Breaking Hollywood Read online

  ‘Look, I’m not worried. I’m really not. There are any number of wackos out there and I think this has to be some idiot messing around trying to get himself some YouTube notoriety. I was furious when I saw the kids on that video, but obviously if the guy was going to take a shot, he’d have done so. He didn’t. That tells me it’s all hype and nonsense. I’ve upped the security to keep everyone happy, but I promise there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Silence. He nudged her with his foot again. Damn, it seemed like she was taking this pretty seriously.

  ‘Davie, I think we should talk—’ she started, then stopped as the glass door slid open and Ivanka appeared, looking typically unimpressed at the vision in front of her.

  ‘People at gate,’ she announced, her thick Russian accent clipping the words. ‘The tall chick who go after man for money. Man die.’

  It took Davie a few seconds. ‘Carmella Cass?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Pursing her lips, she flounced back into the kitchen. Damn, that woman had issues. He liked to think she’d been an assassin in a past life and that her brusque exterior disguised a fierce loyalty that would compel her to defend his life, should that be required. Or perhaps she just hated the whole world. Either way, she was the best damn housekeeper in California, so she was staying.

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  Sarah returned his gaze. ‘What?’

  ‘You were going to say something before Ivanka interrupted us.’

  Sarah shook it off. ‘No, it was nothing.’ Rising up, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, giving him the opportunity to pull her onto his knee and kiss her properly.

  ‘Davie, I need to get to work,’ she groaned, pulling away. ‘I’ll call you later. Then if you’re lucky, I might come back tonight and let you do some of that stuff to me again.’

  ‘See, I’m irresistible.’

  ‘Oh, baby, you sure are,’ came the reply. But not from Sarah. Sarah had already disappeared back inside, no doubt keen to avoid the inevitable circus that was about to ensue.

  Carmella Cass had appeared in the doorway, arms wide open, looking like something from a cola ad in the 1970s. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts, a hippy fringed T-shirt and a garland of flowers in her hair, all of which was accessorized by a body that was made by God for billboards.

  It was, apparently, also made for relationships with men way, way older than she was, Davie realized, as Jack Gore walked out behind her.

  Oh crap. He’d never had any time for scruples or principles in business, but some kind of weird loyalty to Mirren surfaced and he felt his $30k porcelain veneers begin to grind.

  It was hard to picture this guy and Mirren together. He used to have the respect of the industry, thanks to a back catalogue of movies that made serious money and were mostly critically acclaimed, but in the last couple of years his standing had nosedived. His last two movies had bombed at the box office – never a good thing in an industry in which you’re only as hot as your last $100-million movie. On top of that, the well-publicized affair with Mercedes Dance, a twenty-two-year-old actress and star of the last film, had not only cost him his marriage to Mirren but had also damaged his personal image. And on the subject of image, what was with the physical overhaul? He’d always been a pretty cool, good-looking guy, ageing into a Kevin Costner style of craggy attraction. But now?

  Davie bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself from saying something wildly offensive. The guy was a walking cliché. Sure, he’d clearly been working out, but those half-melons in his upper arms had to be bicep implants. And just in case the eyes weren’t drawn to that area, there was some serious ink to catch the attention. He was wearing a beanie hat in 75-degree heat, which meant one of two things – either he was auditioning for a boy band or he was covering up plugs.

  ‘Davie, my man,’ he said, holding out his hand in greeting.

  My man? Davie bristled again. He wasn’t ‘his man’. A wave of hatred came all the way from somewhere around 1994. Davie and Mirren had split a few months after they came to LA and it wasn’t long afterwards that he’d heard she was seeing Jack Gore. Next thing he knew, they were married and spent . . . What? Nineteen years together?

  It was hard now to understand what Mirren had ever seen in this guy, but hey, hadn’t they all made their fair share of shit choices?

  And by the look of Jack Gore, he was still making them.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ Davie beckoned, and then watched as Gore held out a seat for Carmella, letting his hand sit proprietorially on her shoulder for a few moments before sitting next to her. The moment was only broken by Ivanka thudding a tray of coffee, water and fruit onto the middle of the table. Davie winked at her, for once on the same insolent page, before turning back to Carmella.

