Breaking Hollywood Read online

  Farnsworth shook his hand, his grip tight, his expression giving no hint of jealousy or malice.

  ‘We’re ready to take you through now, Mr Farnsworth,’ the attendant waiting behind the desk informed them. ‘And, Mr Leith, we’ll be ready to take you through in ten minutes.’

  Zander nodded, barely able to digest the words as he watched Adrianna being ushered towards the door by her husband. This wasn’t how he rolled. This was wrong on so many levels. He couldn’t let it happen, didn’t have the patience to let it play out. He had to make it clear how he felt, put all the cards on the table, make a case for giving their relationship a chance to develop into something more than just the best sex he’d ever known. And if she wasn’t prepared to give them that chance, it was time to walk away.

  He stepped forward. Time for some truths.

  ‘Adrianna?’

  23.

  ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ – Green Day

  Sarah

  The breeze from the ocean was doing nothing to clear her head, and neither were the caffeine and high-sugar pastry from the store at the end of her street. Marina del Rey had been Sarah’s third choice of location in which to unpack her suitcase when she’d moved here from Glasgow the previous autumn. Santa Monica was number one, but it was way out of her price bracket. Venice was next, but the combination of bad parking and tourists made it just a little unpredictable for a female living on her own. So in the end, she’d found a gorgeous but small one-bedroom apartment in Marina del Rey – a man-made harbour with six peninsulas, around which 6,000 boats were docked. Her home halfway down Tahiti Way gave her a view out onto a basin packed with yachts and, beyond that, the next strip of apartments on Marquesas Way. The area was largely home to couples and professionals, with families attracted by the still waters of Mother’s Beach. Sarah rarely went to the sands. Instead, she liked to sit on the balcony once the morning haar had burned off, shaded by the balcony above, and write. The lifestyle pieces she was doing for several magazines paid some of the bills, reporting on any major LA stories for the Daily Scot paid some others. But every month, her savings went down just a little bit more, making the urgency to get a book deal increase by the week. And no, saving cash by moving in with Davie wasn’t an option.

  She’d almost told him about Marilyn this morning.

  Almost.

  Although she’d promised Mirren that she wouldn’t, it somehow felt disloyal to keep things from him. But what purpose would telling him serve?

  There was nothing he could do for now, until Mirren’s PI established if Marilyn was even in the country, so all telling him would do was freak him out.

  And Sarah was freaking out enough for both of them.

  She’d be stupid not to wonder if Marilyn was behind the attacks on Davie, but even to her ultra-suspicious, crime reporter’s brain, it was unlikely. Marilyn hadn’t been seen for two decades, as far as Sarah was aware, Marilyn knew no one in LA, and there was no actual evidence that she was here now. The stuff that was happening here was the work of more than one person. Sure, anyone with a bit of cash could buy any kind of services in this town, and if Marilyn had criminal connections in the UK, then it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to expand them across the Pond. But still, the chances that it was her who was wreaking havoc on Davie’s life were slim.

  Sarah finished her apple fritter, knocked back the rest of her coffee and then took the cup and plate inside. Sometimes writing out on the balcony was tough. There was too much temptation to watch the yachts go by, peering inside them, looking for a famous face or inventing a whole imaginary life for a stranger. Whole days could pass and her word count would barely budge, so today she’d rationed herself to breakfast and lunch outside, coming back after meals and working at the laptop that was set up on a gorgeous old console table she’d picked up at the Fairfax and Melrose Flea Market for fifty dollars. It was the only place where you could peruse five-dollar sunglasses while mingling with a crowd that included stars like Courtney Cox, Victoria Beckham and Kate Hudson.

  Relocating to LA was the best decision she’d ever made. There were many things about Glasgow she missed. The humour. The office full of unpredictable characters. The buzz of putting a newspaper out every morning. The drive to make sure that the best breaking stories had her byline on them.

  Other than that, she didn’t miss anyone special from home. It would be lovely to have the occasional Sunday lunch with her parents, but their twice-weekly phone calls filled that void.

