Breaking Hollywood (28 page)

Taking the heat off, Davie stood up, always happier to stand while he was pitching. He found the ability to pull the room in and the dynamic edge were stronger if he was on his feet, moving.

He launched into the pitch, summarizing the backstory of
Beauty and the Beats
and repeating the ratings figures from a few moments before.

He then expressed brief condolences for Jizzo Stacks, before – like Carmella – moving swiftly on to his replacement. Jack Gore.

There were a few surprised faces in the room. The older ones knew Jack as a respected producer of decent films, married to Mirren McLean, a power couple in the industry. The younger ones knew
him for the scandal of the affair the previous year, the huge flop of his last film and the fact that Carmella had mentioned him on
Here’s Davie Johnston
only a few nights
before.

Davie made a convincing argument, outlining Jack’s image, his style, the human interest in the relationship with Carmella, the idiosyncrasies of a man who was desperately trying to reclaim
his youth, while using his money and fame to attract a young woman who clearly had some kind of sugar-daddy thing going on.

It was TV gold, he told them. Genius. A top ratings hit. He’d bet his Panerai Kampfschwimmer on it.

When he finished, he took questions. There were enquiries on cost increases or reductions, locations, shoot schedules and a discussion with marketing on image, demographics and appeal.
They’d lose the rock viewers, the ones who had genuinely respected Jizzo for his body of work, as opposed to Carmella’s body of hotness. Davie was confident that those were minimal, and
besides, Gore brought other things to the party.

He paused, preparing to play the trump card.

Logan Gore.

Son.

Member of South City.

Sold a million copies of their last album in the first weekend of release.

No, Logan wouldn’t take a role in the series, but Gore’s association and the prospect of his son possibly appearing on camera would have the teenagers of this nation tuning in long
enough to get them hooked.

A few more questions were bandied about, but Davie, in his element, batted every one of them right back. This was his wheelhouse. Pitching, hustling. Making things happen.

And they did. It took Davie forty-four minutes from walking into that room to get an agreement. A green light.

In the lift going back down, Al Wolfe shook his hand. ‘Davie, my man, that was stellar.’

‘You taught me everything I know, Al,’ Davie replied with a wink. They both knew it wasn’t true, but mutual gratification was the basis on which most relationships worked
around here.

Mellie audibly tutted. ‘OK, after you two boys have finished with your simultaneous ego orgasm, we have some stuff to sort out. I’ll look at the figures before we talk to Jack Gore
on cash. Be good to get him for less than we paid Jizzo.’

Both men expressed agreement as the lift doors opened and they stepped into the foyer of the building.

‘I’ll also scout locations, check out his house, his office, see what we can work with. Would he be open to switching to another house?’

Davie shrugged. ‘Not sure. I do know he’s living in a rented pad because Mirren got the house in the divorce.’

Crossing the reception area, he pulled his sunglasses back down onto his head, ready to head outside.

‘Which brings me to my last point . . .’

‘You love me?’ Davie fished, grinning.

‘I do,’ Mellie said sweetly. ‘Like I love my bulldog. Who also spends an inordinate amount of time licking his own dick.’

Al Wolfe eyed her with open admiration.

‘But my point is, how will Mirren McLean feel about you putting her major jerk-off of a husband on TV and opening their lives up to a shitload of scrutiny and a lack of privacy that only
the truly narcissistic psycho would ever want?’

Davie stopped mid-step. Shit. He hadn’t thought that through. He’d never known Mirren and Jack together, so in his head, there was a disassociation that had caused him to ignore the
‘notoriety by association’ storm this would undoubtedly unleash.

She wouldn’t mind. Would she? Oh fuck, of course she would. There had to be a way to spin it, he decided. He just had to find the upside. He’d talk her round. This was going to be a
great show and he wasn’t going to lose it.

‘Leave it with me,’ he replied, following Mellie and Al out of the door.

Mellie stopped dead. Davie followed her gaze and realized it was trained on the Veyron. The one that sat in the space where he left it. The one that now had four slashed tyres and side panels
that looked like a figure-skating team had been ice-skating on them.

Mellie whistled, low and stunned. ‘Well, I hope she handles it better than the person who did that.’

