Breaking Hollywood (23 page)

His reaction to Davie’s praise was so laid-back he was pretty sure the gold statue was already gathering dust in the back of a cupboard. Either that or he’d had a large spliff within
the last hour. ‘Yeah, made my mother proud,’ he shrugged, before his expression changed, signalling a relevant thought had entered his head. ‘I hear you’re an old friend of
one of my buddies.’

Davie looked at him quizzically, before Domas went on, ‘Zander Leith.’

Davie paused, stuttered, recovered. ‘Yeah, we kinda grew up together. He’s a good guy.’

‘He is,’ Domas agreed.

Davie made a show of checking his watch. ‘Listen, pal, good to talk to you. I gotta go get organized, but I’ll see you on set. And thanks for being here.’

He was back. Full-on schmaltz and superficiality. And just a few beads of sweat on his palms left as evidence of the conversation.

Outside, he exhaled as he headed to the next room. Zander. Every room he was in contained a big fucking elephant and it was called Zander Leith.

They’d re-established contact the previous year, when Sarah’s investigation into their past had brought them all together again. But that’s where it had stalled. They’d
found out stuff they didn’t know, picked at old scabs, and now it was as if the two boys from a Glasgow housing scheme, inseparable best mates until they left their teens, had slipped onto
two different planes and didn’t know how to reconnect. He was glad the wall of separation had come down, but he just wasn’t sure how to step across the rubble. It was on his list of
things to get sorted. Or he could just avoid it like he’d been doing for the last six months.

Outside Carmella’s dressing room, he put his hand on the doorknob and then stopped as he heard the unmistakable sound of a female approaching orgasm. Ignoring the stirring of a boner, he
kept on walking.

In dressing room 2, Lauren Finney was sitting on the sofa, looking like some kind of ethereal creature from a mural depicting a Greek tragedy. Her long waves of red hair flowed from a middle
parting, sweeping past huge blue eyes and over skin the colour of alabaster.

She wore a simple white flowing top over tight grey jeans and black leather shoe boots, with the hint of pale silver nails showing through the peep-toes.

No jewellery, no crazy costume and very little make-up. Just a girl and a guitar.

‘Davie, hi,’ she greeted him warmly, raising up her arms to hug him.

What a find she’d been. If he fucked up the rest of his life, at least his Wikipedia obituary would honour him for discovering the exquisite talent of Lauren Finney. He hated the bullshit
when two-bit singers with delusions of talent called themselves ‘artists’, but that’s what this girl was. She wrote her own songs, performed them exactly the way she wanted to,
and all the fame and money bullshit came a long way below the music. And the best thing of all was that there were no pushy parents, no manipulative agent or manager, no controlling boyfriend. Her
mum and dad were both liberal academics with no desire to live out their failed dreams vicariously through their offspring. Instead, they were quietly supportive and happy to let their little girl
make her way in the world. On the representation side, he’d ensured that she signed to Al’s agency, making their mutual success the best for all parties. And on the boyfriend side . . .
Davie struggled to remember. There had been a childhood sweetheart when she first auditioned for
American Stars.
He vaguely remembered him being at the shows, but by the end of the run,
when Lauren lifted first prize, they’d split and he’d hot-tailed it back to Tennessee.

‘Hey, sweetheart. Thanks for coming in on your night off,’ he said, hugging her.

Lauren’s appearance on
Here’s Davie Johnston
was not just a handy stunt of cross-pollination for his shows, but it also helped to expose her to a different audience. As host
of
American Stars
, she spent all week in rehearsals and doing press, making sure the show ran perfectly while maximizing every opportunity to persuade even one more viewer to tune in. It
was exhausting, all-consuming and it could wear on the soul, but Lauren hadn’t ever complained. It was just one more reason to love her.

‘No problem. Can’t believe I’m here, to be honest.’ Genuine humility. Another reason to love her.

‘I mean, Don Michael Domas and Carmella Cass . . . and, er, me. I’m the only one I’ve never heard of.’ Her scepticism was authentically self-deprecating.

‘I swear to God you’re my favourite out of all three,’ he told her, hugging her again. He wasn’t lying.

