Breaking Hollywood (29 page)

‘Hi, Hollie. Go on in, Zander. He’s waiting for you.’

The veins on the side of Zander’s neck began to pulse. It was nothing obvious. A vibe. An inflection in her tone. Wow, hi, Paranoia. It’s been a while. He shook off the feeling of
unease and headed on in.

Wes didn’t rise to the occasion. He sat behind his sleek black marble desk, his face a stony mask of fury. Zander knew there were only two things that made Wes Lomax really, really fucked
off. Losing money and the prospect of losing money.

He had no idea why he’d be connected to either option. The last Seb Dunhill had killed at the box office, and filming was back on schedule now that the insurance company had agreed to lift
his suspension over the Raymo Cash debacle.

‘I’m just going to get straight to it,’ he said in the manner of a father who’d just found out that his son was peddling crack on a street corner.

Hollie glanced at Zander, clearly picking up on the vibe too. Something was very off with this conversation and it was just getting started.

‘Your drug test came back positive for coke.’

Zander smiled. Ah, it was a wind-up. Wes was famous for his pranks, liked his twisted games of power. There was the time he’d had Zander’s DB7 towed. The time he’d rerouted his
private jet to the middle of some Midwestern desert.

Zander wasn’t biting. ‘Sure it did. OK, so why are we really here?’

Wes’s expression didn’t change. He was really playing this one out. ‘It came back positive for coke,’ he repeated. ‘How could you have been so fucking
stupid?’

Hang on, this was getting way too real now.

Zander sat forward in his chair. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? The joke’s not funny, Wes.’ His voice was low and controlled.

Wes may be his boss, but he was fucking with the one area in which Zander didn’t see the funny side. He’d survived drugs. Chloe hadn’t. Sense of humour? Fail.

Wes slid a cigar along his desk, used a small Samurai dagger he kept on an ornamental stand to slice off the tip, then lit it with a gold lighter before replying, ‘No joke. But you know
that. So you’re back on the stuff.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You’re back on it because you’re a fucking idiot who can’t keep his fucking life
together!’ Pushing up onto his feet, he was roaring now.

‘Oh shit,’ Hollie said under her breath, but loud enough for Zander to pick up on. He glanced over at her, saw her eyes wide, jaw dropped. None of this made sense. So it was a
mistake. A false positive. Shit like that happened. They just needed to repeat the test and it would all be cleared up.

However, he wasn’t going to get into a screaming match with Lomax, so he kept his voice calm and even. Ironically, not something he’d be able to carry off if he was using.

‘Wes, this is messed up. I’m clean, have been since Mirren’s girl died.’

‘You are not fucking clean!’ he shouted.

Hollie found her voice. ‘Wes, I promise—’

Wes turned on her. ‘Don’t fucking defend him.’

Line crossed. ‘Don’t dare raise your voice to her, Wes,’ Zander warned. ‘Don’t fucking dare. Not ever. I’m clean. Always have been. Repeat the test.’
This time the words were coming out staccato and through gritted teeth.

If he’d had so much as a hint of coke in his system, he’d be across that desk and Wes Lomax would be making an appointment for the replacement of his $100,000 veneers.

‘Too late. It was a one-time deal with the insurance company. One strike on drugs. And, son, you just struck out.’

Fury and disbelief wrestled for superiority in Zander’s reaction. Disbelief won. Just.

‘Come on, Wes, don’t give me bullshit. I’m clean. It’s a mistake. And you fucking know it.’

Wes’s rage calmed to a steely fury. ‘Save it, son. I’ve heard it all before. You’re done.’

‘I’m done?’ Zander said, with a laugh of utter incomprehension.

‘You’re done,’ Wes repeated. ‘They won’t let us go into production with you.’

‘So you’re what? Going to replace me?’

A sudden flicker to the right in Wes’s eyes told him that was exactly what was about to happen. Bond had been through many incarnations. Seb Dunhill was about to follow suit. The writers
would find a way to explain it.

Zander could have argued, stated his case, begged, but fuck that. He’d learned a long time ago that there were only two options when dealing with someone who thought they had more power.
Walk away or take them out.

He got up from his seat, turned, headed for the door.

This time, unlike last, he was walking away.

