Breaking Hollywood Read online

  There were kisses, hugs and handshakes all round, before Lex and Cara headed to the limo, while Mirren, Zander and Davie stepped towards the Bentley, thanking the valet, who had the doors open and waiting for them. Zander gestured to Mirren to take the front passenger seat.

  The buzz across the street ramped up a notch as the paps fought to shoot off a last image and the civilian spectators screeched down their phones to their friends, describing the star-studded scene in front of them, desperately seizing a moment of reflected glory just by their proximity to a group of strangers they felt they knew intimately.

  Only one stood utterly still, eyes trained forward, face impassive.

  Lex and Cara entered the limo, and the doors closed.

  Davie joked about his new career as a chauffeur as he pulled on his seatbelt in the Bentley.

  Zander sighed with relief that he’d got through a night without slipping a waiter a hundred dollars to procure him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  Mirren gathered the hem of her magnificent gown as she stepped into her seat, grateful that a night that had come with immeasurable risk was over without incident. They’d done it. Made it through.

  Behind them, the limo driver restarted his engine.

  Davie put his foot on the gas, heard a cry, looked round. A woman running towards him, clutching a bag, pulling something from it.

  He froze.

  Neither car moved, yet there was an earth-trembling bang. a blinding flash. The ripping of metal. Screams. The world exploded.

  Then a deafening silence.

  In that devastating instant, one heart stopped beating.

  And then another.

  1.

  Sirens

  LIVE REPORT BREAKING NEWS – LOS ANGELES

  ‘I’m Brianna Nicole, live here on CXY 5, as we bring you the horrific breaking news that there has been an explosion outside the Beverly Hills Heights Hotel. The incident happened as the stars celebrated at the Lomax Oscars after-party. Details are sketchy right now, but I can tell you that there are reports of casualties, and police are looking at the possibility of a terrorist attack, with claims that this could be the work of a suicide bomber.’

  2.

  ‘Uptown Funk’ – Mark Ronson & Bruno Mars

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  Davie Johnston

  ‘OK, Davie, final soundcheck and then we’re ready to go.’

  The voice in his ear was female, warm and professional, right up until the moment it barked, ‘And stop fucking rearranging your balls. You did it twice in rehearsals. Middle America will have a stroke if you do that live on air.’

  Davie grinned as he gave the camera in front of him the finger, eliciting a raucous chuckle in his earpiece.

  Mellie Santos was a notorious pain in the ass, brutally honest, toe-curlingly impolite and a self-proclaimed ill-tempered bitch, but she had been his first choice for producer and director of the new show because she was the best.

  This was uncharted waters for him. After years of producing reality-TV hits, he was stepping in front of the camera again, but this time without a script.

  But the biggest twist? It was all going to be live.

  Fuck it, if he was going to do it, he might as well do it with a risk factor that made his aforementioned balls retreat into his body in fear.

  Live. It was crazy. Insane. The only other talk show that went out in real time was The Brianna Nicole Show, but that dealt with the risky unpredictability by sticking to the fluffy stuff: stars plugging their own movies, or spinning a good news story aimed at winning hearts.

  That wasn’t what Davie was after.

  For the last decade he’d been the most successful producer of reality shows in the nation and now he had three in the top ten.

  The Dream Machine was a sentimental slushfest that made ordinary people’s wishes come true and left the viewing nation sobbing into their Saturday-night pizzas.

  Then there was Beauty and the Beats, a fly-on-the-wall show following the lives of a crazy supermodel and an ageing rock god. A monster ratings hit, it was currently sitting right under the bearded blokes of Duck Dynasty. Not a place he’d ever dreamed of being positioned.

  And, of course, American Stars was still number-one primetime gold, giving a smug V-sign of triumph to the runners-up, The Voice and American Idol. His production company owned the rights, so it added several zeros to his bank balance every year. For the first few seasons, he’d hosted the show, but a blip of crap publicity last year had seen him dropped from the screen. Giving the network the final say on who presented it probably hadn’t been his best move. At the first sign of trouble, they’d dumped him without hesitation. That was then. After serious career rehabilitation, he was back on the current series as a judge. His own talk show and the most coveted judging seat in the world of TV talent shows. Oh yeah, baby, he was on fire, and, man, he deserved it.