She was also his favourite contestant of all time – no ego, no pretensions and never once had she believed the hype. Nothing churned his stomach quite like the ones who were nobodies on
episode one and by the time they were in the third week were referring to ‘their fans’. Get real. They were just viewers – viewers who’d have forgotten their names by the
beginning of the next season.

‘See you in an hour or so. You’re closing, so they’ll come for you when they’re ready for you.’

He headed into wardrobe and make-up, and thirty minutes later, after a routine that he had down to a fine art, he was on set, running through the final prep. The studio audience were already in
their places, the atmosphere crackling with excitement thanks to the energetic and enthusiastic performance by Dan, the warm-up guy.

Davie reckoned that half of them were tourists who had feverishly bought the tickets online before their big holiday to LA, and the other half were probably here to see Don Michael Domas. But
for the next hour, they were in his hands, and that’s all he cared about.

He spotted Carmella waiting in the wings, looking utterly gorgeous in a white skirt that barely covered her butt cheeks, but showed off her long, tanned limbs to perfection. Her blonde hair was
a shaggy mass of post-coital waves. And under the tiny gold vest, he could see that while her orgasm was obviously over, her bra-less nipples were still standing to attention. She looked like sex
on legs, like the ultimate wet dream, like every teenager’s fantasy. She did not, however, look like a woman in mourning for the love of her life who went to the big rock palace in the sky
less than a month before. Oh yes, this would be tomorrow morning’s water-cooler conversation for sure.

‘You OK, sweetie?’

‘Davie! I’m fine!’ It was somewhere between confident reassurance and a spaced-out slur. For a split second, he contemplated canning her slot. This was supposed to be a solemn,
heart-tugging interview about the loss of Jizzo, with a subtle reminder that the entire season was now available on Netflix for a bargain price. Gotta keep the cash wheels turning.

From the gallery, Mellie had visuals on him and a direct line into his ear. ‘Holy shit, she looks like she’s spent the afternoon upside down being screwed around a room.’

Davie didn’t argue with her.

‘Why don’t I look like that after sex?’ she asked, her tone a mix of bitterness and sadness. ‘I look more like I’ve been through a car wash.’

Davie fought to keep the laughter under control. He had absolutely and unequivocally never been sexually attracted to Mellie Santos. Women who scared the crap out of him rarely turned him on.
However, when it came to caustic wit and sharp professionalism, they didn’t come any better.

‘Is she ready?’ Mellie added wearily.

Davie leaned in close to Carmella and lowered his voice so that only she could hear him. ‘OK, now remember. You’re sad. Lonely. Can’t believe he’s gone. Don’t know
how you’ll ever replace him. That’s how you’re feeling, Carmella?’

‘I am, Davie,’ she said, pouting.

She had to nail this. If she fucked it up, one outcome would be that he could be accused of exploiting her grief. Or manipulating her for ratings. Or worse, if she came off as insincere,
she’d lose public sympathy, and if that went, popularity would be next. Whether the series with Jack Gore got green-lit or not, Carmella was still under contract to him and she was a valuable
commodity. However, didn’t he know how quickly that could crash and burn? One wrong move, one misjudged comment, one act of stupidity and a career could be over. In this case, that would
leave him paying a huge salary to damaged goods, while losing the number-three show in the ratings. Carmella was a loose cannon, and there was always a risk she’d hit the wall of car-crash
TV. But she wasn’t going to do it on his watch.

‘Right, then let’s go. And you look gorgeous,’ he added.

Always good to boost the ego just before they took their seat on his couch.

‘OK, let’s go, people. Ten seconds . . .’

Davie made his way to his entrance point as tonight’s band, Space Tragic, launched into the first few notes of their latest track. They were a Coldplay-style group, all melancholy and
ripped-out souls. Davie wasn’t sure whether their music made him want to kill himself or them.

Thankfully, tonight’s song, while lyrically intense, had a relatively upbeat rhythm, so it didn’t bring down the mood in the room.

When the voiceover announced him, Davie burst onto the set, full of energy, thanking them for an incredible performance, while internally hoping he’d never hear anything they’d
written ever again.

He then thanked the audience, told them who’d be on the show, waited for the ecstatic frenzy that greeted Don Michael Domas’s name to die down and went straight into the
introductions to the first guest.

