Breaking Hollywood Read online

  After he had changed, they headed outside to be greeted by a familiar, ‘Zander, over here!’ It went unacknowledged, but Hollie immediately tensed at the paparazzo’s call.

  As soon as they’d locked the car doors, she exhaled. ‘I didn’t see him when I came in, and I can usually sniff them out at a hundred yards.’ She immediately pressed a button and put a call in to a contact at Zander’s management team. ‘Cindy, hi. It’s Hollie. Listen – just in case we get any interest about Zander’s movements today, I wanted to give you the heads-up that he met with Adrianna Guilloti at Shutters to discuss their next campaign. Give me a shout if any enquiries come in and I’ll let you have more details. Thanks, my darling.’

  She hung up and slouched back in her seat. ‘Either I’ve got PMT or I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘PMT,’ Zander replied casually. ‘Chill out, Holls. It’ll be cool.’

  ‘I’m going to get that put on your gravestone. “Here lies Zander Leith, actor and Hollywood heart-throb, who died after leaving all his worldly goods, including his Aston Martin, to his trusty assistant, Hollie. His final words were, ‘Chill out, Holls. It’ll be cool.’ ”’

  ‘If you carry on with this insubordination, I’ll give you the night off tonight,’ Zander threatened playfully, crossing his ankles on the dashboard and earning a thigh-slap of rebuke.

  ‘Hah! Nice try. But I only stay for the perks, and if those dry up, I’m off.’

  They both knew she didn’t mean it. He couldn’t live without her, and she loved him enough to put up with him. And besides, he hated formal functions with a passion, so there was no way he was going to Lomax’s annual pre-Golden Globe dinner without her. It was a standard fixture in the Hollywood calendar. Held one week before the ceremony, Lomax brought all the nominees together with his own stable of talent in a shameless networking event dressed up as a glitzy exercise in congratulation.

  If his attendance wasn’t compulsory, Zander would have blown it off years ago.

  He was going, but – to Hollie’s irritation – his reticence forced him to stall so much they were late in arriving, just making it to the end of the convoy of limos dropping their bejewelled cargo at the doors of the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  Zander alighted first, holding the door open and taking Hollie’s hand as she joined him. There was no arguing with the fact that when she was around, he felt . . . What was the word? Safer? Better? Less likely to completely fuck up, get wrecked on booze and coke, and punch out some irritating dickhead? All of the above. When Hollie was around, he felt safe. Not to mention totally aware that if he stepped out of line, she’d soon nudge him right back into place again.

  The sounds of conversation and laughter rose above the string quartet playing Handel’s Water Music on the terrace as they reached the poolside for pre-dinner drinks. Zander immediately scanned the crowd, ready to switch into ‘movie-star network mode’, kicking off an hour of superficiality and inanity that he would never get back.

  ‘OK, smile on, shoulders back, pretend you’re delighted to be here,’ Hollie murmured teasingly, her grin genuine as she took two glasses of OJ from a passing waitress. Zander appreciated the gesture of non-alcoholic solidarity.

  The white lights surrounding the poolside and patio restaurant twinkled in the dusk, catching the diamonds that sat round their owners’ graceful and, in some cases, medically tightened necks.

  Chanel, Dior, Gucci and Halston were just some of the designer wares in attendance, parading alongside Tom Ford, Armani and the resurging cool of Burberry.

  Hollie spotted Mirren chatting to Mark Bock, head of Pictor, and nudged Zander. ‘Wow, they make a stunning couple. Are they together?’

  Zander shrugged and Hollie rolled her eyes. He honestly had no idea, but looking at them now, he could see what Hollie meant. Mirren was beautiful, her navy gown a stark contrast to her pale-skinned perfection and the loose red curls that tumbled down her back.

  For a moment he saw her as a fifteen-year-old-girl who would bemoan her red hair while threatening retribution on anyone who teased her. That had always been Mirren – strong, independent, defiant, with the strength to endure and fight back even when her heart was hurt.