  ‘So how are you holding up?’ he asked gently. It seemed like the right thing to say. It was only a couple of weeks since the funeral and it had to hurt.

  ‘Yeah, I’m, like, still really bummed out.’ She somehow made it sound like she had a flat tyre. Or had missed a flight. Or had bought a pair of shoes only to discover that they were 50 per cent off the next day.

  ‘But y’know, as Jack has been teaching me –’ she fired a sweet smile in Gore’s direction, prompting Bicep-Man to put his hand on hers ‘– Jizzo would have wanted me to, like, move on, y’know? He was all about life. All about my happiness. So I gotta honour that.’

  Not for the first time, Davie realized that the contrast between the way she looked and the way she spoke and acted was bizarre. Carmella Cass was one of the most beautiful women in a town stacked with beautiful women. She was a goddess. Physical perfection. Long-limbed, breathtaking curves, flowing blonde hair and a face that was so exquisitely contoured it looked like it had been carved by an artist. This was the Christie Brinkley of the post-millennium world. Somehow that gave the impression that she should be smart and focused, yet she was, undoubtedly, wired to an orbiting planet. And right now, either she was off her meds or she’d been indulging in chemical or alcohol enhancements before her morning cereal.

  Despite that, he recognized this was no time for honesty or sense.

  ‘Of course you do,’ he agreed. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’

  ‘And he would have wanted the show to continue. You know my baby wanted me to be a star.’

  ‘Yep, he did,’ Davie agreed, wondering when she was going to get to the point. When he’d agreed to meet her here this morning, he’d been sure she was going to ask him to divert Jizzo’s share of future royalties from reruns of the show. He’d already had his people look into it and there was a clause in the contract that could make that happen. Jizzo had no family, no dependants, so the unlikelihood of it being legally contested was another win.

  ‘So I think the show has to go on.’

  ‘What?’

  Davie had heard her. He was just stalling for time while he ran this one through in his head. How would that work? A show riding on one person? He’d done that before with a car-crash ex-movie star, Lana Delasso, and it had been a disaster when she’d bailed out. Show over. Ensemble casts had the benefit that if one person left, the show still went on. The Real Housewives franchise was testimony to that. But Carmella on her own? She wasn’t big enough, wild enough or stable enough to carry a solo show.

  ‘We should do another season,’ she pitched in again.

  This had to be hard for her. She’d just lost her boyfriend and therefore her career. She must be heartbroken. Devastated. No wonder she was making desperate suggestions and clutching at unwatchable straws.

  He went back in with a sympathetic tone. ‘But, honey, the show wouldn’t be the same without Jizzo . . .’

  ‘Replace him.’

  For the second time, ‘What?’

  That’s when Davie realized that her hand was tracing a line up Jack Gore’s thigh.

  ‘Me and Jack are, like, together now and he can take Jizzo’s place.’

  Jack took the cue to join the pitch. ‘Ma
n, it makes sense. Look, I’ve always been behind the camera, but it’s time I stepped forward, let people see who I really am. Let people know the real me. I mean, how incredible would it be for your viewers to get inside the mind of a movie legend? You can give that to them, Davie. You can be the man.’

  Davie’s internal response was summarized with a silent ‘Oh Christ.’

  Steven Spielberg was a legend. Scorsese, Lucas and Tarantino too. But Jack Gore? Successful, noted, perhaps even – in his day – brilliant. But the guy was no legend. No denying he scored big on self-esteem and ego, though.

  He wondered if repeatedly thudding his head on the table would convey his reaction to Jack’s delusion and narcissism. He should have seen this one coming. Jack’s aspiration wasn’t unusual – guys who’d spent years in the industry behind the scenes or on the back end of the camera frequently secretly longed to be in the limelight. The musical director who wanted to step out from behind the piano and be the star. The fashion designer who’d tired of dressing the A-list and decided he wanted to join it.