‘I Don’t Want a Lover’ – Texas

Mirren

On the scale of things she wanted to be doing today, this was pretty near the bottom. Despite her reticence, Mirren contorted her face into a smile, pushed open the office
door. ‘Good afternoon, everyone.’

She slipped into the first empty seat, having absolutely no time for the politics of who-sat-where. Only then did she scan the assembled faces. Perry. Euan Anderson, chief suit for Pictor. And
of course . . .

‘Good afternoon,’ Mark Bock said casually. ‘Good to see you.’

Only she detected that it was a somewhat loaded statement.

A few nights ago, they’d had sex. Yes, another man had actually seen her naked. Since then, living up to the cliché, Mirren hadn’t called, hadn’t written . . .

She had, however, completely avoided all of his attempts to contact her.

A shudder made her shoulders tremble at the memory. It wasn’t that the sex had been bad. Actually, it had been good. Really good. There wasn’t the heart-thudding innocence of first
love that she’d had with Davie, or the familiarity she’d had with Jack. But Mark had been hot and sexy, and it had reached an orgasmic climax they’d both enjoyed. The problem
wasn’t physical. There had been no connection, no words, and when he did try to speak, she shushed him by putting her finger to his lips. He got the message. No talk. No whispers. This
wasn’t making love; it was sex. Pure, aggressive, grasping, intensely energetic sex that left no room for thinking or tenderness.

Only when their heartbeats were returning to post-coital normal did Mirren speak.

‘I don’t usually do that,’ she said, embarrassed.

‘Neither do I,’ he answered, smiling. She believed him.

‘I don’t want to be rude, but you should go before Logan gets back. I wouldn’t like him to see you here.’ She tried to make it sound as gentle as possible, but there was
no getting away from the fact that it looked like he was being dismissed. Duty over. Job done. Thank you and goodnight.

Mark’s face flinched with surprise, but he didn’t argue and she didn’t give him time to make other suggestions. She headed to the bathroom, returned when he was already
gone.

The thought of climbing into a bed in which she’d just had sex with a virtual stranger didn’t appeal, so she’d wandered through to Chloe’s old room, slipped under the
covers and nodded off there, before waking in the morning and realizing that for the first time in months, she’d slept through the whole night.

The next morning, when she’d reached the office, there had been a dozen roses waiting on her desk, no card, next to an assistant with an inquisitive expression.

‘Someone is popular this morning,’ Devlin sing-songed cheerfully.

‘I helped an old lady across the road,’ Mirren replied so coolly that she could see Devlin was actually wondering whether to believe her.

At lunchtime, Devlin had called through to her, ‘Mark Bock is on the line for you.’

The wave of cold dread was instant. She wasn’t ready for this. Couldn’t do it. Her emotions were still locked in a place that left her utterly numb. The thought of opening up to
someone, embarking on a new relationship, filled her with a level of discomfort that she knew probably bordered on irrational.

‘Tell him I’m unavailable. And if he calls back, tell him the same thing.’

That had been it. Contact severed. He’d taken the hint. There was, however, no getting away from the uncomfortable reality that they had to work together.

This meeting in Bock’s office had been set up prior to the night of the Malibu dinner and she couldn’t pull out. The deadline for contract negotiations to be settled was fast
approaching and the standoff had to be broken, thus this tête-à-tête – just Mirren, Mark, and the lawyers Euan and Perry.

Performance time. Mirren conjured up another smile. ‘Good to see you too. OK, let’s get started, shall we?’

There was a flicker of something she couldn’t read in Mark’s eyes, but he took her lead. Not for the first time this week, she realized, toes curling with embarrassment.

‘Euan, can you outline the situation?’

Anderson cleared his throat and kicked off with a run-down of the main contract points already agreed. They were all on the same page on shooting schedules and timescales. The script had already
been agreed, as had the casting. Distribution was in place. Every team in both Pictor and McLean Productions had submitted their plans and strategies, and all had been rubber-stamped. Which brought
them to . . .

‘Merchandise,’ Euan finally announced. ‘We need to move it to twenty-five per cent. The deal should never have been done at ten per cent in the first place.’

‘But it was,’ Mirren said calmly.

Mark casually adjusted the sleeves on his white shirt and then sat forward, hands clasped on the table in front of him. As he moved, Mirren immediately recognized the faint scent of Amouage Dia
Pour Homme. She’d once bought it as a gift for Jack, and loved the blend of woody tones, herbs and leathers.