  Even then, Zander had felt a brotherly affection for her, and now that they were back in each other’s lives, those feelings were just as strong. The things that had happened to her would have broken most people, him included, but there she was, surviving, moving forward.

  ‘Let’s go over and say hello,’ Zander suggested.

  ‘Correct response,’ Hollie replied. ‘I’ll know in five seconds if they’re sleeping together.’

  ‘If you could market that talent, you’d make a fortune,’ Zander told her, placing a gentle hand on her back and steering her through the crowd.

  ‘Excuse me, I—’ He stopped.

  In front of him, an absolute vision of gorgeousness. The red one-shouldered silk creation flattering her dark complexion and enhanced by the large ruby drop earrings. Her brown eyes smoky, her lashes accentuating their perfect shape. Her black hair parted in the middle and gathered in a loose clasp that allowed it to fall down her naked back.

  ‘Zander Leith, a pleasure to see you here,’ she declared, holding out her hand in greeting. The gesture spurred him into action and he took her hand, leaning over to kiss the familiar cheek.

  ‘Lovely to see you too. You’ve met Hollie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The two women smiled at each other, Hollie making the first move to shake hands. Zander had a feeling she’d be loving every dramatic moment of this meeting almost as much as he was hating it.

  The woman turned to her companion. ‘Darling, I don’t think you’ve met, although obviously you know his movies.’ She turned back to include Zander in the conversation. ‘Zander, this is my husband, Carlton Farnsworth.’

  Zander took the hand that was offered to him and shook it, noticing that the other man’s grip was just a little tighter than necessary.

  What was that about?

  An affirmation of the other man’s strength?

  An alpha male attempting to show dominance?

  An overenthusiastic welcome with no underlying meaning?

  Or did Carlton Farnsworth know that just a few hours before, Zander had been in a Santa Monica hotel screwing his wife?

  10.

  ‘Stairway to Heaven’ – Led Zeppelin

  Sarah

  Were they really playing Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’? If they ever made a movie called Spinal Tap: Where Are They Now?, this would be the opening scene.

  Sarah had chosen to sit in the middle row of the bank of chairs laid out beside the grave at Forest Lawn. Davie stood in the front row, only a few feet away from Jizzo’s imminent resting place. In front of them, a coffin shaped like a keyboard. Yep, a keyboard. Or to be more accurate, a keyboard surrounded by a dozen wreaths in the shape of musical notes.

  On the other side of Davie, Sarah could see Carmella Cass, her head flopping as if supported by elastic, her wails loud.

  Sarah scanned the congregation, intrigued to see who else had come to pay their respects.

  Dong, Zeek and Caz, the three remaining members of Jizzo’s 1980s heavy-metal band, Stone Jiz, were there, adverts for – from left to right – cosmetic surgery, hair-plugs and Zimmer frames. The latter, Caz, had almost lost the use of his legs after injecting so much heroin into his groin that his veins collapsed.

  Sarah knew that Davie wanted to be anywhere but here. He wasn’t great at dealing with stuff like this. Davie did optimism, superficiality and positivity – he didn’t do death. That wasn’t an unusual sentiment in LA. Funerals were too much of a reminder of the ageing process and mortality, which half the population spent their lives trying to deny.

  For Sarah, however, this was fascinating from a journalistic perspective. Jizzo’s death was – not to sound too cold or unfeeling – another chapter in her book, one that focused on celebrity departures and the illic
it substances that caused their premature deaths.

  Michael Jackson. Overdose of Propofol.

  Heath Ledger. Prescription drugs.

  Cory Monteith. Heroin.

  Jizzo Stacks. Almost every illicit drug known to man. The final toxicology results were yet to be released, but Davie had learned that initial tests indicated a veritable pharmacy of substances that were either keeping him alive or killing him. Or both.

  A saxophone led the introduction to Jizzo’s hit ‘Cut You’, and once again Lauren Finney stepped forward and sang the haunting version she’d performed on American Stars. The funeral was being recorded for a one-off episode of Beauty and the Beats, so there was a guarantee of another million or so downloads of Lauren’s track on iTunes. And thanks to his production deal on both shows, there was another kerching on Davie’s bank account.