  In the last year, his marriage had imploded, he’d faced a landslide of negative press, and he’d had more rocky career moments than Sylvester Stallone.

  The fickle world of fame had given him a metaphorical kicking.

  Hollywood hadn’t quite forgiven him, of course, but he was well on the way to redemption. He had been booked to co-host the Oscars in two months’ time, and with careful PR planning and plenty of deliberately choreographed humility for the cameras, he was getting back on track. He’d be on screen on a Tuesday night with American Stars, and then on Wednesday through to Sunday with Here’s Davie Johnston. The only maverick taking talk shows into the weekend. World domination was just around the corner.

  Mellie’s voice was barking instructions in his ear again. ‘OK, Davie, are you ready? Cutting to camera one. Jenny and Darcy are in the wings. People, listen up and don’t fuck up. Just don’t dare. We’re going live in ten. Stand by, studio . . .’

  A cramping sensation took hold in his stomach, while an irrepressible grin hijacked his face. This was it. The network had trailed this show to death, and the advertised guests would have viewers clicking on in their millions. And of course, it helped that there was a bit of cross-pollination.

  The first half of the show was finally going to deliver the interview the TV fans of the world had been waiting for: Davie Johnston, his ex-wife, Jenny Rico, and her current lover, Darcy Jay.

  The second half was switching it up, with Jizzo Stacks and Carmella Cass, the stars of Beauty and the Beats. With any luck, they’d have stopped on the way to do a few lines and a bottle of Jack, and they’d be as messed up and unpredictable as always.

  Viewers lapped that stuff up. Those two were the more outrageous versions of the Osbournes. Think love children of Oliver Reed and Jim Morrison. On steroids. After a three-day bender.

  Davie adjusted his shirt collar – pale blue, no tie; it was the outfit that had scored highest with the test audiences. The lights in the studio dimmed and a ripple of anticipation ran through the audience.

  This was it.

  Three, two, one and cue the announcer’s bellow of ‘Heeeeeeeeeeeere’s Davie Johnston!’

  The spotlights flooded the stage, then settled on Davie, standing front and centre against a midnight backdrop of stars. To his left, Cain Canning fronted his band, singing a funked-up soul hit that had been top of the Billboard chart for the last week. None of the standard, cop-out, house-band crap for this show. Davie wanted stars. Stars playing the opening, stars on the sofa, stars begging him for screen time. Whatever it took, he was going to make this the one show no one wanted to miss. And he wanted the two Jimmys, Fallon and Kimmel, to form a posse and kill for his ratings.

  Cute grin, feigned modesty, gracious acceptance of applause. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Welcome to the show.’

  More thunderous applause. The warm-up guy had them practically sliding off their chairs – a plus-factor in getting them up on their feet for the mandatory standing ovation. They liked those in this town. A waiter making a great job of reciting the specials could get a whole room on its feet.r />
  Davie rolled straight into the introductions: another stipulation when they were planning the show. There was to be no self-serving, ego-stroking, bullshit opening monologues. Let’s face it, nobody cared. No one wanted to listen to some overpaid host telling shit jokes his writing team had spent three days coming up with. Nope, straight into the action.

  ‘Later, the stars of Beauty and the Beats, Jizzo Stacks and Carmella Cass, will be joining us.’

  A pause for applause.

  ‘But first, I’m thrilled to welcome two very special ladies . . . And incidentally, this appearance will be deducted from this month’s alimony cheque . . .’

  The laughter was loud and genuine.

  ‘Please welcome the stars of the sexiest cop show on TV, my beautiful ex-wife, Jenny Rico, and her gorgeous partner, on and off screen, Darcy Jay!’