  She’d been in a three-year relationship with a lawyer, but that was gone, ended when she caught him indulging in a spot of mutual masturbation with his best friend’s girlfriend over Skype. The mental image thrown up by that memory made her smile. How ridiculous had that been? A grown man, a pillar of society, sitting at his office desk in an expensive suit, tugging on his penis while he watched a vacuous blonde tease her clit with a purple dildo.

  Relationship over, and no, it hadn’t broken her heart. By that time she’d already met Davie and sensed a connection.

  It hadn’t been a tough choice to make the move. It was late February now. If she were back in Glasgow, she’d be in thermal clothes, freezing her arse off in torrential rain while door-stepping some piece of criminal crap. Or on the tail of a bent cop who was tipping off a crime family about their surveillance.

  Here, she was basking in the heat of another glorious day, wearing a vest and denim shorts to go to her day job. True, she was still on the trail of criminal crap, but at least the beverages beat the insipid dishwater spat out by the vending machine at the Daily Scot. She poured another coffee, this time an espresso from the chrome masterpiece that sat on the caramel granite counter in the kitchen. The La Marzocco GS/3 had been a gift from Davie when she moved in, and it perfectly illustrated the differences in their lives – the piece of machinery that made her coffee cost more than two months’ rent.

  After turning on her MacBook, she pulled up her ‘work in progress’ and checked the word count: 40,000 words, with six chapters already written. So far she’d covered the subjects of Hollywood deaths, the ageing process, drugs, alcohol, the club scene and the rise of talentless fame. That was her favourite chapter. A look at the stars who had no extraordinary skill other than to make money. It was the modern-day Pied Piper situation and she was at a loss to explain it. Were people’s lives really so empty that they worshipped at the temple of a nobody because they wore great clothes, or had a sex tape, or had a great ass?

  Loose leaves fell out of her notebook when she turned to the page of scribbles she’d jotted down after last night’s visit to the club. The current chapter was ‘Behind the Fame’, a look at the reality behind the lives the young stars in the town were leading. The image of perfection and gilded privilege masked the fact that half were in therapy, and the main reason the others weren’t was because they were too arrogant and wasted to agree to seek help.

  Over the years there had been so many high-profile examples of teen-star meltdowns, breakdowns, therapy or behaviour that ended with the slamming of a cell door. Britney. Lindsay. Paris. Justin. Sky.

  They were the poster stars for a generation who no longer wanted to be a famous noun. No actors, no footballers, no singers. Now they just wanted to be famous. Didn’t matter how they got there.

  In the club last night, there had been several faces she’d recognized in the crowd. A couple of rising actresses on a hit vampire gorefest. The stars of a reality show based around the boutiques on Melrose. A rapper and his entourage of six stunning models had passed her on the way to the VVIP room. But there was nothing new, nothing that was going to give her a real edge on this subject – and if she was going to get the kind of book deal she needed, she was going to have to pull in something sensational.

  Closing the notebook and switching back to the laptop, she stared at the screen for a few seconds, hoping for inspiration. Nothing. No matter what angle she took, it had been done before. What she needed was fresh information, a new scan
dal, something she got to first, so she was going to have to up her game and get back out into the clubs tonight. There was plenty of material out there. She just had to find it.

  Sighing, she opened the camera function on her laptop. Last night’s phone footage had automatically downloaded from her iCloud and it was much easier to watch on the bigger screen.

  She turned down the volume, having no wish to permeate her calm with the thudding assault of a deafening techno beat.

  The camera started to slowly pan from the left of the screen. As it passed a recess in the far wall, a glimpse of flesh made her press ‘pause’ and zoom in. She hadn’t noticed that the night before. A guy in a fluorescent orange T-shirt, his red jeans pushed down his thighs, had the legs of a girl in a short yellow and green striped dress wrapped round his waist and they were in full-blown sexual motion. Sarah didn’t recognize either of them, so they were obviously just clubbers out for a good time. Although, if she did encounter them in the future, she might suggest that if they wanted to have that good a time, they should probably wear clothes in a colour that didn’t make them look like they were starring in a flick called Rainbow Porn.