  Cynical? Absolutely. There was no doubt that Sarah struggled to deal with the morality of a world in which everything was for sale, including dignity and death – even more so when it was her boyfriend who was profiting from the transactions.

  The truth was, if Davie didn’t do it, someone else would.

  He was just the guy who got there first.

  And he wouldn’t make a cent if there wasn’t a long line of willing volunteers waiting to sell out for the cameras.

  Wasn’t she just as bad, turning up here not to mourn the passing of a man, but to gather material for a book? That skidding noise was her rapid descent from the moral high ground. She could tell herself she was exposing truths, unearthing scandals and writing wrongs. And she was. But she also had one eye on a career path that she wanted to switch from newspapers to books.

  A tortured wail snapped her attention back to the front. Lauren had finished singing, and the pallbearers were preparing to lower the casket, a process that was halted by Carmella Cass charging towards the coffin, screaming Jizzo’s name, before throwing herself across the ebony and ivory of Jizzo’s entombment.

  Sarah knew that at least half the congregation were thinking something along the lines of ‘And the Oscar for Best Dramatic Performance At the Funeral of a Reality-TV Star goes to . . .’ but that thought was lost as she became fixated on the scene playing out in front of her.

  Davie had moved towards Carmella, but he was stopped by a man in dark shades wearing a suit over a black T-shirt. It took Sarah a moment, given that he was out of context in this setting. His hair was different. Longer. And the shades were partially obscuring his face. But that was . . . Yep, that was Mirren McLean’s ex-husband, Jack Gore. What the hell was he doing here, and why was he acting in such a proprietary way towards Carmella Cass? Gore was up there with Bruckheimer and Grazer, serious producers with incredible films to their names, and yet here he was showing up at what was, in effect, the set of a reality-TV show. One with a dearly departed rock star taking centre stage. Bizarre didn’t even begin to cover it.

  This was like watching a bad soap opera.

  It did, however, bring her back to the subject of Mirren McLean. Or rather Mirren McLean’s mother. She’d pulled in a favour from an old friend at the Daily Scot and had her check the Births, Deaths and Marriages Registry.

  Marilyn McLean. The birth was there. 1950. London Road. Glasgow. The daughter of a ‘businessman’ and a ‘housewife’. No marriage certificate, so it looked like she’d remained single. No death certificate, so she was still alive.

  That was as far as it went, and Sarah’s own research hadn’t yet uncovered anything more substantial.

  No social-network profiles, no newspaper cuttings, no criminal record.

  Marilyn was a ghost. In the wind.

  Where did she go when she left Glasgow?

  Sarah knew Marilyn had left Glasgow immediately after the horrific event that changed Mirren, Davie and Zander’s lives. Sarah had never asked if any of them knew where Marilyn was now. It was a scab that was there for all of them, but not one at which she felt she could pick. When she’d discovered the truth, she already cared enough about Davie Johnston to let it go and suppress the story.

  The world wasn’t going to hear their secrets from her.

  Was it about to hear them from Marilyn McLean?

  Sarah watched Davie now, so dignified, solemn. In the days since the phone call from Ed, she’d toyed with telling him, but hadn’t. He had enough on his plate. A new talk show. A top reality show. A divorce. A recent scandal. A dead rock star. Some lunatic chucking blood at him after his show.

  Was there a connection between Marilyn and Davie’s attack? Davie reckoned it was a teenage male who’d approached him, but that wouldn’t be hard for anyone, even a stranger in town, to arrange. The streets of Sunset were awash with young guys who’d come here with stars in their eyes and ended up with cardboard boxes and aspirations that no longer went any higher than renting themselves out for a few hours to earn enough money to eat. Everything was for sale here, no questions asked. Throw a bucket of blood at a celebrity? A hundred dollars and name the location.

  Thankfully, his people had bought up the video coverage from the fans who’d been there that night, so it hadn’t made it to YouTube. Davie’s security guys had analysed every tape, but not one of them caught the face of the idiot behind the stunt. All they knew so far was that it was pig’s blood and some crazy had decided to make some kind of fucked-up statement by splattering Davie with it. Bizarre. Crazy. But it confirmed that Davie had entirely enough to deal with for now.