Up until now, he’d kept the preamble positive and jocular, but it was time for an emotional twist, a tug on the heartstrings that would, he knew, make compelling viewing and lock bums to
seats across the country.

‘Tonight, we’re joined by a long-time friend of the show, a woman who only last month lost her whole world right here in the studio . . .’ His voice was thick with sorrow until
he paused, keeping the audience spellbound as they watched the poignant moment play out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Carmella Cass.’

Instead of waiting at his desk for her, he walked to the wings, hand outstretched, and guided her on, a beautiful moment of chivalry that gave no hint that his motivation was worry that she
would stagger on and then fall off her Jimmy Choos on live TV.

Davie led her to her chair, where she sat down and waved to the audience, expression sad but grateful. It spurred their response on and their ovation got louder and lasted longer. Meanwhile, in
his ear, he could hear Mellie screaming, ‘Camera five, get the fuck out of there – she isn’t wearing any fucking panties. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but, Jesus, I
can read her lips. Switch to three. Switch to three!’

Davie fought the urge to look, but saw the camera to his right retreat like it was being pursued by a line of moving fire.

Breaking her in gently, Davie kicked off by expressing his condolences and asking her how the last few weeks had been. She launched into a monologue about support from the fans soothing her
heartbreak and only rambled slightly.

Good start. Suitable tone. Tick. Appropriate heartbreak. Tick. Covering up of undoubtedly wasted state. Tick.

He could even see that what he and Mellie knew to be after-sex dishevelment would appear to the audience as a woman broken, consumed by heartache, no longer able to care as much about the
superficial things in life like perfect grooming.

So far, so ‘widow in mourning’. Only a few more minutes to keep it up, then a plug for the box set and they were good to go. Happy days.

‘And tell me, Carmella, what do you miss most about Jizzo?’

Oh, he was really going for it now, cranking the heartstrings to breaking point.

Before she answered, she leaned over, picked up the glass that sat by the side of her chair and took several sips. That was OK. Give her time to gather her thoughts. Keep the tension
building.

‘Oh, you know, stuff,’ she finally told him, her voice cracking this time. ‘The way he would tell me I was beautiful in the morning. The way he took care of me. I like someone
to take care of me. Makes me feel real good. Safe. Kinda like nothing can go wrong. But . . . but it did.’

Davie had been in this industry for longer than most people survived and he knew it was down to three things: the ability to spot an opportunity and capitalize on it, his willingness to cross
lines to get the best shows, and pure instinct when something was off.

She was staring into the middle distance now, still sipping on her drink, but there was something going on. He was losing her for some reason.

‘Jizzo always said he’d never leave me. Never go away. He lied.’ Oh fuck, she was getting antagonistic now, but it wasn’t coming from a place of anger. She seemed almost
defiant, proud. Davie half expected her to stand up and break into the first verse of ‘I Will Survive’.

‘What the fuck is going on with her?’ Mellie bellowed in his ear. ‘Is she starting to trip out? Davie, what the fuck is happening? This is some weird shit going on right
here.’

Davie didn’t disagree. It was definitely coming off the rails and he wasn’t sure why. Unless . . .

‘Oh shit, who put that drink there?’

As Mellie vocalized the question, Davie had exactly the same thought at the same time.

The glass sitting by Carmella’s side wasn’t the usual style of water glass laid out for the guests, which meant it had been put there by someone else. Maybe Carmella? Maybe one of
her lackeys? Maybe Jack Gore? But definitely, absolutely not – he could see now – containing water. He’d put his money on pure vodka. Maybe gin.

She knocked back another slug and swayed to the side a little before righting herself.

Davie’s brain screamed unspoken instructions at her.
Come on now, sweetheart. Stick to the script. Remember, you’re sad. Lonely. Can’t believe he’s gone. Don’t
know how you’ll ever replace him. That’s how you’re feeling, Carmella.

Apparently, Carmella was reading from another script altogether.

‘Jizzo lied,’ she repeated, more of a wail this time.

Davie’s teeth began to grind. This was the kind of performance you acted out in front of your mates while you were sat on the floor eating ice cream in your pyjamas. Or at the reading of a
bad soap opera. That’s what this was. A bad soap opera. A really tragic daytime debacle for people who sat in their living rooms on brown stained sofas in the middle of the day eating chicken
from a bucket.