  With flair, elan and a beaming smile, he stepped to the side, right arm stretched to welcome his first guests. He could see Jenny, just off stage, smoothing down the front of her leather trousers and adjusting her cleavage to the point of voluminous perfection. Darcy was dressed in a more tailored style, in black crêpe pencil trousers and a tuxedo jacket that fastened with one button over what looked like a naked torso. He could absolutely see why this chick turned his wife on. As they walked towards him, he felt a definite stirring in that area himself.

  The roar of the audience escalated to fever pitch as the three of them met and hugged like one big happy family.

  Which they were.

  One big happy, bitchy, malicious, back-biting family.

  The truth was, he wanted them on the show premiere, but they needed it as much as he did. Since they’d gone public with their relationship, the reaction had been lukewarm, and ratings had wobbled on Streets of Power.

  Puritanical Middle America, the God-fearing lot who kept a Bible on the nightstand and a rifle under the bed, didn’t approve. So tonight was about softening the backlash and letting the world see that all parties were cool with the new arrangement.

  Sure, it was also for killer ratings, but in truth, he’d been equally as crap in their ten-year marriage as Jenny, so he owed her this favour. And even if he didn’t, she had him by the balls over access to the kids, so right now he’d strut across the stage wearing bells dangling from his naked cock if it was part of the deal.

  Darcy and Jenny waved at the audience, then settled on the cream leather sofa, close enough to suggest intimacy for the voyeurs, but conscious to ensure their body language towards Davie was open and friendly.

  It was a consummate performance. An onlooker would never guess that his ex-wife thought he was a dickhead and her partner didn’t disagree.

  In reality, relations between them were about as taut as the faces in a Beverly Hills post-surgery recovery room. He was the first to admit he’d been a poor father to their twins, Bella and Bray, eight-year-old stars of the weekly sitcom Family Three. When they’d all lived under one roof, he’d made no time for them, was barely part of their lives. But he was trying to make it up to them now.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he gushed, inciting another rousing cheer from the audience.

  He cut right to the chase. ‘So shall we clear up a few of the details about the journey to this point?’ He had to make a conscious effort not to roll his eyes.

  Why did everything have to be a bloody journey? It wasn’t a two-day road trip, with a stop off at a spa. The truth was that their perfect Hollywood marriage had been a sham for years.

  But instead of saying any of this, he found himself nodding as Jenny and Darcy gave the world an elaborate, agreed version of events. Jenny’s marriage to Davie had been wonderful, but when she found herself attracted to Darcy, her co-star on Streets of Power, they’d all sat down, discussed it maturely and decided to follow their hearts. No, there had never been a moment of animosity; yes, the children had fully adapted to their new life, and of course they were going to be co-parents and best friends forever.

  That one earned more enthusiastic audience approval.

  ‘Jesus, Davie, can you stop this Mills and Boon shit before I vomit?’ Mellie said in his ear. For a split second Davie considered telling the truth. Yep, that would send tomorrow’s catchup figures into the fricking stratosphere. Here were Darcy and Jenny, flaunting their new-found devotion and carefully omitting the fact that they’d first hooked up more than seven years ago, when the three of them got wasted on the opening night of Streets of Power and then went on to spend a night of three-way hedonism at Chateau Marmont. Between orgasms, he thought he’d died and gone to porn heaven that night. Instead, he’d boarded the train to Splitsville.

  But hey, he wasn’t bitter.

  He’d kept the $40-million Bel Air home, the cars, more money than he could spend in a lifetime and . . . His eyes drifted to the deep-auburn-haired babe right beside camera 2. Sarah McKenzie. A Scottish journalist. A fierce brain. And his official ‘monogamous friends with benefits’ relationship.

  ‘OK, Davie, wind it up. Two minutes to ad break, and we’ll have to bring Jizzo on while were off air. The fucker is so wasted he can barely walk straight.’

  The audience took Davie’s smile to be just a warm, tender reaction to Jenny and Darcy’s well-rehearsed bullshit. Their benevolence might waver if they knew he was actually close to punching the air with delight. Yes! Jizzo plus wasted equalled TV sensation. Look, he’d never professed to own a space on the moral high ground.

  He signalled to Jenny that it was time to go for the big ending and she caught it immediately. They may have hated each other’s guts by the end of the marriage, but they could always read what the other one was thinking.