  Moving across the room now, the camera dipped down onto the lower floor, taking in the entrance to the room and the two security staff standing there, one of them in conversation with a clubber, the other eyeing the revellers for trouble and potential business for their two-man drug ring. The bar came into shot, populated by the extraordinarily attractive staff who were robbing it blind. Nothing of note there. That was the bar in any club in LA.

  Over to the far corner of the room now, the wild crowd, Jordan Lang and his buddies, all of them coked up and partying, grabbing at the girls in their group. As the son of Kent Lang, one of the most famous producers in the history of film, you’d think he’d have a little more discretion. But no. Sarah had heard through the club-scene gossip that his father had cut him off a long time ago, seeing him for the vile cretin that he undeniably was. It was no secret that he and Mirren’s daughter, Chloe Gore, had been an item for a while. What had she seen in him? Good-looking, yes, but so clearly a grade-A sleazebag. Or douchebag, as they said here.

  The image on the screen stopped as it reached the end of the footage. Nothing of use there so far. Shame. Time to get back to the job of actually putting words onto a page, then. Moving the cursor across the screen, intending to shut down the video function, she inadvertently nudged the ‘play’ button and it started over again. Couple in doorway having sex. Security guys on door, one scanning the room, the other talking to . . .

  Her finger hit the ‘pause’ button like it was a buzzer on a quiz show and she’d suddenly realized she had the right answer in a sudden-death tiebreak.

  She stared. Stared harder. Zoomed in. Stared some more. Changed the angle. Increased the brightness. Panned back out.

  And stared again.

  Neither man was looking in the direction of the camera.

  The security guard, six foot of pure muscle, was stooped over, listening to what the other guy had to say, but their hunched postures didn’t conceal a sleight of hand that was passing something from one man to the other.

  The stranger was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, leather jacket, a beanie hat pulled down low on his forehead, but it was his face that Sarah was fixated on now.

  There was something in his profile that she recognized. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the contours of a face that she had seen many times before.

  Sarah sat back and let the contradictory emotions pull her gut in two different directions.

  This was it. This was the story. The one that would make her name.

  It was also a story she didn’t ever want to write.

  She stared again, hoping to reach a different conclusion.

  But no.

  Standing there, taking a small package from a prolific drug dealer, was a guy who made the hearts of teenage girls across the globe beat faster.

  Standing there was Logan Gore.

  24.

  ‘Crazy World’ – Aslan

  Davie

  ‘For fuck’s sake, can you call those two off? I feel like I’m in some kind of messed-up movie called Honey, I Shrunk the Guy From TV.’ Davie flounced into the room like a petulant child, slamming the door on the two close-protection officers assigned by security chief Mike Feechan. They’d been stuck to him like glue since the moment he left home. He’d come to the studio for a run-through, rehearsal and soundcheck, headed back out and hit the gym, stopped off at the Family Three studio to see the kids, had an awkward conversation with his ex-wife, Jenny, and her life-bitch, Darcy, who just happened to be there at the same time. If those guys really wanted to save his skin, they could start by taking out Darcy fucking Jay every time she sneered about his paternal competency.

  He slumped onto the leather chair at the head of the boardroom table. Mellie was sitting with a coffee and her feet on the desk, taking five minutes off from being producer, director and show runner of the whole fucking world. She acted like he’d just strolled in with a cheery ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘You’re late,’ she told him, like a schoolteacher irritated by an insolent child. It wasn’t far from the truth. ‘You missed Mike Feechan.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Davie, don’t be such a brat. You need him. Some psycho out there has something twisted on you and you need to start taking it seriously. It totally pisses me off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I always thought that if anyone was going to butcher you while you slept, it would be me,’ she said dreamily.

  Davie’s laughter snapped him out of his fugue. ‘OK, so where are we?’

