Breaking Hollywood (19 page)

She wasn’t getting it and he didn’t want to press the point in case it set off a red flag. How could he tell her what his subconscious was screaming at him?

Princess got naked and rubbed my dick yesterday. Princess got naked and rubbed my dick yesterday. Princess got . . .

The gods of full disclosure had activated the mantra on a repetitive loop in his head. Oh dear God, what was happening to him? What was this, a conscience? ‘Keep infidelities and
indiscretions secret’ had been the mainstay of his marriage to Jenny. They’d both done their own thing; they’d both pretended they didn’t. It worked perfectly. Or at least,
it did until Darcy Jay turned up with bollocks that were bigger than his and persuaded Jenny to live in a partnership based on openness and honesty. How ridiculously overrated was that?

The truth was, he really didn’t want to cheat on Sarah, despite the fact that she clearly wasn’t as into him as he was her. That thought hung around for a while and tugged on a loose
thread of insecurity.

‘But if you lived here, I could do those things I did to you last night all the time,’ he leered, using his toe to lift up the bottom of her shirt.

Giggling, she swatted him away. ‘Much as that thought is very attractive, I’ll put a pin in it for now.’

‘Ouch.’

OK, so he’d tried. And he’d try again in a few weeks. In the meantime, he’d do his best not to be in a situation that would allow Princess to be naked and in personal contact
with his penis.

Sarah’s expression changed to a more serious one. ‘So tell me. What do you reckon to the stuff that’s been happening? The blood, the gunshots, the threats? God, that sounds
like I’m describing some hardcore computer game.’

‘Welcome to my life,’ he retorted.

‘Davie, I’m serious. What’s your take on it?’

‘I love the way you wrinkle your nose.’

‘Stop changing the subject.’

He watched as her gaze went off into the middle distance and realized that he had to put her mind at ease. He didn’t want her looking over her shoulder, being scared. Not that he imagined
there was much that would intimidate this girl.

‘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. ‘Man, 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.

‘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.