Breaking Hollywood (10 page)

When Hollie burst in, he held up his coffee cup. ‘See? Coffee.’

‘Which would really impress me if I didn’t just see Adrianna Guilloti parked outside talking on her cell phone,’ she countered dryly. ‘You are depressingly predictable,
oh Master. Can I just check that you are in full knowledge of her husband’s reputation? It’s just that when you show up with your balls in your mouth, I want to reassure myself that I
didn’t fail you by neglecting to ensure you were in full possession of the facts.’

‘You can sleep easy,’ Zander replied, signalling the waitress to request a coffee for Hollie. He knew exactly who Carlton Farnsworth was – a self-made billionaire who had his
fingers in many pies, from nightclubs to hotels, but specialized in property. The fact that he had escaped every accusation of dodgy dealing ever levied at him spoke volumes. He owned many assets
in Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan, including – it was rumoured – hundreds of properties, a couple of iconic landmarks, several commissioners, senators, a few judges and a couple of
former mayors. Not that he’d ever been charged or indicted. He was way too clever for that. But as the rumours drifted along in the gutter, he continued to grow his empire.

Of all the labels Farnsworth was credited with – mogul, investor, capitalist, criminal, fraudster, entrepreneur – the one that bothered Zander most was ‘husband’. He had
no idea Adrianna was married when he met her, but as soon as he’d found out, he’d backed off. Married women weren’t his thing. He didn’t have many morals, but that was one
of them.

It should have ended when he learned the truth, leaving their blistering but brief coupling in the past tense. It almost had. In the months since their first encounter, he had never chased her,
never attempted to disrupt her life or marriage, but when she’d shown up last week at the Mondrian, he’d been like an addict who’d just found himself face down on a pile of
cocaine after a six-month abstention. The compulsion was just too hard to resist. This one was going to take more than a twelve-step programme to conquer.

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?

‘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 illicit 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.