  Singers wanted to be actors. Actors wanted to be singers. Actors wanted to be directors. Directors wanted to be actors. No wonder no one in this town was ever happy.

  Again, Davie’s mind went onto fast forward. That was his talent, the thing that had brought him his millions. He was a hustler, always looking for opportunities, seeing ten different ways to make a show and deliver a package that viewers would love. He’d done that with American Stars and Here’s Davie Johnston, and he’d done that with the other shows he produced – The Dream Machine and yep, Beauty and the Beats.

  He saw potential where others didn’t, saw disaster where others saw a sure thing. And – unlike life – when it came to the shows, he was always right.

  So how would this show look?

  Carmella Cass was the messed-up poster girl with a daddy complex.

  Jack Gore? The guy was a walking ego. Vain. Deluded. Clearly thought of himself as far more important than he was. The extreme grooming pointed to self-obsession. The extreme idiocy pointed to a midlife crisis. The fact that he was clearly shagging Carmella Cass pointed to a weird thing for women way too young for him. There had to be thirty years between them. Maybe even thirty-five.

  The two of them together was bordering on creepy.

  ‘We wanna call it Beauty and the Best,’ Jack added, notching up Davie’s next diagnosis, which was going along the megalomania scale.

  Beauty and the Best.

  It was ridiculous. Completely inane. And it made him feel a little queasy.

  And that’s how he knew it would be a hit.

  21.

  ‘A Good Heart’ – Fergal Sharkey

  Mirren

  Six p.m. A ringing phone. Mirren was tempted to ignore it, but buckled after four rings, mainly to stop the flutter of anxiety that rose inside her.

  For years, she’d panicked every time the phone went, because she was terrified it would bring her bad news about Chloe. It usually did.

  Her daughter was wasted in a club. She’d been arrested. She’d escaped from rehab. She owed money to a dealer. She was just calling her mother to tell her she was a fucking bitch for cutting off her allowance. She was sorry. She loved her mom. She was gonna change. Could she have some cash?

  Now the apprehension was there for a different reason. Now, it was pure anxiety, flecked with hope that it was Brad Bernson, calling to tell her it was all a false alarm and that her mother was currently lying on a sunlounger in the Costa del Sol with some wealthy but brutally cruel hard man. After all, that was Marilyn’s type.

  The thought caused her to shudder and say a silent prayer that she was right. Losing Chloe had broken her heart. Jack being unfaithful after nearly two decades of marriage had made her mad as hell. But the thought of Marilyn coming back into her life sparked off an emotion that encompassed rage and hatred, but also topped those with a fear as to the carnage she could cause. To use Logan’s vernacular, the story Marilyn could tell would do so much damage to Mirren, Zander and Davie that she ‘owned’ them.

  And that wasn’t a position that Mirren was going to tolerate. Not now.

  ‘Hello?’ she said calmly, hoping to hear Brad’s low, assured voice answer.

  ‘Hi, Mirren. It’s Perry.’

  Mirren tried to disguise her disappointment as she heard her lawyer’s greeting. ‘Hi, Perry. How are you?’

  ‘I have a massive pain in my ass,’ Perry answered truthfully. ‘Permission to speak frankly?’

  ‘Granted.’ Mirren wondered when Perry had ever done otherwise. It was all part of her steel-balled charm.

  ‘Listen, I just wanted to give you an update. Pictor are still refusing to budge, and their new lawyer is an arrogant prick.’

  ‘They’re not moving at all?’

  ‘Nope. I think we need to sit down with Mark Bock and fire some shots. And on the other side of the fence, Wes Lomax practically had an orgasm when I called him. I’ve sent the meeting date over to you.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me. I’d like to see if we can resolve this on good terms, with as little fallout as possible. I’ll get back to you. And thanks, Perry.’

  ‘No problem. Wish I had better news.’

  So did Mirren. Sighing, she hung up. This was the last thing she needed right now, but hey, at least it was a distraction.