‘Demons’ – Imagine Dragons

Zander

Zander tossed a Marlboro up and caught it between his teeth. As always, he didn’t light it within the confines of Hollie’s car. He was far too attached to his balls
to risk losing them.

‘I don’t get it,’ Hollie said for the third time, brow furrowed, her fingers massaging her temples. ‘Are you sure?’

Zander shrugged. ‘Pretty much. I’ve been through the whole place with the police and the Lomax team and I can’t see anything missing. And can you please put your hands back on
the wheel? You make me nervous when you drive with your knees.’

She shot him an irritated look. ‘It makes no sense. It really doesn’t. Why would anyone ransack the place and leave with nothing?’

Zander was nonplussed. ‘Maybe they were disappointed with what was there. I should have left a note giving them Davie’s address.’

The disparity between the lives the two men had chosen to live in LA said everything about who they were. Davie chose a $40-million mansion in Bel Air that said ‘power and wealth’.
Zander had chosen an apartment in Venice that said ‘non-materialistic and couldn’t really give a toss’.

‘Did the security team check for bugs and cameras?’

‘Yep, nothing planted. And I can’t tell you how weird I think it is that that could even be a possibility.’

A couple of moments passed, the void filled by the Lady Antebellum track coming from Hollie’s sound system. Zander could almost hear Hollie’s brain working overtime and knew that in
that 180-second pause, she’d have considered twenty-five different scenarios, and at least half of them would have a fatal outcome for him. Apparently, worrying – she’d informed
him many times – came as part of the job.

‘Still think you should move into a hotel until they find the freak who did this.’

‘Nah, it’s fine.’

‘It’s really not fine. Nothing about this is frigging fine. Jesus, I can feel extra wrinkles popping up with the stress. You’re making me old, Zander Leith. I’m going to
be a haggard, dried-up old crow who is so unattractive she never has sex again, and it’ll be all your fault. You’re ruining my life.’

‘If it gets that bad, I’ll have sex with you,’ he consoled her, taking the bait and running with it. ‘I’ll just keep my eyes shut.’

The sucker punch she doled out only slightly bruised his bicep.

‘So what’s the story with this meeting, then?’ he asked her, stretching out and putting his feet on the dash and realizing he could still smell salt water in his hair.
He’d had a clear schedule today, so he’d spent it hanging up at Zuma with Don Michael Domas and a couple of other surfers. They’d been out on the boards for hours, just them, the
waves and a few carloads of paparazzi back on the beach. A couple of years ago, he was the most famous of their group. Now they were probably all there for Don Michael, and that suited Zander just
fine.

‘I have absolutely no idea. And get your feet off my dashboard. Wes’s assistant called me an hour ago, said he wanted to see you in his office and asked if you could head over
anytime after eight p.m. I’m guessing he has an update from the security team or another nomination has come in. Either that or you’re in trouble. Anything I should know
about?’

‘I thought you knew everything already?’ he teased.

Hollie nodded confidently. ‘Correct. I’m like an oracle. And I foresee major problems in your future if you put your penis anywhere near Adrianna Guilloti again. Please tell me
it’s over.’

Zander had another, almost uncontrollable urge to light the cigarette.

Was it over? He hadn’t heard from her since she walked away that night. Nothing. Not even a phone call the next day to explain, resolve, recriminate, argue . . . Nothing. He’d got
that one so, so wrong.

‘It’s over.’ It was. His days of bad decisions were done. From here on in, he was going with the flow. Karmic calm. Only things that were good for the soul.

Hollie was definitely good for the soul – even if not always great for the ego.

‘Good,’ she retorted. ‘Return to being an emotional vacuum, a dark, brooding soul who couldn’t form an attachment with two tubs of glue and a roll of tape. I liked you
better that way.’

The car slid to a stop at the barrier that was blocking their entrance to the Lomax lot. Lomax Films had been built from scratch. It had fought off all challengers, and while it wasn’t on
the scale of Sony or Time Warner, it could whip Miramax and Lionsgate in a fair fight.

Security at the studio was tight. Too many crazies out there. One of them walking around with insider knowledge of the interior of his home.

