Breaking Hollywood (2 page)

‘Leo, you were sensational. I’m a huge fan.’

‘Will, you’re too kind. Of course, it’s the Clansman team that deserve this, not me.’

When they finally made it outside, it was nudging 2 a.m., but there was still a crowd of paparazzi and fans behind the cordons on the other side of the street. An explosion of flashes heralded
their arrival. Still on show, keep smiling.

Mirren spoke to the valet. ‘The McLean limo, please.’

At the same moment, one of the other valets grinned at Davie. ‘Mr Johnston, your car is on the way. I radioed ahead for it.’

Davie shook his hand in thanks, leaving a hundred-dollar bill on the man’s palm.

‘Bunking off so soon?’

For the first time tonight, Mirren’s smile was genuine as she turned to see Lex Callaghan, the gorgeous star of her Clansman movies, a protective arm slung casually around the shoulders of
his wife, Cara.

Mirren embraced them both. ‘Babe, you get more gorgeous every day,’ she told Cara. It felt like the first real thing she’d said all night. Cara was incredible – Native
American roots had given her long, dark hair that fell in soft waves to the small of her back and required no adornment other than the sprinkling of ruby flowers around her left ear. Her face was
perfection, with high cheekbones and a full mouth that softened her slate-grey eyes, which held far more compassion and wisdom than anyone Mirren knew. This was a rare trip off the Santa Barbara
ranch for Cara, who preferred to shun the limelight and concentrate on running her equine therapy centre for those damaged by drugs, alcohol or life.

It made Mirren’s heart soar to see Cara with Lex, the heart-thudding, butch leading man in both their lives. For Mirren, it was purely professional. Since the moment he’d walked into
the casting office a decade before, he’d been her Clansman, the Highland hero who defended lands and honour in sixteenth-century Scotland in five consecutive novels and movies.

But when he left the set, he was all Cara’s. He eschewed the celebrity circuit and banalities of fame, and headed home to the wife he adored. They had a true love story. They’d been
together since they were sixteen, and he’d once told Mirren he had never doubted for a moment that he and Cara had mated for life.

It was more than a happy ending. It was hope for all of them.

‘I’m dragging him away, Mirren, sorry.’ They both knew that Cara’s words were in jest. Lex hated these staged events and Mirren had to coax him into coming along to
occasions that millions would give anything to attend. He’d accepted his Oscars invitation merely an hour before the deadline, and only then because Mirren had threatened – jokingly
– to replace him with Hugh Jackman in
Clansman 6.

The flashes and the audible excitement on the other side of the road still permeated the air. The spectators would be dining out on this for months, and the paps would already be spending the
pay cheque they’d get for these shots. McLean, Johnston, Leith and Callaghan shooting the breeze – cash in the bank for the photographer who got the best image.

Davie’s Bentley slid round the corner and came to a stop in front of him. Not that he’d driven here himself. Oh no. No one drove to the Oscars. He’d sent the driver away when
they arrived at the Lomax ball, deciding to chauffeur himself home. Sometimes he just liked to drive alone late at night. Clear his head. Think things through. And right now, he had a lot to think
about.

Immediately behind the Bentley, Mirren and Zander’s car slid into position.

One of the valets stopped speaking into a walkie-talkie and sighed. Shit. How come he had to be the one to deliver bad news? ‘Mr Callaghan, I’m afraid your limo will be another
twenty minutes – it’s just manoeuvring out of the gridlock at the end of the drive.’

‘Told you we should have brought a horse,’ Lex quipped to the group. Another pay cheque for the pap who caught the spontaneous laughter.

‘Jump in with us and we’ll give you a lift,’ Mirren immediately offered.

Lex put his hand up to protest, but Cara stopped him. ‘Callaghan, don’t you dare refuse. You’re not standing here in six-inch heels that have left you with no feeling in your
feet for the last hour.’

‘But we’re heading back to Santa Barbara,’ Lex stated.

Davie stepped forward with the obvious solution, addressing Mirren and Zander. ‘Why don’t you guys come with me and I’ll drop you home? If you behave, we’ll get
drive-through,’ he joked.

Mirren nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ She turned back to Lex and Cara. ‘And then you can just take our limo. Wes Lomax is paying for it, so be sure to clock up the
miles.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Tijuana,’ Cara shrugged, laughing.

Mirren giggled, then suddenly realized that it was a long time since she’d heard that noise coming from her lips. She didn’t even care that by dawn the snaps of Zander’s arm
around her shoulders would have the world speculating that they were a couple. By lunchtime they’d be engaged, and by supper she’d be pregnant with his twins.

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.

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.’

‘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.

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.