  A glutton for punishment, she pulled up the document she’d been working on. The next Clansman was already in the can. It had been a tough three-month shoot, beginning only a couple of weeks after Chloe had passed away, but she’d welcomed the escape. Now, they were in the editing stage, and the launch date was set for six months ahead, which meant entirely different departments of her company were ramping up the activity. Marketing were finalizing strategies and timescales. Distribution were making plans. International rights were working on contracts. Finance were fretting over budgets, and there were lots of those guys. Sometimes it seemed like talentless bean counters were running the business now.

  Mirren was overseeing every department, checking, double-checking, moving things along. Not that she didn’t trust her team. Like Perry, most of them had been with her since the start, and they were all, in her opinion, the best in their fields.

  Mirren was so engrossed in the spreadsheet in front of her that the knock on the office door made her jump.

  Lex Callaghan popped his head inside. ‘Hey, just thought I’d come say hello.’

  Mirren’s smile was instant and genuine. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything?’

  ‘Nope, you’re not.’

  ‘Great, because I brought beer.’ He swept his hand, carrying two bottles of Bud, in front of him to prove the point.

  ‘You know that office rules strictly prohibit drinking on the premises?’ she said, as she took one and screwed off the top.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m hoping you’ll fire me and I can go live a life of obscurity in the mountains.’

  One of the many attractions of Lex Callaghan was that there was a good chance he meant that. There were very few stars who sauntered to the beat of Lex’s drum. Ten years ago, she’d been casting the first Clansman movie and coming up blank day after day. The Clansman had been her creation, a sixteenth-century Scotsman who lived and would die for his land, his family and his honour. He was rough, and he could be brutal, but he had an inherent strength that inspired both loyalty and love. In hindsight, she could see that he was her fairy tale. The man she created to encompass everything she had ever wanted. Millions of readers felt the same connection.

  Casting had proven to be a nightmare. Actor after actor tried out for the part, but none of them was right. No, the Clansman’s nails were not buffed. He didn’t do yoga. Or take steroids to pump his pecs. He didn’t live in the Hollywood Hills or drive a Lamborghini. Yet every man who tried out for the part made her think of one or more of those things.

  Until Lex walked in.

  There was dirt under his fingernails bec
ause a horse on his ranch had broken loose that morning. He wore jeans that had never seen an iron or the inside of a designer boutique. His jet-black hair fell over the searing blue of his eyes; his shoulders were so broad Mirren knew instantly he could carry the weight of the world. He could swim across frozen lochs, scale mountains and run through valleys. This guy was a warrior. Authentic, hard, with a soul that scorned anything fake or superficial.

  And best of all, his Scottish grandmother had taught him how to adopt a Highland burr that could make the hairs on the back of Mirren’s neck stand on end. He was the Clansman.

  He could also have been a Bond. She’d heard the rumours that the Bond team were after him at the same time. He’d passed the stringent background checks they inflicted on their 007s, succeeding where a famous Aussie action man, an English West End star and Zander Leith had failed.

  For Mirren, their connection had been instant. Lex shunned the celebrity circuit, hated anything that involved a tie and just wanted to do a good job, then go home to his wife, who was, quite literally, back on the ranch.

  A couple of hours away on a Santa Barbara plain, Cara ran an equine therapy centre for addicts, using the land and nature to break the cycle of drug and alcohol abuse, and heal the hurt that made so many users pick up a bottle or a needle. Mirren had even sent Chloe there, but she wasn’t ready. She’d spent one night in the stables and then called her dealer to come collect her. Too much money, too many demons, not enough sense to see it would kill her.

  Lex sat down on the leather sofa under the window in her office. A low, one-storey building, it was tucked away in the corner of the Pictor lot, right next to a park setting that had been used in a dozen movies.

  ‘Just thought I’d see how you were doing,’ Lex said, straight to the point, as ever. He had absolutely no time for small talk or the inane niceties that came with the business.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  He looked at her sceptically as she got up and joined him on the sofa.

  ‘No, really, I am. Some days are crap; some days are good. Today is OK.’

  She gestured to the piles of paperwork on her desk. ‘It helps that we’re just about to kick off again and I’m drowning in work. If I ever disappear, I’ll have suffocated behind that lot.’