  Mellie checked her watch. ‘An hour until showtime. Don Michael Domas is in dressing room one,’ she said, with the closest thing that came to her being impressed. Domas was one of the five-star ensemble cast on Call Me, the sitcom that was the Friends of this generation. ‘Lauren Finney is in dressing room two. Carmella is in dressing room three, and on a scale of wasted she’s probably a six.’

  ‘She came to the house this morning with Jack Gore. Wants him to replace Jizzo on the show.’

  Mellie looked up, nodded slowly, thinking about it. ‘I used to think he was a pretty impressive guy, but he’s seriously off the rails. Midlife-crisis city. That whole thing with Mercedes Dance last year was a train wreck,’ she mused, citing the on-set affair with the young actress that had destroyed Jack’s marriage to Mirren. ‘And since the DNA test proved he wasn’t Daddy Dearest and his movie tanked, he’s just a fucked-up, inappropriately dressed has-been desperately trying to reclaim his youth and career.’

  She paused, before concluding, ‘I think he’d be perfect.’

  ‘See! That’s why I love you. Set up a meeting with the network and we’ll run it by them, but I’m in. And they’ll go for it if we push it. Done deal,’ he said confidently.

  ‘Will do. OK, we need you on set in thirty minutes, so if you want to go schmooze the talent – or Carmella – then go now.’

  Davie jumped back out of his chair, re-energized. Nothing kept his mood down for long. He’d been this way since he was a kid, always on the go, a million things to say, every bit of him restless. He was like a bag of snakes on a caffeine rush.

  ‘Don’t dare move,’ he warned the black-suited lumps of muscle at the door as he passed them. He wasn’t going to come to danger in his own frigging studio. Unless Princess was in the building. The thought gave him a minor shudder. That had been a close one. Must behave better.

  Thank God American Stars was a weekly show and he didn’t have to face her again for another few days.

  Tonight, it was all about Here’s Davie Johnston. Domas would ensure great ratings, but he was too smart on media to say or do anything that would have the office workers of America chatting at the water cooler tomorrow morning. That was Carmella’s job. And music from Lauren Finney would give him another iTunes boost among the kids. It was all good.
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br />   Davie headed for the corridor that housed the dressing rooms. He was old school. He didn’t send production staff to do his research or set up links to conversation items. Too impersonal. He genuinely wanted to get to know them, probe a little deeper, find angles to make the interviews more meaningful and insightful. He’d already spent an hour on Facetime with Domas this week and by the end of it they had a pretty good rapport going and had already established a baseline of trust.

  In the Domas dressing room, the man himself was remarkably chilled. Most stars came with an entourage in double figures, all of them bowing to his every whim. Not Domas. He was lying on the sofa, completely relaxed, necking a beer while watching an old Bond movie on the TV. In the corner, one assistant, immersed in a book. Who even did that in LA any more?

  Domas leaned up on one elbow and shook Davie’s hand.

  ‘Good to meet you in person this time,’ he said casually. ‘Thanks for having me on the show’

  Davie hoped his surprise wasn’t obvious. The majority of the guests expected him to thank them; then they’d spend at least ten minutes blowing mutual smoke up each other’s ass, declaring eternal admiration and a history of worship.

  The expression ‘big fan of your work’ was exchanged in LA as often as an STD.

  By the time they were finished, they’d have done everything but promise the other an internal organ should a transplant ever be required. Then they’d part and have forgotten the conversation by the following week.

  ‘Thanks again for taking time out to Facetime the other day. And congrats again on the Globe. You deserved it,’ Davie told him truthfully. Domas had won the award for Best Actor in a Television Series, Musical or Comedy.

  His reaction to Davie’s praise was so laid-back he was pretty sure the gold statue was already gathering dust in the back of a cupboard. Either that or he’d had a large spliff within the last hour. ‘Yeah, made my mother proud,’ he shrugged, before his expression changed, signalling a relevant thought had entered his head. ‘I hear you’re an old friend of one of my buddies.’