‘Hi, Denny. How’s the wife?’ Hollie asked the rotund officer who’d been a constant presence on the gate since the beginning of time. Hollie asked him the same question
and got the same answer every time she drove through.

‘Still hates me,’ he chuckled. ‘But since Denzel Washington ain’t coming for her, I’m all she’s got.’

The gate rose and he waved them through. The lot, so busy during the day, was eerily quiet at night, despite the fact that there would undoubtedly be filming taking place right now in at least a
couple of the sound stages. Lomax Films put out around a dozen movies a year, and their TV division currently had nine syndicated shows in production, all crime, paranormal and drama. Wes Lomax
didn’t do comedy. He didn’t do reality. And yes, his professional and personal values did have synergy.

Wes Lomax had been a top-deal player in this town for over forty years for one simple reason. The guy made great screen. He could spot a winner while wearing a mask and having a four-way with
three high-class hookers and a transvestite madam, but he’d never lost control because he loved film more. According to Hollywood folklore, the only person who had ever refused to work with
him again was Mirren McLean. Zander was fairly sure that twenty years down the line, that one still stuck in his throat.

The first time Zander had met the mogul, he’d been nineteen years old. He, Mirren and Davie had been working in bars and hotels in St Andrews, forced to flee Glasgow after Jono had the
misfortune to end up very dead.

The road out of there started with Mirren. They’d laughed when they were kids and she’d said she wanted to be a writer, but Mirren didn’t give a fuck what they thought.

She’d written their story and Davie had served it up to Wes Lomax. Not only Mirren’s story.
Their
story. A story of brutality, abuse and murder that seemed too horrific to
be real. They were counting on it.

The Brutal Circle.

Wes Lomax bought it. With Mirren as writer and Davie and a reluctant Zander in starring roles. It destroyed him that they were making money from his father’s death. Not that the old
bastard didn’t deserve it. If his killer hadn’t gored the fucker to death, then Zander would have stepped up and finished it. So would Davie. So would Mirren.

That wasn’t the point.

No one ever suspected that it was all based on truth. That’s what had been too hard to bear. It felt like he owed Jono something because his cold, rotting corpse had given them Hollywood
lives. It ate at him. So he drank. It made him bitter. So he drank. He cut off all ties with Mirren and Davie, the two people who reminded him of it every day.

And he drank.

But Wes Lomax was a different story. He’d spotted a rainmaker. Zander’s performance in
The Brutal Circle
had caused the kind of phenomenon rarely seen. Zander Leith became
Seb Dunhill, the spy who could outsmart Bourne and kick Bond’s ass, while looking even better in a suit.

The first Dunhill movie cracked $100 million at the box office, and every one of the five since then had broken its predecessor’s record. Sure, Zander was a fucked-up addict off screen,
but on screen, he was the man who saved the world.

While he owed his first movie to the grave of Jono Leith, he owed everything else to Wes Lomax.

Over the years, their relationship had found a mutually agreeable equilibrium that sat somewhere between boss-employee, mentor-protégé and father-son. The latter connection was
responsible for Wes busting his chops every time he screwed up, then dragging him back out of the gutter.

It was never established who Wes loved more, Zander or Seb Dunhill. Zander hoped he never had to find out.

Outside his office, Wes’s assistant, Monica, was still sitting there, despite the fact that it was after 8 p.m.

There was loyalty, there was commitment, and then there was Monica.

Groomed to perfection, she was in her sixties but looked forty-five, thanks to Wes’s twice-yearly bonus of a $50k voucher for the best cosmetic surgeon his money had already bought. The
generosity probably explained why she’d never taken advantage of the fact that she’d been hired in the days before confidentiality clauses had existed, by telling Wes to shove his job
and then writing an exposé that undoubtedly would sell by the millions.

Nothing went on in this office that Monica didn’t know about. Every email was routed through her system, every call taped and logged. She knew who he saw, who he liked, who he fucked. Only
this morning she pressed ‘record’ on the camera that filmed Wes licking the pussy of an award-winning actress who’d come to see him wearing nothing but Dior’s Poison under
her coat. She also knew that Wes would watch it later while wanking over his $10,000 desk.