  ‘I just want to thank Davie,’ Jenny was saying now, facing the audience while gesturing in his direction. He’d specifically insisted that the front row be filled with gorgeous creatures, and two of them cooed, ‘Aaaaah,’ as Jenny spoke. Davie really hoped Jenny was watching them, and not noticing Sarah making retching gestures twenty feet to the left.

  ‘He absolutely accepted my decision and my sexuality . . .’ Oh dear God, she was turning on the tears, the movie-star sobs that made her utterly mesmerizing as a single drop ran down her ski-slope cheekbone. ‘And he’s just been the best friend and the best father ever.’ She looked at Darcy, then back at her ex-husband. ‘We love him. And we know he loves us too.’

  What a pile of crap. Davie leaned over, putting his hand on hers as he nodded. ‘I always will, babe. We’re family. All three of us. And on that happy note –’ he looked straight down camera 2 ‘– stay with us. We’ll be right back, with the incomparable Jizzo Stacks and Carmella Cass.’

  Cain and his band burst into song, the lights went up, and – always aware that someone might have smuggled a phone past security – the star ex-couple kept huge grins on their faces as they hugged goodbye.

  Only when Jenny was in close did she whisper in his ear, ‘Your girlfriend’s a bitch.’ Ah, so she’d seen Sarah’s nauseated verdict on proceedings.

  Gently, he broke away, his smile still beaming. ‘We always did have so much in common.’ Then turning to Darcy, ‘Bye, honey. It’s been a blast.’

  His mischievous gloat was cut short by a commotion in the wings. Jizzo Stacks was singing ‘Delilah’ as he careered off the set partition, a song that gave a better reflection of his age than his much-lifted face.

  Over twenty visits to the cosmetic surgeon’s table, daily gym workouts and a 1980s rock weave had left him looking slightly weird, but a good two decades younger than his sixty-year-old self. And then there were the vitamin shots, the only legal drugs in a cocktail of steroids (for his workouts), weed (to relax), amphetamines (to get his rocks off) and coke (to get high). The man was a walking pharmacy, but at least he was walking with a supermodel by his side. Carmella Cass, six foot tall, tumbling blonde waves, Sports Illustrated cover girl three years in a row and the owner of the best pair of natural tits in North America. The woman was glorious, the Elle Macpherson of the new millennium, w
ith a beach body that somehow developed despite the fact she grew up on Cheetos in a trailer park in Detroit. Davie was never sure if their coupling was real or just a great premise for a TV show. The nation was split in its opinion on the romance-showmance debate, but millions still tuned in weekly to watch an incredibly wealthy man who should be counting down to retirement drink tequila shots from a glass wedged in his twenty-five-year-old girlfriend’s cleavage.

  ‘Davie baby!’ Jizzo roared when he set eyes on the man who was technically his boss. Lurching forward, he was saved only from performing a Jack Daniel’s touchdown by the quick reflexes of two floor managers and Mellie, who was currently holding him up by the weave.

  ‘If this comes off, I swear to God I’ll have nightmares for life,’ she muttered. ‘OK, get him on the sofa.’

  The liquor had been removed, and the founding member of Leather Pants Anonymous had been parked, cowhide first, on the sofa, when Carmella wandered on to join him.

  ‘Sorry – had to pee,’ she announced, immediately drawing everyone within earshot’s attention to the white denim Daisy Dukes that barely covered her butt cheeks. Making eye contact, Davie could see she was pretty wasted too, but Carmella covered it well – her speech was lucid, her eyes bright, and she was only slightly on the bipolar-high side of animated.

  Perfect. He and Mellie had already discussed the subjects he planned to cover tonight – Jizzo and Carmella’s relationship, sex and, of course, their show. He also had a dozen questions prepared in his mind if the interview dried up, but with the two of them this well oiled, there was no chance of that happening.

  He just wanted them to be their normal wild selves, and let a couple of bombshells slip, and they’d be viral on social network within the hour. #heresdaviejohnston #insane #itakemyteethoutbeforesex