
     “Sorry?” says Crampton.
     “Never mind.”
     Harper turns to the pod, smiles, and swallows. I pat his forehead with a cloth. He smiles at me, reading my name tag. “Thanks, Kelly.”
     Once the pills take effect it’s easy. He settles dozily into the pod. We work carefully and quickly, like pilots before takeoff. The equipment must be double-checked and Harper made comfortable. When all is secure, Crampton takes a deep breath of relief. Harper is under, peacefully silent. No interruptions, no interviews, no scandals breaking in the tabloids.
     “You can finish up,” he tells me. “I’ve got a wretched interview. Damned if I’ll do more than one of those a year.”
     It’s pleasantly quiet without him. I clean up for half an hour, washing beakers, and cleaning surfaces of fine dust. Noiselessly I move to the sleep pod. Harper appears serene. The equipment beeps. His vital signs are normal. The right nutrients feeding his body.
     “Why do you do it?” I whisper. “People ask me all the time. Why do you actually do this?”
     Crampton wouldn’t approve of this. He says people should be left in peace. But they look so bloody lonely in there. Even pets and plants get talked to.
     “I know what it’s like to be obsessed – well – to care about your career.” Beep. Beep. “But it’s such a long time.” Beep. “Well, anyway. I’ll play you music. Just in case you can hear it. And I’ll be here when you wake up. You’ll wake up refreshed and ready for your next job.”
     The machinery hums. Under the glass is a tiny, dim spotlight, irradiating his face. He looks – sad. Not peaceful. Sad. I switch off the last light. “Good night, sweet prince,” I murmur. “Sleep well.”