‘Mirren, we want to work this out, but we can’t stick at ten per cent. No other franchise out there works on that basis.’

He was reasonable. Likable. Came over as genuinely sincere. But to Mirren, the choice was simple – the money went into her company’s bank account or Pictor’s bank account.
She’d made the studio millions over the years, so she saw absolutely no reason to concede on this. If they wanted her loyalty, they were going to have to honour the terms of their original
deal, because the fact was that Mirren hadn’t got to where she was today by allowing big studios to push her around.

Perry took a breath, ready to step in and Mirren could see that she had a page of figures in front of her: projections, costs, profit. Mirren immediately realized that she didn’t have the
patience to carry on with this. She wasn’t going to budge. Arguments were futile, so what was the point in wasting everyone’s time? She subtly put her hand on Perry’s arm to stop
her.

‘I have worked with Pictor for a decade and it’s been mutually beneficial. I don’t appreciate your actions, or agree with them on any basis. Our terms remain the
same.’

‘Mirren, we appreciate the history, and trust me, we do not want to damage what has been an extremely profitable relationship. But the terms are unreasonable. You have to give something
here.’

‘I really don’t,’ she answered calmly, before rising to her feet. ‘Please have the contracts drafted, original terms, before the end of the month. Otherwise I’ll
take the Clansman franchise elsewhere. Thank you for your time.’

No one said a word as she left Bock’s office. Twenty minutes later, she was back behind her own desk when Perry knocked and entered, her face a mask of amusement. ‘Anytime I need
someone’s ass kicked, remind me to call you.’

Mirren smiled wearily. ‘Sorry if I stole your thunder this morning. I know you were prepared to make the arguments, but I just preferred to cut to the chase.’

Perry leaned on the back of the chintz-covered seat on her side of the desk. ‘You certainly did that. I thought Mark Bock was gonna bust his gut when you left. He didn’t look happy
at all. Dismissed the two of us and then there was a loud banging sound. I think he kicked the desk.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t,’ Mirren replied, laughing at Perry’s flair for the dramatic.

‘Anyway, I think there will be hell to pay over at Pictor this afternoon,’ Perry concluded.

‘I can imagine.’ Actually, Mirren wasn’t sure that she could. Her entire experience of him in the few hours she’d spent with him fully clothed were of a pretty
straightforward guy. ‘Did you set up the meeting with Lomax?’

‘Monday. The patio at the Ivy.’

‘Great.’ Her gaze went to the clock on the wall next to the door. ‘Damn, look at the time. I have to go. Let me know when they come back to you.’

‘Oh, I will.’ Perry headed out, clearly satisfied with her working day.

An hour later, Mirren was sitting across from her best friend and editor of the
Hollywood Post
, Lou Cole, for their weekly dinner date.

‘Oh, girl. Rookie mistake number one: do not have alcohol with attractive man when you’re feeling vulnerable. Rookie mistake number two: do not ever sleep with studio head while in
negotiation over terms of contract.’

Mirren gave Lou her best deadpan expression. ‘I bought the first one, but you made the second one up.’

Lou let out her glorious cackle, turning the heads of the other diners at Giorgio Baldi on West Channel Road in Santa Monica. The couple having a romantic dinner at the next table didn’t
look entirely impressed. Thankfully, no one could overhear the conversation, because Lou was always given the same round table in the corner of one of the most intimate restaurants in the city. It
was perfect for watching the action, but offered privacy for passing on salacious gossip to her dinner companions.

The dining area was dimly lit, small, almost like a beautiful room in a welcoming home. One that Paul McCartney, Rihanna, George Clooney and Gary Barlow liked to visit when they were in
town.

But in this restaurant it was all about the food. When the waiter described the specials, it was almost lyrical. Succulent. Enticing. Exquisite temptation. And they lived up to the promise. The
Dover sole was to die for. The Maine lobster with warm sorano beans was sensational. The agnolotti with white truffle sauce was cooked somewhere close to heaven.

Mirren held up her hands. ‘Look, you have to cut me some slack. Other than Mark, I’ve slept with two men in my life: Davie and Jack. My experience is limited, and my understanding of
the niceties of sexual politics needs some work.’