  If Marilyn McLean was about to come out of the woodwork, then Sarah had to be the one there waiting for her.

  She’d protected Mirren, Davie and Zander before.

  Nothing would stop her doing it again.

  11.

  ‘Forever Young’ – Rod Stewart

  Davie

  The assembled cast in Davie’s dressing room wore the faces of the seriously irked.

  Al Wolfe, uber-agent extraordinaire. Small but wiry, impeccably tailored in suits he had made by a third-generation Savile Row tailor, a man with a ruthless streak that was legendary for both its cruelty and success. Davie and Al had been together for two decades, and through the ups, downs and irritations, they stuck together because they made money for each other. That was what mattered – and if they both dressed it up as loyalty and friendship, that was fine too.

  Mike Feechan, head of security for the studio. An ex-cop who’d made a name for himself when he’d brought down a trafficking ring that was shipping Eastern European girls into the city and pimping them out for top dollar.

  Mellie, his director-producer, who wore her standard look of someone who had better places to be and more urgent things to be doing. With an hour until airtime, both of those were accurate sentiments.

  And in the corner, purely in an observational capacity, Sarah sat focused on her iPad. Davie had no idea what she was doing. She seemed to spend every waking hour doing research and writing her book. In the last week, she’d been particularly distracted, and if he was honest, he wished she’d let it go and chill out for a few days.

  Which, yes, was like the workaholic pot calling the workaholic kettle black.

  He reclined back in one of the six dark leather Eames chairs that sat round the onyx coffee table. To call it a dressing room was like saying the Getty was just a house. It was 1,400 square feet of designer living-workspace, designed to accommodate his every whim, need and indulgence. From the white gloss kitchen to the mirrored bar, to the California-king bedroom in case he got cranky and needed a nap, this was the kind of room that befitted the guy who had entered a pissing contest with the other late-night talk-show hosts and was clearly winning.

  Oh, and he was pissing in a jet-black marble urinal, imported from Tokyo at the cost of an average-size SUV.

  Davie’s attention was brought back from the Clippers game running on silent on the eighty-inch TV by Al’s grating irritation.

  ‘So you have nothing? Not a fucking thing?’ Al asked, for the second or third time, his tone escalating through several sta
ges of annoyance.

  Mike Feechan shook his head. ‘The wacko had a hood up, and some kind of covering over his face. But we’ve put four extra security guys on the door, stationed two out at the house, and we have another two ready to be posted on close protection . . .’

  ‘I’m not doing that. Forget it,’ Davie said casually. He’d deliberately never employed any kind of bodyguard for his day-to-day existence, mostly because he didn’t want anyone to have intimate details of his life. Secrets led to knowledge; knowledge led to blackmail; blackmail led to a hole in your bank balance or your private life being splattered across the National Enquirer. His marriage to Jenny had been on the rocks for a long time, and he was only human. There had been several affairs, multiple one-night stands and a particularly heated sexual relationship with Vala Diaz, a Mexican goddess and actress who worked on the same show as the kids.

  In the roadmap of his personal life, there were many potholes – none of which he wanted anyone else to know about. Now, things were far more settled. He and Sarah were making it work, and for the first time, he was being faithful. But scrutiny and intrusion still made him uncomfortable, so he’d pass on having two human mountains walking three feet behind him at all times.

  Anyway, this whole situation wasn’t particularly fazing him. Come on, it was just some freak trying to pull a stunt that would get him a bit of notoriety and a YouTube following. Sure, it was strange that the weirdo didn’t appear to have put the images online yet, but no doubt that would be his next move. In the meantime, the studio had released one photograph, with Davie looking like he was roaring with rage at his attacker. All the entertainment shows and tabloids had covered it. The result? The kind of publicity that would have cost him a sum with at least five zeros. Hi ho, silver lining. Twenty minutes of discomfort had equalled maximum exposure for the show. And with a bit of luck, the freak would now move on to his next target.